#i understand now why people say cooking is therapeutic

[katierosefun]

did you know that cooking yourself is actually a good idea because whoaaaaaa

#caroline talks #i understand now why people say cooking is therapeutic #because like. i feel so happy and excited when i cook #like yeah it might not really be something I’d be proud of giving my family or friends #bc I feel like it’s lowkey crap but the important thing is *i* think it’s tasty #and like…..yeah :’)) it makes me happy :’))) #anyways i made myself odeng soup which is literally so simple #it’s. water. add anchovies + kelp for flavor. add cubed radish. add korean soup soy sauce + mirin. stir. #skewer your fish cakes. dump it in the broth. boil for 3-5 minutes. #serve with rice. BOOM it’s light but also I feel really full but I’ll probably be hungry enough to have a snack 2 hours from now #it’s just. a solid dinner. #if i had more time and energy I’d serve it with dumplings or steamed eggs #but nah I’m so happy and satisfied now!

[quinloki]

ABC Head Canon - Trafalgar D. Water Law

SFW Alphabet!

18+ only

-:- Table of Consent -:-

SFW Alphabet

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Law's affection is pretty subtle. It's coffee made in the morning before you're up, and your favorite drink in his fridge even when you came over unexpectedly. It's snacks and quiet evenings in even though you had plans because it's obvious you need a break from the world.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Law is a give what he gets kind of friend. It's not like he's keeping strict records or anything, but if you're keeping your distance, so is he. He'll step up and step in sometimes, but most of the time he lets the other person decide how close/casual the relationship is. He's a little introverted in that sense, and that's why most of the people in his crew are high-energy – they pushed their way in and set the bar for what was being given.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Law was real hit or miss with cuddling until he became friends with Bepo. Minks and their hugging/snuggling breaks down anyone eventually xD – But now Law will have to actually stop himself from cuddling with people. He'll let people lean against him and snuggle without complaint, but it isn't until the boundaries of a relationship are defined (i.e. he's aware you're dating steady) that he'll start initiating cuddles.

Much like Eustass he tends to multitask his snuggling with reading/research/etc.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Law definitely wants a family in some way shape or form. Until he lost his family he had a really positive family experience, and I think he longs to have that again. He's really good at cleaning, a byproduct of being a doctor/surgeon, but his cooking skills are pretty basic. He's not bad, but no one's asking him to pick up extra shifts cooking for the crew.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

He'd be very clinical. Even if he was hurt by whatever the reason was, he'd keep it behind closed doors. Bepo, Penguin, and Sachi might know how much it actually affects him, but no one else would.

If it was kind of a mutual deal he'd probably be amenable to remaining friends. Sometimes things just don't work out that way and there's no hard feelings on either side.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Law falls faster and harder than he ever lets on, so a lot of his subtle affections and actions are because he doesn't want to overwhelm someone by coming on too hard or fast. He's educated enough to know the socially acceptable milestones for relationships, and he'll casually test the waters regarding commitment, but he's not dating just to pass the time, so he'll react accordingly.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Law understands trauma and abuse – and while he can be ruthless, he's not cruel or abusive himself. He can be sadistic behind closed doors – with consent – but outside of those parameters he's almost infinitely patient and kind, despite whatever expression is on his face.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Hugs are like cuddling for Law, he's not one to initiate them until he's reached a certain threshold in his relationship with someone, but thanks to Bepo he's really comfortable with receiving them. His hugs run the line too, from casual one-arm-side hugs, to clinging, almost desperate, don't-let-go-yet therapeutic hugs.

For a guy whose hands are cold more often than not his hugs are really warm.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Because of how hard and fast he can fall, he's hesitant to say it, but once it's said it's like the word is unsealed, and he's really comfortable with it. He'll hold back a little, for fear that overuse will diminish how you think he feels, but he's not rationing out 6 or 7 instances of it over a lifetime.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they're jealous?)

Unless it's an ongoing situation that gets under his skin repeatedly you'd probably never know. He's more likely to feel bad for feeling jealous, so he'll do whatever he can to keep it under wraps. If it gets to the point where it really irritates him he'll sit down and talk it out, but he's highly unlikely to lash out because of it.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Law's kisses are cool and dry, at least at first. It's the holding back thing at work, and he's restraining himself. He doesn't kiss just anyone either – hugs might be given out like candy to friends and such, but kisses are for relationships.

One solid make-out session and you realize his kisses behind closed doors are completely different. Passionate and hot and deep, he's stealing your breath and sending rushes into your skin with teasing nips and kisses at your neck and ears. He kisses how he likes to be kissed, so mimicking what he does for you (until he learns what you really like), is a good way to make sure he's getting kissed where and how he likes.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Law looks like the last person you want to ask to babysit for you, but he's surprisingly good with kids. Sometimes it's the Bepo-effect, but most of the time it's because he's patient and even tempered. Kids know they don't have to be afraid of him, even when he looks stressed.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Law's a morning person because he has to be, but he's also so overworked and busy he's often a night person too. In the end he's really just a flesh golem operating on an abundance of coffee and spite.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Without the need to be up first thing in the morning, Law would flourish better at night. He's up late night's because it's easier to focus then vs midday, and he gets more done. Granted, it means little sleep, but he's learned to push those boundaries.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Law's give and take shows its head again in this regard. He won't volunteer much, but he'll share in response to being trusted in the first place. Some of it is the last vestiges of legitimate trust issues, but mostly it's trying to keep himself from oversharing, or investing himself in someone who might not be committed to sticking around.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Law's patience is impressive. Even when he looks angry, it's more likely he's sleep-deprived and irritated, and not legitimately pissed. Actual anger from Law is rare, and it's really only going to happen if you've betrayed him in some way – I imagine he'd forgive just about anything else with enough time.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Law does his best to hold onto the details, but there's a lot on his plate, and not enough sleep to keep a hold of all of it. He'll forget small things from time to time, but he's got all the big important bits down pat quickly. Organizers help him keep track of dates and events, and his friends will help keep him on track too – knowing all of his quirks and responsibilities, they do what they can to help.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

That first kiss. That defining moment when he knew he'd finally be able to let loose a little and when he picks you up and kisses you deep against the wall, it becomes a good memory for you too.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Law is fiercely protective and is really bad about give and take in this regard. He always puts himself in the most dangerous situations in any of his plans, and carries much more of the burden than he needs to. Some of it is wanting to keep those dear to him safe, but some of it is also wanting to be in control and able to adapt to any changes in a plan.

He wouldn't try and keep you locked away from the world though, being free is important to him, and no matter the risks he'd never take that from someone.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He's a little bare minimum on dates, but his daily everyday tasks are so sweet that it's not a big deal, and sometimes his friends will help make sure he does a little extra for anniversaries. Flowers, dressing up, making reservations, that sort of thing. He tends to gift randomly when the mood strikes him, but Sachi and Penguin will remind him about holidays and such sometimes just in case.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He sits inside his head too much, takes on too much of a plan or issue, and sometimes it can leave you feeling like he doesn't trust you. In all honesty he's trying not to burden you, and it's really hard to pull him out of this habit.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Law's only concern is to be clean and comfortable. The fact that he looks so good when his concern is so minimal is enough to drive everyone around feral, but he's got the body of a model – or near enough – so he doesn't need much effort. He wore a tight white t-shirt and a pair of jeans one day and you almost didn't want him to leave the house for fear he'd get mobbed.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

With how hard and fast he tends to fall for someone, yes. He won't let on if things fall apart, but by the time he's popping the question, he's laying himself bare in terms of his feelings and how important you are to him.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

He's a hopeless romantic, and when you go the extra mile and surprise him with a date, or rose-petals for a special at-home evening, he's so touched he'll be flustered. He'd actively do such things for you more often, but he's so tired/busy that he often loses the thread of planning before he's begun more than he cares to admit.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn't like, either in general or in a partner?)

He's okay with all sorts of relationship set ups – traditional, open, throuples, poly, etc. – his big thing is that no matter what shape it takes, communication is important. He's not okay with uncomfortable surprises, like learning about a new person in your open relationship because he came home early. (also, don't do that! Bad poly practice, bad! Communicate first, smooch second.)

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He doesn't move much when he sleeps. Unless you come around. The second you sit down on the bed, or settle down too close to him he'll pull you in and it's an immovable cage. You're sleeping that way and you might as well just accept it.

(If he does it before you've really progressed he will wake up in the morning mortified and apologetic.)

#abc head canons #one piece #Quin's Head Canons #trafalgar d water law #Trafalgar Law #actually safe for work for once

[omniscientwreck]

Let me combine both of your favorite things! I would love a little thing about Caduceus (in his infinite wisdom and questionable intelligence) trying to give either Essek or Caleb relationship advice that may or may not be actually helpful. Those two wizards are probably too much in their own heads to see what's right in front of them and could use a little nudge. Just imagine both of them going to Caduceus for advice on how they're attracted to the other and Caduceus just sitting there trying to fight to urge to facepalm.

Hello! Thank you for combining my two favourite things into this fic that took way too long but I'm quite pleased with! I hope you enjoy!

In which Caduceus has three conversations with two wizards fighting against a force bigger than either of them.

----------

The first of these conversations Caduceus had was expected. Gardening alongside Essek, teaching him how to sow beauty where destruction had laid waste had been therapeutic for both of them. Caduceus had never given up on the war criminal. It’s difficult to feel no sympathy for someone whose story was written across their face in blank but pleasant stares and a mask of platitudes.

The state he’d been in when they met him at the outpost had filled Caduceus with determination. He’d been as close to a wreck as they’d ever seen him and now kneeling alongside him and looking over to see a small self-satisfied smile as he observed the work they’d done, it feels like they’ve done something right. This second chance had been well earned and he has faith that Essek will continue to earn it for the rest of his days.

This Essek is determined to right wrongs, and he’s started with the garden. He pays careful attention to the plants, always asking if he’s unsure about the compatibility of certain species, and making sure to put them exactly where they tell him. When they work past the point when the sun disappears behind emerald leaves he takes off the gloves Jester had made him and digs his hands into the ground. It seems to bring him peace, it’s good that he’s found any.

Most of the time when they work it’s silent, creases pressed into Essek’s forehead. He sweats through the layers that serve to keep him safe from the heat overhead and always has to be cajoled into taking breaks or drinking water. It reminds him a bit of Yasha.

On the third day, when he’d nearly gone faint Caduceus has to intervene, “You don’t need to hurt yourself to repent you know.”

Essek takes great care to swallow and not choke on the water he’d been sipping, bad timing. The mask comes up again, “I don’t know what you mean.” he states flatly. He knows that Caduceus is smarter than that and it shows.

“Hurting yourself doesn’t change anything. It’s the creation of beauty here that tips your scales, not the destruction of yourself.”

He nods slowly, indigo eyes downcast. “I suppose you’re correct. I have much to atone for Caduceus. There is much work to be done before I will deserve any of the kindness you foist upon me.”

“Hey now, I decide who deserves my kindness. We all do.”

Essek nods again, running a dirt stained hand through his silver hair. It leaves streaks of dirt, Caduceus says nothing.

“It’s difficult to be made aware of your stark moral failings, to learn what it means to truly care for someone again. It’s difficult to care more than you expect and to know what is enough, if anything is.”

His eyes flick behind Caduceus, where he can hear Caleb explaining something to Luc and he understands more than Essek probably wants him to. “You’ll find enough.” Essek looks at him, eyes full of a delicate hope, easily shattered, “He’ll tell you when it’s enough.”

His eyes widen just slightly and a deep blush spreads across his face alongside a smile so small it’s like he doesn’t want to let himself accept the barrage of feelings it holds back. “If.” His voice is small but the weight is heavy in the tone.

Caduceus reaches a hand to cover one of his, “When. Remember, I see things the rest of you don’t.”

Essek smiles wryly at that, voice full of mirth, “Of course Mr. Clay the ever observing.”

They go in for dinner and Essek speaks up a little more, he’s a little more alive. The change is small, but Caduceus notices.

----------

The second conversation is less expected, completely unexpected if he’s being honest. Caleb arrives at the doorstep of the grove one evening around 8 months after they’d last seen each other. “Hallo friend, I hope I am not intruding.”

His smile is easier now, though still restrained by sadness. “Not at all Mr. Caleb you are always welcome here. There should be left overs from dinner, fix yourself a plate.”

Caleb allows himself to be ushered in and fussed over. He tells a few stories of the trial but Caduceus tries to steer away from that particular vein of conversation. It’s raw and it doesn’t look like he’s fully healed. There’s still one catch somewhere that he needs to loose himself from before the smile will be easy and free, before he can walk away from his past and toward the future.

“I am going to Aeor next.”

Ah.

When Caduceus doesn’t say anything he continues, voice laced with trepidation, “I am going to ask Essek to join me.” he wants Caduceus to convince him of something.

“Well, two wizards is better than one.” He eyes Caleb knowingly and the wizard squirms a bit under his gaze.

“It is just, a little strange isn’t it? The directions we are led in.” He trails off again, maybe he’s hoping for wisdom. Caduceus decides he can probably dispense something.

“You’ve never seemed like someone who wanted much to be herded into decisions to me.”

“It’s been a journey.”

Caduceus clears his dish and sets down a teapot, “It’s a journey you’re still on. One that might not have a definite end. Is it worth it to deny yourself happiness because you’re worried about whether you deserve it?”

That caught him a little off guard, copper hair shook a bit as he’d clearly gone a little further than Caleb was expecting. He likes to talk in metaphors so that he can hide from truths later, or at least pretend everything can have multiple meanings. It’s time for Caduceus to stop letting him twist words around in that expansive brain of his until the original meaning is obscured by hypotheticals.

“I cannot tell you what’s right Caleb, but if you came here for a reasonable perspective listen to the one I’m giving you.” He pours the tea and offers honey, “You will never know if you don’t go and I know you better than you think. You don’t like loose ends, not as long as there’s something to learn.”

He nods, staring into tea, they’re so similar and so stubborn that Caduceus can feel the loving annoyance usually directed at his siblings creeping in. “Caleb, stop punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault in the first place.” Caleb nearly interrupts but Caduceus keeps barrelling through, “Self-flagellation won’t get you anywhere, you’ll just end up with regrets and what ifs. Go explore Aeor, forget everything else for a bit. Do that thing the two of you do where you’re finishing each other’s sentences and nobody knows why you’re bothering to speak out loud because it’s obvious you’re thinking the same things.”

Caleb’s smile is smaller now, but lighter. “Ja mein Freunde, I think you will. Thank you for tolerating questions I don’t know how to ask out loud.”

Caduceus smiles back, “I think this will be good. If you need anything while you’re there don’t hesitate to reach out. Stock up on healing, you’ll need it.”

Caleb laughs at that and spends the night, before heading to Zadash the next morning, undoubtedly to clear out Pumat’s stock of healing potions.

----------

The third time this conversation is had it’s his fault. He doesn’t mean to start it, but honestly the situation is getting ridiculous and the sibling feelings Caduceus has to both the wizards are firmly cemented.

They decide to get everyone together maybe a year after the last conversation. It’s his first time seeing any of them since then and as soon as they’re all in the same room it’s like no time has passed at all. Essek had come to get him while Caleb gathered the rest at Beau and Yasha’s home in Rexxentrum. Jester wraps him in a crushing and loving hug, Beau gives him a punch that’s soft for her but still stings, Yasha offers clippings of flowers immediately, and Fjord’s hug is warm. Veth’s family is here and she looks happier than he’s ever seen her. Caleb greets him with the warmth that’s always burned behind eyes that hold less and less sorrow every time he sees him. He hopes they’ll drop it all together one day.

When they pop back into existence from the way Caleb and Essek look at each other Caduceus expects something to happen. He doesn’t know what exactly but they hold each other’s eyes in a profound way. There’s gravity to them and everyone can feel it, he’s getting tired of watching them fight it.

It seems so simple even though he doesn’t feel that kind of pull, to see where this is going. It’s feels like the days before a big storm, when everyone knows what’s coming and it’s getting a little ridiculous that you’re still waiting for lightning to strike.

Everyone else drinks, they cook and eat and tell stories. Caleb and Essek sit apart but spend the entire time stealing glances across the table when they don’t think the other is looking. Nearly always they catch each other.

Yasha plays on the bone harp, she’s gotten very good and Jester swings Veth around into a dance. Kingsley, three sheets to the wind, grabs Beau and whips her into a reluctant dance and her initial protests eventually bubble into laughter. Caleb sits beside Caduceus and Jester has switched to twirling a flustered Essek across the floor of the livingroom. It often turns to dancing with these people and he loves that they love it so much.

“As I recall you’re an excellent dancer Mr. Caleb, go cut in.”

He shakes his head, “Ah- I couldn’t. Yasha is playing and I don’t think you’re much of a dancer.” He looks over with a quirk of a brow.

“I’m sure Jester won’t mind a break.”

He coughs at that, “I ah-”

Caduceus shakes his head, “No, talking is done, this is getting ridiculous.” He puts a hand square on his back and guides Caleb to stand, “You two will weave circles of metaphor around each other until one of you drops. Go Caleb, follow gravity.”

He seems to understand, seems to accept Cadcueus’ words and as soon as he stands to full height, Essek is watching over Jester’s shoulder. She, thankfully, understands the same way Caduceus does and even sends a wink as she loudly proclaims, “Oh my gosh Essek I’m so tired, I think Caleb needs someone to dance with, go to him.” She extends her arm, releasing him, and his levitation doesn’t allow him to stumble at the abrupt change in momentum.

Essek and Caleb meet and Essek steps to the ground gracefully as Caleb holds his hand out and pulls him in.

Nobody says anything for fear of spooking the delicate peace that settles over both of them as they gently turn, but Yasha slows the music she’s playing a bit and a quiet celebration is shared in the eyes of the rest of the Nein.

Caduceus breathes a sigh of relief and Jester sits herself beside him, bringing an overly sweet juice she’d found on her travels for him to try. She tells him stories into the night, and the wizards never let each other’s hands go.

#shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #caduceus clay #critical role #the mighty nein #cr fanfic #critical role fanfiction #tm9 #my writing #omni writes #my fic #a little worried this is ooc for Cad but also I think he's just treating them like he'd treat his siblings #eventually you just gotta push people in the direction they're heading

[teacup-crow]

Maybe, Maybe, Maybe

Fun bit of survivors’ guilt for @badthingshappenbingo, based pretty heavily off Don’t Poke the Bear and Variations on a Theme. Post-finale.

They take it in turns to keep watch for when he wakes up: Doug, Reneé, Isabel, first names still such a novelty. Just his luck, he opens his eyes to the impassive face of Captain Lovelace.

“Hi, dickbag. Sore head?”

“Unnnnhh…” he whines as if he’s lying under a ton of rocks rather than a cosy quilt on Renee’s living room floor. His face is a patchwork of bruising. “Aspirin?”

She takes pity, and passes him two and a glass of water. The sitting up takes longer than he thought it would.

“You look terrible. Lucky for you, Renee makes a mean chilli con carne. Never would have guessed she could cook.”

“No thanks, I should, should be going-”

“You need food in your system, that’s non-negotiable. First thing’s first, though, you’re having a shower, and you either go willingly or get dragged bodily, because you goddamn stink. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles automatically, and he remembers the Colonel - Warren? Was it on a day he could call him Warren? - once saying something similar and his head pounds. ((“mr jacobi, of all the irresponsible, stupid shit i have seen from you this really takes the-“))

“Bathroom’s on the second floor, just past the master bedroom. Dominick put a pile of clean clothes in there before he left for work. And it’s Isabel, okay? Not sir. Not Captain. Never again.”

***

“Who did this to you?”

He grips his mug of sweet tea like it’s thousand dollar whiskey. He’s still ashen. “I did this to me.”

“You beat the shit out of yourself? Okay, yeah. Don’t buy that one.” Isabel repeats the question. “Who did this to you?”

“Just some guys I pissed off. I don’t know how many. I don’t know who. Happy now?”

The room goes silent. Isabel continues:

“And did you go provoking them deliberately?”

Not for the first time, Renee wonders whether they should have included Doug in this little intervention. He’s been through so much just like the rest of them, but he doesn’t know it, and he’s clearly freaking out at the situation.

“Why would he want something like that to happen? He looks terrible!”

“I don’t know, Doug,” Isabel says levelly. “Care to answer, Jacobi?”

He’s not on a first name basis, apparently.

“Not… I didn’t... no. No, no, no. I was too drunk and… picking fights, but suddenly there were too many of them, okay? But I got out. And if I want to drink then that’s my own problem, so thank you for the hospitality but-“

Renee cuts in there. “When you drink yourself into a stupor, get attacked by a gang in a back alley, and stumble into my doorway at 0300 hours after six months of radio silence, it becomes our problem.” Her look of pity makes his stomach churn even more than the chilli did. He breathes in, hold, out; in, hold, out; in-((alana’s breathing technique and why why why is she everywhere in everything why does he have to see her out of the corner of his eye when it’s been so long he can’t properly remember her face-))

“Fine. What do you want from me?”

“You are a good man and you saved every single one of our lives and we need to understand why you’re so intent on throwing yours away.”

Jacobi starts laughing then, guttural laughs that worsen the ache in his head and bones but he can’t seem to stop them. “...me? I’m a good man? Oh my God, Lieutenant, that’s hilarious. Give us another.”

“You need to take this seriously! This is a form of self harm! You could have died!” Isabel is pacing up and down. She and Renee do good cop, bad cop like it’s a professional sport.

“Boo fucking hoo. And the world would forever be worse off for my passing.”

Isabel stops, and turns back towards him with some heat in her gaze. “I have lost too many crew members who deserved to die far less than you do. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? Do you need me to reconfirm that you are a an asshole? Do you need to hear about how Fisher, and Hui, and Fourier, and Lambert were all far better people than you will ever, ever be? Or will you accept that you are good in there? That deep down you’re on the right-“

“We burned their letters.” He’s staring at the duvet he’s wrapped in, running his finger over the flowers on the pattern. “Okay? Still think I’m a good person?”

“...wait. What?” She laughs a little, in shock perhaps. “But you told me…”

“I told you what I needed to tell you to make you trust me. We burned your crew’s letters. Lambert’s… I remember those especially. His hands were shaking really hard when he wrote them, weren’t they.”

It’s not a question.

Isabel stops pacing, and Jacobi grins again but it doesn’t reach his bruised eyes when he looks up at her. “More than mine, even. You could tell he was sick. They didn’t make any sense. We laughed at them. The irony of a Communications Officer who can’t communicate. Are you listening to me? We read their letters and we burned them and we laughed about it-“

Renee loses her softness. “Jacobi, that is enough!”

Isabel has a hand on her chest as if something has hit her there. She counts to ten in her head, ((fisher’s technique to try and stop her fighting with sam, never worked but still stuck in her head, or this copy of her head, or whoever she is now-)) and leaves the room.

They hear her slamming drawers in the kitchen.

Doug glances at Jacobi and shakes his head, before hurrying after her.

“How could you,” Reneé says. “How could you.”

“I don’t know. Will you let me go and ruin my own life now?”

“Never,” she replies. “Because, God help me, you’re still a member of my crew.”

At that, his eyes prick with tears he can’t explain. He rolls over on the air bed, and closes them.

***

“Lovelace?” Jacobi finally makes himself walk into the kitchen, grimacing like each step is on hot sand. The words are monotone. “I’m so sorry. What I did and said is... inexcusable.”

“Nope. That’s too large a word for your vocabulary. Come back to me with an apology Renée didn’t script,” Isabel snaps, going back to scribbling in a sketchbook.

“Look, I’m not much good at this-“

“You’re telling me.”

“I’m… really used to people yelling at me and hitting me until they feel better. Or you can shoot me if you like!”

“Jesus. Well, I am not about to do that to ease your guilt. You look like you’d snap if one more person poked you. So apologise properly.”

“I’m sorry…”

“For?” Isabel prompts over the top of her book.

“I’m sorry for burning your crew’s letters.”

“You did what you were ordered to do. It is what it is. I’m not condoning it.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Jacobi realises she’s waiting for him to continue. “And… I’m sorry for bringing it up. That was… needlessly cruel. It sucked.”

“It really did,” she replies, putting the book down. “Tell you what: that sounded somewhat genuine, and Goddard brought out the shit in all of us. You look so pathetic, I’m going to forgive you. Not because you deserve it, but because I don’t bear grudges. Not anymore.”

She holds out a hand, and he shakes it. “Thank you.”

“Wow. That actually hurt for you to say.”

Jacobi nods. He sits down across from her at Renée’s huge darkwood table, and thinks about how she and Dominick must have bought this when they moved in together with plans to have people over for dinner every other night. Maybe even plans to have kids.

He wonders if Dominick ate at it alone while his wife was gone.

“So, you gone on that holiday yet?”

“No, actually. I’ve legally been dead for about seven years, so getting a passport is proving pretty tricky.”

“I can imagine.”

“Where have you been, anyway? We tried to get into contact with you. We drove down to your old apartment - got your address from the Goddard database - but it was cleaned out.”

Jacobi looks sheepish. “Yeah, well, I’d mostly been staying at Alana’s for the last few years or overnight at… yeah… so I’d not been a very good tenant and turns out they took ‘lost in space’ as the perfect opportunity to kick me out. So I’ve been sofa to sofa, on the streets a bit-”

“For heaven’s sake, Jacobi. We would have helped you, you stupid asshole! All you had to do was ask and you could have stayed here! Renee and Dominick would probably even let you have a cheese collection or whatever the fuck it was.”

“Guess the amount of drinks it takes for me to lose my pride is somewhere over eighteen?”

“How do you have a functioning liver?”

They sit in an almost comfortable silence for a few minutes, Isabel reopening her sketchbook.

“I never knew you drew.”

“You never knew me outside of a life-threatening situation.” Isabel sighs, twists the pencil between her fingers. “I don’t think I did. Before. The old ‘me’, I mean. But I was bored and I can’t get a job because of the ‘being dead’ issue, so I thought I should take up a hobby or something. Might be therapeutic. I’m not very good at it…”

“Can I see?”

“I, uh,” Isabel suddenly looks uncertain. “I drew her. Maxwell. I drew everyone, actually. Are you sure you want to look?”

“Yes.”

He leafs through the pages, at first simple doodles before branching into full portraits. Eiffel, upside down and smoking a cigarette. Hilbert, looking troubled at a shadow behind him he can’t quite see. Two ghostlike figures in lab coats staring out at the star, the man with a prophetic terror etched on his face - must be Isabel’s old crewmates. Mr Cutter smiles up at him with far too many sharp teeth in sharper lines where the pencil was pressed far too hard and he turns the page quickly. There’s Kepler, mid-whiskey speech and it almost stops his heart. He pauses. Maxwell.

In the picture, her eyes are shining as she stares at Hera’s console, fingers nothing more than a blur - the three-day stint she spent trying to get the AI online. Aside from the orange and blue of Wolf 359, elsewhere in the book Isabel has barely used colour, but here the room is bathed in a serene green light from the screens. Behind Maxwell, Jacobi sees himself, little more than a stocky, sketchy outline, waiting for her to finish.

He looks so proud of her.

He looks so… content.

After staring for a long moment, Jacobi closes the book and hands it back. “Thank you.”

“You can keep the pictures of them, if you like,” Isabel offers, but he doesn’t know whether he would like, so he says:

“Tell me about your crew.”

“What?”

“Your old crew. Tell me about them. Was Lambert the one staring at...?”

“No. No. No, that was Kuan Hui, our senior astrophysicist. He was whipsmart and funny and fearless, until the time Goddard Futuristics played around in his brain, stretched out his perception of time. He was completely alone in the dark for two weeks. His smile never really reached his eyes after that.”

Jacobi sips tea awkwardly, even though it’s cold.

“Something like that, it stays with you. At least he had Fourier, though.”

“That’s the woman behind him?”

“Junior physicist. Victoire Fourier had eyes like stars. Cleverest person I’ve ever met. She played six instruments, spoke four languages and she had the most gentle soul. She used to read to Hui when he got sick with Decima. Coughed up every organ in his body. I thought it would break her, but she was made of stern stuff. She vanished off the space station in the final days and I still don’t know what exactly happened to her-”

“I… do. If you want to know, I mean.”

Isabel shakes her head. Then pauses. Then shakes her head again. “I get the feeling whoever is to blame is long gone.”

Jacobi shrugs. “Who else?”

“Well, there was Mace Fisher. Fisher… Fisher died because of me, not Goddard Futuristics. Asteroid shower tore him from my hands. He had a boyfriend waiting at home. He was sensitive, sensible, grounding. A real older brother type. I- I didn’t deal particularly well with his death. Well, you know that much.”

((Pill popper!)) Jacobi gulps more cold tea.

“And Lambert?”

“Sam Lambert. Officer Samuel Lambert had a stick up his ass. He was whiny, and authoritarian, and he treasured his copy of Pryce and Carter more than Reneé and Kepler combined did. He drove me nearly insane, and I drove him likewise. The best second in command you could ask for. A damn good man. Sam got sick after Hui, so we knew what was coming. What it meant. He was brave, though. At first.”

((“C-Captain, please shoot me, please, it hurts, it hurts, Captain, please, I just want it to-”)

She falters.

“Lovelace?”

“Yup?”

“You know, it’s not even really about the Hephaestus. I keep… it’s insane, but I keep thinking about… I was an explosives guy for the Air Force. Before Goddard. A trigger failed and two men died. Andrews and Sullivan. I haven’t thought about them in years and suddenly-“

“They’re everywhere?”

There’s a sudden understanding between them.

“They’re everywhere. Them and Maxwell and Kepler. They’re in mirrors, in the back of my brain, around corners.”

“Flashes of them.”

“And if you just reach out far enough, maybe-“

“Maybe-“

“Maybe.”

((let’s go be monsters)), Jacobi’s brain echoes. He grits his teeth.

“Did it stop for you? When does it stop?” He finds himself asking. Isabel doesn’t answer.

#wolf 359 #bad things happen bingo #Daniel Jacobi #isabel lovelace #w359

[kpop-and-chill]

The Wrong Swipe

Warnings: Mentions of depression and being suicidal, mental trauma.

Word Count: 2,510

a/n :Firstly, apologies for disappearing, if anyone noticed, but I was going through a lot. And secondly, this story is not really a kpop fic. It is based on a very personal experience of mine and since writing is very therapeutic for me, I wrote this as a way to help me cope with that. So, it is a semi-fictional and semi-real account of actual events and having said that, I also need to mention that I don’t want to blame anyone or gain any sympathy via this. Also, English is not my first language. So, please bear with me. A huge shout-out to @today-we-will-survive​ for all her help. I love you, my Shay Shay <3 <3 <3

And for those asking, please reblog this post if you want. I really want people to read this and understand that you are not supposed to love anyone more than yourself and stay away from toxic people. Your mental peace is more important than anything or anyone!

It all felt right when you’d met him.  He was everything you were looking for. In fact, he was way more than everything you were looking for. He was good at everything he did. And he did a lot of stuff. He was charming, smart, funny, musically talented, amazing dancer, great cook. You were practically in awe of this God-like creature. Speaking of God-like, you actually believed that his gorgeous face and his jacked-up physique were designed by Gods themselves.

 But that’s not why you liked him. You liked him because.. you just did. Right from the moment you started talking to him, you fell for him. And you fell hard.. Maybe that was the mistake?! It  sure didn’t feel like that back then. Or so you thought. Or maybe you didn’t think anything. You just.. loved him. You were a mess for him. From the word go!

 There was something that just clicked ! Two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together and all that shit? Yeah something like that. Even though you barely knew him for hours, it felt like you have known him since forever. And you wanted a forever with him. Your forever!

Everyone told you it was stupid. You hadn’t even met this guy. Yes, you only knew him virtually. Exchanged numbers, chatted with him for a few hours and just decided you loved him. Well, it wasn’t all you. Not to play the blame game here, but he actually said he loved you, too. But then again, people say a lot of things.

So did he!

First came the good things. The “I liked you the moment I saw your pic” and “You are a cutie”. Then the amped up flirting and sexting. Then all the wonderful things a girl wants to hear like “You have no right to call yourself ugly” and then the deep meaningful stuff like personal secrets, tragic past and stuff that one usually takes to the grave. He told you all this on day one too.  This and the fact that he liked you. Loved you. That even though you had been talking to him for less than a day and he was leaving for US for the next three weeks, you were dating. And he was your boyfriend. Hell he even asked you to tell all the guys you were supposed to go on dates with, that you have a boyfriend now! Damn you couldn’t wait for him to get back. And he hadn’t even left yet.

But then he did. The very next day. You were upset but not so much because you were constantly in touch with him. You both practically chatted the whole day. God.. You were so in love!

He was perfect.  It was all perfect. Until it wasn’t.

 You don’t know what changed. Maybe everything.  Maybe nothing at all. Maybe you just didn’t know him and his intentions well enough. And that part was true. You didn’t know anything about this guy. You hadn’t even met him for Christ’s sake! All you knew was you loved him. You kept singing that like your favorite K-pop song. And imagining the both of you in super-sappy K-drama scenarios.

 But life isn’t a K-drama.. And you had to find that out the hard way.

You don’t know if you had imagined him saying he was your boyfriend or you were imagining it when he said you should go on dates or you should hook up with guys or you should meet marriage prospects if that’s what your family wants. That’s when reality hit you like a Mack truck! He was your boyfriend, but not your “serious” boyfriend. Because apparently, you hadn’t even met him and you were six years older than him, both being your biggest crimes. And him saying these things definitely felt like he was punishing you for the same.

 But God knows what in the damned world was wrong with you. You still hadn’t given up on him. Or like how they say, your heart hadn’t, probably. Call it hope, love or any other asininity, you still believed he might be joking or at least would want to date you once he got back. After all, the fact that you guys hadn’t met yet was a big problem for him, right? It should resolve itself once he comes back to India. Once he comes back to you.

But there was still time for that. And for a lot of other shit to ensue before that.

 Pretty much everything felt different after that. He felt different. So, you tried to take a different approach  too. He wanted you to go out on dates and hook up with other guys? You did. And you didn’t exactly know why. Perhaps you thought he was only kidding, would take it back before your date and ask  you to cancel your date. Or you just wanted to make him jealous or at least realize that this wasn’t what he wanted. Or what you wanted!

 Speaking of things you didn’t want, you never wanted to fight with him. Who does? Of course, you knew no couple is perfect and everybody has an argument every now and then. But you didn’t think it would happen just because he couldn’t handle stress or his emotions very well and would just take it out on you. You also didn’t think he would not do anything about the fight and just ignore you till you made the effort to let him know that you were still alive after not talking for two weeks. Sure, he apologized, because sorry was his favorite word. But he never made any efforts. These were both signs you should have noticed, but why would you? You chose to focus on his  words than his actions.

 And damn, the guy could talk. Smooth should be his middle name! One lame apology and you were ready to give him your whole world. And you knew you would when you met him. It’s like your whole life depended on his impending arrival. As if he would arrive and give your stupid life some meaning! God your brain really glitched when it came to him..

 And come he did. No dirty puns intended! And weirdly, time ran slower than before. Wasn’t it supposed to happen the other way round? Weren’t you supposed to flip time off and just be with each other right now? If anything, weren’t you at least supposed to be texting each other, like you had been doing all this while when you were miles apart? Wasn’t he at least supposed to let you know if he had reached when he landed?

 He didn’t.

Not that you minded texting him first, per usual. But you did and then deleted it. Maybe his flight got cancelled. Maybe he got busy with friends and family, who all must have obviously wanted a piece of him before he starts his job and falls into a mundane routine two weeks later. Maybe this. Maybe that. Lots of Maybe’s.

 And deleted msgs. All yours. Yet nothing from him. Radio silence.

  Until you had had it with him and decided to put an end to your own misery.

“Are we back to not talking?” you texted him, after three days.

 “Hey. Nothing like that. I had nothing to talk about”

Sure, he has been mean to you before. But this felt like a stab to your gut.

You waited three weeks to meet him, and he had nothing to say to you? He could have said this three weeks ago and not wasted your time. Or not ghosted you and behaved like the mature adult he is supposed to be.

 You asked him not to talk to you ever. And then you cried. All night. Two nights in a row. Talked to your K-pop friends, asked them to make the pain stop. Nothing helped.

 “I’m sorry. I know I’m a jerk. But I’m not somebody who can hurt someone and sleep peacefully” he messaged you after two days.

And yet he did the past two nights while you cry-hugged your pillow. But you knew he always had the gift of the gab. Hell, even your friends knew it. Your best friends kept telling you he is a liar, a sweet-talker. He knows how to manipulate you. Knows all the right things to say to you to convince you to get physical with you.

But you won’t listen to them. You didn’t want to. He kept weaving lies and you kept weaving dreams. But you forgot dreaming is just pretending. Pretending to be something you are not or having something you don’t. In this case, you were pretending to believe he was a nice person, that you are madly in love with. And the thing about love is, it is indeed blind. It doesn’t see what everyone sees.

 You think he is being “extra nice” with you or has feelings for you because he talks to you nicely for five minutes. Or pretends to care about you for the duration of one phone call. Or sheds one tear when you tell him about all the crap you went through (and much more that you were willing to go through) because of him. One WhatsApp message from him and you are gone. In fact, the happiest time of your whole day is when he views your WhatsApp status. Your whole life revolves around him.

It’s because you don’t want to believe he doesn’t care. He is only trying to use you physically. Why? Because you are an easy lay for him. You love him and would do anything for him, go anywhere for him. One phone call from him and you would drop everything to run into his arms. He wouldn’t have to do anything to coax you.

 But you don’t believe that. Because you believed him when he said he was in a toxic relationship and is broken on the inside and hence doesn’t want to be in a relationship. But you don’t want to believe people lie. A guy who has been treating you badly from the start and doesn’t feel the slightest remorse for it, is the very definition of a toxic person himself.

 Does he realize how much you love him? How much you went through, are still going through, just to move on from him. That you call your friends incessantly at ungodly hours because you so badly want to talk to him or hear his voice one last time, despite knowing fully well the guy lives and opens his mouth only to spew hurtful things to you.  

Does he realize saying “Don’t love me” ain’t gonna  make you get over him? If only it were this easy for humans to function! If only we had a button to move on.

 Does he realize how much it hurts when he asks you about your “dates” with other guys? Or that you wouldn’t even talk to any other guy if he ever says he wants to be with you?

 He freaked out about how attached you got to him in just one day but does he realize, even after knowing him for one day, you were going to sell your house just so that he could pay off his educational loan to make his life easier?

 Does he realize you wanted him to move in with you just because he had mentioned he doesn’t like his living arrangement and wants to get away?

 He wanted a casual thing with you. No dating, just physical fun. But does he realize you were ready to lose your virginity to him too if that meant he could see how much he meant to you?

 Does he realize you could even be his friend, if it meant he would still be a part of your life and if he stopped being rude to you or stopped suggesting making out with you? Does he realize if you got so attached to him without even meeting him, how would you ever move on if you kept being intimate with him for long, like he wants?

 He made all these fake promises to meet you on Valentine’s day when you told him it was special for you because your parents were always your Valentine’s and didn’t want to feel alone that day since they passed. Does he realize you trashed your place when you couldn’t meet that day because he didn’t like it when you mentioned his constant bad behavior?

 Does he realize him being a jerk to you brought back your insomnia and triggered your depression? Does he realize that writing which was supposed to be therapeutic for you also doesn’t work anymore because it only makes you cry now? The guy even knows you are suicidal.

But does he care? No. He only talks to you when he is bored, drunk or high. So, no he doesn’t care about you.

 And honestly, that’s all you ever wanted. For him to care for you. Stop being nasty to you. Stop stabbing your heart with his coldness and harsh words and then twisting the knife by not giving two flying fucks about it. About you.

 Does he realize you could literally pop open a vein for him if that made his life a little bit better? No, he doesn't. It didn’t take him a second to stop talking to you and block you on social media while your friends had begged you to block him for months and you couldn’t. Jerk couldn’t block his “toxic” ex, still talks to her, but you, definitely must be blocked.

  Does he realize that if he can’t help you move on, he should at least not fuck you up any more than he already has! Is it that hard to treat someone with respect? To not be a jerk to someone? To not say or do things repeatedly that make other people feel like crap? To not care about other people’s feelings and only think about one’s own gratification?

And after doing all this is it that hard to feel any regrets? Here, you lose sleep because of this person and he doesn’t feel like he has done anything wrong?

Because if he doesn’t realize this, he would never realize that you only take his crap because you love him. He will never realize that you know he is lying, he lies about a lot of things but you go along with it because you love him. You always will and probably would never be able to get over him. No matter what you do.

He will never realize you would want to be with him for the rest of your life  even if that meant being with a toxic person because you love him and you hope and believe in your heart of hearts that he will change someday.

 And to think, all this began with a wrong swipe on Tinder. You didn’t want to swipe on him and yet here we are!

#story #personal #personal story #storytelling #story time #story tag #not fic #not a kpop fic #my story #writing #writblr #writing time #writing to cope

[occult-castiel]

Leave a message (after the beep!)

Suptober. Day 13: Rewind Dean has a few things to say to Cas. Word count: 2542 [Read on Ao3]

3 Weeks.

Dean's been stealing glances at his phone for over an hour. The dim light of the hall that creeps from under his door is the only reason he can see the thing, blurred out to a barely-there grey hunk of plastic.

The idea is fucking stupid. He doesn't care what Sam thinks. Sam wasn't even supposed to know. Let alone have fucking opinions.

But Dean slipped.

And it took more effort than he will ever admit to walk out of the kitchen without clocking his brother in the goddamn jaw.

Fuck Sam and fuck the phone.

He turns around, away from the stupidest temptation of his life, and demands sleep come.

It's only mildly successful.

2 Month, 1 Week.

Nothing bad can happen from a phone call. Doing it once can’t hurt you any more than you are now

Sam's a well-meaning kid. He really is. But sometimes he just needs to can it.

'Cause he had to go and say some shit like that, completely unprompted — they were talking about potential witch activity in Utah, not Dean's feelings, for Christ's sake — and now it's all Dean can think about now that the distractions of the day have bled into a dark room and cold bed.

And that gray hunk of plastic on his desk is laughing at him. He could reach it if he sat up. Stretched a bit.

But the idea is dumb. And Sam doesn't get it. He really fucking doesn’t.

Except Dean knows he's kind of full of crap.

He grits his teeth, shoves the covers to the side, and grabs his phone.

With each passing buzz, his heart stutters, breath cut into shorter and shorter spurts.

Stupidstupidstupid.

It- it isn't like he's gunna answer. Dean knows he not, but it just rings and rings and —

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

And it hurts.

He calls again every night for the next week. Of course, he never picks up. Sam doesn't ask.

4 Months.

Dean kicks the door after it slams shut. Throws his gun at his headboard, if it goes off and shoots him, oh fucking well. It's great. Just fantastic.

He pulls his phone out without thinking. Clicks Cas.

It rings, and for a moment his shoulders relax as the familiar greeting plays. Cause its Cas' voice. And fuck. Just… fuck.

Then it beeps, and he actually does the one thing he's wanted for months.

"None of your douchebag family will answer me. And I've tried friggin' everything, I swear to Christ."

He runs his hand over his face, glances up at the sour-yellow ceiling.

"How you ever stood them is beyond me dude."

And then, like a rational human being. He hangs up and pretends that whatever that was didn't happen.

Once the bitter taste of angels that don’t pick the fucking phone up from earlier that day fades, Dean stares at the darkened ceiling.

He left a voicemail. A fucking voicemail.

Pathetic.

4 Months, 3 Weeks.

So he hasn't called again since his, uh, slip up. And Sam keeps giving him these little looks. And he knows that Sam knows, and knows he isn't calling because he's a changed man or whatever.

Maybe Sam would drop it, whatever the hell he thinks Dean's mess is, if he could manage to eat.

Jody, Claire, Kaia, and Alex are all around the table with them. Jody's the charmer she always is, talking about how she's grateful for the help and oh, of course you guys are gunna stay for dinner! Ah-ah! No buts.  

There was a hunt in town she tracked down with Claire, a huge vamps nest — we're talking dozens — and called them over for help. And is now feeding them. Because she's a saint and never deserved to be in the know in the first place.

Dean looks at the food. Pork lathered in dark brown graveyard with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. There's a pile of carrots on Sam's plate. Dean opted out.

Not that he's eating now. No, mostly just pushing it all around. He does eat in general.

But Claire isn't looking at him. Hasn't. She barely managed a glance up when he saved her — just a small nod and weary glance.

Sam, on the other hand, may as well be ogling.

Dean wishes he could read Sam's mind, find out where he's keeping it so Dean can wallow in misery without his brother being keen on some of the finer details, thank you very much.

He manages a few bites. Its excellent, mouth-watering, home-cooked goodness he's missed fiercely since he got a taste for it the few days Mrs. Butters was around.

But right now? Turns his stomach.

On the way back home, Sam clears his throat. Dean grips the wheel a little tighter.

"So —"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Samantha."

In the corner of his eye, Sam's shoulder slump. His brother looks down and sighs out a sad little noise.

But the rest of the drive is quiet. And that's a win in Dean's book.

*

It's roughly midnight, and books are scattered across the library table. They're all open to different pages, but none of it matters. Not really.

Dean's combing through it all anyway. Has been since Heavens decided they have a no-call policy with anyone named Winchester.

The piles he has laid around him have grown increasingly larger as the weeks have drug on. Spiked exponentially when he decided not to call anymore.

"Hey Dean."

Dean snaps his head up mid-sentence. Sam stands in the threshold, holding a plate. In pajamas.

Dean just looks at him. "What?"

"Made you food." He lifts the plate up a fraction

"That looks like a cold cut, so made is a generous word."

Sam has the audacity to slump into himself, full-on wounded-puppy mode. So Dean rolls his eyes and waves him over.

The plate gets sat down with a distinct clank, and Sam pats his shoulder.

"You know I just… want what's best for you."

Dean tenses his shoulders, closes the book in front of him. He speaks through his teeth.

"Yeah, well I never had it in the first place. And now it is gone, and there's nothing I can do."

"You don't know that Dean."

He glues his eyes to the back of the book. Balls his fists.

"Don't I? That — That fucking thing just —"

"I know. But it's also gone. We don't know what happened."

Dean chooses then to look over, fix his brother with a proper glare so he'll go the hell away — but sees it.

Sitting innocuously on the plate, like it isn't an affront to everything Dean would rather not, is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Sam's talking but he can't hear it. His brains turned to mush, a radio-static circus of nothing.

The bottom of his chair screeches as it drags against the floor.

And Dean can’t see.

Sam grabs his arm, he shakes it off. He moves decisively, tries too, but his eyes prickle and he can’t see shit, and he isn’t about to cry right there in front of his brother, validate every stupid thought the guy has that’s probably one-hundred percent right.

His door clicks shut, and he pressed himself against it. Slides down until he hits the icy floor.

Dean's throat is a constricted cage, each breath in has to be muscled in, down, out. Each wobble as much as the last.

Sam doesn't know shit. He doesn’t know what he's talking about. He really doesn't.

Calling someone who can’t answer, won’t ever answer, is fucking stupid. It's not therapeutic.

When he rubs a hand over his face. It comes back wet, and his eyes sting.

"Fuck."

He fishes for his phone. Going to Cas' number is muscle memory at this point.

It rings. Cause Sam can't help but keep the thing charged.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

The ball in his chest is impossibly tight. Why hasn't he called? Just to hear him again, the gruff tenor that's like gravel and silk and the only thing he ever wants to hear, ever. And now he only has nine words he'll ever hear him say again.

That's it. Two sentences.

You saved the whole world. He didn’t save shit.

And what the fuck is he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to do anything? He’s never been any good, not as good as he needs to be. Maybe if he would’ve been — or did somethin’ different, anything different —

Dean threads his fingers in his hair and balls his fist. Squeezes his eyes shut against the pool of tears that just leak out, and curls in on himself. His guts are twisted and tight, just like the rest of him. Every part of him shakes, the hand vice-gripping his hair should hurt, should be enough to pull him back to sanity, but the tears don’t stop.

And really what does it matter if he cries. Chucks gone, and The Empty, that — that thing got what was coming to it.

But Cas didn't come back.

He lulls his head against the door, untangles the hand from his hair like his fingers piston operated they ache so bad

God, Cas should’ve just left him in Hell.

Maybe he's Heaven, Billy had said with a shrug. Casual. Like she didn't understand. And Dean knows she does. She gets it more than any of them, saw just what this shit did the last time. Saw exactly how much he didn't want to be around.

Jack had to fuck off to put the universe in balance, so he’s MIA and no help. And Heaven doesn't seem to give a shit.

There must've been a beep somewhere, so Dean just goes with it. Presses the phone to his ear again and works his jaw open until it’s loose enough to allow something resembling words can happen.

"It's — it's bullshit." God Dean can't recognize his own voice, pulled thin and hoarse. "You — you know that right? Bullshit." He shakes his head. Tries to take a deep breath that comes out only slightly less ragged. "You always left. And I — I get that you had to sometimes. But no one wanted you here more than me."

He wipes his face off with the collar of his shirt. His skull screams in sharp pain, and his temples thud. And normally this would be too long of a pause, but normally you don't start a voicemail off trying not to sob, and normally they're made for people who can actually listen to them. So whatever.

"This is stupid. It's not — voicemails ain't your style." His breath leaves, and exhaustion sets deep into his bones. "You always just called back for the explanation. You'd leave 'em, though."

At least Dean assumes. Every call back he'd ever gotten from the guy he'd have to fill him in on whatever was happening anyway. Guess it makes sense in a way. If you have enough time to listen to a message, you've got enough time to call.

The space behind his robes aches when he says, "We both shoulda picked up more, I guess. And Sammy wants me to call now. Like it makes up for shit. It doesn't."

He swipes the little red phone to the left, and stares at the word Cas in his contacts page.

But the screen goes blank, and all he can see are his puffy red eyes reflected in the black screen, and that's motivation, so he gets ready for bed.

1 Year, 10 Months, 13 Days

He calls a few times after that. But tries not to leave voicemails for someone that's just gone, in every sense of the word.

It’s dumb. Still really dumb. And he has no defense for it. Eventually Sam hands him Cas' old phone and a charger. All of the missed voicemails untouched.

Dean could swear he remembers ever last one.

They're mostly simple crap, sometimes. Updates.

"Sam and Eileen are getting hitched. They're pretty fucking disgusting together. But sometimes they look at me, and I can just see it, man. See how they like, bubble themselves off." He laughs, but it's strained.  "Guess it just be written on my face. Which is just friggin’ fantastic. Cause I'm happy for them. I've always wanted that for Sam. But I wanted it for us too. Fucked up that I can only say it now, huh."

"I don't like the way burgers taste anymore. And I, uh, have a bumper sticker now. It's a bee. I kept it together until Sam got misty-eyed." There's a pause for a touch too long, then, "That mixtapes been the only thing in Baby for a month."

"I kept the trenchcoat. Wore it earlier. Got cold out for the first time since —" he sighs. "You wore it better. Looks like shit on me. It pretty much lives in my closet. Can't get monster guts on it that way."

But sometimes it's just a confession, none of the other bullshit. Just the truth.

"Look. I'm not mad. So don't think that. Cause I'm not. Wish I was. It's — it's always been easier. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I would've for you. I just… Don't know how now."

"Can't tell if I like using your old angel blade or fucking hate it. Don't like much of anything anymore. You were better with it."

"Id pray to you, but this is all I got. And I wish I could hope you're up there. But then I'd hope there isn't any pay per view Earth or whatever. Cause this shit? Is pitiful." A sigh. "G'night, Cas."

And one night, a long time later, he's sitting with his back against his bed, nestled next to the end table he never used, he says the truth in a way he knows he should've years and years ago.

"Guess this is like prayin', ain't it? Sammy caught me a few months ago. He wasn't even surprised I'm still doing this. Told me it was, uh — It was okay. Even if I just… never did. And you know what? I don't think l can." He gives a small laugh. "Hell, I only leave messages when I'm feeling, I dunno, brave? Like some part of me thinks you could still hear it and tell me to get lost."

Logically, he knows Cas wouldn't have kicked him to the curb. Wanted him just as much.

"God I listen to it almost every night dude. Just hearing this stupid fucking line —  It's like hitting rewind, for a few seconds."

The rest comes off easy, in its own way

"I miss you, Buddy. And I — I love you more than I know what to do with. I wish it would've been enough. But instead, it killed you."

He ends it, and calls back. Just to listen to the only thing he'll ever hear Cas say again. It’s not a replacement, never will be until he can see if Heaven really does have an angels left.

But the only faith he ever had is just an echo on the other end.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

#ok trying this agian to see if it actually pops up in anything I tag it with #destiel #deancas #suptober20 #suptober2020 #suptober #heres to hoping i guess?

[curly-bangtan]

Heatwave Drabble #8: contaminated

[Heatwave // Godless // Heatwave Drabbles] <- read first!

Pairing: Taehyung x reader

Summary: We’re always gonna be contaminated.

Genre: drabble, angst, fwb au, roommate au, f2l

Warnings: more feels!

Word count: 4.1k

A/N: Title named after the song Contaminated by BANKS. (Should give it a listen after reading!) Unedited!!!

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“So what you’re telling me is, you fucked your roommate slash best friend who thought you were seducing him in the middle of a heatwave, and now, 9 months into sleeping together, you’re in love with him. Not only sleeping with, but also doing domestic coupley things like cooking together and cuddling during Netflix, but you guys not once made it official, or even exclusive because you both have commitment issues. And you thought he loved you too, so you decided to test him by saying you’re going on a date with someone to see his reaction, only for that to backfire right in your face because he slept with someone out of anger.”

You blink. “Man, why d’you have to put it like that?”

“Put it like what? I just summarised everything you told me concisely.” He laughs and pulls you in closer. You can’t help but note how different he smells, not bad, but just not what you’re used to. “So in conclusion, you’re both idiots and now you’re heartbroken.”

“I- I’m not heartbroken, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just… a bit bummed out.” You avoid his gaze, squirming in his arms because the heat under the covers is starting to get to you.

“Wow, one night with you and I already know how stubborn and headstrong you are. You literally teared up a minute ago when you were talking about him. This is your problem: even now, you’re not willing to admit your true feelings. How well has that worked for you so far?” He shakes his head in dismay, his investment in your predicament surprisingly genuine.

This is a weird as fuck situation you’ve gotten yourself in. Out of desperation for relief from your, okay fine, heartbreak, you went out last night and came home with a guy. Taehyung had also gone out, and judging by the fact that it’s now the morning after and he still has yet to return, you can guess the direction in which his night went. It stings, but now you’re a hypocrite. This guy who you don’t even know the name of, Club Guy, has turned out to be more than just a fuck though. He knew he was the rebound for someone else, and he was more than glad to help. But one thing led to another, and the next thing you know, after your third round, you are pouring your heart out to this guy - this random, incredibly attractive, amazing at giving head, guy from the club.

It would be awfully strange, except he is unusually good at comforting people. You’re might consider keeping this one as a friend.

“Dude, I know it’s not my forte. I’m not good at expressing my emotions, okay?” You revel in the softness of his fingertips as he feathers your back. The sun is peeking through your curtains; you’re counting down the minutes until Taehyung returns, but at least speaking to Club guy is taking your mind off the fact that he was with someone else last night. “Yes, I’m heartbroken. I… I fucking love him. I know it was my fault for trying to get a reaction from him, but I just wanted him to say it, you know? Say that he loves me out in the open and that he wants me to… I don’t know, be his girlfriend. Girlfriend? Is that the right word? It sounds so weird. I don’t fucking know.”

Club Guy rolls his eyes, sighing at your ineptitude to grasp the simple concept of love. “Yes, girlfriend. God, you’re so annoyingly cute.” He smiles a smile at you that others would surely swoon for, and though your mind is too preoccupied with the boxy grin of someone else, you appreciate the warmth in his eyes. “Look, was it the night before the last that this all went down?”

“Yes.” Too fresh, too soon for you to be sleeping with someone else, you know. But you needed it so badly, you just needed to take your mind off him.

“What about the morning after? Surely you’ve seen each other since. From how you described him, I feel like there’s no way he could bring someone home knowing that you’re in the room next door.”

The memory sears.

You distinctly remember hearing their awkward morning-after conversation out in the dining room. After a long debate of whether to go out and reveal yourself to them or not, you decided that, fuck it, you’d already cried yourself to sleep last night because of this stupid son of a bitch, there is no reason for you to inconvenience yourself just to save Taehyung an even more awkward encounter. And so you stormed out of your room, eyes probably still a bit puffy and red, pretended you can’t see them and proceeded to make yourself a smoothie.

Yes, a homemade smoothie. You made sure to turn the setting of the blender all the way up so it was as loud and noisy as possible. You’re petty like that.

Especially because she’s using your mug.

Taehyung’s look of surprise when he saw you come out of your room did not give you even a fraction of satisfaction. Just a sad pang in your heart.

“I- Oh. I didn’t know you were home.” There was shame in his voice, and you hated every twist of your heart that it elicited.

You ignored him, not even a second of eye contact, poured that mango and berry smoothie and padded back into your room.

You had cried into your smoothie because his hair was messy like it usually was in the morning, voice still a deep rasp and eyes not fully open yet. And you had wanted to hug him so badly.

“It was awkward. I was a cold bitch and ignored him when I interrupted their breakfast. But no, he didn’t know, he was shocked to see me home.” You mutter, burying your face into your pillow to try to forget yesterday morning.

You could have said something, at least shown how hurt you were so he would apologise. Because you know he would apologise. But of course, you had a prideful image to uphold. Classic classic.

“Then…” Club Guy runs his fingers through your hair, twirling at the ends. “Then I feel like it’s really not too late. I’ll be out of here soon, and when he comes back, just sit him down and speak to him calmly. Calmly being the key word here. Explain to him that you weren’t actually remotely interested in the guy you went on a date with, and just wanted to prompt him to make you his. Tell him that you made a mistake and you’re hurt by what he did, but you can look past it because you were both in the wrong. Or maybe just tell him that you love him and don’t want to be with anyone else. It’s your choice whether you tell him about you and me, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him is all I’m saying.”

You contemplate his words. It sounds easy as hell when he says it like that, but you know when the moment comes, you will freeze up, panic, and muck it up somehow. It’s just a ‘I’m sorry’ and three simple words. Yet it feels like the most difficult thing you’re going to do.

“But what if he doesn’t understand. What if he doesn’t even like me like that, I feel like I could be grossly misinterpreting things.” You’ve pondered about this possibility since two nights ago. Afterall, how could he just go out and sleep with someone like that right after your fight if you mean so much to him? But then again, look at you now - likewise in bed with someone, albeit mostly for therapeutic reasons.

Club Guy shakes his head looking at you, almost in pity at how you could possibly still not get it. Smirk playing at his lips that remind you so much of Taehyung’s smugness. Fuck, it hasn’t been two days and you already miss him so much that your bones ache.

“Look, your best friend is head over heels in love with you and you’re seriously blind for not being able to see this earlier. Didn’t you say he would stay up all night with you during exam season to make you coffee and massage your shoulders? There’s no question about it, the guy is more whipped than whipped cream.”

Club Guy sits up, the covers falling off his front to reveal his toned sparsely tattooed body. You watch him wordlessly get dressed, the storm that is your mind whirling you into pieces. He’s right. He’s so right, and you hate it. The solution is honestly so simple. You and Taehyung are like two dots on a blank page. Instead of a mere straight line to connect the dots, you drew spirals around each other, closer and closer but never touching.

Should you tell him about Club Guy? You feel like you should. Though he is right, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. But you don’t want any more games, anymore dishonesty. Straight line.

“Uh, thank you for talking this out with me, I appreciate it. I’ve had no one to talk to about this because none of my friends know about him and I, and it’s kind of too late for me to drop the bomb now.” The awkwardness begins to trickle in, on your part at least. Club Guy just smiles that smile at you, rather pleased with himself.

“I should have charged you for that.” He shimmies into his skin tight black jeans, eyes crescent in amusement.

“What, the sex or the therapy session?” You joke. It’s sad because he has such potential to be a great fuck buddy, and you 9 months ago would not have hesitated to make him your next booty call. But the truth is, even as you were kissing, fucking someone else, you were imagining Taehyung the whole time.

If love is a sickness, you’re plagued on your deathbed.

Club Guy laughs. “If it doesn’t work out, call me I guess. But I’m rooting for the two of you idiots. You better not fuck this up.” When he slides into his shoes, you realise how much you dread him leaving. Firstly, because finally speaking to someone about all your pent up emotions for Taehyung feels like a weight lifted off your chest. Secondly, because you really don’t want to be left alone right now. You don’t want to agonise over every second that Taehyung isn’t home yet.

Lethargically, you stretch over the covers and roll out of bed, your limbs feeling especially heavy with the looming pressure of what you have to say to Taehyung. “I’ll… walk you out.”

The next series of events happens in shutters.

Mid yawn, as you’re scuttling down the hallway after Club Guy to see him out, the front door swings open. Taehyung walks in in yesterday’s clothes, wearing a miserable expression to begin with. But when his eyes glance up and locks on your male company, his face…

Shatters.

You have never seen Taehyung’s temper explode before. You’ve witnessed his grumpy tantrums, his quiet sulking, but this - a detonation of pure rage, catalysed by shock - runs your blood ice cold.

‘What the fuck?’ His voice is deadly low, eyes flying between the two of you. And instantly, you’re filled with a reciprocating anger. He can’t possibly go off on you right now, he can’t have the fucking nerve. Not when you hadn’t said a word about him and that girl yesterday.

“Holy shit…” From the corner of your eye, Club Guy turns a ghastly sheet of white.

It doesn’t dawn on you until he spits his name out like poison. ‘Park Jimin, what the fuck?’

And sense exits your brain.

You can’t move a muscle if you wanted to, nor utter a sound. You feel like flotsam, swept away by a roaring wave. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. Of all people, all people, you slept with Park Jimin. As in Taehyung’s ex-best friend who his girlfriend had cheated on him with, Park Jimin.

“Oh my fucking god. Kim Taehyung…” To his credit, Jimin can at least speak, unlike you. Gone was the lovely, charming guy talking you through your crisis. He brushes his hair back in disbelief. “I- What the fuck… I swear I didn’t know she’s your girl.” You try not to let the words ‘your girl’ sink in too much. Because you were his, even if you weren’t.

“I swear to fucking god. I give you 10 seconds to leave my house before I kill you.” Not only can you not believe your poor luck of managing to bring home Jimin of all people from a random bar, you also cannot believe the fury seething from Taehyung, someone who you no longer recognise.

Jimin does not need to be told twice; he spares you one last glance before dashing out.

After the door slams, there’s just silence. Your eyes fixed on Taehyung’s, mind trying to comprehend how royally you’ve fucked up once again. You’re desperately trying to convince yourself that it isn’t your fault, you didn’t know. But the hurt trickling through Taehyung’s angry facade inoculates you with enough guilt to make you nauseous.

“Seriously?” Taehyung is trembling, from rage or heartache you don’t know. “You fucked Jimin?”

“I… I had no idea, I swear, Taehyung.” You want to move towards him but your feet stay planted on the ground. Your own throat is trembling, definitely out of heartache. You can’t imagine the pain tearing through him right now.

Another moment of an agonising silence. Every second you’re just standing there flabbergasted is a fresh stab to your chest. How did you two get to this place?

“So you fucked him? Yes or no?” When his voice cracks, it takes everything in you to keep the tears from springing.

You swallow. “Yes.”

Taehyung shuts his eyes, and it feels like he’s shutting the chapter of his life that is you. The end is looming, you can feel it. You don’t see how you two could possibly recover from this. How could he forgive you?

“Did it not cross your mind that that Jimin you were fucking could be the Jimin who stole my ex-girlfriend? Like the Jimin that led me to move in with you in the first place? Did I seriously not cross your mind even once?” His words are a slap after slap, no, even more physical than a slap.

Did he not cross your mind, he has the audacity to ask. He was the only thing on your mind, that idiot.

“I didn’t know his name, Taehyung.” You try to suppress the surge of injustice you feel. Of course you thought about him. How could he even ask something like that, as if you’ve done this out of malice.

“Oh, right.” He scoffs, shoulders dropping. “I forgot, you fuck guys without learning their names.”

And just like that, the line between sadness and anger is breached.

“Excuse me? What did you just say to me?”

“Do you want me to repeat it?”

Somehow, anger hurts more than the guilt you had felt. It manifests as something grotesque festering away in your chest, all the bitterness, the tears, the heartbreak, all condensed into this ugly emotion.

“Taehyung, you went and fucked someone first while I was in the room next door.” His tightly drawn brows soften a little. “I heard everything, every creak of the bed, every moan, every fucking thing. You have no idea how much that killed me, not a single fucking idea.” You feel your face crumpling, eyes stinging, and you hate falling apart like this in front of him, but there’s nothing holding your broken pieces together anymore. “I didn’t say a single word about it, shit, I even let that bitch use my mug while I was dying inside. And now you have the nerve to pin this on me and make me feel like a worthless piece of shit.”

You watch it dawn on him, the distraught state of your mind. And you want it to feel like a competition, like ha, you hurt me way more. But it isn’t. There is no winner. There’s just you two, gradually losing each other.

“I was drunk…” He croaks. “And I didn’t know you were home, I thought you went home with Junho.”

“You really think that little of me. Then you don’t know me at all if you think I would’ve done that. But look at yourself, you didn’t text me once that night, just went straight out to the club and fucked some girl. And what about last night? You didn’t come home either.” You hiss, pitch raising.

“I didn’t sleep with her last night. I couldn’t even kiss her for more than a minute on her bed because it felt so wrong it made me fucking sick. I stayed on her couch and thought about you all fucking night. Happy?”

The truth rams into you no lighter than a train. You curse yourself. You curse him. This spectacular mess is unravelling so devastatingly that you want to scream. You can’t stomach the thought that you were fucking Jimin while he was thinking about you. Your situations mirrored one night after the next.

“And you say you were dying inside, but what about me? Hmm?” He flings his arms in exasperation. “Well what about me? How do you think I felt when I found out you were going on a date with some guy I’ve never heard you mention? How do you think I felt when you left me here all alone after that fight to wonder what the hell you were going to do with him that night? What else could I have done except get so drunk that I didn’t even remember my own name?” Seeing pain splatter across his beautiful features perhaps ruins you more than anything else. But your own pain is ringing.

“You didn’t even text me once! All you needed to do was tell me not to go, and I would have fucking stayed!” You cry, your throat dry and clogged.

“Did you want me to get on my fucking knees and beg? I didn’t have a right to tell you not to go. If you wanted to go, who am I to stop you?” He yells, a sheen now coating over his eyes, much like your own.

“GOD, I didn’t want to go, Taehyung! I don’t like him at all! Junho was nice but my mind wasn’t on him for even one second. I was coming back home to tell you I love you because I can’t stomach being with anyone else. But guess what? You were out pulling someone else because I clearly meant so little to you. Then I had to stay up all night listening to your fucking sex noises. I’m not the one who fucked up first here.”

Taehyung takes a breath to retort, but stops. Nothing but woundedness in his eyes. It’s clear that your words are embedding into him. The I was coming back home to tell you I love you. His expression falls, rapid breathing slows.

You’re looking at each other like you don’t recognise the other. Because it has never been like this between you two before. He has never felt more foreign, distant.

And when a wave of silence to calm you both has passed, he says quietly, “Why did you have to do that to me in the first place? I… I thought it was clear how I felt…”

The thundering tempest of your temper eases completely at the brokenness in his eyes. Acrid taste of regret in your mouth at the words that you hadn’t meant. Taehyung wasn’t the one who fucked up first, you shouldn’t have pulled that whole date thing. If you had just trusted him, and given him time, you would not be here right now.

But look at you two, fighting once again. Calmly, Jimin had said. And even that, you weren’t capable of. This is a childish game, the tossing of blame, and you’re drained. You don’t want to fight anymore. You don’t want to hurt. But you don’t know how to end this without ending everything.

“You really, really hurt me, Taehyung. But I was still willing to let it go. I was waiting for you to come back to tell you that… To tell you how I feel.” Your voice is soft now, diminished to just more than a whisper. You feel so extremely vulnerable, your frame creases inwards.

“You slept with Jimin…” Taehyung breathes, fists slowly unclenching. “Y/N, not just anyone, Jimin. I know I’d be a hypocrite if it were anyone else, but it’s him.”

“I didn’t know it was Jimin.”

“I didn’t know you were home after the date.”

For a good long second, you just stare at each other, chests heaving, throats raw, and you wonder if you are going to kiss and make up right this instant. Because for a moment, it feels like you could. It feels like you could forsake the past and just start anew.

But the window for that opportunity passes by as neither one of you takes a step forward.

You’re going in circles, you know.

“This isn’t going to work.”

Despite everything, this has been the hardest thing for you to say yet. And this time, you let the tears roll down. Your heart is screaming at you because it is on fire, but you persist through it because you know this has to stop and he doesn’t have the heart to say it so it has to be you.

And you just look long and hard at Taehyung, watch his eyes widen, shift, as he registers the finality of this outcome. It has been a wreckage. Only fragments of what once was a beautiful thing is left. You can’t keep hurting each other like this, and he finally knows it.

“What do you mean?” He asks, as if your heart hasn’t broken enough.

You want to fall onto your knees and sob.

“I mean, this needs to end. We’re doing and saying things we don’t mean and causing each other so much pain. If it was meant to work, it would have worked. I don’t want to keep doing this, Taehyung. Let’s stop this before we hurt more.”

Falling. Tears keep falling.

You’re breathing, yet choking on air.

Taehyung’s cheeks are stained, eyes rimmed with red. You have to clamp down on your lips to prevent yourself from crying out loud. When he closes his eyes, streams flow out, and you don’t think you’ve ever experienced greater pain. You want to hold him so badly, so badly. You want to tell him that you’re sorry for everything, and that you’ll always forgive him no matter what he’s done. But you can’t. Because you know things can never return to the way they were. Neither of you will be able to forget what the other’s done, it will live in the back of your minds, eating away at your insecurities.

Your love is tainted. Contaminated. And always will be now.

And even still, the selfish part of you wants him to say something, protest, fight for you. But you know he won’t. Because you know he knows it won’t be the same.

“So this is it? It’s over?” Cracks in his voice, cracks in your hearts.

It’s over.

But you can’t say it, so you just nod. All of this, just gone within days. Was your love so fragile to begin with? You were such a fool to believe that it would be enough.

“You can stay here, I’ll go.” You finally tear your eyes away from him, vision but a white glassy blur. You would rather him stay, it’s the least amount of respect you could offer to show how much he means to you.

And as you’re about to turn away, “You know that I love you, right?”

He says it, the first and last time you’ll hear those three words containing the meaning you’ve been seeking.

The tears don’t feel like they can stop.

“I know. I love you, Taehyung.”

And that has been your problem. You love each other too much but trust yourselves not enough.

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A/N: Sorry SORRY!! Don’t hate me… ;----; one part left </3

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22/02/19

© Copyright 2020

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@taexxxiiaa @shookpreme @taetaeobsessed @tangledsparkles @nonexistentfucks @evilkookie @nbiased95 @taehyungmakesmeoof @itscalledgayhoney @tahaing @deliciouslydisturbed365 @expensive-bangtan-girl @jwlmnbt @herakimkim @dnyad @kaepjjang365 @gingerpeachtae @spring2787 @askingtheimportantthingshere @casualminiaturetimemachine @vasysauce @deadinsidebitch2412 @emiyooa @i-dont-even-know-fck @chimycthulhu @gixanjos @hisunshiine @xtaeyi @softjellyjimin @bluemooncnblue @malfeitofeitto @bangtanfancamp @keopitae @out-of-jams@camilaxpolanco @d-noona @haechanspudu @dawnispeace @vante-visuals@liquanzhe222 @bangtanloverrrrr @inner-monologue @bs14401 @seokjoontae @trviahope @comingjimin @jeonsshadow

#Heatwave drabbles #taehyung fanfic #taehyung #kim taehyung #bts taehyung #bts taehyung smut #taehyung angst #taehyung smut #taehyung oneshot #taehyung series #taehyung fic #taehyung drabble #taehyung reactions #taehyung imagines #bts fanfic #bts one shot #bts series #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts reactions #taehyung x reader #namjoon #jin #seokjin #yoongi #suga #hoseok #jhope #jimin #jungkook

[painted-crow]

Secondary Toast Revolving Door, Part 1

I guess I should start with a little about me, since that’s easier than making you pick through previous asks for information and some of you guys are new here. This one’s going to be heavily personal, so you can skip it if you want.

I’m a double Bird. My Bird primary system is heavily Badger influenced, and I also use Lion to support it by telling me when I should investigate something more closely. If we can dip into primary territory for a moment, I guess you can say I understand the world through systems that model things around me. But not all of those systems are things I’ve consciously examined, or fully investigated.

My understanding of how historical people dressed is pretty limited, for example, because I haven’t studied it in depth to get all the information—but I consciously understand what I do know about it. You could say this system piece is tiny but clear; I could expand it if I chose to find out more.

My understanding of how someone I’m not close to thinks might have more data to work with, but I haven’t consciously processed it; that’s the kind of thing where my Lion primary model will tell me to look closer if that person starts acting weird. This system piece might be described as huge but fuzzy; I could clarify it if I sat down and thought about it. I probably have more of these than I realize, but Lion basically takes care of monitoring those. I don’t have to investigate everything.

But some of my systems are both large and fairly clear, because I’ve taken the time both to gather data on them and to examine it. My understanding of myself is… well, I won’t say it’s terribly clear, because I’m in my early twenties and I’m still constantly getting new information, plus someone keeps changing the environment and mucking with my data (that would be me). But I have to examine it, because my brain is like a notoriously buggy piece of software and I’m the poor schmuck saddled with tech support duties.

Basically, the reason I’m good at playing therapist with other people is that I’m constantly doing exactly that thing with myself. (This probably makes me a very annoying patient for actual therapists.)

About that buggy brain, then.

I have major depression. That was professionally diagnosed when I was a teenager and it’s probably genetic. I take medication for it, when I remember to. It especially flares up in the winter or when I’m under stress. I probably have some kind of anxiety disorder too.

I’m almost certainly autistic, which I’ve never brought up with a professional—the first person to figure it out was the system I’m now best friends with, because they’re autistic and they knew I was within two weeks of talking to me. It took me two years to catch up with them and figure it out myself.

In my defense, I thought executive dysfunction, sensory overwhelm, dissociation, and hyperempathy were like… secret menu items for depression, because those only really bug me during depressive episodes. My current theory is that they’re related to autistic burnout instead.

I mask a lot, subconsciously—it’s actually really hard to turn that off normally—and I just can’t do that as much when depressed. If I do, my tolerance for everything else goes way down and I’ll go into overwhelm and start having shutdowns and dissociating. I recover pretty quickly (hours, not days), but if you’ve never spent 15 minutes standing in a Walmart aisle trying to decide whether you want a jar of peanut butter, but you can’t make decisions because you can’t access your emotions and you don’t really feel like you’re “here” but you kind of just want to go home… well, be glad I guess.

Of course, I have other autistic traits that show up when I’m not under stress, but they’re seldom associated with autism because most people don’t know what autis are like when we’re actually happy. Like, hyperlexia? That’s not even an “official” word, the auti community just uses it because “official” literature hasn’t caught up. I taught myself to read at age three (according to my mom; she says I was reading news headlines and stuff, not just books I’d memorized) and wrote a 35k word novella when I was ten, with no external prompting. My audio processing used to be terrible, but I routinely tested at college age reading levels as a kid.

I also might have ADHD? If so, it’s also mostly just noticeable if I’m under stress, and then it’s hard to tell if that’s the issue or if it’s just autism/depression again.

You might be getting a clearer picture of how my secondary and its model end up burnt so often!

(Resisting a very strong urge to cut stuff from this post.)

In short, I was a Gifted Kid. I spent a lot of my teen years biting off more than I could chew, honestly. I felt that I should be able to do more, and I wanted to be taken seriously, but I had basically no idea how to take care of myself because my needs are different from everyone else’s. I’m still figuring those out.

I’m kind of like an orchid plant: incredibly picky about conditions, wants a different “soil” and watering schedule, gets stressed if stuff changes too quickly, but when everything is just right and it does bloom, it goes all out.

I’m not kidding when I say that I have odd needs. One of them is the need for creative work, which seems to be hardwired into me. When I say that art or writing keeps me sane, I often hear back “oh yeah! I’ve heard that can be very therapeutic,” which is an innocuous reply, but it’s always bugged me, and I think I’ve figured out why.

First, because that’s not the reason I make things… I just… have to. Second, I can’t “make up” not doing creative work with some other kind of therapy. Third and most importantly, I’d much rather think of “artist” as my ground state, and depression as a condition that happens when my needs aren’t being met, rather than thinking of depression as the default that I’m just using art to escape from. That seems to me a healthier way of thinking, and probably a more accurate one, but I’m probably the only one who can see that distinction.

If life gets in the way and I can’t make space for creative work, it will actively make my depression worse. I know this because, multiple times, I’ve been unable to pinpoint why I’m feeling shitty, and then I go back to my easel or my writing or (ukulele, cooking, even just taking care of houseplants) and realize I haven’t done anything creative in like a month and thaaaat’s the problem.

I crack open a bottle of gesso to prep some canvases and it smells like… well, I don’t think you can get high off gesso? But it’s not like when you’re out of it on painkillers or cold medicine or whatever. It’s incredibly grounding, like the world snaps back into focus but it’s also oddly euphoric. Or I write ten thousand words in a couple days and it just… I don’t know what that does. I’ve never run across a word for it.

The writer of Smile at Strangers (a really good memoir centered around women, anxiety, and karate) describes a similar feeling in relation to her martial arts practice.

It’s also a bit like when all the snow melts after winter and you step outside and there’s the smell of wet soil under sunlight and I’m not sure if this fully translates for people who don’t have seasonal depression. Sorry.

Dammit, I want to paint… I haven’t had space to set up for like eight months. I’ve been nose-deep in writing projects since last summer for a reason, but right now my friggin Ravenclaw secondary is off angsting about something because of Life Stress Bullshit, and I don’t have the focus to work on any of my writing projects. Apart from this one. But it’s not really what I want in terms of creative work.

*velociraptor screech*

Oh, yeah. I guess I could mention this is why my nickname is Paint. Not sure if that was obvious before. The header image (which is more visible in the app for some reason) is one of my paintings. It’s a tiny one and it’s not one of my favorites, but I had the photo on my phone and the colors work well enough for what I needed.

(restrains self from negging my own painting ability)

This is starting to get into spoiler territory for what burned Ravenclaw secondary looks like, huh? It’s peaced out for a couple weeks at this point. I’m trying to write about what made it take off, but my ability to think of words and form a coherent sentence kinda flew out the window when I approached it directly.

Let’s just say that around the start of the month, someone I was talking to online (if you’re reading this, it’s definitely not you) kindaaaa hit a nasty depression trigger of mine. Not their fault—it’s very specific to me, and I struggle to explain why I can’t really talk about it. Basically, I spent years studying programming and web design, and due to several different but related issues during that experience, it’s now a trigger for me. I very much want it not to be, but trying to train that out of myself has induced more than one panic attack and I’m stuck between giving up on it or figuring out a way to go back to it that doesn’t totally shut my brain down.

That paragraph took forever to write, by the way.

I think I have to end this here. I… am going to go take out the trash, and water my plants, and make my bed, and file some paperwork, and maybe I’ll even mix up some bread dough or do some laundry. Spoiler alert for what it looks like when my Hufflepuff model takes over, I guess.

Oh. And I should maybe probably eat something. I almost forgot about that... again.

#sortinghatchats #time to overshare on the internet i guess #secondary toast revolving door #mental health #burned ravenclaw secondary #hufflepuff secondary model #ravenclaw primary #paint speaks

[spencers-dria]

Maybe, Just Maybe

Someone To Stay Ch. 5

Spencer x Fem reader

Content/Trigger warnings: a little bit of body image issues

Spencer POV:

It's been a few days since I hung out with Y/N. I'm truly glad she was the one I got to go with. I feel like we might have a lot in common, and she's easy to be around. For a little while, I almost forgot about everything that happened...about her. The next day the thoughts came sinking slowly back in, but they don't feel as debilitating as they used to. Maybe Derek was right, getting out, being around people, it may not be easy for me but it may be what's best. Maybe I should try to get out of my comfort zone a little. I want to get better, I do. But being social, well it's never been my strong suit, and to try to do it now, when I feel so emotionally vulnerable, it's particularly difficult.

Other than the dinner at Rossi's, my friends haven't been inviting me out as much as they used to. I'm pretty sure they got tired of the inevitable rejection. I want them to see that I'm trying, that I want to do better, to get better. Maybe if I reach out first...

I grab my phone to call JJ. She's like a sister to me, and she's been the best at trying to understand what I've been going through.

"Hey, Spence!" She sounds surprised but glad to hear from me.

"Hey, I was uhh.. well I was just wondering..." my words trail off as I find myself suddenly losing confidence in my endeavor.

"Yeah, what's up?" Her voice has a calming effect on me.

"Well...I was wondering if the team had any plans this weekend? To hang out or...I don't know."

"Actually we don't. But we should! I think I have an idea. There's something I've been wanting us all to do. There's a Lakehouse up for rent, and I think it would be fun if we all went up for a weekend. What do you think?"

I'm not very into outdoor activities, but the idea of reading on a porch by the lake sounds incredibly calming and therapeutic. It also sounds like a good time for me to start hanging out with the team again.

"You know, that actually sounds perfect." I smile at the thought of the much needed weekend getaway.

"Perfect! I'll text the group! Thanks for giving me the nudge to set this up, Spence. It'll be fun."

I hang up and shortly after I hear the familiar ding from the group message chat.

BAU Baddies😎

JJ💖: Hey guys! Who would be down for renting a Lakehouse this next weekend?

DM🍫⚡️: Hell yeah! @ahotchner you know what that means?? Jet Skis baby!! 😜🤙🏻

AB🌹: How fun! Count me in.

DR🇮🇹: I'll cook! I have a new recipe we can try out. I think you'll all love it👌🏻

PG🦄👸🏼: @jjereau @ablake We HAVE to go swimsuit shopping first, ladies! This is a non-negotiable.

AH: Sounds fun, are we bringing the kids this time?

JJ💖: Actually, Will is staying home and he'll be watching Henry. Jack can spend the weekend there, if you'd like. @ahotchner

AH: Thanks. I think I'll take you up on that offer.

DM🍫⚡️: @sreid you better be coming pretty boy, just bring a couple dozen books and you'll be set.

SR♟: Yep, already packing.

I smile to myself, thinking of how for once, I'm the reason we have plans. But if anyone else knew that, I'd never hear the end of it. I knew JJ was being intentional when she didn't mention that to the group. I hear another group chat alert and glance at my phone.

BAU Baddies😎

JJ💖: Hey, is it alright if I invite Y/N again?

AB🌹: Oh I thought that was a given! You definitely need to! She fits in with us so well.

PG🦄👸🏼: You better! Or I won't let you hear the end of it 😂

JJ💖: Great! Thanks you guys, it means a lot that you've been so welcoming to her.

Y/N will be there. Maybe I'll have a friend who will hang back and read with me. It would be nice to not be the only one. Then I remember what she said about moving here because she loves the outdoors. That means she'll probably be hanging out with Derek, JJ, and whoever else. Oh well. At least maybe I'll get to talk to her more. I decide to text her. I never really text anyone, but she doesn't know that.

Y/N

Hey, it's Spencer. I heard JJ

wanted to invite you to the lake.

Do you think you'll go?

Yeah! I just got off the phone

with her. I can't wait! Are you

going?

Surprisingly...yes. I'll be bringing

some books along to pass the time

but it'll be nice to have a change

of scenery.

Books??? We'll see about that😉

I love a good book as much as the

next bibliophile...but this is a

weekend for things you CANT

do at home. Anyways, would you

want to carpool? We can take turns

driving if one of us gets tired.

Passenger is in control of snacks

and music! 🎶🍿

Haha, ok deal. We'll work out

the details later. And...thanks :)

Anytime Spencer, can't wait! 👍🏻

I lean back into the couch and smile. Even if we spend the weekend doing different things, at least we'll get to talk on the way there. I feel like she could become a good friend, but I don't want to make any assumptions...I don't do this often.

Y/N POV:

You run around your room, packing for a trip that's days away. You're too excited, it can't wait. Just as you're trying to decide on a swimsuit you get a text from Penelope, saying that the girls are going swimsuit shopping this evening. They want you to come. You can't hide the smile growing on your face. How long has it been since you've been on a girls shopping trip? You can't even remember. It's spontaneous, so you assume no one will be too dressed up. You throw on a black sleeveless t shirt dress and some strappy sandals. Easy enough to get in and out of for trying on clothes. After brushing through your hair and applying some quick, light makeup, you're ready to go. The girls had decided to meet at the mall, for the most options.

You meet up with Aunt JJ, Penelope, and Alex outside of a nice department store.

"I figured we could start here. It has the most options and it's at the end of the mall. So we can work our way down, until we all find something."

Aunt JJ tends to take charge. She's such a mom, but that's part of what you love about her. Always prepared, caring for everyone. Alex found a cute one piece with a wrap to wear as a skirt. Penelope picked out a cute pink and purple polka-dotted swim dress. JJ ended up with a sports-bra fitting bikini top and some athletic looking swim shorts. Still such a typical mom. The only one left is you. You haven't tried on very many things, and what you did try on, never made it out of the dressing room.

"Y/N, why don't you let us pick you out some things to try on, and this time, you have to at least let us see. Deal?" Penelope gives you a look of encouragement.

"Sure" you shrug. "I'll try anything at this point."

Alex stays with you while JJ and Penny go to pick out some swimsuits for you. They return with a few handfuls of options. You try on the first option, picked out by Penny. It's a cute two piece, frilly and pink. You come out and are greeted with a few giggles.

"As cute as this is, I think it's more your style than mine, Penny" you let out a small laugh.

"Oh I know. I just wanted to see you in it! I couldn't pull it off in a thousand years!" She laughs.

"Alright alright, let's keep going." JJ ushers me back into the dressing room.

I come back out in a black two piece. It doesn't show too much skin to make me uncomfortable, but it's really flattering on my curves.

I hear a chorus of "ooooo" and one "yes queen!" that I'm sure came from Penny.

"Really, you guys? It's not too...ya know."

JJ shakes her head at me. "No definitely not. Girl, you're single, you're in your twenties, your body hasn't had a child yet. If you got it, flaunt it. If not now, then when?"

The girls all nod in agreement. You blush. You didn't know you could look this good in a swimsuit. You usually avoided bikinis. You found it hard to feel comfortable in your own skin. Whenever you tried to dress sexy, you just ended up feeling awkward and uncomfortable. It helps to have some friends to encourage you. You look at yourself in the mirror one last time. Okay, even you had to admit, you look hot.

The four of you end the day with lunch, chatting about your plans for the lake.

JJ turns to you. "Y/N, I almost forgot, do you need a ride down there? I can pick you up, if you'd like."

"Ohh uh, no actually. I'm carpooling with Spencer." I give her a shy smile. I know what this looks like. "We're just friends" I quickly interject.

"That's great" she says, giving me her warm smile. "Spence really needs a friend right now. And I bet you do too." There's understanding in her eyes. You're grateful that she didn't try to make more out of it. Aunt JJ knows you, though. She knows you make guy friends much more easily. That aside, you were still so grateful for the day with the girls. They were all so genuine, and easy to get along with. They didn't make you feel like an outsider intruding on their day.

Later that evening, you lay in bed as you try to quiet your mind. Your head is swimming with too many thoughts to fall asleep: anxieties about this weekend, but also excitement and ideas of what you'll do. Not to mention, more time to get to know Spencer better. You wonder what JJ meant when she said Spencer really needed a friend right now. Maybe, just maybe, you'd break through his walls a little more this weekend.

A/N: sorry this one is short-ish. It's kind of a transition chapter so there's not as much content! Building a base, building friendships, hang with me, we're getting there 😁💖✌🏻

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Treat Your S(h)elf: Imperial Boredom: Monotony and the British Empire by Jeffrey A. Auerbach (2018)

The British Empire has had a huge impact on the world in which we live. A brief look at an atlas from before World War One will show over hundred colonies that were then part of the Empire but now are part of or wholly sovereign states. Within these states much remains of the commercial, industrial, legal, political and cultural apparatus set up by the British. In many former colonial areas, political issues remain to be solved that had their genesis during the British era.

The legacy of the British has been varied and complex but in recent years much attention has been on making value judgements about whether the Empire was a good or bad thing. Of course the British Empire was built on the use of and the continual threat of state violence and there were appalling examples of the use of force. As well as the slave trade, there was the Amritsar Massacre in 1919, the 1831 Jamaican Christmas Uprising, the Boer War concentration camps (1899-1902) and the bloody response to the Indian Mutiny of 1857. However, we must not just focus on these events but examine the Empire in all of its complexities.

In the current moment of our times, it would seem that as a nation we are more concerned about beating ourselves up and making the nation feel guilty than understanding how and why the British came to exist, and setting the growth of the British Empire into historical context to be wise about the good, the bad, and the ugly. History has to be scrupulously honest if it’s not to fall prey to propaganda on either side of the extreme political spectrum.

Truth be told I find these questions about the British Empire being good or bad either boring or unhelpful. It doesn’t really bring us closer to the complexity and the reality of what the British Empire was and how it was really run and experienced by everyone.

For myself personally the British Empire was part of the fabric of our family history. The Far East, the Middle East and Africa figured prominently and at the centre of which - the jewel in the crown so to speak - was India. In my wider family clan I’ve come to learn about - through handed down family tales, personal diaries, private papers, and photos etc - the diverse experiences of what certain eccentric characters got up to and they ranged from missionaries in India and Africa to military men strewn across the Empire, from titans of commerce in the Far East to tea farmers in East Africa, from senior colonial civil servants in Delhi to soldier-spies on the North West Frontier (now northern Pakistan).

My own experience of being raised in India, Pakistan as well as parts of the Far East was an adventure before being carted off to boarding school back in Britain and then fortunate in later life to be able to travel forth to these memorable childhood places because of the nature of my work. Having learned the local languages and respectful of customs I have always loved to travel and explore deeper into these profound non-Western cultures. Despite the shadow of the empire of the past I am always received with such down to earth kindness and we share a good laugh. So I always assumed that the British Empire played a central role in the life of Britain has it had in our family history just because it was there. But historians are more concerned with much more interesting questions that challenge our assumptions.

So when I was at university it was a great surprise to me to first read a fascinating history of the British Empire by Bernard Porter called ‘The Absent Minded Imperialists: Empire, Society and Culture in Britain’ (2004). Porter was, in his own words, “mainly a response to certain scholars (and some others) who, I felt, had hitherto simplified and exaggerated the impact of ‘imperialism’ on Britain in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, after years in which, except by empire specialists like myself, it had been rather ignored and underplayed. […] the main argument of the book was this: that the ordinary Briton’s relationship to the Empire in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was complex and ambivalent, less soaked in or affected by imperialism than these other scholars claimed – to the extent that many English people, at any rate, possibly even a majority, were almost entirely ignorant of it for most of the nineteenth century.” It became a controversial book but a welcome one because it was well researched and no doubt made some imperial historians choke on their tea dipped biscuits (and that’s not even counting the historically illiterate post-colonial studies crowd in their English faculties who often got their knickers in a twist).

Years later I read another fascinating collection of scholarly chapters by different historians called ‘Anxieties, Fears, and Panic in Colonial Settings: Empires on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown’ (2016) edited Harald Fischer-Tiné which challenged a rosy vision of Britain’s imperial past by tracing British imperial emotions: the feelings of fear, anxiety, and panic that gripped many Britons as they moved to foreign lands. To be fair both Robert Peckham’s Empires of Panic: Epidemics and Colonial Anxieties (2015) got there before him but Tiné’s history set the trend for others to follow such as Marc Condos’s The Insecurity State: Punjab and the Making of Colonial Power in British India (2018) and Kim Wagner’s Amritsar 1919: An Empire of Fear and the Making of a Massacre (2019).

They all set out their stall by highlighting the sense of vulnerability felt by the British in the colonies. Fisher-Tiné’s edited book in particular highlights the pervasiveness of feelings of fear, anxiety, and panic in many colonial sites. He acknowledges that: “the history of colonial empires has been shaped to a considerable extent by negative emotions such as anxiety, fear and embarrassment, as well as by the regular occurrence of panics.” 

The book suggests that these excessive emotional states were triggered by three main causes. First, the European population in British India was heavily dependent on Indian servants and subordinates who might retaliate against unfair masters or whose access to European dwellings could be used by malevolent others to poison the white elite. Second, anxieties about the assumed toxic effects of the Indian climate fuelled also poisoning panics. Diseases such as malaria and cholera were considered to be the ultimate outcome of an “atmospheric poison”. Third, Indian therapeutics and the system of medicine were also identified as a potential cause of poisoning European communities. These poisoning panics only helped reinforce the racial categorisations of Indians, the moral supremacy of the white population, and the legitimacy of colonial rule. Overall the book expanded the understanding of how a sense of fragility rather than strength shaped colonial policies.

Now comes another noteworthy book which again sound a little quirky but is no less meticulous in its research and judicious in its observations. Many books about the British Empire focus on what happened; this book concentrates on how people felt. When I was first given it I was predisposed to be negative because here was a book about ‘feelings’ - the current disease of our decaying western culture. But I was pleasantly surprised.

Was the British Empire boring? So asks Jeffrey Auerbach in his irreverent tome, ‘Imperial Boredom: Monotony and the British Empire’ (2018).

It’s an unexpected question, largely because imperial culture was so conspicuously saturated with a sense of adventure. The exploits of explorers, soldiers and proconsuls – dramatised in Boys’ Own-style narratives – captured the imagination of contemporaries and coloured views of Empire for a long time after its end. Even latter-day historians committed to Marxist or postcolonial critiques of Empire tend to assume that the imperialists themselves mostly had a good time. Along with material opportunities for upward mobility, Empire offered what the Pan-Africanist W.E.B. DuBois called ‘the wages of whiteness’ – the psychological satisfactions of membership in a privileged caste – and an escape from the tedium of everyday life in a crowded, urbanised, ever less picturesque Britain.

The British Empire has been firmly tied to myth, adventure, and victory. For many Britons, “the empire was the mythic landscape of romance and adventure. It was that quarter of the globe that was coloured and included darkest Africa and the mysterious East.” Cultural artifacts such as music, films, cigarette cards, and fiction have long constructed and reflected this rosy vision of the empire as a place of adventure and excitement.

Against this widely held view of the empire, As Auerbach argues here, however, the idea of Empire-as-adventure-story is a misleading one. For contemporaries, the promise of exotic thrills in distant lands built up expectations which inevitably collided with reality. 

In a well-researched and enjoyable book, the author argues “that despite the many and famous tales of glory and adventure, a significant and overlooked feature of the nineteenth-century British imperial experience was boredom and disappointment.” In other words, instead of focusing on the exploits of imperial luminaries such as Walter Raleigh, James Cook, Robert Clive, David Livingstone, Cecil Rhodes and others, Auerbach says pay attention to the moments when many travellers, colonial officers, governors, soldiers, and settlers who were gripped by an intense sense of boredom in India, Australia, and southern Africa.

For historians, the challenge is to look past the artifice of texts which conceal and compensate for long stretches of boredom to unravel the truth. Turning away from published memoirs and famous images, therefore, Auerbach trains his eye on the rough drafts of imperial culture: letters, diaries, drawings. He finds that Britons’ quests for novelty, variety and sensory delight in the embrace of 19th-century Empire very often ended in tears. Indeed Auerbach identifies an overwhelming emotion that filled the psyche of many Britons as they moved to new lands: imperial boredom.

Precision in language and terminology is essential and Auerbach begins by setting out what he means by boredom. Adopting Patricia Meyer Spacks’ approach, he points out that the term first came into use in the mid-18th century. Auerbach identifies then the feeling as a “modern construct” closely associated with the mid-18th century where the spread of industrial capitalism and the Enlightenment emphasis on individual rights and happiness that the concept came to the fore. This does not mean that nobody previously suffered from boredom, but that, with the Enlightenment’s emphasis on the individual, this was when the feeling first became conceptualised. Like Spacks, he distinguishes boredom from 19th-century ‘ennui’ or existential world-weariness and also from monotony, which has a much longer history. Whilst a monotonous activity or experience may generate a feeling of boredom, it will not necessarily do so. The two terms must, therefore, not be equated.

Significantly, in a footnote, Auerbach cites a passage from 19th Century English satirical novelist, Fanny Burney, in which an individual is described as ‘monotonous and tiresome’ but, as he emphasises, ‘not boring’. To prevent confusion, the term ‘boring’ is best avoided when describing an activity or experience because this is to beg the question as to whether it does in fact generate feelings of boredom in a particular person.

How then should this state of mind be assessed and what should be seen as the symptoms of imperial boredom? As Auerbach acknowledges, boredom ‘is not a simple emotion, but rather a complex constellation of reactions’. Building on that approach, he says ‘imperial boredom’ reflected ‘a sense of dissatisfaction and disenchantment with the immediate and the particular, and at times with the enterprise of empire more broadly’. If this tends to mix cause and effect, the idea of dissatisfaction and disenchantment essentially mirrors Spacks’ definition of the symptoms of boredom, namely, ‘the incapacity to engage fully: with people, with action, with one’s own ideas’. ‘Imperial boredom’, therefore, was more than a fleeting moment of irritation with a particular situation or person and reflected a mind-set that derived from, and in turn, further contributed to, a sense of disillusionment with the overall project.

It stemmed, so Auerbach argues, from the marked contrast between how empire was represented and how it turned out to be, between ‘the fantasy and the reality’. ‘Empire was constructed as a place of adventure, excitement and picturesque beauty’ but too often lacked these features. Nowhere is this better described than in George Orwell’s Burmese Days, in which the promising young John Flory has become ‘yellow, thin, drunken almost middle-aged’. Beginning with this illustration, Auerbach argues that historians have too often overlooked this essential aspect of empire and sets out to discover the extent to which it was characteristic of what Flory called the ‘Pox Britannica’ more generally.

During the 17th century the British Empire sustained itself on the story that the colonial experience was both righteous and unbelievably exciting. Sea voyages were difficult, and when one eventually did reach landfall there was a good chance of violence, but the exotic foreign cultures, the landscapes, and the wildlife made the trip worthwhile. The British colonialist was meant to be swashbuckling. Advertisements for even the most banal household goods offered colourful and robust propaganda for life in the colonies. Travelogues and illustrated accounts of colonial exploration were wildly lucrative for London publishing houses. All of this attracted a crowd of young Brits eager to escape the drudgery of life in the metropole.

By the 19th century, expectations were catching up. As Auerbach makes it clear, from the beginning, the sense of boredom experienced by many Britons in new colonial settings was much more profound during the nineteenth century. Indeed, the latter was marked by a series of bewildering social, cultural, and technological changes that stripped the empire of its sense of novelty. The development of new means of transport such as steamships, the rise of tourism, and the proliferation of guidebooks jeopardised the sense of risk, newness, enthusiasm that had long been associated with the British imperial experience. Consequently, while “the early empire may have been about wonder and marvel, the nineteenth century was far less exciting and satisfying project.

Auerbach spent 20 years gathering evidence spanning the late 18th century to the turn of the 20th, which records feelings of being bored, miserable and deflated. It’s a captivating history of imperial tedium drawn from memoirs, diaries, private letters and official correspondence. In “reading against the grain”, as Auerbach puts it, he has focused on recorded events normally skimmed over by historians, precisely for being boring – multiple entries repeated over and over again about the weather, train times, shipping forecasts, deliveries, lists and marching; or about nothing ever happening.

In five thematic chapters, “Voyages”, Landscapes,” Governors,” Soldiers”, and “Settlers,” Auerbach shines new light on the experience of traversing, viewing, governing, defending and settling the empire from the mid-eighteenth century to the early twentieth century. The monotonous nature of the sea voyage, dreary and uninteresting imperial lands, daily routine, depressingly dull dispatches, mind-numbing meetings are some of the sources of an utter sense of imperial boredom.

Whilst the first chapter, Voyages, may be the logical starting-point, it presents particular problems. They may have been monotonous, but it is unlikely that they would have engendered feelings of disenchantment and disillusion at the outset of an empire life or career. Auerbach begins with the somewhat surprising assertion that ‘not until the first half of the 19th century did long-distance ocean travel become truly monotonous’, arguing that this was because, until then, the weather had been ‘a source of danger and discomfort’ whereas, by the mid-19th century, ‘it was barely worth mentioning’. Leaving aside the obvious difficulties with that approach – many 19th-century travellers, assuming they survived, described enduring terrifying typhoons in the Indian Ocean and South China Sea – voyages certainly could be monotonous, particularly, when steam replaced sail.

However, his assertion that this ‘helped to produce feelings of boredom that had never been felt before’ is more questionable. For example, whilst Sir Edmund Fremantle (1836–1929) wrote in his memoirs that, although the sea passages were ‘monotonous’, ‘it never occurred to [him] to be bored’, Auerbach suggests that, ‘in several places his memories [sic] belie his claims’, in that they refer to the ‘the monotony’ of various experiences, including cruising out of harbour under steam rather than under sail, which ‘always possessed some interest’. But, this not only contradicts what Fremantle wrote but also equates boredom with monotony and, thus, deprives it of any proper meaning.

Similarly, because the Royal Naval Surgeon, Edward Cree (1814–1901) recorded his passing the time ‘reading, drawing, walking on deck, eating drinking and sleeping’, Auerbach concludes that ‘almost every leg of his 1839 journey to the East was boring or disappointing’. However, he omits the opening words of this journal entry which reads, ‘making but slow progress towards China. Weather intolerably hot … The time passes pleasantly enough on board’, which suggests he was certainly not bored. Much of this chapter is not concerned with monotony but with how ‘dreadful’ sea voyages could be, particularly, for travellers to Australia, most of all transported convicts, who, as he shows, had to endure the most brutal conditions. But they had no expectations of empire and this seems to add little to the understanding of imperial boredom.

It may well be that, because voyages were so unpleasant, travellers became all the more expectant and thus disappointed, when, on arriving, they found, as Auerbach argues in the next chapter, that much of the landscape was dreary and uninteresting. Moreover, many could not decide whether they were in search of a landscape that was picturesque and exotic or ‘normalised’ by reproducing English architecture, gardens and surroundings. This dichotomy generated further disenchantment.

If Auerbach dwells too long on obscure painters who often had little success in making these imperial landscapes picturesque, there is no doubt that many of them were monotonous, not least the vast tracts of Australian out- back. Consequently, whilst ‘the early empire may have been about wonder and marvel, the 19th century was a far less exciting and satisfying project’ and this contributed to feelings of boredom.

In the chapter, ‘Governors’, Auerbach essentially covers the administration of the empire. Here, there was also a lot of monotony, although Auerbach wavers between whether this was caused by having too much or too little work to do. Either way, it leads to the assertion that ‘throughout the nineteenth century and into the twentieth, British imperial administrators at all levels were bored by their experience, serving king or queen and country’. However, this is qualified in the next paragraph, in which he cites the Marquess of Hastings, who served in India in the early 1800s, and Lord Curzon, who served as Viceroy at the end of the century, neither of whom, he says, suffered from boredom. It was ‘during the middle decades, that imperial service was far less stimulating’ but he does not explain why it should have been limited to this particular phase.

Indeed, in terms of the staggering quantity of paper generated by the ICS, the problem stretched back to the early 18th century. Records were copied and recopied, and months were spent waiting on instruction from London. The few encounters with colonised subjects came in the form of long, drawn-out formal events. Lord Lytton as Viceroy of India between 1876-1880 was required to bow 1230 times during one particularly ceremonial reception with the Viceroy.

Whilst it is ultimately fruitless to exchange examples of officials who did and did not find government service boring, some of those chosen by Auerbach are not convincing. James Pope Hennessy, for example, the eccentric Irishman who delighted in antagonising the colonials and endearing himself to the indigenous people with his unconventional views on racial equality, certainly found the European life-style monotonous but, as a result, made sure he kept ceaselessly active. In the words of his biographer, ‘the chief impression [he] made on British and Orientals alike was one of superlative vitality. “He would do better”, wrote Sir Harry Parkes “if he had less life”’,  Coming from Parkes, that arch- imperialist, who allegedly died from over-work and could never have been bored, the comment is telling.

While idleness certainly contributed to boredom, it was often the labour of maintaining colonial control that proved to be the most dull. Increasingly professionalised, the management of the colonies became characterised by strict report-making, bookkeeping and low-stakes decision-making related to staff. Whilst these officials may have become disenchanted, it is unclear what sort of mind-set they had when they started out: according to Auerbach, ‘they may well have entered imperial service out of a sense of duty, or perhaps looking forward to a colonial sinecure that offered status and adventure as well as a generous salary, but instead found themselves inundated by a volume of paperwork and official obligations that they had never anticipated, and which they found to be, quite frankly boring’. As a result, they were ‘eager to escape the tedium of the empire they had built’.

Whilst this suggests that, as a result, they threw up their empire careers, the example of Sir Frank Swettenham does not seem to fit the picture. He may have found life from time to time ‘extraordinarily dull’, but he continued as a government official in the Malay States for thirty years, before retiring in 1901. His belief in the imperial cause seems to have overcome the dullness and trumped any possible disenchantment.

In the chapter entitled, Soldiers, Auerbach concedes that ‘the link between military service and boredom can be traced at least to the mid-eighteenth century’. However, he argues, what was different in the 19th century was that boredom was no longer simply ‘incidental or ‘peripheral;’ it was ‘omnipresent’ and this was ‘a function of unmet expectations’, namely, the unsatisfied thirst for action and bloody combat as the ‘small wars’ of the Victorian age became shorter and fewer. However, citing Maeland and Brunstad’s Enduring Military Boredom, he concedes that this omnipresent boredom is a ‘condition that persists to the present day, especially among enlisted men’. This, therefore, divests it of any imperial character and suggests that it was, and remains a feature of modern military service.

Nonetheless, it would have been interesting to know how this boredom affected the performance of the military in the context of empire. Certainly, it gave rise to some of its more unsavoury aspects, with drunken soldiers brawling and beating up the locals and spending much of their time in the local brothels.

According to Richard Holmes, by 1899, there was ‘a real crisis’ in the infection rates of venereal disease of British soldiers in the Indian Army: ‘for every genteel bungalow on the cantonment … there were a dozen young men, denizens of a wholly different world, crossing the cultural divide every night’. Here was imperial boredom in the raw and urgent measures had to be taken to abate its consequences.

Although the final chapter is entitled ‘Settlers’, it encompasses a much broader category of imperial agents, including women, who until this point have been little- mentioned, and, in particular, women in India ‘most of whom went there in their early twenties to work (or to accompany their husbands who were working) and then typically left by the time they reached their fifties to retire in Britain’. It is unclear why these women and, indeed the whole topic of women in empire, should be subsumed under this chapter heading, given their importance in the empire project and the attention given to them in post-colonial scholarship.

In recent scholarship, empire white women have been frequently misrepresented and lampooned in the literature, including the novels of E. M. Forster, George Orwell, and Paul Scott and all too often reincarnated as representing the worst side of the ruling group – its racism, petty snobbishness and pervading aura of superiority and shown as shallow, self-centred and pre-occupied with maintaining the hierarchy of their narrow social worlds. They have invariably been portrayed as both bored and boring.

The wives of these officials were encouraged to run their households in a similar way, managing a large domestic staff and keeping a meticulous watch on financial expenditures. Socially, they were faced with constant garden parties and dinners with whatever small group of colonial families lived nearby. It’s difficult to imagine just how dull the existence of these administrators must have been, yet in reading these colonial accounts, the temporality and the totalising effects of boredom feel undeniably similar to the way that we describe the monotony of work today.

Auerbach effectively reiterates the trope as a clichéd illustration of a female, reclining aimlessly on a chaise longue, conjuring up the familiar image of ‘the same women [who] met day after day to eat the same meals and exchange the same banal pleasantries’ and concluding that ‘it was not only in India that women were bored, which suggests that the phenomenon was not a localised one, but a broader imperial one’.

Of course many western women did find life in empire monotonous and suffered from boredom, if not depression, and no doubt many were insufferable, as were their husbands, but there is an alternative image and the analysis is so generalised that their contribution is, once again, in danger of being dismissed out of hand.

A more nuanced approach would have examined ways in which women overcame their boredom by pursuing activities in which they were anything but bored, including, most obviously, the missions, a category which, despite its importance, does not feature, save for one cursory comment to the effect that, ‘even missionary women, whose sense of purpose presumably kept them inspired, could find themselves bored’. The example given is that of Elizabeth Lees Price, who, at one point during her eventful life, had to help run three schools for 30,000 pupils. But, just because her diary recorded ‘with increasing frequency’ the comment ‘nothing has happened’, it seems a stretch to infer, as Auerbach does, that ‘not even missionary work was enough to stave off the boredom that afflicted women all across the empire’.

For Auerbach, recuperating boredom means reframing the experience of empire as one of failure and disappointment. In the context of colonial scholarship, which tends to focus on the violence of colonialism and the myth-making that went along with it, Auerbach’s book is rather counter-intuitive. He drains the power of these myths, looking instead at the accounts of those responsible for building empire from the ground up: “What if they were not heroes or villains, builders or destroyers,” he writes, “but merely unexceptional men and women, young and old, rich and poor, struggling, often without success, to find happiness and economic security in an increasingly alienating world?” The agents of colonialism struggled to find any semblance of agency in the work that they were doing. Imperial time stretched out, deadened over decades of appointment in far off islands and desert outposts: a sort of watered down version of Hannah Arendt’s “banality of evil” in paradise.

Whilst Auerbach demonstrates that much of empire life was monotonous, to my mind, he is too quick to infer that this monotony necessarily gave rise to feelings of ‘imperial boredom’, properly so-called. He also too easily assumes that, where people were bored, this could only operate in a negative way and, whilst he may be right in concluding that, ultimately, ‘the British were, quite simply bored by their empire’, he fails to draw the evidence together to explore what impact imperial boredom had on the development of empire, for better or worse, during the long 19th century.

If not quite an invention of the 19th century, boredom was a particular preoccupation of the period: the product of new assumptions about the separation of work and leisure and a prominent theme of fin-de-siècle literature. Less clear is whether Auerbach is right to treat boredom separately from other emotional states – anxiety, loneliness, anger, fear – which afflicted the imperialist psyche. After all, a long literary tradition – from Conrad to Maugham, Orwell, Lessing and Greene – describes precisely how those varied shades of neurosis blended into one another.

Besides, a more capacious history of discontent and Empire might help to connect the frustrations of the imperialist experience to the suffering of imperial subjects. When, for instance, did boredom turn to aggression and violence? One danger of Auerbach’s approach in Imperial Boredom is to portray an enervated and under-stimulated, yet still extraordinarily powerful, elite as more or less passive.

As imperial rivalry intensified towards the end of the century, so did the quest for new ways of staving off boredom, not only for men in the British Empire but also for those in the other European empires, and war was one of the most obvious solutions.

As other imperial historians have argued, what Europeans were seeking was everything the nineteenth century, in its drawn-out tedium, had denied them. War as Cambridge historian Christopher Clark has argued, “was going to empower them and restore a sense of agency to their limbs and lives.” Auerbach refers to what Clark called ‘the pleasure culture of war’, citing the example of Adrian de Wiart who, serving in the Boer War, knew ‘once and for all, that war was in my blood. I was determined to fight and I didn’t mind who or what’. But he does not explore the consequences of this mood further, other than to say that these adventurers also ‘ended up bored … and disillusioned’. But, the implications were, arguably, much more far-reaching.

Even if it was not directly causative, this mood was ‘permissive’ of the more direct causes and certainly formed part of the background against which Europe went to war in 1914. It may be thought that it did so in a fit of imperial boredom.

I admire the audacity of Auerbach’s writing and as a revisionist piece of history it has the dash and dare of British imperialism and colonialism. But after reading the book I came away thinking that sweeping statements such as that the empire developed “in a fit of boredom” are a tad unconvincing.

Although he spent about 20 years collecting materials, Auerbach seems not to have visited Africa or India during his research. Had he done so, I doubt if he would all too easily accepted that colonial accounts of being bored represented the full experience. Absent are deeper discussions of how expressions of being bored are linked to racism, arrogance and the need to assert power in exotic, challenging and unstable environments. Emotional detachment, disdain and a demand to be entertained were also part of a well-rehearsed repertoire of domination.

But where Auerbach does succeed is in admirably capturing the texture of everyday imperialist life as few historians have. Most of these examples are compellingly relevant and illustrative of some of the colonial circumstances that drove Britons mad with boredom, challenging one of the enduring myths about the British Empire as a site of exciting adventure.

If you are a lover of histories of white imperial rulers and thumbnail portraits, this book is for you. It’s full of excellent quotes. Lord Lytton, for example, fourth choice to be governor-general of India in 1875 (and appalled by the prospect), later summed up the British Raj as “a despotism of office-boxes tempered by the occasional loss of keys”. It was certainly the case that propaganda about empire and the populist books written about it to make money created false expectations, leading to bitter disillusionment. Nostalgists for the age of pith helmets and pukka sahibs will find little comfort here.

In mining the gap between public bombast and private disillusionment, Auerbach demonstrates that – even for its most privileged beneficiaries – Empire was almost never a place where fantasy became reality. I would suggest that rather than the British Empire being mostly boring, more accurate would be David Livingstone’s verdict on exploratory travel while battling dysentery: “it’s not all fun you know.”

The concept of imperial boredom provides a novel and illuminating lens through which to examine the mind-set of men and women working and living in empire, how it was that, despite the crushing monotony, so many persisted in the endeavour and what this tells us about the empire project more generally. There are all states of mind familiar to historians of empire (in the lives of their subjects, of course). It has long been argued that strategies to relieve moments of white boredom in the empire included cheating and adultery, husband hunting, trophy wife hunting, massive consumption of alcohol, gambling, copious diary and letter writing, taxidermy, berating the servants, prostitution, bird-watching, game hunting, high tea on the verandah, fine pearls and ball gowns, all were par for course in the every day lives for those bored British colonisers.

Auerbach’s book reminds me of a not so nice female character bemoans James Fox’s scandalous but true to life colonial novel White Mischief (1982), as she looked out over the Rift Valley in 1940s colonial Kenya, she declares, “Oh God! Not another fucking beautiful day.”

An earnest post-colonialist studies reader might might feel triggered by such a flippant remark as evidence of all that was wrong with the imperial project but at heart it’s a pitiful lament disguised as boredom at the gilded cage the British built for themselves to capture the enchantment and disenchantment of every day life in the British Empire.

#treat your s(h)elf #books #book review #bookgasm #reading #imperialism #british empire #boredom #british #history #colonialism #imperial boredom #jeffrey auerbach #empire #personal #bio #childhood

[ratsoh-writes]

My curiosity got me, so here is my submission for a match up.  Sorry it’s so long!  I look forward to seeing your reasoning.

PERSONALITY TRAITS:

MOM FRIEND:  I’m the friend that is almost over prepared for any situation and is protective, usually keeping others out of too much trouble or danger, but not stopping them from doing that stupid thing.  Some people will only learn from doing it and so long as it won’t seriously injure or kill them, go for it.  And I mean I am seriously prepared for most situations:  I have fluffy throw blankets and pillows in my car for those who get cold, extra towels just in case we somehow get wet, umbrellas/ponchos for those who need one, snacks/water just in case someone gets hungry/thirsty, first aid kit for small injuries, etc. Ironically, I am the only one without a kid so far.  

Extension of this would be my habit to act as the friend “nurse.”  Willing to spend hours taking care of a friend who isn’t feeling well and give platonic cuddles if needed.

Another extension of this is my need to feed anyone who comes over.  I think my love language is acts of service after typing all this. 

I’M LISTENING:  Always willing to offer an ear, even if I don’t believe I can council you.  Plus, for some reason, people just end up splurging life stories or something that is bothering them to me.  My life is mostly spent as that Naruto meme: “I have no clue what is going on, but I’ll pretend that I do.”  But I’m responsible about it, I won’t offer advice I’m not sure about and will usually refer you to someone else I feel is up to the task.

PATIENT:  Earned after years in customer service dealing with toddlers disguised as customers and also with friends who far exceed my energy levels.  It takes a good bit to anger me or very specific things to set me off, such as when I have asked you to please stop bringing up that stressful memory of mine again and again. 

I am told I am terrifying when I’m actually pissed.  Most times I don’t remember much when I actually snap, just that it happened, but details are fuzzy.  

CHILL:  My counselor once told me if I “Was any more laid back, I’d be on her floor.” And to a point, she is correct.  My house was on fire and my reaction wasn’t panic at the time, it was this odd calm that even when I reported the fire to my sister and authorities, they didn’t believe me until I showed them said fire.  I am reserved with those I don’t know well or are not comfortable around.  Once I trust you or you get me on a topic I love, I’m surprisingly passionate and animated.  

I feel this fits under here, but I also tend to do things at my own pace.  And not much can change that pace, but I will get what I set out to do done.

WHY ME?:  Too many people tell me I’m a natural leader, even got awards for it, but I never volunteer or want to be the leader in anything.  Usually, I just end up in that role somehow, some way.  Most times because I hate disorganized messes and those times the people I am with have trouble making concrete decisions and need some guidance to work out what they really want to do or the pressure to actually make a decision.  I may be an unwilling leader, but I will step up if needed.

WHIMSICAL:  Sarcasm, dry and sometimes cheesy humour, and an attitude to boot, but it’s rarely to be mean.  Most times it is me being playful and if I’m teasing you, that usually is a sign I like you and enjoy your company.  Plus, sometimes people need a little laugh or a spark of different emotion to get them out of a funk.  

INTEGRITY:  I could absolutely despise someone, but like hell I’m going watch them suffer.  In the same sense, if I take a job, I will do it right and not half ass it.  And far too many times I’ve had to step in and explain certain concepts in order to disperse negativity or help others see from another perspective to avoid adversity.  

CUDDLE BUG:  With people I am comfortable with, I am a cuddly person and do not mind a lot of skinship.  I am used to friends hanging all over me.  Plus, sometimes I just want to curl up someone as well.  

  STRENGTHS:  

Observant

Good communication skills & honest

Responsible & reliable

Full Size Human Heater.  I am ridiculously warm and always putting off heat.  Friends and coworkers alike use me as a portable heater.

Surprisingly good at being sly and collecting information if needed, like getting a shoe or ring size without tipping the person off it’s for a gift.  If they manage to call it, I always fess up and playfully make a fuss they ruined the surprise.

  WEAKNESSES:  

Terrible at lying, so I tend to simply keep my mouth shut instead

Willfully oblivious to flirting and absolute flustered mess once I am forced to recognize said flirting

Vast open waters terrify me

Tendency to keep my troubles to myself and try to solve problems on my own (don’t want to be a burden)

Can become despondent if I feel useless at times

  HOBBIES:

ART:  I’ve dabbled in several different medias, but my favorite is just a pencil or pen and any paper I can get my hands on.  I love drawing figures in dynamic poses.  Second favorite is sculptures built from wire.

COSTUMES:  I love Halloween, since it is the perfect excuse to make and wear my homemade costumes.  It also lets me challenge myself by making more complicated pieces like hooves, horns, and even chain mail.

BAKING/COOKING/CANDY MAKING:  I’m the cook in the house and I love it.  Seeing people enjoy my food is my favorite part.  Just don’t ask me for a recipe, I literally don’t have any and I won’t remember what I did.  

ORGANIZING/CLEANING:  I love puzzle games like Tetris and Catherine, and I love a challenge.  Combine the two by having me organize and rearrange a space to make it work and I am in heaven.

STORYTELLING:  When a story needs to be told, I am the one asked to tell it. Specifically I have such an entertaining way of telling it according to others.  Animated and colorful language, plus a few pit stops along the way with some side stories.  

  PET PEEVES:

CONTRARY:  Do not tell me to do something while I am doing it.  That will kill any motivation I had to do it.

BACKHANDED COMPLIMENTS:  It is possible to compliment someone without insulting them or others at the same time.  It just makes the compliment feel empty and negative.  And I tend to just hum and not reward that behaviour.  

TOO MUCH ATTENTION:  I don’t mind attention… from people I trust and are comfortable with.  Feel free to cuddle and coddle away.  But vast amounts of attention from those I feel are strangers or acquaintances will unnerve me (I have literally left functions immediately  where I walked in and was bombarded with shouts and attention aimed at me-sensory overload I guess).

  ODD HABITS:

NESTING:  No, I don’t think I have enough blankets and pillows.  Yes, the giant stuffed animal is needed and his name is Snuffie.  

CRUSH ME:  I’m serious, some days I need one of my friends or my bf to just lay all their dead weight on top of me.  It’s just oddly therapeutic.

NO, I’M NOT PREGNANT:  Just cause I ate that jar of olives in one sitting or suddenly was craving jalapeno juice and crushed ramen noodles.  There are never enough pickles and yes, I am determined to try every kind–I may have a vinegar addiction.

IRONY:  I bake some of the tastiest, sweetest desserts and make pralines and caramels, YET I myself do not favor sweet things. 

HANDS:  One thing I tended to do with nearly every boyfriend and guy friend I had was play with their hands and put their hands on my face/head.  I lived for being pet and having people play with my hair.    

NONVERBAL MOMENTS:  Sometimes words are just too much, so I instead make sounds.  Can be anywhere from a growl to a cat like noise, or the reliable “Nyeh.”

NO NOs:

I think I listed a few as I went through everything else, but ignoring boundaries is the main one.  If I tell you I’m not comfortable with something, do not make me repeat myself.  And usually that something is given a pass the first few times it is done before I say something and explain why I’m not comfortable with it.   

Example:  I have thick, curly hair, a product of my mixed heritage.  Well, sometimes I like to straighten it and I did just that one day.  Well, a coworker decided to make a backhanded compliment, stating I should stick to what works: straight hair over my natural hair.  I had gotten on him about it, but I decided to vent to a friend about what happened as well.  She proceeded to constantly repeat those hurtful words and while I knew she meant it playfully during those times, I had to stop her and sit her down, explain I don’t find it funny cause the words are linked to a hurtful, possibly racist memory that I didn’t want brought up again and again.   Thankfully she understood and stopped.  So, I don’t snap immediately and I understand sometimes a sit down needs to be done.

Ok first of all I gotta say that I absolutely loved reading your matchup!!! It’s so well organized, detailed, and the descriptions are pretty creative!!! Do you do any writing yourself, because you should!!! alright, geek out moment over.

i’ve got three guys you’re perfect for, but let’s go for the obvious one. HONEY!! 

You’ve checked off everything on honey’s list: caring, organized, laid back, and good for cuddling. Now here’s what he has to offer to the table: he will cuddle you back. This guy is the ultimate cuddle slut. You’ll never feel unloved with him. Honey is also a very thoughtful and appreciative guy. He likes caring for his partners. You may be the mom friend, but he’ll do his best to return that love as well.

Honey is a little awkward, but he’s also sensitive and empathetic to how others feel. If he puts his foot in his mouth, just tell him and he’ll never bring it up again. Plus this guy is just so honest and genuine that backhanded compliments aren't really a thing with him. 

Also you like costumes!!! He’s always wanted to try cosplay or theatre. You just might be the person to give him the courage to finally stick to one. 

dating honey includes:

cuddles upon heaps of soft things. He has his own collections of ridiculously soft blankets and pillows that he’ll happily add to your collection. Honey is also a master at pillow forts. 

honey is a good listener. He’ll be happy to just sit back and enjoy the stories you tell. There is start though, who is also the storyteller of the underswap home. Any funny story you give about your time together will be rewarded by star with a funny story from his and honey’s childhood, much to honey’s embarrassment

if you don't really like sweet things but love baking them, then honey and star will happily finish them for you. People are usually surprised about how just how much skeleton monsters can pack away. 

he’s a picky eater and will give you the wtf face when you fufil your weird cravings though lol 

Oh! Also if you’re wondering, the other two would’ve been either oak or coffee

#undertale imagines #underswap #matchups #submission

[exigencelost]

this one’s gonna be rambly. this may or may not be a write-only post. continue reading at peril of wasting your own time.

I started to write this as an addition to that post about brain fog and capitalism:

Also, since I’ve now brought up ADHD, I’m just gonna clarify that this post isn’t in fact about ADHD. I know I opened with “unable to consciously direct your attention” and that that’s like, the signature ADHD symptom, and if ADHD people want to add thoughts on that subject go for it; but ADHD is not an illness, and this post is about illness. I’m not talking about “I can’t focus because of a basic static fact of how my central nervous system is wired” I’m talking about “I can’t focus because today, my brain decided to stop taking requests, and everything is either fluffy or way too sharp, because I am sick.” 

Then I decided not to add it because the post was already long and it detracted from message focus and also required me to think too hard about like, how do I phrase this so it’s clear I don’t mean “ADHD isn’t important/ neurodivergents aren’t invited to the sick person club” but rather “These are two different conversations and conflating them isn’t helpful,” and after a certain point that becomes a rabbit hole and, crucially, my brain is fuzzy today. (philosophical ramblings on the nature of illness under the cut)

But I am now Thinking about this topic. About ADHD and chronic fatigue, and the differential nature of not being able to do things. I’m also thinking about that post that was called “how to unfuck your house in the minimum time possible” or something, that gave fantastic advice for a person with ADHD and/or various forms of executive dysfunction and/or just a person whose house is dirty to like, organize and execute the the task of aggressive superficial house cleaning on a deadline. And reading it was so stressful to me. Because the advice, which was detailed and friendly and enthusiastic, described a physically impossible set of tasks. Which. I could go down another rabbit hole here about “you can do it!” type language and its impact on sick people, but I’ll try not to.  I did end up reblogging that post with a note that said “If you have chronic fatigue this absolutely will not solve the obstacles to you cleaning your house, and that’s not your fault.”

and like. Why did I need to do that? I really felt like I needed to add that. Why? The post was not claiming to be advice for chronic fatigue, the post wasn’t doing anything wrong, except not mentioning me, not mentioning sick people. Erasure matters; combating erasure matters; telling sick people that they exist matters and that’s a reason by itself; but I’m not trying to justify the impulse right now I’m trying to understand it, and like, get a handle on my Thoughts about the relationship between executive dysfunction management and chronic fatigue management. Disability liberation is a complex thing.   Personal context: I’ve danced around an ADHD diagnosis with multiple psychiatrists over several years. Probably I don’t have it. Probably what I have is a mixture of avoidant anxiety and brain fog from CFS or something similar, which can create very similar symptoms, including but not limited to the most obvious of “I sometimes cannot force my way through this difficult linear cognitive task.” 

Psychiatrists, in my experience, are only interested in the question “Do you have ADHD” as a precursor to the question “Should we put you on stimulants.” For a host of reasons, stimulants (at least in ADHD therapeutic doses) are probably a bad idea for me, so the ADHD discussion often ends in a stalemate: the answer doesn’t matter, the evidence is ambiguous, let’s move on. 

But it matters a little bit, I think. There is a difference between disorder and illness. There is definitely a difference between neurodivergence and illness. The three terms overlap and are interrelated and in a fully liberated world maybe we wouldn’t use any of them, but here we are in this world, and I think the distinctions are important. (Another rabbit hole I’m stepping around here: the social vs the medical model of disability, and why I think they are both better understood in the context of each other than either of them are alone.)

I have a line I say sometimes, when I want to reset a conversation because I don’t like where it’s headed, or when I just need to express frustration, which is: “Time management is a pyramid scheme.”  I cannot manage my time. The whole idea is preposterous to me. Time is a tenuous fluctuating infinitely powerful elemental force and I am like, not even clear on why you shouldn’t run the garbage disposal without the faucet on, you know? I’m not a match for time. I know my limits. 

A lot of people have suggested I take courses in time management because I told them I was too tired to stand up long enough to cook breakfast. I did not find this response to be helpful.

For a while I had, like, an almost-trauma response to people talking about ADHD-flavored time management strategies. 

I am sick in a way that means I walk through most of my life in a fog. This is not a complaint. I like fog. I mean literally, I find literal fog very beautiful and comforting, and I use it as a metaphor for my cognitive experience quite consciously. You see shapes in fog that are related to, but not identical to, the physical reality around you; your understanding of distance and presence is distorted in fog but not erased; when you walk through a fog you must be engaged in the constant project of imagining the world around you, of guessing its textures and colors based on tenuous evidence. This is what my illness does, a lot of the time: requires me to imagine my reality, rather than simply perceiving it. Another rabbit hole: explaining what I mean by that would take me hours to nail down. I’m not going to try very hard. Like I said, this might be a write-only post. Here’s me trying not very hard: My capacity changes every hour, every day, every week. It is difficult to remember where and how my body hurt yesterday, let alone this time last year. There is definitely no way to know what it will do next month. I hate keeping symptom logs; they feel like reading my own entrails. I refuse to answer mundane questions on scales of one to ten (“on a scale of one to ten how bad would you say that movie was?” “I wouldn’t”) because I refuse to do the work of computing infinitely varied reality to numbers, because when I was twelve years old I was asked over and over to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten and every answer felt like a lie and every answer was treated like a lie. Or—not so moralistic, no one got mad at me, exactly. Every answer was treated as though it were imaginary. If the answer changed, it was like I’d broken out of character. I thought there was a magic number that might make people understand that and how I was sick. There wasn’t. The whole thing began to feel like a process of imagination. The doctors and teachers and nurses were imagining a child who wasn’t me, who didn’t feel what I felt; I was imagining someone who could understand what was happening and help me. We were trying to conjure each other. To pick shapes out of the fog. 

I am never going to get an accurate sense of how much I can get done in an hour. There is no answer to that question. There are answers, plural, ranges based on predictive omens that are closer to reading the future in tea leaves than they are to using mercury to measure pressure. 

So, I can never plan what I will do with an hour. I can try to do things, and often I succeed. But I don’t get to sit down and say “X set of things will happen by Y time.” It doesn’t work like that. It never will. As far as I’m concerned, everyone else is just pretending that it works like that, and as long as they keep pretending everyone else feels that they have to pretend too, and so it goes on. Time management is a pyramid scheme. 

I have a document where I keep a list of things I need to do for work. In my experience, trying to divide that list by what day I’ll do what thing is an exercise of imagination, and not a very interesting one. As a sick person it is more effective for me to be always ready to improvise, always set up to recover from a sudden incapacitation, always ready to pounce on a sudden moment of cognitive clarity and physical function to do whatever is most important right now, than it is for me to try to make a schedule and stick to it. 

When I make plans with friends for the future I am reaching for a distant shape in the fog. I am asking someone: help me to imagine this thing. If we imagine it, together maybe we can make it come true. And when we get to the day of the plan we made, sometimes the shape emerges full-formed from the fog, and sometimes it dissipates, drifts out of reach. That’s okay. You have to always be ready to imagine something else. 

What did I start this post talking about? ADHD? Okay. I remember why I started on how much I can get done in an hour. When my psychiatrist sent me to an ADHD-informed attention management class, the teacher of the class told me that people with ADHD often have drastically inaccurate ideas of what they can accomplish in an hour. The teacher suggested that we all set a timer for an hour and start doing something and when it ends, see what’s done. Do that a few times, and then you’ll have your answer, and you can use that to make plans. 

I thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. What does today have to do with tomorrow? What does this hour have to do with the next?

It wasn’t stupid. It just wasn’t about me. Okay, finally, here we are: the answer to my initial question. Why is it important to differentiate chronic illness from ADHD, when we’re both slipping on the wet stone stairs of time?  Because the answers aren’t the same. And if you try to pretend they’re the same, then sitting in the back of that time-management class listening to someone offer solutions that have nothing to do with you, you become a little bit more invisible to yourself. The shapes in the fog shrink a little further away from you.

I don’t have an ending point here. feel free to add one of your own. 

#this post makes no attempt to do the accessible emphasis thing because i have no ability to identify what i should emphasize #disability #chronic illness #adhd #chronic fatigue #chronic fatigue syndrome #anxiety #not gonna tag long post bc there's a readmore #sick

[sominbs]

hello! this is chey (she/her, 21, gmt-5) bringing you boseong’s very own castle-builder & corndog vendor — chae somin! you can view her pinterest board here, her stats here, her background here and her plots page here. under the cut, i’ll include everything you could ever want to know about her (probably?).

personality.

enfp-a   /   the assertive campaigner.   independent, playful, optimistic, brave, upfront, charismatic, adventurous, communicative, perceptive, affectionate, smothering, unrealistic. as an assertive campaigner, somin is lively and outgoing. it doesn’t matter what’s going on in her head or what kind of mood she’s in; chances are, she’ll still go out of her way to socialize. she enjoys making people laugh and usually accomplishes this by politely teasing/poking fun at those she knows well, but she can read a room and knows when it is or isn’t appropriate. she’s a great communicator which stems from her strong perceptive skills — it isn’t hard for her to get a good idea of what the general mood is and what’s expected of her at the moment. however, she does tend to be overly-enthusiastic which leads to unrealistic expectations both of herself and of others. these expectations accompanied by her somewhat smothering nature can definitely make some uncomfortable. 

aquarius   /   the water-bearer.   passionate, charming, impatient, temperamental, stubborn, rebellious, progressive, humanitarian, abrupt, intelligent. somin is often described as being unpredictable; she rarely makes her whole personality known, so she has a reputation for being surprising or even shocking. most of the time, she comes across as being genuine, warm and helpful, but there are some colder sides to her. she tends to lose her temper extremely quickly — especially when she feels like someone is trying to control her, as there’s nothing she hates more than her freedom being imposed on. will break rules without thinking twice just to prove a point and smile while she does it. overall, she doesn’t mean to be problematic, but it seems to be a part of herself that she can’t escape.

history / trivia.

the result of an accidental pregnancy. neither of her parents were ready for a baby, but her maternal grandmother promised to raise her if her mother would go through with the pregnancy. obviously, she did. her parents are not together and neither of them live in boseong. she’s met her mom a few times, but doesn’t know anything about her dad. either way, she doesn’t feel any sort of attachment to either of them. as far as she’s concerned, her grandma is all she needs.

granted....... she was kinda bratty/ungrateful towards her grandma for a LONG time. she used to think like is easy if you just try & didn’t really understand why her grandma ran a fuckin corndog stand of all things and why they were poor when they could just ~not be~. threw tons of fits in which she swore she’d never sell corndogs.

lit rally..... eunmi was the one (1) person who inspired her to be a little less MEAN. saw eunmi being nice to everyone all the time and eventually started being nicer to her grandma (and other kids lol) as a result.

speaking of eunmi!!! somin fuckin loved her so much. viewed her as one of the very few good things in her life, so she was pretty clingy towards her which evolved into being possessive. hated the idea of her being close to anyone else,,,,, f’s in the chat.

she was pretty athletic in school, so she was kinda popular bc of that? was involved in soccer & cheer, spent too much time on extracurriculars so her grades were trash but she still thought she’d get into snu because ~it can’t be that hard~. told everyone she was gonna go to snu & when she DIDN’T get in, she had too much pride to admit it so she just told everyone she was accepted.

left boseong for seoul after graduation with NO idea what the FUCK she was gonna do!!!!!! wandered around hopelessly for like a year and a half, doing part-time work and trying to get high-paying jobs with trashy resumes. even tried to become a model but no one wanted her whole 5 ft 3 inches country girl vibes </3

met a lot of people who taught her a lot about herself while she was in seoul, but she was STRUGGGLINGGG to make ends meet so she came back to boseong. told everyone she dropped out of snu bc it hurt her pride less than admitting she was never enrolled to begin with.

here’s the real kicker........ now she runs the fuckin corndog stand in the traditional market. it’s karma kicking her ass for all the complaining she did 10 years ago.... </3 p much every day of the week, you can find her down there slacking off or talking a mile a minute to whoever will listen.

always seems to have some great plan cookin up in that mind of hers, but at this point, everyone in boseong probably knows that she’ll never do any of it. she’s destined to be a corndog vendor for life...... please don’t clown her.

reputation for being unsuccessful in love, but it’s literally just because her ~unrealistic expectations~ make her give up on every relationship that isn’t kdrama material in like..... a week.

still lives with her grandma bc she doesn’t make enough money to afford her own place but she’s only 22 so.......  just wait. she’ll live in a mansion someday.....  hopefully

doesn’t necessarily think she’s better than anyone, but it’s easy to assume she does because she thinks she’s destined for greater things. she complains about boseong quite often and says stuff like “i don’t belong here” or “i know my life will amount to something bigger and better than this” but fr.... she doesn’t look down on anyone. she has no right to. she just genuinely, naively thinks that fate is on her side and something HUGE is written in her story. thinks that she deserves a happy ending and doesn’t have to work for it. that kind of thing. main character syndrome u know.

some quick plot ideas:

[0/1]  —  you know somin’s work ethic is nothing to brag about, so you “volunteer” at the corndog stand. in other words, you loiter around and reminder her to do her job and/or cover her shifts for her while she just sits around. she can’t pay you in cash, but she’ll pay you in gratitude and half-assed compliments <3

[0/1]  —  you only know of somin because you used to see her with eunmi all the time. to this day, you believe that she had something to do with her death.

[0/1]  —  you frequent the corndog stand because you have a lot to talk about and maybe there’s something therapeutic about ranting to somin while she cooks corndogs and tries her very best to give you advice.

[0/1]  —  somin pursued you VERY hard, so you decided to give her a chance. however, she dumped you after less than a week. maybe you’re bitter... or confused. (male lock)

[0/1]  —  somin was really mean to you in elementary, middle or high school because you made frequent attempts to get closer to eunmi.

[0/1]  —  you used to play sports with somin OR you used to watch her games/competitions and cheer her on.

[0/1]  —  you don’t like somin because of the way she expects good things to just fall into her lap.

[0/1]  —  you’re either VERY introverted or VERY pessimistic and somin thinks it’s her duty to brighten you up a little bit. 

[0/1]  —  you fell asleep at the one (1) single table outside the corndog stand and when somin woke you up, it wasn’t to tell you to leave but to ask if you want to sleep behind the stand, at least. maybe she thinks you have nowhere to go

#bsintro #these plot ideas are WEAKKKK but i promise i'll get an actual page soon and better ones written #btw the crossed out links at the top will be updated eventually #idk when but.... #eventually #god this is so messy im sorry omg #i prewrote this half-asleep so i had to touch some things up #i'm literally never prepared #will probably redo this to make it more cohesive and to the point eventually

[demonsonthemoon]

The Flood and its Aftermath

Fandom: Supernatural Pairings: N/A Word Count: 1861 Summary: Sam had always thought that coming out would be the hardest thing. Note: I set out to write what was meant to NOT be a coming-out fic. Then it turned into a coming-out fic. Turns out writing what you would have wanted coming out to feel like is really therapeutic? Who would have guessed.Anyway, Sam Winchester is a non-binary lesbian in my heart.

Read it on AO3.

Sam had always thought that coming out would be the hardest thing.

The silver lining being that, with the lives they lived, there was really only one person she needed to come out to.

Dean.

Dean Winchester, the manly man who thought he was making fun of Sam by calling her a girl. The kind of guy who would refuse a good drink if it came in a pink bottle.

But Sam wasn't stupid and they knew better. Dean wasn't as much of an asshole as he made himself out to be, not really. That kind of bullshit was just the best way that Dean had found to protect himself.

Still. The hypermasculine posturing hadn't exactly been reassuring to Sam considering that he needed to tell his brother he was trans.

He'd thought that coming out would be the hardest, because it was the first step, the one that was supposed to open the floodgates.

In the end, it had been relatively easy. The anticipation had been awful, a crawling feeling under his skin where guilt and fear mingled.

People could argue all they wanted that lying by omission wasn't technically lying but it sure felt the same way to Sam. She wasn't sure what telling Dean would change, which was perhaps what made it so scary. She knew, however, that she couldn't physically keep it a secret anymore, that it was making her sick inside.

Besides, secrets had nearly ruined their relationship many times over.

She was sick of that too.

So there came a day, in the bunker, in front of a dinner Dean had lovingly prepared (because he cooked now, more than spaghetti-Os and PB&J sandwiches) where Sam told their brother that they were trans.

Dean's first reaction was confusion. His second was awkward laughter. Which was followed by more confusion. Sam let him work through it, knowing Dean needed to get past his surprise before they could really start talking.

Sure enough, Dean frowned deeply before asking : “When you say you're transgender, you mean you feel like a woman?”

“No. Well, not exactly. It's more like... Like there's a spectrum between being a man and being a woman and I'm somewhere on that spectrum. It moves around a lot. Most often these days I feel closer to womanhood, I guess, but it's never really one or the other so it's hard to tell.”

“So... what, you don't feel like a guy, but you're not a woman either?”

“Yeah. Something like that. Non-binary is the term. I guess technically I'm genderfluid, but I like non-binary.”

“How long have you...?”

Sam shrugged. “Depends on what you mean. I only put a word to it maybe... a year ago? Two years? But looking back... I think I might have felt this way for a long time. Especially in college. I was just... curious. About gender, queerness. I thought I was a straight guy, though, and it felt... I don't know. Voyeuristic? So I didn't really explore it. And there were times, then and later, when something didn't feel right, but I just blamed that on everyrhing else that was wrong with me.”

“You know that's not true, right?”

“What?”

“That there's something wrong with you. There's not.”

“Dean-”

“I mean it. This isn't wrong. And all the rest of it...” The demon blood. His psychic powers. The memories of a body without a soul and of a soul being tortured. “It's all stuff that was done to you. It's not who you are.”

Sam wasn't sure he wholly agreed with his brother. He wasn't convinced you could separate the essence of a soul from all that had shaped it throughout the years. That particular line of thinking had backfired every time he had tried it. But this wasn't the time to have that conversation.

“I know it's not wrong,” Sam said, only addressing one part of Dean's argument. “That's why I'm telling you. Being non-binary... It feels right. It feels like me.”

“Okay,” Dean replied. Then, with slightly more assurance: “Okay. So... what does it change? Do I call you like... my sister? Or... my sibling, I guess?”

Sam smiled. The apprehension they'd been feeling for almost an entire days was quickly dissolving, leaving behind relief and a fierce kind of love.

“Yeah. I'd like that. Either of them. I mean... It's fine if you don't, I get that it's-”

“Dude.” Dean winced right after interrupting them. “Not-dude. Whatever. I'm probably gonna mess up. A lot. Like I just did. But you've got to let me try. You told me this because it's important to you, right? So you need to let me know how I can make you more comfortable. Not just what's okay or what's easier but what you actually prefer. Okay?”

Sam held up her hands. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry, it's just... It's complicated. I'm not actually planning on transitioning medically. Can't really afford to, not with the risk of someone looking into one of our fake IDs. And before you suggest black market hormones – I know that look in your eyes, don't deny it – I just don't want to. This is the body I've got. It took me years to stop feeling like there was something wrong with it, but I'm finally getting there. I don't wanna change it. But that means... I'm always gonna look pretty masculine, okay? Even if that's not how I feel, I get that that's what other people see. And that's... okay. It's how it is. I don't want to come out to everyone I meet, there's no point and it's just none of their business. So sticking to masuline language is better. It's not just easier, although that's part of it. It's more comfortable than always being put on the spot.

“Okay. That... It sucks that you even have to think like that, but I get it.”

Sam shot her brother a grateful look. She doubted whether he really did get it, whether he understood how painful and frustrating it had been to come to these conclusions after finally finding ways to explore her gender identity. But all that mattered was that he was trying.

“What about when it's just us then?”

“You could... switch? Pronouns, I mean. Sometimes he, sometimes she. Singular they. Same with gendered words, when there's no neutral way to say something.

Dean stayed silent for a few seconds. He nervously ran a hand through his hair, not looking at Sam when he finally spoke. “Tell me if I say something fucked up, okay? I know I'm not always the most... sensitive, when it comes to those things.”

Sam nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

“From what you said about-” He made a vague hand gesture. “- fluid genders, I get that it makes sense to switch pronouns. But you also said you felt more feminine, right? And I... I'm so used to seeing you as my brother and as a guy, so...”

Dean paused, as if waiting for Sam to tell him off for what he'd just said. But they wouldn't do that, because they knew it was true and that Dean wasn't saying this to prove a point about who Sam really was.

“I just think that if you let me call you he, I won't actually be able to switch to thinking of you as anything else.”

A bittersweet emotion bloomed under Sam's tongue, making him choke and his eyes water. Sam had argued with himself, again and again, and he'd figured it was easier to give his brother an out. It would hurt less like this, he'd thought, less than if he'd asked for more and had had to face his brother's failures full-on.

But Dean was flat-out refusing to take the easy way out.

Sam knew his expression probably looked ridiculous, but he smiled. Wide and bright, and with his eyes still prickling.

“She and they work, then. Thank you.”

Dean looked embarrassed. “Sure.”

He wasn't looking at her, but Sam didn't mind. She was happy. She basked in the silence between them, silence that was no longer heavy with secrets.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Mmh?”

“Is it still funny if I call you Samantha?”

Sam laughed, despite themself. Dean's grin was shy in return.

“It was never funny, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

So that, it turned out, had been the easy part.

The hard stuff came after.

The hard stuff was finding a way to get Dean to stop walking on eggshells around her everytime he had to correct himself on pronouns. The hard stuff was learning to correct Dan herself, forcing herself to stop letting it slide despite every part of her that screamed it wasn't a big deal and that it was safer to say nothing. The hard stuff was learning to know herself and then have that knowledge be stripped away by the gaze of strangers every time she and Dean went out in public.

Sam had learned to love his body out of necessity. Because they knew how easy it was to lose control of it, and because most days it was the only thing they could rely on. Years of living amongst demons and angels had taught them that the physical form was only a vessel. And so it hurt when other people couldn't understand that.

There was another thing that the hunter's life had taught Sam. Pain was easier to deal with when you were used to it. But it didn't take long to lose that habit.

And so the sweetest moments, the euphoria of knowing and of feeling known, they made the other times even more difficult. They made the casual assumptions and the well-meaning but off-track comments feel like a constant weight over their shoulders.

The hardest thing, in all of this, was that Sam couldn't get angry. He couldn't fault people for not instinctively realizing what had taken them 30 years to figure out. He couldn't complain about people using the wrong pronouns, not when he used them himself. He couldn't begrudge people for not seeing him for who he was, not when he didn't know how to make that person intelligible in any sort of language.

And so Sam couldn't get angry. They got tired instead, the kind of fatigue that settled into their bones like it had in the first few months of that year when Dean had been in Purgatory and Sam had been driving because he didn't know what else they could do.

On those days, Sam kept going because she knew there was no better option. And she knew, in her heart, that this was only a matter of having lost the habit. She knew that it only hurt so bad because the ache wasn't constant anymore, because there were moments (with herself, then with Dean, then with Castiel and Jack and Jody too) where she could be herself without it being a question, where she existed not only in translation but in the glory of her own tongue, and when she didn't have to try.

The wise man asks the fool:

Why do you hurt yourself so?

Because it feels so good when the pain stops.

#Meeni writes fics #Sam Winchester #Supernatural #Non-binary Sam Winchester #Trans Sam Winchester

[mentalpolaroids]

CH | 17. here for you

CH 16

🔸

Kevin took Dustin home after making sure I was fine. I wasn't, but I had to pretend to be so my brother could give me some space. The fight with Noah kept replaying in my head, making me keep fighting the tears from falling, even if I was alone to cry all I wanted. I hated being mad at people or having people mad at me and the fact it was happening with Noah was making it very difficult to process. I refused to accept that my best friend disappointed me and it led to me yelling at him and feeling angry with him. It was a feeling we both have never experienced before and it was hitting me harder than I could ever imagine. I cleaned the house while Kevin was gone, not only because it was messier than I thought it could be considering the five of us didn't leave the couch all night, but also to try and distract myself. I could wait for my brother and have him help with the cleaning but I was in a desperate need of keeping my mind out of Noah and our fight. Our first fight. It almost sounds like we're a couple. We're not, but it hurts as much. I had just finished brooming a corner by the couch when Kevin entered the front door. My back was turned towards him but I could feel his eyes on me, unsure what to say or ask or even if he should say something at all. I was unsure either. I wanted to cry and vent but at the same time I didn't want to talk to anyone, I didn't want to talk about the fight and relieve it over again. I've done that enough in my head and it was killing me slowly.

"Do you need help cleaning?", Kevin's voice was soft, as if I would break if he spoke louder or arsher. I probably would.

"No, thanks. I'm pretty much finished." my head was low as I spoke, still not looking at my brother now standing behind the couch.

"I'm gonna make us something to eat, ok?"

I didn't answer but I think he knew I was grateful for his gesture and company, my body language showed it. I put the broom back in the laundry room and went to sit by the kitchenette counter waiting for the food Kevin was cooking, enjoying it's smell that was honestly calming me down. After a few more minutes, Kevin sat a plate of pancakes in front of me and a cup of hot chocolate. I smiled lightly at the view in front of me and at how well my brother knew me.

"All vegan, as you like it."

I looked at him and smiled wider while he sat next to me and dripped some caramel on top of my pancakes. He put some on his too and we started eating quietly. I was just waiting for him to drop the question and I was mentally preparing myself to answer it. He probably heard some of it but I knew my brother: he wanted the words to come out of my mouth. It was something he always did to help me stop keeping everything to myself and suffer in silence. I hated the process of it because sometimes it was really hard to talk about some things but, in the end, it helped. I just hoped this time it would help too.

"So,", here we go, "what happened back there? Dustin and I were making up conspiracy theories of why on Earth were the best couple of best friends to ever exist having a fight."

I couldn't help but laugh at his dorkiness and I started imagining the two guys talking to each other jokingly but with a serious face about what Noah and I's fight was about.

"Friends fight too."

"Yes, but not you two. You've been to hell and back for each other and never once did I see you two fight, not like this."

"Did you hear what it was about?"

"Not really."

I took a deep breath and a sip of my hot chocolate before dropping the bomb.

"I found a pack of cigarettes in Noah's bag."

"Oh."

And so I told him every bit of our fight and why I was so mad at him.

"I just don't want him to go down the way Dylan did."

"Yeah, me neither. But, even though I understand why you're mad at him I still think fighting is not the best way to talk him out of smoking."

"Kevin, we've been through this before..."

He interrupted me.

"I know, that's why I'm saying fighting won't solve anything. You're mad because you're scared and Noah is smoking because he's scared too. He's not doing this to hurt you, he's doing this because he is hurting and this is how he copes with it."

"He promised me he would talk to me anytime he felt like smoking when he was feeling down."

"And do you?"

I looked at him questioningly, genuinely confused with his question.

"Do what?"

"Talk to anyone about how you feel or about your problems when you're down?", I looked down, not wanting to admit he was right, "You keep things to yourself because, as you say, you don't want to bother anyone with your shit, even after everyone tells you they're here for you no matter what. Noah is just doing the same."

"Yes but this is different..."

"Is not that different, sis. You should talk to him, like, really talk to him. Make him feel like he can be the most vulnerable with you. Noah... fuck, he loves you, Kelly. I know he will open up to you whenever he's ready, he doesn't trust anyone else as much as he trusts you. He's there for you and is patient with you no matter what, you just need to be patient and be there for him as well. I know you love him enough too to do that."

A tear slid down my cheek and Kevin immediately cleaned it up. He was right, I was being harsh on him for something I'm also to blame for. I guess we really are a great pair because we're both stubborn asses. I lean closer to Kevin and hug his torso. He hugs me back tightly and kisses my forehead.

"How about you call him later, huh? I hate seeing the second hottest couple ever not talking to each other."

I blushed at the couple thing but then I looked at him grinning teasingly

"Who's the first hottest couple?"

"Dustin and I, obviously."

"No way! For real?!"

"Yup."

"Oh my God, Kevin, I'm so happy!"

I hugged him again and he laughed at my enthusiasm. I was really, really happy, I've been waiting for them to get together since they met each other and it was finally happening, so containing my excitement wasn't even an option.

"Me too, sis, me too."

After teasing Kevin a little, something I just had to do, we both finished breakfast, me in a much better mood than I was before our conversation. Kevin insisted on me taking a shower instead of helping him clean the kitchen, since I didn't take said shower I was supposed to because the fight with Noah made me forget about it. The water helped me relax completely and clear my head. The remains of negativity and fear in my mind were washed away and I felt ready and determined to make things work with my best friend and call him later. Until then, I wanted to spend time with my brother, have the day for the two of us, it has been a long time since that happened and I missed teasing him and making fun of him. I knew he missed doing the same to me too. I went to the living room dressed in my favorite pair of sweatpants, a cropped sweater and my black sleepers. A comfortable outfit to match my relaxed state, which was rare lately and especially after that morning. Kevin was on the couch with the tv remote in hand scrolling through Netflix, so, as the good sister I am, I sat beside him and yanked the remote from him. I tried hard not to laugh at the bitch face he made my way.

"Oh hell no, it doesn't work like that.", and with that, the remote was yanked from my hand and it was my turn to make a bitch face that, by the entertained expression on my brother's face, was a pretty good one. Kevin selected a random movie while I tried to get the remote back and I guess I was really in need of a chill day because it didn't take long for me to give up and accept whatever Kevin chose. Through the movie, we would comment about everything and anything and make jokes with each other and laugh our asses off, even though the film wasn't even that funny. I missed having these moments with my brother, it reminded me of when we were little and he would watch my favorite movie with me over and over again. Oncd, we were watching it in the living room and he made a joke about a specific scene of the movie and I laughed really hard. I remember thinking it was the funniest thing I've ever heard in my 8 years of life and, since then, every time I felt like watching that movie, I would make him watch it with me so he could tell that same joke, and I would laugh as hard as the first time I heard it. We were making our own jokes now and I was having the best time. It was therapeutic.

"Doesn't that woman look like an older version of Camila?"

"It does... wow, she's going to be a MILF. I'm jealous." Kevin laughed.

"Speaking of Camila, I ran into Julio the other day, he even paid for my coffee."

Remember the good, great, amazing mood I was in? Yeah, it died. My body tensed, my smile faded and my mind started racing. Kevin noticed and paused the movie.

"Kelly?"

I didn't answer at first, my brain was still processing the unpleasant thought of Julio and all the uncomfortable situations he has put me through. My brother called my name again.

"Hmm?"

"You ok?"

I opened my mouth to say Yes but I quickly changed my mind. It was time. I didn't want to ruin the amazing lazy day we were having but it was time to tell my brother what our best friend's boyfriend was like.

"I have to tell you something about Julio.", my voice was low, compared to a few seconds ago, "You're probably going to get mad at me for not telling you sooner but Noah knows and he's been helping me..."

"Sis, what are you talking about? You're scaring me."

And so I told him everything. The first time I saw him outside the restaurant with a woman, when he paid for my lunch, the times he was outside the company, the night at the club... Everything he did, said, the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel and how Noah has been helping me and keeping me safe.

"Fuck..."

"Yeah."

"You have to tell Camila."

"I know."

"Seriously, Kelly, that's really fucked up. And how the hell did I not notice? I mean, I remember you acting weird that night we went out but I thought it was just the sexual tension between you and Noah..."

"Kevin!"

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm... I just wasn't expecting that. Shit."

Kevin's body was leaning hard against the couch and his leg was bouncing. He was getting anxious.

"When are you planning on telling Camila?"

"I don't know. I had some opportunities but I always chickened out or wasn't sure if it was just me acting paranoid."

"You're not paranoid, Kelly. Fuck, if Noah noticed too and even saw him waiting for you outside... Jesus, that's messed up.", his voice trembled, "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I could help too."

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry, really. It was because of the same reason I didn't tell Camila, and also because you weren't at your best when this started."

"Right.", he looked down and I grabbed his hand that was anxiously fidgeting with the other.

"Hey, don't go blaming yourself now, I'm fine. Noah's been helping me and taking care of me."

"I know, I believe that, trust me. The dude would kill for you."

I rolled my eyes but the blush was inevitable. Besides the weight of Julio's presence in my head, I felt even more safe and relieved now that Kevin knew. It took us some time to put this subject aside but we managed to go back to the movie, this time watching it a little less enthusiastically.

I was about to take my sweater off to replace it with the oversized one I use to sleep when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number but I picked up anyway.

"Hello?"

"Kelly?", a man's voice answered on the other side, a voice I couldn't associate with anyone I knew.

"Yes?"

"It's Dylan."

"Oh, hi."

To say I was surprised, mostly shocked, was putting it lightly. First, I had no idea Noah's brother was already out of prison and second I totally didn't expect him to call me. Everything about this call was unexpected so it took me a few seconds to process.

"Look, I know it's late but can you please come over?"

He sounded like he was in a rush and desperate, if the emphasis on the please was any indication.

"Are you at Noah's?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to bother you, especially because I know you probably weren't expecting me to call but I...", he interrupted himself to take a deep breath, like talking was making him tired, "I think he needs you. Can you please come over now? I'll pick you up if you want."

"No, it's fine, I'll drive. I'll try to be there in five."

"Thank you so much, Kell. See you soon."

"See ya."

I rushed to put some sneakers on as I left my room. I only had time to grab the keys to Kevin's car and take my phone out of my sweater's pocket to text him and let him know where I was going, since he was already in his room and I didn't want to waste time explaining to him why I was going to Noah's so late, especially when we weren't exactly on speaking terms. Driving, my mind kept making up reasons why Noah "needed me", what the hell happened, why Noah didn't call me himself and the fact that Dylan was free. Like, the later alone was enough to make me confused and anxious, and it showed by the constant tapping of my fingers on the steering wheel. It took me exactly five minutes to get to my best friend's house. I rushed to the front door and rang the doorbell. My heart was beating so fast that I could feel my entire body shake from it's pulsation and my mind was racing with thoughts and possibilities of what I would find on the other side of the door. I just wanted to know what was going on. The door opened a few seconds after and there was Dylan. I almost didn't recognize him from our high school days. He looked older but in a healthy way and his posture, besides shaken up, was more mature. Nothing compared to the troubled boy I used to know. Dylan looked kind of surprised to see me too and that was understandable. Puberty did me good, I admit, and I wasn't as shy and timid as I was before, which reflected in the way I presented myself. I was more confident and sure of myself, even though I was an anxious mess at the moment.

"Hey, you got here fast.", he said, his voice tired, matching his eyes.

"Yeah, I did.", he let me into the house I knew so well and turned to me, closing the door behind me, "It's good to see you."

"You too, Kell.", he smiled weakly and I mirrored it, feeling the familiarity of the nickname.

We stood there in an awkward silence just staring at each other. We both changed a lot and I guess we were having a difficult time taking it in. I cleared my throat and broke the silence.

"So, what happened?"

"Right, I'm sorry again for dropping this on you this late."

"Don't worry about it, it's fine."

He took a deep breath.

"Well, as you already noticed, I was released from jail.", he looked down, shame in his eyes, "And I asked Noah to pick me up. He didn't know I was being released today, nobody knew. I wanted to surprise him and our parents but... I didn't get the reception I was hoping for."

He looked up, his eyes averting mine, but I saw them shine with tears wanting to fall.

"My dad was livid. He didn't want me coming home, let alone unannounced, so he tried to put me out of the house in a not so nice way..."

"Dylan..."

"He was about to punch me but Noah stepped in front of me. I tried to stop him but I think he was drunk and Noah was trying to defend me and then I tried to defend him but... he just took everything and I could barely do anything to stop it."

The tears fell and his eyes finally met mine.

"I'm so sorry, Kelly, I didn't want this to happen, I..."

"Dylan, it's ok, it's not your fault. Are you ok?"

He nodded.

"Where's Noah?"

"He's outside.", he pointed to the door that led to the backyard, "I know you guys had a fight this morning but, please, Kelly, just talk to him, he's definitely not ok." I took a deep, shaky breath and, after hugging Dylan, I went to the backyard. I stepped outside and the first thing I noticed was the broken pieces by the grass. It was from a ceramic vase Noah had on the wooden table that was situated in the middle of the yard. I presumed he broke it when he arrived home in an attempt to get rid of some of the frustration. Then I looked to my left and saw him sitting on one of the wooden chairs that matches the table. His elbows were on his knees and his head was between his hands, that were gripping his hair. I felt nervous, for a lot of reasons. One, he looked mad and I hated when he got mad. Two, I didn't know how to approach him without scaring him. Three, I didn't know what to say or do because we had a fight and had yet to talk about it. But I guess that could wait, all I wanted was to hug the hell out of that man and fix him. So that's what I did. I walked in his direction and kneeled in front of him. He looked at me in a quick move, not expecting anyone to be there. I froze when I saw his face and, honestly, I just wanted to do the same to his dad (as if I had the chance, but my anger towards him was burning). He had bruises near his left eye, a cut on his lower lip and I could tell he bled from his nose but cleaned it up messly. He also had tears in his eyes that grew closer to falling as soon as he saw me. As if his state was a force calling for my help, I hugged him tight, my arms around his neck and one hand holding his head and massaging his hair, afraid he would disappear if I let go. Noah didn't exitate to hug me back, pulling me closer with his arms secured around my torso. He hid his face in my neck and broke down in tears and sobs.

🔸

CH 18

#cold hands #story #original story #angst #romance #oc #mentalpolaroids #noah centineo

[ofhelens]

HELEN WORTHINGTON: AUDITIONING FOR THE ROLE OF LADY MACBETH

oh boy. okay, so without rambling too much..........originally, i wasn’t going to have helen audition for anyone. why would she? with the possible exception of lady macduff, macbeth is full of characters who are totally unlike helen & anyone she’s played up-to-date. plus, the subject of the play is just a little too on the nose for her - and given her self denial at the moment, that isn’t a can of worms she’s looking to open. however, as i was writing this, it became clearer and clearer to me that helen playing lady macbeth would go really well alongside her general trajectory in the roleplay (downhill, like a damn roller coaster) and i could definitely see the “out damn spot” monologue playing well alongside some juicy orson reveal stuff :) also poetically...seeing “the ingenue” go from basically being the embodiment of an angel to playing one of shakespeare’s darkest heroines is...chefs kiss.

 it’s strange to say that my character surprised me...(because im writing them?!) but yeah...helen surprised me!! she’s absolutely terrified by the idea of playing someone who is a little darker, a little stranger - but that’s exactly why she should do it!! i also genuinely think it’ll help her grow as an actor, which is something i really want to see happen. helen is pretty mediocre - but she doesn’t have to be!!! the only way we can grow as individuals is by challenging ourselves - something i’m keen to see heidi make happen.

having said that, i am not ride-or-die for lady macbeth and do not expect her to be cast as her at all!! if orson was casting, helen would be lady macduff without a question (we stan a self aware queen!) - and now that she’s made that point explicit to heidi, i feel like the latter will be way more inclined to cast her as anyone-but-that. if not lady macbeth, i could definitely see her playing one of the witches. essentially, i just need helen to play someone with a little more meat, someone who is darker; meaning that as she tries to nail their characterisation, she’s forced to confront some ugly things about herself and almost deal with the darkness in a therapeutic way.

“Helen Worthington.” She had expected stepping out onto the stage to feel more poetic. There was supposed to be sorrow in finality, grief in endings. And this was it. This was the final time she would audition for a play as an Alderidge student - perhaps her final audition all together. Whilst her peers clamoured for the limelight, she would have been perfectly comfortable making this her swan song. A moment passed. “I’ll be auditioning with Cleopatra, Act 5, Scene 2.” She could still hear Zahra’s words of encouragement in the back of her mind, quelling any doubts.

A brief look of surprise crossed Heidi’s face, she glanced down at her paper, as if trying to match the person she saw before her with words on a page. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Alright...am I to assume you’ll be auditioning for Lady MacBeth then?”

It took a moment for Helen’s mind to make the connection. She shook her head firmly. “No - no...no. I could never play Lady MacBeth...she’s...” Too monstrous. Too big a part. Too much like everything I never want to be. Settling on diplomacy, Helen sighed. “I could never do her justice.” 

This seemed to interest Heidi. “Why not? Looking at your previous roles - “ She shuffled the papers in her hand “- you seem to have done a standout job with Celia. Lady MacBeth isn’t such a jump. Lines wise, at least.”

Helen shook her head, adamant that Heidi see what she did. “Playing Celia isn’t hard. She’s soft. Dreamy. And a character in a comedy.” 

Heidi frowned. “So it’s Shakespeare’s tragedies you’re opposed to? Or being challenged?”

She was so unlike Orson that Helen had to blink twice, just to be sure her senses weren’t tricking her. “No. I don’t like tragedies. Everyone dies. I love theatre because it’s an escape - because it’s a chance to live out someone else’s stories. But why would I want to live like...like Lady MacBeth? She’s a terrible person. She’s a monster. I’d hate to even feel an inch of who she is.” Because what if I’m good at it? What if it’s easy to become her? What does that say about me? About what I’ve done? 

“And being challenged?” A dog with a bone, Heidi continued to tug at the remaining loose thread. “Is it a fear of letting people down? Are you afraid that you’re not talented enough?”

Back against the wall, Helen was forced to confront some uncomfortable truths. The purest of which was this: she never had been challenged. Any malevolent thoughts were packed in dusty boxes at the back of her mind, never to be opened. She was practically adored by her peers. Orson had never dragged her out of her comfort zone. She had no idea what being challenged was like. All she knew was that she didn’t want it. “I don’t know.” She conceded, sighing. “I’ve only ever played Celias.”

“And you want things to stay that way?”

Helen closed her eyes. Her mind was awash with a thousand memories - hanging out with Chandler in between As You Like It auditions, kissing Jonah backstage, laughing with Harry, cooking with Julian...she didn’t want things to ever change. That was why she poisoned Orson, wasn’t it? So that they could stay in a glorious summer, where no one ever got hurt. “Yes. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

Heidi shot her a thoughtful glance and opened her mouth as if she was about to ask another question, before shutting it abruptly. “Alright Helen -” She said slowly, nodding. “The stage is yours.” 

Now nervous about her audition piece, about what it said about her and about whether she’d be able to deliver; Helen closed her eyes. She had never been to Egypt, never even left the country - but conjured the sensation of balmy evenings, a heart full of love and a crown weighing you down. “Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me - “ Perhaps she and Cleopatra weren’t so different. She understood what it was to long for immortality of another kind. You could have even said she was desire itself. It was those parts of Cleopatra Helen chose to emphasise. 

Pretending to shuffle on a robe, Helen stared out into the audience. Cleopatra saw a kingdom.

“now no more the juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip: Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself to praise my noble act; I hear him mock the luck of Caesar, which the gods give men to excuse their after wrath: husband, I come: now to that name my courage prove my title!” The love between Antony and Cleopatra, Helen had decided, was ugly. It was brutal. It should not be celebrated. But she also thought she understood it - the sensation of being bound to someone, of loving them so intensely you would do unspeakable, regrettable, things in their name. If someone dared lay a finger on Antony, would Cleopatra burn them to the ground? Helen was sure she would. As she came to understand Shakespeare’s heroine, she began to lose herself in Cleopatra’s skin in a way she never had before.

Opposite her, but unseen by Helen, Heidi sat up a little straighter. 

“I am fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life. So; have you done? Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.” Her kiss brings death. It was a terrifying kind of beautiful. Against her better judgement, Helen’s mind began to wonder...to remember. A wine glass. A toast. Poison. A deceitful smile concealing burning hatred. Who was she to judge Shakespeare’s characters...when she had wrought such destruction...

Lips trembling, Helen paused - momentarily unable to continue with her performance. See, this was why she hated Shakespeare’s dark and decrepit creatures. They drew something carnal out of her...they overwhelmed her, threatening to seize her voice and take it as their own. To be on stage was to be exposed...and this was one reflection she refused to peer into.

Why did Zahra encourage her to use this piece? Did she know something? Or did she just want to see her falter?

Ten seconds later, she regained her composure. Her break did not go unnoticed by Heidi.

Kneeling on the floor, Helen took Iras’ imaginary body into her arms, cradling him as he took his last breaths. Childish and impulsive she may be, but Cleopatra had heart. She wasn’t wholly wicked. Maybe in her performance, Helen could find her a kind of redemption; a thousand years too late.

“Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall? If thou and nature can so gently part, the stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world. It is not worth leave-taking.” Was Cleopatra brave to watch Iras take his last breaths? Was she a coward for letting Orson die alone? Panic’s familiar sensation threatened to take a hold of her. Breath quickening, her last sentence was slightly slurred as she raced towards the end, to the moment she could be done with Cleopatra, toss her aside and never wear her face again. 

Her story was not Cleopatra’s. She and Jonah were not Antony and Cleopatra. She was just a role. It was all make believe. 

“See -” Helen began, gentle, but sad. “There’s a reason I don’t get cast as the Lady MacBeth’s of the world.” 

Wearing an expression equal parts confusion and sympathy, Heidi returned her smile. “It’s not your fault you’ve never had an opportunity to dig deeper with your characters. Now that isn’t to say that his comedic characters don’t have depth - but it’s like the other side of a coin. If you want to excel as an actor, it’s important you learn how to play both kinds. Life can’t always be sunshine and rainbows.”

Why not? Knowing better than to vocalise her disagreement, Helen swallowed her words. Idealism never...carried well with people. They thought she was a child, head in the clouds, living in a world of fantasy. Had she been a crueller person, she would have asked them why they were so adamant to continue living in a world of grey. So instead, she nodded politely. “Thank you for letting me audition.”

"Thank you for coming in Helen. And props for choosing something we wouldn’t expect.” Glancing down at her sheet, she tapped her nails against the paper. “You still haven’t told me who you’re auditioning for.”

Her first instinct was to steadfastly refuse to audition for any of them - and let the chips fall where they may. Or even to ask to be moved down a year, to the third year’s comedy. “Orson would probably cast me as Lady MacDuff.” It was the only character she ever could have volunteered herself for. Domestic bliss, it was something she embodied easily.

“Well - “ Heidi said, inclining her head, “I’m not Orson.”

No, Helen thought, you’re not. May that be a blessing, and not my curse.

“Would you toss your hat into the ring for Lady MacBeth?”

No, Helen thought. Not a chance in hell. But then, betrayed by her mouth, she nodded. “I’d consider it.”

As she exited the stage, Helen couldn’t help but wonder what the hell she’d gotten herself into.

#this is literally the first thing i have ever...designed myself #em did all the thinking on the main graphics #ensembletask