#and also with these four it can get depressing quick

[ikemenomegas]

good-ending!kakashi and itachi need to have a little former traumatized geniuses cooking club where they get comfortable with making little "mistakes" and putting imperfect dishes on the table and improvising without needing to explain themselves like it's life or death

[greenorangevioletgrass]

tuesday in the park (a.d.)

pairing: divorced!art x reader

synopsis: your alone time at the park takes an interesting turn when a little girl breaks the quiet, but maybe... her dad is a good company.

warnings: language, smoking, mention of divorce, lily is an adorable lil oblivious cupid, sooo much tension tho, maybe smut in future parts? idk

notes: i am back and pathetic bitch boy art has officially given me a brainrot. this is also very self-indulgent and heavily based on my irl experience (except the fact that it's art, sadly) soooo... enjoy!

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City parks are fucking depressing. Especially the industrial type that’s square, and covered in concrete and has, like, four trees. They’re all well-manicured and hung with string lights, but there’s still barely enough greens to call it a park. And to add insult to injury, a Tiffany’s installation art currently sits at the head of the park—a giant diamond ring in a lush velvet box the size of a Range Rover. It’s gaudy as shit, and the massive Aston Martin billboard overhead is an assault to the eyes. You honestly have no idea why you’re sitting here.

Oh, right. It’s like 2PM on a Tuesday afternoon in some downtown office area, so there’s nobody else there. You can just sit and smoke and watch the water spout from the ground in pretty patterns. The steady rhythm of the fountain jets quiets the chaos in your mind.

Inhale. Exhale. As the fountain hisses and ceases, hisses and ceases…

And then suddenly… another pattern.

A pitter-patter. Like little footsteps. Quick moving, and then it stops. Right to your left.

You turn your head and see a little girl sitting right next to you. Her white sneakers look so small next to yours. She pushes a lock of dark ringlets off of her face as she watches the floor fountain in quiet curiosity and awe.

It takes you a moment to realize you still had a cigarette in your hand. You quickly stub it out as far from her as you can. “Uh… hello.” You frown at your own words, but how the fuck do you talk to kids in this situation?!

But the kid looks up and smiles at you politely. “Hello.” she nods and then returns her gaze to the water bursting in canon.

You’re even more confused. She doesn’t even seem deterred by sitting next to a stranger—willingly, at that. “Well, are you… are you alone?” 

“No. With my dad,” she answers, light as a feather.

“Oh, good. Good.” You sigh in relief and look around for any sign of a parent, adult, anyone looking for a missing child. “Where’s your—”

“Lily! There you are!” A man’s voice cuts through the dull noise of the city. You turn around to see him rushing over to the little girl, grimacing apologetically at you. “Sorry. I’m not a negligent father, I swear. I just… turned around and this little monkey’s run off.”

The little girl—Lily, apparently— giggles as her dad throws her a look, gentle but firm. “You said we could watch the water fountains, Daddy!”

“Yeah, but don’t run off like that…” He rolls his eyes, though you notice his sharp jaw twitching with a hidden smile.  And then, leaning into Lily’s ear but still loud enough within your earshot, “And you certainly weren’t supposed to invade this nice lady’s personal space—”

“It’s no trouble. I was just sitting here,” you quickly wave him off.

“Daddy, can I play over there?” Lily points at the streaming water at the center of the park.

The man pulls a face. “I don’t know, Lil—”

“Come on, Daddy…” 

“No way.”

“Just for five minutes. Please?” She bats her eyelashes, and you can immediately tell it’s her father’s Achilles heel. Because as much as you try to stay out of the conversation, you can hear the audible sigh coming from him, followed by,

“Fine. Five minutes, okay?”

The little girl bolts off to the fountains, tiny hands reaching out to the jet streams, testing out how strong it is. Figuring out the fountain pattern and stepping on each jet right as it shuts off, one foot after the other. It makes you wish it was socially acceptable for adults to do that, too. 

“You’re free to sit and watch her from here, if you want.”

He looks at you, like really looks at you for the first time. At your rolled-up button-down, the chain around your neck with a pendant he can’t see under your collar. But mostly at your kind eyes—weathered, witnessed, but somehow not judging.

He pushes his short blond hair out of his face the same way the little girl does, and the similarity almost makes you laugh… if you weren’t so worried about making a fool of yourself in front of this handsome man. “You sure? I… didn’t want to intrude.”

You shake your head softly and scoot over on the steps, allowing him just enough space to sit down.

He notices the stubbed cigarette between your forefinger and middle finger. “You got another one on you?”

It takes you a beat to realize what he’s talking about. “Oh!” You reach for your pack of Camel, and offer it to him, one cigarette stick already pushed out for easier access.

He takes it with a polite smile, but then pauses upon realizing he has no lighter either. “Um, do you mind if I borrow—”

You lean in as he puts it between his lips, one hand cupping the light from the breeze, and his heart stops at how close you are. Close enough to notice the gloss on your lips. Close enough to get a faint whiff of your floral perfume.

(And unbeknownst to him, your heart stutters a little, too, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you fumble lighting your own cigarette.)

“Thanks, um…” he trails off. 

You tell him your name, and he repeats it almost thoughtfully. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of your name as it leaves his mouth.

He nods. “I’m Art.”

He does look like it. The navy blue sweater hangs just right on his broad shoulders, understated but high-quality. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing a sleek black Piguet around his wrist. A simplicity to complement his refined features. His bone structure is cut like the gods, but the permanent frown etched between his brows, casting a shadow over his deep-set eyes, tells you that he is facing the troubles of man. And the awkward way he’s holding his cigarette makes him look like a boy. Of course, you can’t say any of that to him, so you settle with,

“Nice to meet you, Art.”

He can’t remember the last time somebody said that to him and meant it. And right now, sitting in this concrete park alone, he can see no pretense coming from you. No ass-kissing, no sizing-up, just a genuine kind gesture of a stranger. And it makes him so fucking relieved. 

“So what brings you out here?”

“Work, actually. A meeting,” Art replies somewhat vaguely. He’s not really keen on divulging the details of sponsorship and endorsement deals. Not when you don’t seem to know who he is. “Lily saw the park from the window and insisted we check it out when we’re done.”

“Ah, does she normally tag along with you to work meetings?” You ask with a playful glint, although the unspoken question of his whole situation is well heard. “She should. She looks like a great negotiator. Just saying.”

He chuckles. “Maybe she should. My, uh…” Art stops himself before he could say ‘wife’ because Tashi isn’t that anymore. Not his wife because they aren’t married anymore; not his coach either, because he doesn’t play tennis anymore. “Lily’s mom and I take turns every other week.”

And there it is. Your lips pull up into a soft line, not quite a smile but a gesture of understanding. “Must be tough.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a lot of changes. But she’s doing okay, I think…” Art pauses, “I hope.”

You follow his gaze and look at Lily, who must be playing some kind of Indiana Jones fantasy scenario with the water fountains. Not an ounce of care in the world. “She looks like a tough kid.”

“She is.” Art smiles bittersweetly. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my sob story. What brings you to this park?”

The air that pulls both of you in releases, and you lean back on your elbows against the concrete. “Oh, I just finished work and I… needed some air.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an interpreter.”

His eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Like the Nicole Kidman movie?”

“Exactly.” You point your half-cigarette at him, and share a tentative smile with him.

“Do you do, like… high-profile, UN-related assassination investigations, too?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not nearly as cool in real life. Most of it’s pretty boring, like contract negotiations and focus group discussions…”

“But the stories you must’ve heard, right? Or do you just… zone out at some point?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes you end up shutting off your brain and go on autopilot.”

“But not today?”

You smile ruefully at him, and he knows the answer. You take a thoughtful puff of your cigarette. “It’s… a bit hard when they’re talking about… how they had to jump off of the ship and swim across the channel in the dead of night, because they would rather die in the open water—a couple of them did— than die working in the fishing vessel…”

“Fuck.”

“And I know it’s not really meant for me—they’re talking to my client sitting next to me. But when they look you in the eyes and speak to you…” you trail off, taking a long drag of your cigarette.

Art takes it as a cue for his cigarette, too, although he notices you tapping the ashes off one, two, three times. “Must be tough.”

You roll your eyes playfully at him for quoting your own words back to you. “Ah well, it pays the bills. Besides, I get to clock out at 2PM on a Tuesday and enjoy this…” you inhale through your teeth disdainfully, “beautiful, brutalist… Soviet-core park.”

He laughs, the real kind of laughter that throws his head back, and it warms your heart enough to laugh, too. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

“It’s bullshit! And what the fuck is that horrendous giant ring doing here?” The two of you cackle over the installation art across the park. “And that billboard… it’s ridiculous.”

Art’s laughter dies down on his lips as he looks up at the billboard in question. The Aston Martin “Game Changers” campaign from last year. Fuck. Even when he’s completely separated from Tashi, her presence still looms over like a panopticon.

You turn to him with a smile still etched on your face, completely oblivious to the storm in his head. “What?”

But he looks ahead, too caught up in the hurricane to hear you. He just… looks up at the billboard, his face darkens.

Oh.

You feel silly for not putting two and two together—you’ve been staring at the billboard mindlessly for a good fifteen minutes, goddammit— so you tread very carefully. “That, uh… Lily’s mom?”

Art looks down on his lap, as if not daring to look at Tashi’s picture. Or at Lily, or at you. “Yeah.”

There’s no right word for it. There’s no coming back from this, nothing he can say can make this better, and he can’t help but kick himself for fucking up. What he is fucking up, he’s not entirely sure. But he’s not ready to end this conversation with you, not on such a weird note.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like…” because you can’t. Losing a spouse is hard enough, but to have it out there in the open…

“It’s tough,” he nods in confirmation, and you smile feebly at his attempt at a callback to your little inside joke. To the moment where things are fine, all things considered. 

If the air ebbed and flowed earlier, it must’ve just… froze now. You don’t even remember the cigarette in your hand until the ash falls onto your hand and you gasp at the sudden heat, putting it out on the ground.

“I’m sorry. I should get out of your hair—”

“Do you wanna get a drink some time?”

The question catches both of you off-guard, eyes blinking at each other in shock. He didn’t think he heard you right, and your mouth seems to work faster than the filter in your brain.

Your face runs hot, and you chuckle sheepishly. “Sorry. You probably don’t wanna hear that—”

“I do.” He’s not sure which question he’s answering. Maybe both? Definitely both.

“Oh! Um…”

And right in that moment, Lily comes padding over with squelching steps in her shoes, completely drenched but over the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, that was so much fun! Can we come back here? I see lights on the floor, and I think the fountain lights up at night!”

Art puts out his cigarette under his shoe, chuckling at his daughter,  “Baby, you’re soaked! Did you try to take a shower there or something?” immediately wringing water out of her hair.

“I’ll take a real shower when we get home.”

“Well, duh. But I don’t want you to catch a cold… come here.” He crosses his arm to grab the hem of his sweater and tug it over his head to put it on his daughter.

The girl looks thoroughly unamused as the clothing item falls halfway down her calves and the sleeves nearly touch the ground. “Daddy, this is ridiculous.”

You grin, and you can’t help but wonder how much of that sass came from Art. “Looks pretty chic to me.”

He nods at you, glad that you’re backing him up. “Thank you.” He then turns to Lily pointedly.

Lily half-smiles at you. “Thank you,” although she still isn’t quite convinced.

“I’m sorry, we really gotta go. But how do I, um…” he trails off. Gosh, he was hoping to do this out of Lily’s sight. Lily’s sight means Tashi’s sight, and he’s not ready for that talk just yet.

“Take my card.” You whip out a neat stainless steel case, and slides out a white-and-blue business card. Your name is printed in a sleek black font, right above ‘Interpreter’ in a smaller case. Your email and phone number follows.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and he prays to God or whoever is up there that he doesn’t give anything away to you or Lily. Not a quirk, not a peep. Just two strangers connecting by chance.

“Thank you.” He nods evenly as he pockets the card, trying to contain the butterflies in his stomach—he’s always thought he was too old for that by now, but maybe… just maybe… “You have a nice day.”

“You, too.” You squint up at him under the sun, and then smile and wave at the little girl. “Bye, Lily.”

She waves at you as Art sweeps her up into his arms, and you don’t let yourself turn all the way around to watch them leave. Instead, with one final look at Art’s “Game Changers” billboard ad in the distance, you grab your pack of Camel and light another cigarette between your lips.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Any tips/advice on how to write a character with bipolar disorder?? 🙏

Writing Notes: Bipolar Disorder

Bipolar Disorder - a treatable mental health condition marked by extreme changes in mood, thought, energy, and behavior.

Not a character flaw or a sign of personal weakness.

Previously known as manic depression because a person’s mood can alternate between the “poles” of mania (highs) and depression (lows).

These changes in mood, or “mood swings,” can last for hours, days, weeks or months.

Symptoms of Bipolar Disorder

MANIA: The “Highs” of Bipolar Disorder

Symptoms of mania include:

heightened mood, exaggerated optimism and self-confidence;

excessive irritability, aggressive behavior;

decreased need for sleep without experiencing fatigue;

grandiose thoughts, inflated sense of self-importance;

racing speech, racing thoughts, flight of ideas;

impulsiveness, poor judgment, easily distracted;

reckless behavior; and

in the most severe cases, delusions and hallucinations.

DEPRESSION: The “Lows” of Bipolar Disorder

Symptoms of depression include:

prolonged sadness or unexplained crying spells;

significant changes in appetite and sleep patterns;

irritability, anger, worry, agitation, anxiety;

pessimism, indifference;

loss of energy, persistent lethargy;

feelings of guilt, worthlessness;

inability to concentrate, indecisiveness;

inability to take pleasure in former interests, social withdrawal;

unexplained aches and pains; and

recurring thoughts of death or suicide.

Types of Bipolar Disorder

There are several types of bipolar disorder. Each kind is defined by the length, frequency, and pattern of episodes of mania and depression.

Mood swings that come with bipolar disorder are usually more severe than ordinary mood swings and symptoms can last weeks or months, severely disrupting a person’s life.

For example, depression can make a person unable to get out of bed or go to work or mania can cause a person to go for days without sleep.

Bipolar I Disorder - Characterized by one or more episodes of mania or mixed episodes (which is when you experience symptoms of both mania and depression).

Bipolar II Disorder - Diagnosed after one or more major depressive episodes and at least one episode of hypomania, with possible periods of level mood between episodes.

The highs in bipolar II, called hypomanias, are not as high as those in bipolar I (manias).

Bipolar II disorder is sometimes misdiagnosed as major depression if episodes of hypomania go unrecognized or unreported.

If you have recurring depressions that go away periodically and then return, ask yourself if you also have:

Had periods (lasting four or more days) when your mood was especially energetic or irritable?

Did you feel or did others say that you were doing or saying things that were unusual, abnormal or not like your usual self?

Were you:

Feeling abnormally self-confident or social?

Needing less sleep or more energetic?

Unusually talkative or hyper?

Irritable or quick to anger?

Thinking faster than usual?

More easily distracted/having trouble concentrating?

More goal-directed or productive at work, school or home?

More involved in pleasurable activities, such as spending or sex?

If so, talk to your health care provider about these energetic episodes, and find out if they might be hypomania. Getting a correct diagnosis of bipolar II disorder can help you find treatment that may also help lift your depression.

Some people with bipolar disorder may have milder symptoms.

For example, you may have hypomania instead of mania. With hypomania, you may feel very good and find that you can get a lot done.

You may not feel like anything is wrong. But your family and friends may notice your mood swings and changes in activity levels.

They may realize that your behavior is unusual for you.

After the hypomania, you might have severe depression.

Your mood episodes may last a week or 2 or sometimes longer. During an episode, symptoms usually occur every day for most of the day.

Diagnosis

BIPOLAR I DISORDER is diagnosed when a person experiences a manic episode. During a manic episode, people with bipolar I disorder experience an extreme increase in energy and mood changes, including feeling extremely happy or uncomfortably irritable. Some people with bipolar I disorder also experience depressive or hypomanic episodes, and most people with bipolar I disorder also have periods of neutral mood.

Symptoms of Bipolar I Disorder

Manic Episode. A manic episode is a period of at least 1 week when a person is extremely high-spirited or irritable most of the day for most days, possesses more energy than usual, and experiences at least 3 of the following changes in behavior:

Decreased need for sleep (e.g., feeling energetic despite significantly less sleep than usual).

Increased or faster speech.

Uncontrollable racing thoughts or quickly changing ideas or topics when speaking.

Distractibility.

Increased activity (e.g., restlessness, working on several projects at once).

Increased risky or impulsive behavior (e.g., reckless driving, spending sprees, sexual promiscuity).

These behaviors must represent a change from the person’s usual behavior and be clear to friends and family. Symptoms must be severe enough to cause dysfunction in work, family, or social activities and responsibilities. Symptoms of a manic episode commonly require hospital care to ensure safety.

During severe manic episodes, some people also experience disorganized thinking, false beliefs, and/or hallucinations, known as psychotic features.

Hypomanic Episode. A hypomanic episode, or hympomania, is characterized by less severe manic symptoms that need to last only 4 days in a row rather than a week. Hypomanic symptoms do not lead to the major problems in daily functioning that manic symptoms commonly cause.

Major Depressive Episode. A period of at least 2 weeks in which a person experiences intense sadness or despair or a loss of interest in acivities the person once enjoyed and at least 4 of the following symptoms:

Feelings of worthlessness or guilt.

Fatigue.

Increased or decreased sleep.

Increased or decreased appetite.

Restlessness (e.g., pacing) or slowed speech or movement.

Difficulty concentrating.

Frequent thoughts of death or suicide.

BIPOLAR II DISORDER. To diagnose bipolar II disorder in an individual, they must have at least 1 major depressive episode and at least 1 hypomanic episode (see above). With bipolar II, it is common that people return to their usual functioning between episodes. People with bipolar II disorder often first seek treatment as a result of their depressive episodes, since hypomanic episodes often feel pleasurable and can even increase performance at work or school.

People with bipolar II disorder frequently have other mental illnesses such as an anxiety disorder or substance use disorder, the latter of which can exacerbate symptoms of depression or hypomania.

CYCLOTHYMIC DISORDER is a milder form of bipolar disorder involving many "mood swings," with hypomania and depressive symptoms that occur frequently. People with cyclothymia experience emotional ups and downs but with less severe symptoms than bipolar I or II disorder.

Cyclothymic disorder symptoms include the following:

For at least 2 years, many periods of hypomanic and depressive symptoms, but the symptoms do not meet the criteria for hypomanic or depressive episodes.

During the 2-year period, the symptoms (mood swings) have lasted for at least half the time and have never stopped for more than 2 months.

Exams and Tests. To diagnose bipolar disorder, your health care provider may do some or all of the following:

Ask whether other family members have bipolar disorder

Ask about your recent mood swings and for how long you have had them

Perform a thorough exam and order lab tests to look for other illnesses that may be causing symptoms that resemble bipolar disorder

Talk to family members about your symptoms and overall health

Ask about any health problems you have and any medicines you take

Watch your behavior and mood

Possible Causes

Experts don't know what causes bipolar disorder.

They agree that many factors seem to play a role.

This includes environmental, mental health, and genetic factors.

Bipolar disorder tends to run in families.

Researchers are still trying to find genes that may be linked to it.

Treatment and Care

Even though symptoms often recur, recovery is possible.

With appropriate care, people with bipolar disorder can cope with their symptoms and live meaningful and productive lives.

There are a range of effective treatment options, typically a mix of medicines and psychological and psychosocial interventions.

Medicines are considered essential for treatment, but themselves are usually insufficient to achieve full recovery.

People with bipolar disorder should be treated with respect and dignity and should be meaningfully involved in care choices, including through shared decision-making regarding treatment and care, balancing effectiveness, side-effects and individual preferences.

The main goal of treatment is to:

Make the episodes less frequent and severe

Help you function well and enjoy your life at home and at work

Prevent self-injury and suicide

A combination of medication and talk therapy is most helpful. Often more than one medication is needed to keep the symptoms in check.

MOOD STABILIZERS. The best-known and oldest mood stabilizer is lithium carbonate, which can reduce the symptoms of mania and prevent them from returning. Although it is one of the oldest medicines used in psychiatry, and although many other drugs have been introduced in the meantime, much evidence shows that it is still the most effective of the available treatments.

Lithium also may reduce the risk of suicide.

If you take lithium, you have to have periodic blood tests to make sure the dose is high enough, but not too high.

Side effects include nausea, diarrhea, frequent urination, tremor (shaking) and diminished mental sharpness.

Lithium can cause some minor changes in tests that show how well your thyroid, kidney and heart are functioning.

These changes are usually not serious, but your doctor will want to know what your blood tests show before you start taking lithium.

You will have to get an electrocardiogram (EKG), thyroid and kidney function tests, and a blood test to count your white blood cells.

For many years, antiseizure medications (also called "anticonvulsants") have also been used to treat bipolar disorder.

The most common in use are valproic acid (Depakote) and lamotrigine (Lamictal).

A doctor may also recommend treatment with other antiseizure medications — gabapentin (Neurontin), topiramate (Topamax), or oxcarbazepine (Trileptal).

Some people tolerate valproic acid better than lithium.

Nausea, loss of appetite, diarrhea, sedation and tremor (shaking) are common when starting valproic acid, but, if these side effects occur, they tend to fade over time.

The medication also can cause weight gain.

Uncommon but serious side effects are damage to the liver and problems with blood platelets (platelets are necessary for the blood to clot).

Lamotrigine (Lamictal) may or may not be effective for treating a depression that is active, but some studies show that it is more effective than lithium for preventing the depression of bipolar disorder.

(Lithium, however, is more effective than lamotrigine in preventing mania.)

The most troubling side effect of lamotrigine is a severe rash — in rare cases, the rash can become dangerous.

To minimize the risk, usually the doctor will recommend a low dose to start and increase dosages very slowly.

Other common side effects include nausea and headache.

ANTIPSYCHOTIC MEDICATIONS. In recent years, studies have shown that some of the newer antipsychotic medications can be effective for controlling bipolar disorder symptoms.

Side effects often have to be balanced against the helpful effects of these drugs:

olanzapine: sleepiness, dry mouth, dizziness and weight gain

risperidone: sleepiness, restlessness and nausea

quetiapine: dry mouth, sleepiness, weight gain and dizziness

ziprasidone: sleepiness, dizziness, restlessness, nausea and tremor

aripiprazole: nausea, stomach upset, sleepiness (or sleeplessness) or restlessness

asenapine: sleepiness, restlessness, tremor, stiffness, dizziness, mouth or tongue numbness.

Some of these new antipsychotic drugs can increase the risk of diabetes and cause problems with blood lipids.

Olanzapine is associated with the greatest risk.

With risperidone, quetiapine and asenapine, the risk is moderate.

Ziprasidone and aripiprazole cause minimal weight change and not as much risk of diabetes.

ANTIANXIETY MEDICATIONS. Such as lorazepam (Ativan) and clonazepam (Klonopin) sometimes are used to calm the anxiety and agitation associated with a manic episode.

ANTIDEPRESSANTS. The use of antidepressants in bipolar disorder is controversial. Many psychiatrists avoid prescribing antidepressants because of evidence that they may trigger a manic episode or induce a pattern of rapid cycling. Once a diagnosis of bipolar disorder is made, therefore, many psychiatrists try to treat the illness using mood stabilizers.

Some studies, however, continue to show the value of antidepressant treatment to treat low mood, usually when a mood stabilizer or antipsychotic medication is also being prescribed.

There are so many different forms of bipolar disorder that it is impossible to establish one general rule.

Using an antidepressant alone may be justified in some cases, especially if other treatments have not given relief. This is another area where the pros and cons of treatment should be reviewed carefully with your doctor.

PSYCHOTHERAPY. Talk therapy (psychotherapy) is important in bipolar disorder as it provides education and support and helps a person come to terms with the illness. Therapy can help between mood episodes to help people recognize the early symptoms follow a course of treatment more closely. For depression, psychotherapy can help people develop coping strategies. Family education helps family members communicate and solve problems. When families are kept involved, patients adjust more easily, are more likely to make good decisions about their treatment and have a better quality of life. They have fewer episodes of illness, fewer days with symptoms and fewer admissions to the hospital.

Psychotherapy helps a person deal with painful consequences, practical difficulties, losses or embarrassment stemming from manic behavior.

A number of psychotherapy techniques may be helpful depending on the nature of the person's problems.

Cognitive behavioral therapy helps a person recognize patterns of thinking that may keep him or her from managing the illness well.

Psychodynamic, insight-oriented or interpersonal psychotherapy can help to sort out conflicts in important relationships or explore the history that has contributed to current problems.

If left untreated, a first episode of mania lasts an average of 2-4 months and a depressive episode up to 8 months or longer, but there can be many variations. If the person does not get treatment, episodes tend to become more frequent and last longer as time passes.

Self-Care. You can also take steps to help yourself. During periods of depression, consider the following:

Get help. If you think you may be depressed, see a healthcare provider right away.

Set realistic goals and don’t take on too much at a time.

Break large tasks into small ones. Set priorities and do what you can as you can.

Try to be with other people and confide in someone. It's usually better than being alone and secretive.

Do things that make you feel better. Going to a movie, gardening, or taking part in religious, social, or other activities may help. Doing something nice for someone else can also help you feel better.

Get regular exercise.

Expect your mood to get better slowly, not right away. Feeling better takes time.

Eat healthy, well-balanced meals.

Don't drink alcohol or use illegal drugs. These can make depression worse.

It’s best to postpone big decisions until the depression has lifted. Before making big decisions, such as changing jobs or getting married or divorced, discuss it with others who know you well and have a more objective view of your situation.

People don’t snap out of a depression. But with treatment they can feel a little better day by day.

Try to be patient and focus on the positives. It may help replace the negative thinking that is part of the depression, and the negative thoughts will disappear as your depression responds to treatment.

As difficult as it may be, tell your family and friends that you are not feeling well and let them help you.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Consider the above notes, and then the following tips & advice to further develop your character:

Writing about Mental Health Conditions

Character Development

You can find more details as well as some useful fact sheets in the sources. Speaking with a person/s with bipolar disorder would also lend valuable insight into your story, as well as doing further research on media portrayals of and by people with bipolar disorder. Hope this helps with your writing!

[raven-dor]

'cause i like you

the four times james 'bucky' barnes calms you down, and the one time you return the favor

PAIRING: bucky barnes x fem!reader, bucky barnes x thunderbolt!reader, platonic!thunderbolts x fem!reader

WARNINGS: Walker, mean man, protective Bucky, crying, hurt/comfort, low self esteem, DEPRESSIVE EPISODE, SELF HATRED, angsty af, like super angsty, mission gone wrong, love confession!!

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

🎶 : delicate - taylor swift

AN: 🩵♥️💛💗 - alternative title - you and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!! reader is like a 'female Bob', powers are sort of the same as Bob's but weather (weather manipulation and such) your superhero name is Vortex!!

one. 

The overcast weather perfectly reflected your mood, the gloomy grey sky making it nearly impossible to see the brighter side of things. 

This day would go down in the books as one of the worst days of your life, of that you were sure. You’d woken up with a pounding headache, nothing out of the blue, but not exactly something you were looking forward to. You then made your way to the kitchen, grabbing your favorite cereal box, only to realize that it was empty. Someone (most likely Walker) had put the empty box back in the cabinet, apparently forgetting the trash can that was a mere two feet away from him. Then, on your way to the deli to grab your favorite chicken noodle soup, a very rude man shoved past you, almost causing you to fall into the slush-covered sidewalk. 

You’d finally reached the deli, a sort of solace from the day you’d had. The counter was within reach, you were about to order, when a bald man cut in front of you. You frowned, taking a deep breath so that your powers didn’t get the best of you, the cloud above your head storming. “Excuse me, sir.” 

The man in question ignored you, continuing to anger you by shouting out his order. You crossed your arms, clearing your throat once more. “Excuse me-” 

“What?” The man whipped around, and you almost ran away, his eyes full of annoyance and anger. “Listen, lady, why don’t you just shut up so I can order my food?” 

Your eyes had begun to water, this man’s rude nature becoming the final straw. Your bottom lip began to shake as you opened your mouth to fight back. “I-” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

An angry tear fell down your cheek. You tried to reason with yourself - maybe this man was also having a horrible day, maybe his car got hit, or his rent was late. But your anger didn’t care about what had happened to him, because he had finally broken you, and now-

“Hey.” A gloved hand reached around you, his voice dark as he tapped the man’s shoulder. “Apologize.” 

“I swear to god, lady-” He turned around, eyes wide as he came face to face with the Winter Soldier. “You’re the- the-” 

Bucky nodded, stepping in front of you to put space between you and the man who’d upset you. “Yes, I am.” He had a horrible sort of smile on his face, one that at first glance seemed polite, but under the surface was destructive, almost begging the man to upset you again.  So why don’t you apologize to the lady for cutting in line, and we can go about our day?” 

“Yes- I um-” The man couldn’t get a full sentence out under the watchful gaze of the Winter Soldier, his cheeks bright red as he addressed. “Sorry, miss.” 

“Thank you.” You whispered. “No harm, no foul.” 

The man scurried away, a light laugh falling from your lips when he forgot his order he so urgently needed. You looked up at the man beside you, smiling gratefully. “You didn’t need to do that.” 

Bucky scoffed, ordering your chicken noodle soup before giving you his full attention. “Yeah? It looked like if I hadn’t, he would have faced your wrath.” 

You laughed, hooking your arm through his like it was second nature. “You’re not wrong.” 

“Your little storm cloud was thundering and everything…” He shuddered, muttering a quick thanks when the man behind the counter handed him your soup. “Last time that happened, New York was suddenly in the eye of a hurricane.” 

“It wasn’t just him that made me upset, you know.” You leaned your head onto his arm, suddenly feeling a lot better. “Walker ate the rest of my cereal.” 

“I know.” You looked up, confused as to how anyone else could have known. “Bob told me.” 

“Ah.” 

two. 

The Watchtower receptionist made herself busy when she looked up and saw you stalking through the lobby and straight into the elevator. Your powers were wild, the cloud above your head conjuring up yet another storm, no doubt caused by your knee injury, which was throbbing in pain. 

You’d been having a good day: you’d gotten your favorite drink at your favorite café, visited a quaint bookstore with a plethora of antique books, and no one had bothered you as you walked down the busy New York streets. 

Then you tripped over the curb, flying forward and scuffing your knee and palms. 

The ever-familiar ding echoed through the empty elevator, finally reaching the penthouse. You stumbled toward your room when Bucky’s unmistakable tone stopped you in your tracks. “Hey Trouble. Where have you been? I missed you.” 

He hadn’t seen the front of you, the torn-up pant leg, the teary eyes. What he said was not even in the slightest upsetting, if anything, it was kind, heartwarming, even. It was his kind question that made you cry, tears falling in consistent streams. “I’ve been out.” God, your voice sounded uncharacteristically shaky, whiny even. “Sorry, can I just-” 

“Hey.” He walked in front of you, holding your face in his hands. “Why the tears, Doll?” 

“I fell. Scraped my knee.” He looked down, wincing at the bloody wound. 

“I have a lot of experience with these sorts of things.” His boyish grin instantly lightened the mood, causing your stomach to flutter as a result. “Why don’t I fix you up, yeah? Would that make you feel better?” 

You nodded, following him to his bathroom, and promptly hopping onto the counter. “Thank you.” 

“Of course.” He smiled, standing between your legs, your cheeks growing hot at the proximity. “This is gonna sting, okay?” 

“Just do it.” You whispered, squeezing your eyes shut. “Thank you for this.” 

“You said that already.” His tone was soft as he carefully tapped your wounds with an alcohol wipe. “It’s nothing. You know I’d do anything for you.” 

“Bucky…” If you’d thought your cheeks were hot before, it was nothing compared to the way you felt now as you peeled your eyes open. He was already staring at you, eyes as gentle as ever. “You’re too sweet to me.” 

He shook his head, his smile shy as he looked back through the kit, grabbing a band-aid. “You’d do the same.” 

“I would.” You nodded. “But you always do this.” 

“Yeah?” He carefully placed the band-aid over your knee, grinning like he’d just accomplished something spectacular. “Do what, exactly?” 

“You take care of me.” The super soldier still stood between your legs, his hands lying gently on your thighs. “No one’s ever done that for me.” 

“As long as I’m around,” His eyes were captivating, pulling you in every second you held contact. “You’ll be looked after, I promise.” 

three. 

You didn’t possess the will to roll out from under the covers, telling yourself it would be fine if you stayed in bed all day. It wasn’t like anyone would miss you, or anyone would come looking for you. Your room was practically pitch black with the shades pulled shut, the only source of light the crack at the bottom of your door, the hallway light peeking through. 

You just stared at the ceiling. That’s all you could do, all you felt like you could do at least, at the moment. 

 This always happened when you least suspected it. If you were being honest with yourself, it was something you could never escape from, no matter how well you thought you were doing. Your mind had dangerous corners, thoughts that pestered at your walls until you cracked. No matter how hard you worked to rid yourself of them, they stayed there, like a disease. 

Sometimes, on good days, you could push them away, back where no one could find them. Other times, times much like today, you allowed them to control your senses, pull you into an infinity pool of self-pity, of doubt, of hatred. 

Hatred, the kind that ran deep in your bones, the kind that made you think you were worthless, undeserving. A knock rang through the silent room, and you turned your head toward the door, voice hoarse as you called out. “What do you want?” 

“Doll.” Of course, He always knew. Always. “I’m coming in.” There was no fighting him. He shut the door gently behind him. “One of those days, huh?” 

You nodded, not having the strength to speak. He crossed the room, flipping on your bedside lamp. It was yellow, the light. Like the sun, it was comforting, much more comforting than the fluorescent lighting the tower came with. 

If you looked at Bucky, if you truly took in his beautifully sweet face and kind eyes, you would crumble into a pile of tears. He lay beside you, draping a hand over your waist and pulling you into him. “What happened, Trouble?” 

“I-” Your eyes immediately welled. “I-” 

“It’s alright.” He whispered, kissing your temple so softly you could have sworn it never happened. “You know it’s not true. You know that.” 

“But it is.” You sobbed, shaking in his hold. “I- I don’t deserve this. Any of this.” 

“You’re everything.” He kept whispering sweet nothings over and over, his embrace pulling you back to reality, to reason. “Everything. Don’t listen to that voice. Trust me, Doll.” You couldn’t respond, sobs still wrecking through you. 

“Don’t leave me.” You cried, “Please-” 

“I’m right here.” He pulled you closer, wiping away your tears. “Not going anywhere.” 

four. 

The trees brought you much-needed shade from the summer sun. You’d dragged Bucky out of the Watchtower for some much-needed fresh air. He hadn’t fought that much, giving in to your incessant begging almost immediately. 

You clung to his arm as you walked through Central Park, your fellow New Yorkers also taking advantage of the perfect day. He looked over every so often, before quickly looking away whenever you caught him.

“Is something on my face?” 

He shook his head, laughing. “Just admiring the view, Doll.” 

You rolled your eyes, smacking his arm playfully. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” He laughed, enjoying your attention. “You’re gorgeous.” 

“James…” If the summer sun didn’t completely melt you by the end of the day, his compliments would. “You’re just saying that.” 

“Am I?” He spun you into his arms before you even had the chance to blink. The others who populated the path just walked around you, unbothered by this blatant show of affection. “It’s funny.” 

“Funny?”

“You have no idea.” 

Your heart beat hard against your chest, pupils wide as he leaned his forehead against yours. “And just what do I have no idea about?” 

“What you do to me,” His eyes trailed to your lips, pulling you closer. “I can’t even begin to-” 

“Hey!” And just like that, the moment vanished. Bucky’s posture was stiff, pin-straight, and defensive. “You’re the Winter Soldier.”

He turned around, facing the stranger. “I am.” 

You watched the man who’d addressed Bucky for any sudden movements, frowning as you observed his body language. He was angry, aggressive, his fists clenched. You wondered how long it would take for Walker and Ava to get here. 

“How do you sleep at night? How do you sleep, knowing how many you’ve killed?” Bucky simply stared, like it was something he dealt with every day. “How do you live with yourself?” 

You stepped out from behind Bucky, tired of cowering. If he wasn’t going to defend himself, than you would be damn sure that you did. “Do you know what he’s been through? Not only that, but what he’s done for this country, for this world?” You were positively shaking with anger, the sun disappearing behind the storms clouds you unknowingly conjured. The park’s attendees started to whisper, staring at the sky in fear. “Do you know how many times he’s saved this city alone?”

“Doll.” He whispered. “Stop.” 

You whipped around, eyes wide. “What?” 

“It’s not worth it, honestly.” 

“This man is- “

“Let him.” He smiled. “I’ve dealt with worse.” 

“Bucky-” 

“I’m not finished.” 

“Yeah.” You glared, effectively shutting him up. “You are. Get out of here before I do something I won’t regret.” 

“Alright.” Bucky coughed, hooking his arm through yours and pulling you away before you made good on your promise. “That’s enough out of you.”

“I’m sorry.” You whispered once you were far enough away from the heckler. “He just- I can’t believe he would say that to you-” 

“He has every right to. And I can’t blame him.” He smiled, kissing your temple quickly. “But thank you for defending me.” 

“And thank you,” You smiled, leaning your head on his arm once again. “If it wasn’t for you, I’m pretty sure New York would have been in a Category Three hurricane.” 

the time you saved him...

It was supposed to be a simple mission, so simple that only three out of the seven of you were needed. Bucky, Walker, and Yelena had left two days ago. 

They had yet to return. 

The first day, you’d been fine, telling yourself that Bucky probably insisted they stay in a safe house to ensure they weren’t followed.

The second day was a different story. You were a mess, horrible thoughts echoing through your mind, thoughts that did nothing to soothe the ache of Bucky’s absence, of your friend’s possible death. You couldn’t sleep, eat, or focus on anything other than willing them to return. 

You were now standing in the kitchen, forcing yourself to drink a hot cup of cider. Perhaps that would calm your growing nerves. Bob sat behind the island, head in his hands.

He was as anxious as you, if not worse. Those two nights Bucky, Yelena, and Walker were gone, you kept each other company, staring at the city below from your balcony. 

The elevator chimed, indicating someone had reached your floor. You made no movement to see who’d come to visit. It was probably Val dropping by to let you know you had interviews with every major news outlet tomorrow morning. 

While you and Bucky had never made it official, everyone knew there was something between the White Wolf and Vortex. You almost cried thinking about the fact that you'd never been brave enough to confess your feelings to him.

She would tell you what outfit to wear, something dark, grey, but still flattering. She’d tell you to play the mourning lover act with the interviewers, to cry when you said his name, to pause in the middle of your sentences to feign emotion. 

Your eyes welled at the thought. Little did Val know that you would end up doing that without her pointless guidance. 

“You had one job, Walker!” 

You slammed your mug on the counter, racing toward the lobby. “Bucky-” 

He looked livid. The super soldier was radiating anger, his eyes shooting daggers at the US Agent. “If it wasn’t for your stupidity, we would’ve been home by now!” 

“I said I’m sorry-” Walker looked genuinely apologetic, his face resembling that of a kicked puppy. It was rare that Bucky yelled at anyone after missions; he'd mellowed with age, you'd joked with him. This was another side that the Thunderbolts had yet to see. 

Yelena stepped in between the two men, trying to seek reason. “Alright. You made your point.” 

Bucky scoffed. “Are you defending Walker right now?” 

“No, Walker fucked up.” She quickly glared at the US Agent. “As always.” 

“Hey-” 

“But he apologized. He can’t fix the past. Let it go.” 

“You-”

“You’re back.” 

Bucky whipped around, smiling when he saw wrapped in his favorite crewneck.  His eyes, which were always soft when he looked at you, held a certain guilt today, something you’d yet to see before. “Hi, Doll.”

“What’s going on?” You carefully approached your teammates, frowning at the visible wounds each of them had. “You were supposed to be back yesterday.” 

“I know.” He nodded. “I tried, I swear I did, but Walker-” 

“I said I was sorry!” 

“Walker-” You stepped forward, your fingers grazing over his cheek, assessing his cuts. He stilled like the act had startled him, like it had shocked him to his core. He faltered, stepping back like he wasn’t allowed to enjoy your touch. “I have to go clean up.” 

You frowned. “I’ll see you later, then.” 

You waited until you’d heard his door slam shut to address the remaining two. “Anyone want to tell me what happened?” They avoided your eye contact, staring anywhere but you. Yelena even tried to ask Bob for help, but it was no use. “I’ll wait.” 

“Bucky?” You stood outside his door, waiting for a response. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

You heard his feet shuffling, and a small smile broke free as you thought about him trying to tidy up his room for you. “One second.” 

You waited patiently, smiling brightly when he opened the door. “They told me what happened.” 

“Yeah?” He looked nervous, not at all like the man you’d grown to love. “Remind me to-” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” You stepped closer, hands itching to reach out and hold him. “You know you can talk to me, right? You’re always there for me, for everything, and I want to make sure you know I’m there for you too. You can trust me with anything.” 

“I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.” 

“Yeah?” Your voice was soft. “Then talk to me.” 

He stepped aside, shutting the door behind you. “It’s a mess in here.” 

You fought the laughter that threatened to spill from your lips. The ‘mess’ he’d talked about was a few shirts on the ground and a cup on his bedside table. “This is nothing. You should see my room.” 

“What did they tell you?” He stood nervously in the center of the room, too anxious to sit down. “Because-” 

“They told me that you were the reason they got out alive. That when Walker went down, you stepped in and took out the enemy before they could get to him.” 

“Okay.” He nodded. “Thought they would say something much worse than that-” 

“They look up to you. Walker especially. And I know he’s annoying, but he-” You squeezed your eyes shut, shocked that you were even saying this. “He means well.” 

“It’s not Walker that upset me.” 

You tilted your head. “What upset you?” 

“I-” He shuddered. “I felt like I wasn’t in control of myself.” 

Oh. “Bucky-” 

“When I finally stopped, when I had taken down the last of them, I didn’t recognize myself.” His voice was small, much like when you’d saved him with Steve all those years ago. “It felt like I was him all over again.” 

“You know you’re not.” You reasoned. “The Wakandans got the last of it out. I was there.” You reached up, caressing his cheek once more. “You’re not him anymore.” 

“I know.” He croaked, this time leaning into your touch. “I was scared. For the first time in a while, I was scared, and I took out that fear on Walker.” 

“Oh, Bucky.” You pulled him into your arms, hugging him tightly, his head nuzzling in the crook of your neck. "It’s alright.” 

“I just wanted to get back to you.” He murmured into your skin, his voice causing shivers to run down your spine. “I just wanted to see you.” 

“I’m right here, James.” You gasped when he pulled you closer, your bodies practically one. “I have to tell you something. It’s really bad timing, but-” 

“I love you.” He stood straight, eyes desperate as he spoke. “I told myself that if we got out of there, I would tell you.” 

You hoped that this wasn’t some twisted dream, a soft sob leaving your lips. “I love you, too.” 

“Good.” He nodded, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t know what I would do with myself if you didn’t.” 

“I’ve loved you since you gave me that plum you bought from the market.” 

“That long, huh?” He smiled, eyes darting to your lips. 

“Don’t get a big head about it.” 

He laughed, his lips brushing against yours. “Too late.” 

“You know you’re gonna have to apologize to Walker, right?” 

He nodded. “I know. But for now…” His breath tangled with yours as he spoke. “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

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[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc

I N T E R L U D E

warnings: mentions of suicide and rape, trauma, suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, childbirth, blood, post-natal depression. just heavy maternity topics altogether, but also soooo much fluff. a little bit before the next chapter 👀 also, yes, I'm fine, I'm just exploring what I can do :)

The following is a series of audio and video recordings belonging to one L.REED recovered from their residence.

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #1

(The static crackles. A breath. Then a sniff—quick, sharp, like she’s trying to get herself under control. The mic picks up the soft creak of wood, and the rustle of fabric as she shifts.)

“It’s… ten-thirty-two in the night. August third.” (A pause, her voice stiff like she’s reading from a script. Then, softer—like admitting it to herself as much as the recorder—) “And I think I...”

(Silence. Then another slow breath. Hesitant, unwilling.)

“I mean, I'm um, in my living room.” (A beat.) “And I have just found out I am pregnant.”

(The words sit there, utterly unwelcome. She sniffs, a wet sound, then lets out a short, uneven breath like a laugh she doesn’t feel.)

“I know how it happened. I know what my body is capable of, what the biology is, how it works, what I—what I couldn’t have stopped. But knowing doesn’t change anything.” (Another beat, like she’s swallowing down a jagged marble.) “I cannot fix this. Cannot stop it. I have no say in this. None.”

(Her voice shakes on the last word, and she inhales sharply like she’s trying to stop it from happening.)

“I just…” (A sniff, another breath, her voice almost inaudible—) “I just wish I knew what the hell to do now.”

(Silence. Not empty. Suffocating. She shifts again, restless, like she can’t stand the feeling of being in her body.)

“I’m so scared. And so... alone. But I can't have anyone near me, not with everything I am now.” (The smallest her voice has ever been.)

“I think I’m—four months in, maybe more. My stomach, it's…” (A soft exhale, like she’s looking down at it, touching it, struggling to accept it.) “It’s getting bigger every day. The baby is growing fast. I feel it when I sleep, when I roll over, when I move. It's in there. Real, alive. Something I didn’t ask for.”

(She stops, swallowing hard before forcing herself to go on.)

“My body—it doesn’t want this. It knows it doesn't belong to me anymore. I can feel it. It’s rejecting food, rejecting rest, rejecting reason. I—I am so tired, I can barely think, but my mind won’t shut off. I keep trying to get back onto research, to make sense of my life but I can’t focus, I can't sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t stop—” (Her voice catches, and she presses her lips together. A second passes before she forces the next words out.)

“I can’t forget. But I also can’t remember. Not all of it. Just—these pieces. Bits that crawl in when I least expect. And when it comes... I cannot move. Breathe. I am helpless to escape it.”

(She exhales sharply, frustrated, like she hates herself for saying it.)

“Maria, the leader of this new commune, brought a doctor home. She said the baby will be born around mid-January.” (A pause. Then, the tiniest scoff, that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so resentful.) “That’s five months. Five months until—” (She stops. Another breath.) “Until this is real. Until I have to face this.”

(And then her voice shifts—tightens, sharpens like she’s trying to force steel into it.)

“But it’s not mine.” (The words come fast, desperate, like if she says it enough, she’ll believe it.) “It’s not. I know it’s not.”

(She inhales too quickly, voice trembling as she goes on—rushed, frantic—like she’s trying to outrun a danger that’s catching up to her.)

“I can’t do this. I can’t. I'm going to stain the poor thing, I'm going to ruin it. I can’t be a mother. I can’t care for it, I can’t love it, I—I don’t want to. How could I?” (Her breath stutters, her voice turning quiet, broken—) “Not when every time I look at it, all I’ll see is them.”

(A silence. Her breathing is uneven now, rough around the edges. When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.)

“I still hear them.” (A lull, thick and trembling.) “At night, in the hallway. I think it's them. The shadows. Their footsteps, their laughter. I think I'm going crazy. I can't stop reliving it. I thought it was over the moment I burned that place. I thought I was safe. That they were gone.”

(She swallows, breath shaking.)

“I still smell them on me. It reeks.” (A horrible, suffocating admission. Then nothing.)

(Silence. The static hums, filling the empty space. And then, a sound—tearful, muffled. She’s crying. But she won’t let herself fall apart. She won’t.)

“I feel them everywhere.” (The words barely make it out. Like they weren’t meant to.)

(Then—one deep, rattling breath. Too big for her lungs, like she’s struggling to contain everything inside her.)

“It takes everything in me not to throw myself off that dam. Easy, isn't it? One jump, you fall, your bones break, you deserve every bit of the pain, and eventually you drown. Calm.” (Flat. Hollow. A simple truth.)

“Were it not for the tiny human depending on me...” (Her voice is small again. Furious. Tired. Fading.) “And until it’s out, I have to stay.”

(Silence. Long, awful silence.)

“I can’t love it.” (A raw confession. A wound.) “But I can’t kill it either.”

(Another silence. She sniffs hard, then inhales slowly, forcing the air into her lungs.)

“I have to stay alive.” (A breath. Then another.) “At least until this baby is out of me and safe.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #2

(The static clicks on. A breath, like she’s convincing herself she’s fine before she speaks.)

“It’s… ten-sixteen in the evening. September the eighth." (Her voice is steadier than the last recording. Detached, almost clinical, like she’s just logging facts.) “I’m in my living room.”

(A longer pause. A shift of fabric, like she’s adjusting, trying to get comfortable. Then—)

“I’m five months in now. More than halfway.” (The words land heavier than she expects. Another pause, like she’s thinking about it too much. Then—quieter—) “I’ve gotten used to the bump. It’s just… there. Part of me now. Stopping me, restricting me.”

(Another inhale, then a sigh, frustrated.)

“But the food—god. I just can’t eat.” (The words come out sharper, like she’s sick of repeating herself, sick of struggling.) “Nothing stays down except eggs. And I hate eggs now. But it’s the only thing I can stomach, so I eat them. Every damn day. Maria jokes that I've gone through most of Jackson's egg produce this month.”

(A quiet lull. A shift, and then, softer—like she’s speaking more to herself than the recorder—)

“Y'know, I hate that food is a necessity to the human physiology. That my body demands it even when I don’t want it.” (Another beat. Then, bitterly—) “Like I don’t have enough things forcing me to keep going.”

(Silence. Then, her voice drops lower, a heaviness creeping in.)

“My research has stalled. Not that it matters. I stared at the board for days now, and nothing.” (A sharp laugh.) “I’m a disappointment anyway. A waste of space. My parents left this world thinking they were handing their life’s work to someone capable. Someone who’d do something with it. Carry it forward.” (A swallow.) “Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Daddy. I blew it. I failed you.”

(Her voice stays even, but it's cracked at the edges, barely holding together.)

“I’ll be joining them soon enough. Incomplete, inadequate. Useless.”

(Silence stretches. Then, she exhales, long and controlled, like pushing that thought out of her lungs.)

“Now, Maria won’t leave me alone.” (Flat. Matter-of-fact.) “Neither will her husband, Tommy. He’s… alright. Nice, even. But they keep coming by. With food. With medicine. With advice I don’t want. They think they’re helping.” (A humourless snort.) “They won’t listen when I tell them to stop and leave me alone.”

(A pause. Then, quieter—reflective—) “Maybe that’s why they keep showing up. But I don't need their hope. I just need to stay alive, stay away and have this baby.”

(Another pause. A change in her tone—slightly lighter, curious.)

“Tommy told me today that the house across from mine isn’t empty after all. Says his brother has been living there for sometime now. Joel.” (She repeats the name, testing it in her mouth, unfamiliar.) “Said if I needed anything, I could go to him.” (A scoff.) “Like that's happening anytime soon. I don't need anything from anyone. I just need to... think.”

(Silence. Then, there's a difference in her voice—unsure, reluctant.)

“But… I’ve been watching him.” (A quiet, almost amused breath.) “Not in a way that's intrusive. He's doing it in plain sight. Wasting away, like me.” (A soft exhale, like she’s shaking her head at herself.) “He just—he has this routine. I haven't understood it yet.”

(She shifts again like she’s glancing toward the window as she speaks.)

“Every night, he sits on his porch with that guitar of his. He plays. Sometimes he sings.” (Another pause. Then, softer—) “It’s… nice. Simple.”

(The words linger, like she didn’t expect to admit them. Then, quieter—almost like a secret—)

“It helps. It calms me.”

(Another silence. The mic picks up a faint sound—her fingers rubbing against fabric, an absent movement, thoughtful.)

“I feel the baby kick when I listen.” (She exhales, almost like a laugh—small, tired, but real.) “Maria says that’s a good thing that the baby is kicking. That it means it’s healthy.” (Then, neutrally—) “I don’t care.”

(And yet, she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. Then, softer, quieter—like she hasn’t let herself think this before—)

“But I guess it’s nice to know it’s happy inside me. That I can still...”

(Another pause. Her next words are barely more than a whisper—like she isn’t even sure she wants to say them out loud—)

“That there’s something about me it likes. Even if I'm much worse than those Infected out there.”

(Silence. Then, the click of the recorder shutting off.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #3

(The static clicks on. A deep exhale, then a groan, voice laced with exhaustion.)

“My back has been killing me. I think it’s splintering apart every time I move. Which means my baby is getting bigger by the day. And happier, too, apparently.” (A tired laugh, warm despite itself.) “Kicks all through the night—doesn’t let up for even a second.”

(A beat. And then, quieter, softer—like she’s only just realizing it herself—)

“I really like it. I like thinking about it, rather than the nightmares. How it might feel to hold the baby. See it smile at me.”

(Silence, just for a second. Then—another small, breathy laugh, almost amused at herself.)

“I mean, yeah, I can’t sleep when I think of this, but… I stay up. Just listening. Feeling it move. And when I talk—like right now—ooh—oof, okay, I felt that one.” (A giggle, surprised, unguarded.) “Yeah, okay, I know you’re in there, baby. I'm listening. You having fun? Spacious enough for you?”

(Barely more than a whisper—like it’s a thought she isn’t meant to say out loud—)

“Why do you like me so much?”

(A beat. Her voice turns dry, self-deprecating—like she’s brushing it off before it can settle too deep.)

“Huh, guess you haven’t met me yet. You'll hate me just as soon.”

(Abruptly lighter—like she’s trying to reroute her own thoughts before they get too serious.)

“So, I’ve been eating more. Craving more, actually. Blueberries. Mashed potatoes, mostly. Which is good, carbohydrates are energy. Good for the baby. I've had so much of it, I swear I might give birth to a sack of potatoes instead.” (A small, wry chuckle.) “Baby doesn’t seem to mind, though. I've put on twelve pounds, easy. I feel so large.”

(Silence for a moment. And then, her voice shifts again—subtly different now. Thoughtful… curious.)

“Oh and, well. My neighbour’s made some progress. It's always nice to see.”

(A hint of amusement now, almost teasing.)

“Finally combed his hair. Patched up his shoes. Got himself a nice shirt. And—get this—he played my favourite song the other day. Handy Man.” (A small exhale, almost a sigh.) “I even sat out on the porch steps just to listen. He’s got a good voice. A real singer's voice. Maybe he was once upon a time.”

(A pause, and then—quieter, like she’s saying it more to herself—)

“Baby and I went wild for it. We hear him sing every night now, without fail.”

(Silence lingers this time. When she speaks again, her voice is different. Not playful anymore. Not light.)

“I didn't ask, but Tommy tells me Joel’s been through hell. That he's still going through it.”

(Silence lingers, stretching out like a thread pulled too tight. Then, a sharp inhale—one that shakes, just slightly, before she steadies herself.)

“Yeah. That’s something we’ve got in common in this awful world.”

(She exhales, but it’s not relief. It’s bitter, sitting on the back of her tongue.)

“I hate that we do. Some arbitrary, lonely, bitter man... and me.”

(A pause. Not empty—just full of things she doesn’t want to think about. Full of everything she’s been trying not to feel.)

But it's creeping in any way.

She’s spent so long trying not to really see him. Just some man with a permanent scowl and a slouch that almost looked like he was reverting the evolution chart back to ape. The kind of grief that takes the pressure out of a man’s steps, that hollows him out so bad you start to wonder if there’s anything left inside at all.

It was easy to ignore. To dismiss. Just another ghost of a person.

But she wasn't sure when she started watching.

Not on purpose. Not at first. She’d catch glimpses—him sitting on his porch, fingers idly plucking at the strings of his guitar, eyes staring out at nothing, lost in some place she wasn’t sure he’d ever come back from. Sometimes that pretty little girl would stop by, sit with him, and talk to him. Joel barely ever spoke. But he listened to her, hanging onto her every word.

And then Leela started listening, too.

And the more she listened, the more she saw. How he still went on patrol, and still did what he had to. How, despite all that he carried on his shoulders, he never let it slow him down. How he walked around like a man who had no reason left to live—except he was still here. Still moving, existing, even when it looked like it hurt.

She saw herself in that, and she hated it.

Because he had already given up. And she hadn’t. Not fully.

So, the words slip out before she even realizes she’s saying them. They sound strange. Foreign. Like they don’t belong to her...

“I don’t want to die.”

(She swallows. The admittance has been buried under months of fear, exhaustion and numbness.)

“If that man can do it, just live for the sake of it, why can't I?”

(It's harsh. She means it.)

“So, not dying just yet. I'm going to have this baby and I'll make it work. That's what I do best. I am not a quitter.”

(A deep inhale. Exhale. Like she’s setting a task down. Or maybe picking that task up.)

“I have too much left to do in this house. I have to finish what they started. I'm not giving up.”

(A pause. Then, almost like an afterthought—)

“For my parents. For their legacy. For me. I will not die.”

(A soft clearing of her throat. Getting back to the facts now.)

“It's eight-twenty-two in the evening, November the second. I'm in my living room. Seven months in. Um, Leela signing off.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #5

(The static clicks on. A deep, shuddering breath. Then another. It’s slow, controlled—like she’s fighting to keep it together.)

“Uh, eight months now. Ow... Eleven pm, I think. Kitchen. December nineteenth, right? God, my D-day's in three weeks. I just get cramps more often now.”

(She exhales, sharp and strained.)

“It’s not bad. It’s just—” (a shifting sound like she’s trying to find a comfortable position) “—it’s like having my period. Constantly. I can't believe the... shit women have to go through.”

(Another breath—this one shorter, hitching slightly at the end.)

“So, Maria’s sentenced me to bed rest now. Tommy comes by every day to check on me. I’m… I’m so grateful for them. But I really don't need anyone to...”

(A deep breath. Then, suddenly—)

“Ooh—” (A small, startled sound, not quite a groan, but close.) “Yeah, there it is. Comes and goes. I've got to start tracking that, too.”

(A long silence follows. Just static humming in the background. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter—faintly distracted, like her mind has wandered somewhere else.)

“But I’m doing okay. I think. I’m eating more. I’ve tried to move around a little, to cook for myself, but…” (a breath, then a tired huff of laughter) “…my garden is overgrown. Like, completely. It’s a jungle out there. And the house…” (she sighs, deeply, the weight of it pressing down on her words) “I keep seeing everything that needs to be fixed. Loose floorboards, dusty windows, and a leaky pipe in the kitchen. I’ve let it go to hell. Daddy would be furious.”

“I guess I’ve been too busy… I don’t know. Baking a baby? Surviving?”

(Another shift, a slight creak of whatever she’s sitting on.)

“I set up a nursery. Because the baby needs space to feel at home.” (Her tone is vague. Then, wryly—) “Heh, a nursery. If you can even call it that.”

“It’s just my old crib. In the nearest room.” (A beat.) “That’s it.”

“I wanted to do more. I really did. But it was hell just getting that stupid thing up the stairs. Had to drag it, inch by inch. Thought I was gonna throw up halfway through.” (She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it fades quickly.)

“God, this baby’s gonna hate me so much.”

(Silence. Just for a second. Just long enough for that thought to settle.)

“And what’s even scarier than that? The actual birth.” (Her voice tightens. She doesn’t want to say this, but it’s been sitting in her head for too long, and now it’s coming out whether she wants it to or not.)

“I've been warned that it’s going to hurt a lot. That it's not just a simple push.” (A breath. A hand, maybe, pressed to her stomach—may be pressing against a cramp, maybe just needing to feel the realness.)

“Like bones breaking. That’s what they say.” (A quick inhale.) “That there's going to be a lot of blood and mush. That it could last hours. The 'labour pains'. A whole day. That when it happens, I’ll need to find someone, fast. Get myself to the clinic. That I’ll need help.”

“But what if I don’t?”

(Her voice is smaller now. Fragile. Like a crack she’s been trying to plaster over, finally starting to widen.)

“What if something happens? What if it starts in the middle of the night, and I can’t get to anyone in time? What if I… what if I die? What if I die without ever seeing my baby? What if I die without finishing my research?”

(A sharp, unsteady inhale. Then silence. Heavy, pressing down on everything.)

“There was this nice old woman who came over.” (Her voice is different now, like she’s remembering, and grounding herself.) “She told me that plenty of women have done it on their own. That it’s a matter of strength and love. That I have nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t know if I believe her. The thought of blood and guts is scaring me.” (A breath, then, like she’s forcing herself to say it—) “But I have to be ready. Just in case.”

(A long pause. Then, quietly—like she’s reminding herself, she’s willing it to be true—)

“I know I won’t be alone. There are people here around me now. Joel from across the street. The old couple next door. Maria. Tommy.” (A beat. A swallow.) “But… on the off chance?”

(Another pause. Then, softer—like a vow, like a promise, like she’s holding onto it with both hands.)

“I’m going to fight like hell.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #6

(Click. A beat of silence. Then, her voice—soft, thoughtful, almost hesitant, like she doesn’t know why she’s saying this out loud.)

“It's December the twenty-second. Nine-seventeen in the morning. Um... Joel came by my place.”

(A pause. Then, quieter—almost to herself—)

“I don’t know why I feel the need to log that. This is supposed to be about the baby, not…” (A sigh.) “Whatever. It's not like anyone's going to hear this.”

(Then, the faintest hint of a scoff—amused, self-aware—)

“He was only here for, what, two minutes? Less than that? Just long enough to hand me some food. Tommy couldn’t bring it over—something about the Christmas celebrations in town. So, I guess Joel got stuck with it. Poor guy.”

(A beat. A shift in her voice, like she’s turning the memory over in her mind, inspecting it.)

“It’s different, seeing him up close. I’ve been watching him from across the street for months—just glimpses, shadows, the sound of his guitar carrying over, entertaining us. But when someone’s right in front of you, you see things you didn’t before.”

(She exhales, thoughtful.)

“He’s taller than I thought. Very... big.” (A soft, almost breathless chuckle, like she’s realizing how ridiculous that sounds.) “I don’t know why that surprised me. He looked tiny from all the way here.”

(A pause. Then, slower, like she’s piecing it together as she speaks—)

“He’s got more silver in his hair than I realised. I'm guessing he's around fifty. And this scar, right on his temple—looks like a bullet just barely missed him. He smells like sweat and dirt and old clothes that’ve been worn too many days in a row. And his eyes…”

(She trails off for a second, then swallows, trying to find the words.)

“They’re thin. Sad. Not in an obvious way, but—” (She exhales, frustrated, like she’s mad at herself for not explaining it right.) “—they turn down at the edges. Could be from age the way Daddy was, or could be from grief. Maybe both. He's seen too much.”

(A quiet halt. Then, abruptly—)

“He’s handsome, right? For his age.” (A beat. Then, drier—) “Not that I’d know what the hell that means. The only men in my life are Daddy and Tommy.”

(A change. Something smaller now. More personal.)

“He didn’t even knock.” (Another breath, like she’s thinking back on it.) “Wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t seen him standing there and opened the door first.”

(A pause.)

“He asked about me. The baby, I mean.”

(She says it softly, like it means more to her than she wants it to.)

“It was… weird. Having him there, asking me. S'like watching something from a distance for so long and then suddenly finding yourself in the middle of it.”

(She inhales.)

“He nodded. And that was it. Just turned and left. Now I wished I'd talked a little more. I'd like to be his friend.”

(A beat. Then, softer, almost like a realization—)

“And this morning, the snow on my pavement was gone.” (A faint, barely-there smile in her voice—) “He did it for me.”

(Silence stretches for a moment like she’s sitting with everything she just said. And then, almost too soft to hear—)

“Sweet, sad man.”

(And then, barely above a whisper—)

“He saved my life without even knowing it.”

(The static runs for a while. Click.)

X

The first wave of labour pain came like a shockwave. Sharp, deep, untimely.

Leela sucked in a tight breath, stiffening, clutching the edge of the sink as a dull ache bloomed low in her belly, deep in her bones. Her nightgown stuck to the backs of her thighs, damp, and—

She looked down. A thin stream of fluid ran down the inside of her leg, spilling onto the marble floor. Clear. Warm.

No. Her heart lurched. Her mind reeled, scrambling for numbers, for weeks, for the dates that made sense—four weeks early.

“No,” she whispered, gripping the sink tighter.

She wasn’t ready. The baby wasn’t ready.

Another wave of pain slammed into her. Worse. Like the baby inside her was twisting, pushing, trying to force its way out between her legs. She gasped, curling forward, forehead pressed against the mirror. Her reflection blurred in the fog of her breath.

Was she dying? Was the baby dying? Had she done something wrong?

Breathe. Breathe, she repeated to herself. It was probably just another cramp. Although it felt worse than usual.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember Maria’s voice. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

She counted. She breathed. She thought through the haze, clutching the one that mattered.

Get help.

Joel.

The name came without hesitation. She didn’t question it.

Leela stumbled out of the bathroom, one hand gripping the swell of her belly, the other steadying herself on the walls as she made her way down the stairs. She barely felt the cold wooden steps beneath her feet—just the pulsing, unbearable reduction to her thighs. Another contraction hit before she reached the bottom, and she collapsed onto the last step, twisting her ankle with a strangled sound, curling into herself.

Too fast. Too fast. Slow down.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She wasn't prepared. Her baby was going to die, she was going to kill this baby—no.

She was saving this baby. The baby was going to live today.

She gritted her teeth, forced herself upright, and half-ran, half-fell toward the door. The night hit her like ice shards, the biting winds slashing through her thin clothes. Snow stung her bare feet, but she didn’t stop, didn’t think—just kept moving.

One house. Just one house. That was all she needed. And the baby will be safe.

She barely made it up the porch steps before the next contraction sent her crashing to her knees.

Leela gasped through the pain, body curling forward, forehead pressing against the frozen wood. She couldn’t—couldn’t—stay here. Couldn’t do this alone.

With the last of her strength, she reached up and knocked. A polite knock, at first. Stupid. She was past politeness now.

“Please help me.” Her breathless voice barely carried over the wind.

Nothing.

Inside, something crashed. A bottle? A chair? He was there. He just hadn't heard her.

So, she knocked again, harder this time. Her whole fist. Faster. Desperate.

“Joel. Please.” Her voice wavered, although louder. The next contraction was coming, she could feel it rolling over her, pulling her under—and then, from inside—something shattering onto the floor. A glass. A plate.

“I said fuck off!”

A thundering snarl, slurred and dangerous.

The force of the yell startled her back, her sore heel slipping on the icy porch, sending her stumbling into the railing. The world tilted, and then—pain.

She crumpled onto the cold wood, a ragged sob ripping from her throat as the contraction slammed into her.

She tried to breathe. Couldn’t. Tried to move. Couldn’t. Her body was locking up, shaking, curling in on itself against the cold. No one was coming. Completely alone.

She had to leave. She had to go. Joel wasn't coming.

But—she had no energy to make it to the next house.

The wind had already swallowed her footprints by the time she stumbled back through her front door. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed, the door swinging shut behind her with a dull thud. Cold. The floor was so cold. Or maybe that was her. She couldn't tell anymore.

Her eyes tracked up the daunting stairs that led right up to the bathroom, stockpiled with everything she'd need for the birth. Somewhere warm and clean.

She cried out. “No.”

She couldn't go up there. She couldn't move.

Her fingers dug into the floorboards as the next wave of pain tore through her, blinding, all-consuming, like her body was being ripped apart from the inside out. She gasped, legs curling in, a sob clawing its way up her throat.

She couldn’t do this.

She needed help.

But there was no one. Joel had sent her away, possibly passed out drunk. No one else was awake. No one knew. Of course—it was Christmas Eve. Everyone would be up at the square, raising their cups in celebration.

She pressed her forehead to the floor, breath shuddering against the wood. It hurt so much. It was too much.

And still, the baby kept coming.

The contractions came in surges, pulling her under, like dark waves on a cliff, and stealing the air from her lungs with every swell.

She lost track of time. Minutes. Hours. An epoch.

Her body wasn’t her own anymore. No, it was ravaged by the pangs and pangs of shooting pain. It was something else entirely—a force of nature, unstoppable, breaking her open, splitting her apart.

She couldn't stop trembling. Somewhere in the haze of pain, she thought of her mama. Her mama never got to do this; it was why she got her. She thought of the women who had done this before, utterly alone, on dirt floors, in darkened rooms. She thought of how she’d sworn she would never be one of them.

And yet—she was.

She whimpered, nails scraping weakly against the wood. “Please, baby. Please don't do this to me.”

She couldn’t do this. She had to do this.

The next contraction ripped through her, and she screamed. The sound barely made it past the walls. The winds outside devoured her cry for help.

She had to move.

Leela’s hands shook as she crawled across the floor, belly sagging, breath uneven. Her body felt alien, now it really didn’t belong to her anymore—just another one of her machines grinding itself down to dust, gears forcing, and bent on one purpose. Pushing this child out.

Her head swam. She was soaked in sweat. Every muscle in her body clenched and burned.

Get up, Leela.

She made it to the kitchen on sheer instinct, her knees bruising against the tile, ankle smarting, fingers scrambling at the counter.

Something soft. To sit on. To lie on. A towel.

Her hands closed around one. She fumbled to turn on the tap, let the water run warm, and then laid the cloth on the floor. The heat bloomed through the fabric as she slogged onto it, already improving the sensations.

Okay. Okay. Think.

She was alone. She was doing this alone. It was okay.

Her arms trembled as she lowered herself down, lying back, spine flat to the floor, trying to find some way to ease the vicious fire tearing her open.

She was gasping, sobbing, whispering half-broken things under her breath—prayers, curses, for her mother. Mostly her mother. She imagined her looming over her, holding her hand, stroking her hair, telling her she was so brave. It felt good, until it didn't.

“Please, please, please...” she begged no one.

Another contraction hit.

Her entire body seized. The pain was a wave—no, an earthquake, this time, tearing through the core of her. This may have broken a bone in her ribs, she was sure of it.

She clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might crack a tooth.

A sound ripped out of her. Somewhere between a wail and a growl. She didn't even know what made sense anymore. Breathing? Dying? Choking?

She was splitting apart. She knew it.

But it wasn’t stopping. She couldn’t stop it.

She pressed her head to the floor, chest heaving.

Think, Leela. Think. You know what to do. What?

She had to push.

Yes, push. She’d heard it before, the doctor had specific about that, she knew the basics, but now—now it was real. Now it was her body, her baby, her pain.

She adjusted her legs, her back arched off the floor. She sucked in a gasping breath, readying herself. She shook her head, and everything else out. She was saving this baby. She was saving her baby.

“Push,” she breathed.

Another shockwave of agony rolled through her.

Push. Push hard.

She nodded, “okay, okay,” and braced herself. Breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. Again, and again, until she felt like she was ready.

And she pushed.

A scream tore from her throat. The pain was unreal, as if her insides were tearing open. Pulverizing. This was torture.

“I can't, I can't,” she sobbed.

She let her head fall back against the floor. Panting. Sobbing. Wishing death upon everyone in this fucked-up world. Wishing death upon her drunk neighbour, Joel. Wishing death on Tommy and Maria for not being here. Wishing death upon everyone but her child.

Her body felt too weak, too small to hold so much pain, so much life.

Push, Leela. Save the baby.

But she kept going. Over and over, she pushed and pushed, between sobs, between minutes that stretched into eternities. Between the waves of contractions that seemed to shorten and shorten. Seconds. Cried for her mother so hard, she must've heard her from the heavens. Cried hard for anyone, someone to come help her.

And then—a movement deep inside. A twist. Another deep breath, and she pushed, another scream storming these empty hallways.

A ripping, a world-ending agony, a slip, and a sudden, unbearable release.

And then—a wail. Light. Reedy. Shuddering. Alive.

Leela groaned with the spasms. Her body was ruined, quivering from pain, from exhaustion, from the unthinkable, unbearable weight of what she had just done. She had done it.

She gasped, her head rolling back against the cold floor, her chest rising and falling in ragged, disbelieving breaths.

She had done it. She had done this all by herself.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, everything else vanished. The cold floor beneath the towel. The ache in her bones. The pulsing, raw wound inside her. All of it... gone. Just for a fleeting second. It was over. She was alive. Her baby...

Another cry—louder, stronger. Needy.

Her hands, trembling so violently she could barely feel them, fumbled downward, searching.

My baby. Where's my baby?

Then there it was. Warm. Tiny. Slick with blood and life. All hers.

She nearly collapsed over the baby as she gently lifted it to her chest, curling her body around it, sheltering, shielding, warming.

So small. So ridiculously, beautifully small.

A shuddering breath tore from within her. She pressed her forehead to the damp, wriggling heft in her arms, her baby. Her baby. Her whole life.

She wept, her body trembling with it, the last remnants of pain and terror and exhaustion spilling out of her in waves. It was over, she was okay now.

The storm outside raged on. Time was lost to her, meaning, too. The wind howled, the snow fell, and the world went on. But here, in the quiet, in the warmth of her own arms, her own home—she had survived.

Leela didn’t know how long she stayed like that—hunched over the tiny body in her arms, shaking, holding, not letting go.

It could've been more and more eternities. But finally, it was the cold that finally snapped her out of it. The wetness soaked through her clothes. The sweat cooled on her skin. The lingering ache clawed through every inch of her.

She blinked down at the baby's little feet, her breath hitching.

I should look at my baby.

The thought terrified her. For months, she’d been carrying this thing, this life, this... stranger.

She had felt it move, twist, push inside her. She had known it was real. But she had never seen it. It was hers, she knew that much. Her little baby.

Her arms loosened, just enough to shift the child. The tiny body squirmed, legs kicking weakly, the cry dwindling into a soft, hiccupping whimper.

Leela’s fingers, still trembling, moved on their own. Swept gently across damp, wrinkled skin at the soft, beating chest. Over the little fingers. A little clenched fist. And then—a face.

Oh.

Leela’s breath left her all at once.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered.

Her baby blinked up at her, squinting, face scrunched in the effort. Big, beautiful, brown eyes. Her arms curled tighter, drawing the tiny body closer, nudging the baby’s warm skin against her own. She ran her fingers through the wet wisps of dark hair and smoothed a shaking hand down the curve of a round, soft cheek.

Her baby made a sound—a tiny sigh, a noise so small, so utterly fragile that Leela broke.

“Hello.” A laugh—small, disbelieving, almost hysterical—escaped her lips. She made this. She had done this all by herself. The baby blinked at her, yawning, face still scrunched in that newborn way—like she was confused by the world.

Leela understood the feeling. She swallowed, throat raw from screaming, her fingers still tracing over delicate features. The button nose. The furrowed brow. The teeny tiny mouth. The soft fuzz around her cheeks.

She should be saying something. She should be feeling something. That spark of love. That spark of want, to protect, to keep.

Instead—there was nothing.

Her fingers barely twitched when they ran along the baby's arm again, the damp skin cooling now, sticky with blood.

She should cut the umbilical cord. She should clean it. She should wrap it up. She should keep it warm. She should—do something.

Her hands quivered as she shifted, trying to brace herself against the slick, cool tile. Her limbs were shaking, still too drained, but she forced them to move.

She knew where they were. The scissors. Leela let out a shuddering breath and half-crawled, half-dragged herself toward the stand, the floor sticky beneath her, her own blood and fluids trailing behind.

The baby let out a sound—a whimper, a breath against her. She shushed the baby, rocking it on instinct. “I'm still here. Ssh.”

Leela gasped through her teeth, reaching, reaching, finding. Her fingers fumbled against the metal. Grasped the handle. Slipped them into her grip.

Her breath came fast, too fast.

She pressed the scissors between the cord, hesitated.

It was so pale, twisted, true. This had been her lifeline. The little softness that had appended them together for months. Somehow, she didn't want to do it. Her vision blurred—would the baby even be hers anymore? Would it still know her?

She pressed the blades closed. A soft, wet snip.

A sharp pulse of pain tore through her stomach, a wetness slipped right out, and she sucked in a breath. Leela flinched, gasped, and held herself up. The baby gasped before it wailed another strident, shaking cry.

There. Done. Her baby was separate from her now. Their one unit, broken apart.

Leela swallowed hard, vision swimming in tears, limbs shaking. The scissors clattered to the floor.

Her chest ached as she held her child. Not from love. Not from relief. Just the echoing emptiness within her. She was just an empty vessel now, clinking around, making noise.

The baby sighed, its breath hot against her skin, and Leela blinked, staring down at it.

She had imagined this moment. Imagined some heaven-sent burst of happiness. Imagined weeping in relief, with gratitude. Imagined love so strong it would knock the breath from her lungs. Imagined kisses pressed to ten tiny fingers, imagined a warmth so bright and overwhelming it would banish all the dark things inside her. Imagined that something inside her would wake up, ignite, change. That she would feel like herself again.

All she felt was exhaustion. She was just so, so tired. And soon, the thought came and went too fast to hold onto.

I shouldn’t have done this.

Her breath caught. She squeezed her eyes shut.

No. No, don’t think that. You’re disgusting. You're evil.

But she could feel it, creeping in at the edges.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Just love it. Love your baby.

The featherlight weight in her arms was heavy. Too heavy. She had to hold on. Make sense of her commitment.

She swallowed thickly and tried to whisper, barely above a breath, “You’re real. And mine.”

The baby stirred, a soft, sleepy noise leaving it.

Leela waited again. Anytime now. The warmth, the love, the connection. That the sound would evoke whatever was dormant in her. She was sure of it.

It didn’t come. Not even a little.

Her poor baby deserved better. Better than an impaired, stained, sick, disgusting, unloving mother.

Her arms curled tighter around the baby, almost desperate, still apologetic.

“I'm sorry,” she cried softly. “I'm so sorry, baby.”

But some notion of sound registered in her ears. The dull thud of boots on her porch. The hesitant creak of a door opening. A pause.

And then—“Holy shit.”

Leela didn’t lift her head, but she heard him. Tommy.

His boots hit the floor hard, fast—tracking the smeared trail of blood, of fluids, of everything that had poured out of her, dragged behind her like a crime scene.

Tommy's breath caught. A beat passed, and suddenly, he was moving.

His voice was a sharp inhale, half a curse, half a prayer. “Jesus—Leela.”

She barely had the strength to lift her head, but when she did—just the smallest movement—relief broke in her chest. They weren't alone. They had someone here. Someone was here for them.

“Tommy!” she sobbed.

He was already dropping to his knees.

“Okay, alright, I gotcha—” His hands were warm, gripping her shoulders first, then moving—checking, searching. His voice and breath were frantic. “My god, just how long—? Never mind, never mind. You’re okay. You’re okay, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

His eyes landed on the baby. A sharp, shaken breath, like he didn't know if he was happy or devastated.

Leela felt her own body shake, from exhaustion, from shock, from everything. With careful fingers, Tommy pulled his jacket from his shoulders, bundling it in his hands before reaching out.

“Here, honey, let me—let me take the baby off you for a second.”

Leela hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, without even realizing she was doing it, she let him.

Her baby was pried away from her, leaving her cold.

Her breath shuddered out of her chest as she fell back, half-conscious, as Tommy cradled the tiny, fragile thing in his hands.

The silence stretched. What did he think? Was the baby healthy? Did anything look weird? Was it still breathing normally? Was it choking? Was it safe? Was it hungry?

“Christ,” Tommy whispered, his voice breaking. “Look at you, beautiful. You wanted to see your mama that quick, huh?”

The baby let out a soft, breathy noise. A laugh or a sigh? A sound too small, too new to understand. It made Leela break out a tired grin.

Tommy’s face softened. “Hi, girlie,” he murmured, breathless. “It’s your Uncle Tommy. Oh, she's perfect. And so strong."

“Girl?” she whispered. She hadn't even thought to check.

Tommy nodded, still half-dazed, his thumb stroking over the baby’s tiny, blood-slicked fingers.

“Yeah,” he breathed, and his hand found Leela’s hair, damp and clinging to her forehead. He swept it back, easing her for a moment. “You did real good, mama. And you did it all alone. Fuckin' superhero.”

Leela let out something between a laugh and a sob. Her body slumped back to the floor.

“I can't move,” she rasped, her voice breaking.

Tommy nodded once, sharp. “Right, here’s what I’m gonna do,” he murmured, devising. “I’m gonna quickly wash the baby, then I’m carrying you upstairs. Maria’s on her way and she's gonna clean you up. We’re gonna take care of you, alright?”

Leela just nodded. Because what else was there to do?

She had survived. Her baby girl had survived. She had brought this life into the world.

Now, she had to figure out how to keep going.

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #7

(Click. A beat of silence. Then a breath—shaky, slow. When she speaks, her voice is raw, worn thin, like she hasn’t used it in days.)

“I’ve shut them all out. Locked the door. No more Maria. No more Tommy. No more—anyone.”

(The quiet hum of static. Then, softer, almost to herself—)

“If they see it—if they see that I don’t love her the way I should, they’ll take her from me. And I’ll be alone. Alone with the pain. Alone with the shadows in the hallway.”

(A sharp inhale.) “I can’t let that happen. She’s mine.”

(A long pause, then a slow, exhaled breath.)

“Day nine. January fourth. Baby girl is... still healthy. Maria said she’s too small, but—she’s here. She's okay. She’s breathing. I’m nursing her, constantly. Every two hours. Sometimes less. She sleeps, she feeds, she excretes and repeats. I thought—”

(A wry, breathy laugh, humourless.)

“I don’t know what I thought. That she’d do more? That she’d be awake, that she’d—hold my hand? That she’d know me? Smile, laugh, something.”

(A beat. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, duller, more clinical. She's speaking facts now.)

“But no. She doesn’t know anything yet. I understand that her brain development will be slow. Her motor skills will take time to come in. She is gaining knowledge, and she's intelligent. She tracks the light, she knows crying is a catalyst for food. Now, everything she learns, she’ll learn from me.”

(A breath. Like that is just now sinking in.)

“And I—I am—”

(A beat. A breath chokes in her throat. Then, a whisper—raw, broken—)

“I am bled dry.”

(A sharp exhale. A sniff. She presses on, voice more distant, detached.)

“I eat when I can. Throw up more often than not. Try to sleep, try to think sometimes. I scratch twenty integers on the board and try to satisfy it as a functional equation. My brain and body—it’s still not mine. It’s just... a machine. My baby's machine. Warm flesh, arms to hold her, her nutrition source. She doesn’t love me. She only cries when I’m gone.”

(A sigh. A sound—barely there. Like she might be rubbing at her face, at her tired, sleepless eyes.)

“I want to love her. I want to… know her. But I look at myself, and I don’t—” (A sharp inhale like she’s swallowed a bitter pill.) “I don’t recognise the person anymore. My body, my face—it’s all... wrong. I'm fat, weak, and can barely hold myself up.”

(She moves around, fabric rustling, the sound of creaking, like she’s leaning against a wall, trying to hold herself up.)

“My stomach is soft now. Loose, almost. There are marks, these pale lines like something clawed me open from the inside. Because something... did. My breasts leak, my thighs scrape each other—so alien—and my down there—”

(Another pause, but this time it stretches—too long—before she speaks again. When she does, the words are hushed, like a secret she’s afraid to say out loud, even in the privacy of this recording.)

“I can’t imagine a man loving me now. Not that I ever could before, but now—” (Her breath wavers.) “Now it’s impossible. I am not a woman anymore. I'm an unloved, ruined mother.”

(Then, soft—barely audible—)

“I feel like a monster. A monster who can't love her own child.”

(A deep, shaky breath.)

“But... I will try. I have to. I can’t let her go. She’s—keeping me sane. Giving me a reason to wake up. A reason to exist that isn’t research. She needs me. And I—I need her.”

(A swallow. A deep, slow inhale.)

“It’s... symbiosis. We are symbiotes. Like the inside of the Infected—she’s this incredible, complex brain. I’m the infection.” (A beat.) “Yes, always the infection.”

(Another silence. Then, barely above a whisper—)

“But it will work. In some time, it has to.”

(So soft it almost disappears—like a prayer, like a plea—)

“Please, let this get better. Please.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #8

(A long pause. The faintest sound of static, like she’s hesitating, maybe rubbing a finger over the mic. Then—soft, almost disbelieving—)

“This man… Joel. My neighbour. He’s here. In my home.”

(Another pause, like she can’t quite believe it herself. A rustle—maybe she’s moving, pressing the heel of her palm against her temple, thinking.)

“I thought—” (A breath, quick and shallow, like the memory unsettles her.) “I thought he was gonna put his boot through my ribs. The way he looked at me at the door that night—” (She exhales sharply.) “He hates me.”

(Quieter—like she’s marvelling at the absurdity of it all—)

“And now he’s upstairs. With… Maya.”

(A sound, soft and unexpected—giggle. The kind that sneaks up, breathless, like it doesn’t quite belong.)

“Maya. My baby’s name is Maya.” (She tries the name again, savouring it.) “My daughter. I’m her mama.”

(A slow exhale, tone shifting, tired but full of quiet wonder.)

“Maya. Such a pretty name. I think it was my mother’s. Or my sister’s? I can’t remember.” (A beat. Then, softer—wistful—) “But they were beautiful. Just like Maya.”

(Another silence, stretching. Then, a little lighter, like she’s almost smiling—like she’s trying to smile—)

“Joel said it rhymes with Leela. That Maya looks just like me.”

(There's fondness there, or confusion, or she hasn’t quite figured out what it is yet.)

“Every time he’s near me, I expect myself to bolt. Run the other way. But I don’t. I just—” (A breath, slow, searching.) “I just want him to stay.”

(She stops like she’s startled herself. Like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.)

“Not with me. Just… in the house. Breathing. Silent. A friend.”

(The last word is strange on her tongue. Like she’s testing it out, seeing if it fits. It doesn’t, not really. Not yet.)

“He’s a good man. A darling man, even.” (A half-snort, like she knows how ridiculous that sounds, but it's true.) “Nothing at all like the hotheaded ass he looks like. He isn't drunk anymore.”

(A sigh, long and slow, like she’s falling and doesn't want to admit it.)

“He's fixing that crib for her. He’s so good with Maya. So natural, like he’s been a father forever. He's bonded with her so easily. And I think—” (A swallow.) “I think my baby loves him.”

(Her voice tightens.)

“She smiled at him today.” (Then, lower—hurt, guilty, and in between—) “She’s never smiled at me. That's alright. At least she's feeling good. She has someone who loves her.”

(Silence. A stretch of it. Then, something fragile, almost apologetic—like she’s saying it to the air, to herself—)

“My daughter has the prettiest smile. Like a little blooming sunflower.”

(Another pause, something thick caught in her throat. A sniff. Then, shifting—pushing forward, changing course.)

“But Joel—” (A breath, bracing.) “Yeah, he does not like me.”

(A rustle. Maybe she’s pressing her hand to her face, rubbing at her temples, like saying it out loud makes it more real.)

“I don't expect him to, I know what I really am. In fact—” (A quiet laugh, humourless.) “He called me a coward to my face. He's not wrong. I'm the coward who couldn't die. I'm the coward who can't love her baby. I am a coward for asking him to take my baby away. But I... I'm just so exhausted.”

(The words land heavy like they’ve been circling in her head for days, refusing to leave.)

“He watches me. Glaring. Every time I try to nurse Maya, every time she cries, every time I—” (She exhales, sharp, frustrated—at him? At herself?) “Like he’s waiting for me to mess up. To choke up. To drop her.”

(A pause. Then, bitter—resentful, defensive—soft.)

“And I get it. I do. Would anyone let a monster near a baby?”

(Silence. Thick, oppressive. Then—quieter, almost thoughtful—)

“But he doesn’t ask questions. Not like Maria. Not like Tommy. He doesn’t push. He just… is. He brings me food. He tells me to sleep. He has taught me to hold Maya.” (A breath, settling in tired and resigned.) “I’m grateful for that.”

(A long pause, like she’s trying to decide if she wants to say the next thing out loud.)

“I just hope he doesn’t leave soon.”

(It is creeping in at the edges. It's bitter, knowing.)

“Not for me. Not for anything to do with me.” (She exhales, sharp like she’s forcing the truth out before she can swallow it back down.) “It’s Maya. It’s always Maya.”

(Her voice tightens. Not angry, not quite. Just… something else. Aching, raw.)

“He doesn’t care about me. He barely looks at me. But he looks after my baby. Holds her like she's his own. That's all I want.”

(A breath. Then, a half-laugh—small, almost embarrassed, almost resigned, like she can’t believe she’s about to say this out loud.)

“He’s too useful around here.” (A beat. Then, even quieter—like a confession, like she shouldn’t want it but does—)

“I want to keep him with Maya always.”

(Silence. Then, a quiet click.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #1

(The screen wobbles, unfocused, a mess of pivoting shapes and the worn floorboards of the home. A voice, low and grumbling, cuts through the static—)

“Jesus. Is this thing on? Shit’s fucked.”

(Laughter—delicate, chiming—before another voice, lighter, teasing, cuts in—)

“Joel, just—” (a giggle, the sound of movement, a blur of fingers reaching for the camera) “Give it here. I'll do it.”

“No, no, no—go to her, darlin’. I got this.”

“You’re shaking it.”

“I ain't shakin’ it. It's the damn camera.” (A pause, more rustling, moving.) “Just go.”

(The camera swings wildly before settling, focusing—somewhat shakily—on Leela. She’s sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, in summer clothes, the warm glimmer of lamplights catching on the sharp edges of her face. She looks… younger. Softer. Happier. It's obvious, it's the love glow. There's a small smile playing at her lips, her eyes full of distinctive excitement as she glances toward Maya.)

“Okay.” (She starts, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, her voice turning sunnier, less factual.) “It’s September the eighth. Maya, aged nine months. Living room. The time is… seven-twenty-two in the evening. The temperature is—”

(A low chuckle from behind the camera—dry, amused—before Joel cuts in—)

“The hell are you doin’?”

(Leela frowns at the lens, scratching at her forehead, clearly exasperated.) “I’m… stating my controls.”

(Joel snorts.) “What, you sendin’ a rocket to the moon? It’s a goddamn home video. Just go to the kid.”

(Leela rolls her eyes, muttering—) “So unsystematic.”

(The camera tilts and refocuses—Maya’s in the frame now, sitting in the middle of the floor, a toy horse clutched in her tiny hands. She’s all soft curls and chubby cheeks, her dress a blur of little embroidered flowers. She blinks up at her mother, wide-eyed, then over at the camera, grinning when Joel snaps his fingers to get her attention.)

“Over here, baby girl. Here.” (His voice is softer now, coaxing.)

“Da-da, hi!” (Maya squeals, all four teeth and dimples, her tiny hands slapping at the carpet in excitement.)

“There's that winning smile. Hi.”

(Leela laughs, reaching out to smooth a hand over Maya’s curls.)

“Oh, you look so pretty. What is that you're wearing?”

(Maya clutches at her dress, scrunching it up in her little fists, bouncing where she sits.) “S’flowers. Dwess... flowers.”

“Wow. I don't have one like that.” (Leela coos, her face softening. She holds Maya's little hand between her index and thumb.) “Okay, okay—Maya, can you tell your da-da what you ate today?”

(Maya blinks, considering this. Then—)

“Mama.”

(Joel huffs out a quiet chuckle from behind the camera. Leela tries again, biting back a smile—)

“No, no, baby—what did you eat?”

(Maya grins, showing off all four tiny teeth.)

“Da-da.”

(Joel outright snorts this time, shifting the camera slightly as he zooms closer. Right on Maya and Leela's faces.)

“I've got bite marks to prove it.”

(Leela groans, nudging Maya's arm playfully.) “Maya, listen to Mama. What was it you ate, love? Was it… blue…? A berry?”

(Maya’s whole face lights up in recognition, and then—)

“Booooo-berries.”

(Leela bursts out with a giggle. Joel chuckles low in his throat.)

“Did you get that?” (Leela beams, glancing up at the camera, her elation clear.) “She said it!”

(A pause. Then—Joel curses under his breath, the camera jerking to the left.)

“Shit, I think I forgot to hit record.”

(Leela's head snaps up, eyes wide.) “Aw, Joel, c’mon.”

“I told you, darlin'—”

(Cut to black.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #2

(The camera hums to life, adjusting, focusing. A golden afternoon spills through the windows, warm light pooling over the wooden floors. The soft strum of a guitar filters through the room—enduring, unhurried—followed by a low, familiar voice.)

“Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you… Because you're mine, I walk the line…”

(The camera shakes and zooms in—Joel sits on the floor, legs stretched out, the guitar balanced against his knee. Maya sits between his legs, tiny fists tapping at the base of the instrument, her chubby fingers drumming against the wood in wild, uncoordinated beats. Every few seconds, she squeals, as if she’s part of the song, as if she knows she belongs in this moment.)

(Off-camera, a quiet laugh.)

“You’re a natural, baby girl.” (Leela teases, zooming in on the way Maya bounces in place, her curls bobbing, her wide, toothy grin bright enough to rival the sunlight.)

(Joel breaks off mid-chord, glancing up sharply. His brow furrows, like he’s just realized he’s being filmed.)

“Hey, get that thing outta my face.”

“But it’s your birthday video.”

“You're two days early.”

“I already turned on the camera, Joel. Go with it.”

(A sigh. He eventually sets the guitar aside, lifting Maya onto his lap, resting his chin lightly on top of her head. His fingers roll at her tiny palms.)

“Fine. Whaddya want?”

“Okay, first off—state your name, age, date, and time.”

(Joel gives the camera a flat look.) “I ain’t one of your science experiments.”

“Just do it.”

(Another sigh, this one profound. He rubs a hand down his face, muttering—)

“Can't believe this... alright. Joel Miller. Fifty-six. September the twenty-fourth. And it’s… I dunno, one in the afternoon. I am still waitin' on those greasy-ass cheeseburgers I was promised.” (Joel winks.)

(Leela muffles small giggles) “Patience is a virtue. Now, what’s your birthday wish this year?”

(He scrubs at his eyes, exhaling through his nose.) “Jesus, Leela.”

“Say it.”

(A hum. Joel shifts, adjusting Maya on his lap. When he finally answers, his voice is quieter, like he’s not sure he wants it caught on record—)

“Makin’ it to fifty-eight.”

(Leela hums.) “Okay, what... do you think about your birthday present?”

(Maya smacks at his cheeks before he can answer, her little hands patting at his stubble like she’s trying to figure out what it is. Joel huffs, catching her wrist before she can shove her fingers in his mouth.)

“My what?”

“Can’t believe you forgot. Think fast.”

(A set of keys flies through the air. They bounce off his chest, jangling, but his reflexes are still quick—he catches them before they can hit Maya.)

(The camera tilts and spins. Leela comes into the frame now, just her eyes, unfocused, wearing that playfully serious expression, her lips pursed like she’s pretending to take notes.)

“Signs of cognitive decline. Memory loss and poor motor functions.” (She shakes her head.) “I might have to look into that later.”

(The camera spins again and focuses back on Joel. He's glaring at her.)

“Cognitive... you big dork. You’re lucky I’m holdin’ the kid.” (He lifts the key, squinting at it, realization dawning.) “So, the Maranello is really all mine now?”

(Leela laughs, shifting the camera slightly, catching the way Joel’s eyebrows lift, just a fraction.)

“All yours. Surprise!”

(Joel exhales, rolling the key between his fingers. He looks back at her, a little sceptical.)

“And what, we’re supposed to ride out on the I-22 till the sun sets? You realize I can't drive the thing anywhere?”

“Sounds like a steady date.”

(Joel snorts, shaking his head, but there’s peace in his face—softer, fondness—that he doesn’t bother hiding this time. He glances at Leela, opening his mouth to say something, but...)

(The camera tilts again, zooming in on Maya. She’s sucking on her fist now, watching the two of them.)

“One more.” (Leela coaxes, voice gentle.) “One last present. Maya, look at Mama. Like we practised, okay? Happy…”

(Maya blinks, distracted, then grins at Joel. She curls and uncurls her fingers, rocking back and forth.)

“Da-da, comma, comma, comma.”

(Joel snickers, adjusting her in his arms. He points back at Leela, forcing her attention. He wants to hear this present right now.)

“Your mama’s talkin’ to you, baby girl.”

(Maya glances at Leela, her tiny hand lifting, fingers wiggling in a wave.) “Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, baby.” (Leela laughs.) “Okay, you have to say it now. Happy…”

“Happy!” (Maya chirps, delighted.)

“Birthday.”

“Bo-day!” (She claps, bouncing excitedly in Joel’s lap.)

“Da-da.”

“Daaaaa-da.”

“Yay.”

(Joel grins, wide and real, lifting Maya up in the air, to which she squeals. He presses one, two, three kisses to her cheeks. With a voice like molasses for his little girl—)

“Thank you, sweetheart.” (Then he glances at Leela behind the camera.) “You're gettin' big party favours.”

“Can't wait.”

(The screen lingers, blurring at the edges when it meets with the light, the sound of laughter filling the frame—soft, real, warm—before the camera finally cuts to black.)

X

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #241

(A burst of static. A faint click as the recorder whirs to life. Then—silence. Not complete, but close. The soft rhythm of breathing.)

“Okay.” (A pause. A sharp inhale, like she’s readying herself.) “Okay. This is—this is me. Leela. Age thirty. The time is eleven sixteen in the evening, on November twenty-third. Basement. And this is real, working, undeniable proof.”

(The rustle of paper. The scrape of a pen tapping against something solid. A controlled breath, like she’s holding back—excitement, disbelief, a feeling bigger than both.)

“I have solved it.” (A beat. Then, sharper, firmer—) “I solved the Riemann Hypothesis.”

(Silence. Then a small laugh—half-breathless, half-shaken, like she still doesn’t quite believe her own words.)

“I don’t even know who is gonna listen to this.” (Another laugh, quieter now.) “I guess I don’t care. I just—I need to say it. I need it to exist somewhere beyond my head, beyond these pages. I have just solved the goddamn Holy Grail of Mathematics.”

(More rustling. Paper shuffling. A faint scratch of pen against the margins, like she’s still working, still checking, still making sure.)

“I don’t even know what that means anymore. A hundred and fifty years ago, it would’ve changed everything. Even just twenty. It would’ve rewritten how we understand numbers, patterns in the universe, and how we predict and solidify prime distributions. Gene sequencing, theoretical physics, rebuilding our quantum computers, our shitty communication systems—it was the missing key. We suddenly have a roadmap to the structure of numbers. To the future.”

“And I-I think... I think, and I might be wildly mistaken, but if Cordyceps follows some sort of biological network or pattern with our neurons—in terms of protein folding or catabolism—I assume disease modelling relies on prime-based arithmatics. That would mean safer genetic research. That means a possible...” (Her voice falters slightly, like she’s thinking too fast, trying to hold onto a world that doesn’t exist anymore.)

“And now?” (A short, bitter laugh.) “Now it means nothing. The world ended anyway. Nature, unlike the infection, has run its course.”

(She exhales hard, like trying to steady herself. Then—softer, slower—she speaks again, like it’s fragile.)

“I don’t know if I should tell her. If she'll even understand. Of course not, she can't even speak.”

(A shift—fabric moving. A sound—small, barely there—someone breathing, a rustle of movement.)

“My Maya.” (Her voice is cautious now.) “She’s asleep. She’s got her hand curled up against my neck, and she does that thing—” (A breath of amusement, faint but warm.) “—where she scrunches up her nose when she dreams. She's my darling.” (A soft chuckle.)

“She doesn’t know the world used to mean things like this. Used to have things like this. A world where proving a theorem could change the future, where it could make you matter.”

(A lengthy pause. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, like it’s delicate and in her hands.)

“My parents spent their whole lives chasing something they could leave behind. Mama—Jesus, Mama—I think she loved this problem more than anything else in the world. She used to say it was poetry, that it was—” (a breath, remembering, then softens—) “that it was the closest thing to God she’d ever seen.”

(A swallow. Then—firmer, like she’s gripping something real.)

“They didn’t get to finish it. But I did.”

(A change in sound, the creak of an old chair, the faintest shuffle—someone moving in their sleep? The pattern of breathing remains the same, undisturbed.)

“And now what?” (A small, wry exhale.) “What the hell do I do with it? The world it belonged to is gone. The journals, the universities, the mathematicians who would’ve lost their minds over this—it’s all gone.”

(Silence stretches long enough that it almost feels like the recording has stopped. But then—softly—)

“But my parents aren’t.”

(The sound of fingers drumming against the table. Rhythmic. Thoughtful.)

“They lived for this. Died for this. And now it’s done. They deserve that. Their work deserves that. I deserve that. And if no one’s left to care—then I’ll care. I’ll make sure it exists. That it doesn’t just die here with me. This is their legacy. I have given too much, lost too much.”

(A long inhale. The softest stirring—fabric rustling again, the faint creak of old bedsprings, a body curling closer. A tiny sound—so small, so sleepy—Maya moaning in her sleep.)

(Leela’s breath hitches. Then, lower now—almost a whisper—)

“I have to tell Joel tonight. My pragmatist. He's the first person who has to know. It's always him. I just... I love him so much. He matters to me more than any proof in this world. More than any equation or legacy. I hope he loves me, too.” (A small laugh, tired but real.) “He’s not gonna understand a thing. Gonna tell me I’m crazy. And maybe I am. But I think—I think I have to do this. I have to get this out there, out of Jackson. Joel will know what to do; he always does.”

(A long pause. The sound of fabric shifting again. Then—faint, barely above a whisper—)

“This is far from over. Because I have not just solved any equation. I have proved that humanity is not done yet. We prevail.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #11

(The camera jolts to life, static crackling before the lens steadies. The frame is tight on Ellie’s face, her grin wide, her freckles vivid under the glow of the living room light. She holds the camera at arm’s length, angling it just right.)

“This is Captain Ellie Williams to ground control. It is officially time to… paaaaarty!”

(The camera pivots wildly, zooming in and out like at a chaotic rave, the frame cutting to Maya. The toddler bounces on her feet as the camera goes all over, hands flailing in pure excitement, her curls bouncing with her. She giggles, caught up in Ellie’s energy.)

“Yeah, baby’s got moves. Shake it, shake it—uh-huh, uh-huh. Yeah, go, Maya. Go, Maya.”

(Maya claps, delighted, then reaches for the camera with grabby little hands, eyes bright and pleading.)

“Pease, gimme, Evie!”

“You wanna see it?” (Ellie waggles the camera, teasing.)

(From off-screen, Joel’s voice cuts in, dry, unimpressed—)

“Ellie, do not give her the damn camera. She’s gonna break it.”

(The screen tilts, spins, refocuses. Now it captures the living room—the warm, homey clutter of it. Joel and Leela are curled up on one couch, Joel’s arm stretched lazily along the back, fingers just brushing Leela’s cheek and temple. Across from them, Tommy and Maria lounge on the other sofa, relaxed, a drink in Tommy’s hand.)

(Maya is not having it; she attempts to leap for the camera.) “Evie, gimme!”

(It's Tommy who hoots.) “Oi, trouble. Jesus, gonna scream the street down.”

(She squeals back in anger.) “Ah, no, no. Gimme!”

(Meanwhile, the camera zooms dramatically in on Joel’s face, the frame locking onto his beard, then his nose, then back to one irritated eye. In an exaggerated deep voice—)

“Joel, the Contractoooor.”

(Joel exhales sharply, shooting her a look.)

“Shut that thing off. We’re talkin’ here.”

“You’re such an assh—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

(The footage stutters back to life—more static, a blur of movement as Ellie fumbles the camera, laughing.)

(Ellie in mock horror—) “Oh no, we lost transmission! Lieutenant down! Ground control, come in!”

(The screen whips around, a mess of limbs and floorboards before it lands back on Maya, who is now dramatically collapsed on the rug like a fallen soldier. She peeks up, eyes squinting, then throws herself fully onto her back, arms splayed out.)

(Maya giggles.) “Noooooo!”

“We have a casualty, people. The baby’s down! Baby lieutenant fought bravely, but it was just too much dance power!”

(Maya, caught up in the game, dramatically sticks out her tongue. The camera shakes as Ellie cackles, zooming in close on Maya’s sprawled-out body.)

(Ellie narrates solemnly.) “Gone too soon. Alas, she shook it too hard, too fast. We will remember the too-young Maya Miller. I will avenge—hey!”

(A hand suddenly snatches the camera from Ellie’s grip—Joel’s hand, big and firm, filling the frame as he yanks it away.)

(Joel grumbling) “Alright, that’s enough bullshit from the two of you.”

(The camera shakes as Joel turns it on Ellie, flipping the interrogation around. She blinks, caught mid-laugh, then scowls. Maya sets off into a whining, screechy cry which is silenced by Maria, who sweeps her up into her arms.)

“Da-da, no, no! Evie!”

“Give it back, Joel!”

“Yeah? How d’you like it?” (The camera zooms right into Ellie’s freckled face, awkwardly close.) “Feels real fun, don’t it?”

(Ellie shoves at him.) “Ugh, you suck.”

(The screen wobbles again, and suddenly, it shifts—click—now the camera is facing Joel, who does not know how to hold the camera properly. His thumb partially covers the lens, and he’s squinting at the screen like it personally offended him.)

“The hell is this shit? Didja break it?”

(Ellie, off-camera, laughing.) “Fucking move your thumb, man!”

“Ain’t my fault this thing’s built for tiny-ass hands—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

(The footage stutters back to life, the lens slightly smudged, making the warm glow of the living room blur at the edges. The angle shifts as if someone’s adjusting the camera, propping it up on the table. Murmurs of conversation spill through the speakers—low laughter, the clink of glass, the distant, delighted squeals of Maya as Ellie entertains her.)

(Then, a new face fills the frame—Tommy. He squints into the lens, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans in, his voice a lazy drawl.)

“Damn thing even on?” (He taps the side of the camera like it’s an old radio, then glances to his left. The camera shifts as he picks it up and leans into Maria’s side, burrowing his face against her neck to press a slow kiss to her skin.)

(Maria laughs, tilting her head away as she swats at his chest.) “Save it for later, cowboy.”

“Ooh, slow your roll, partner. Gonna make me blush.” (But his eyes drift past her, locking onto something else across the room. He snorts, suddenly grinning, and spins the camera in that direction.)

“Would you look at that? My favourite lovebirds.”

(The frame tightens on Joel and Leela, curled up on the couch. Leela is murmuring to him, her cheek pressed against Joel’s shoulder, her fingers idly stroking into his hair. She looks up at him as she speaks, soft and unguarded, and Joel is just gone. His eyes are half-lidded, his head tilted slightly in her direction, his arm lazily curled around her shoulders. Every so often, without even thinking, he leans forward, brushing a slow kiss to her ear. Like breathing. Like habit.)

(Tommy whistles low, off-camera.) “They’ve definitely done the deed.”

(Maria hums.) “I knew that weeks ago.”

(Joel’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing as he glares at them from across the room.)

“I heard that, you piece of shit. The hell is wrong with you?”

(The camera zooms in, catching the way Leela immediately buries her face in her hands—and into Joel’s shoulder—while he groans, rubbing a hand down his face like he’s questioning every life choice.)

“Alright, alright, since we’re all cosy now—tell me somethin’.” (Tommy adjusts the camera, fixing the focus on them.) “What do y’all like about each other?”

(Leela peeks out from behind her hands, blinking at him.) “What?”

(Tommy’s voice comes from somewhere off-screen, laced with amusement.)

“Yeah, c’mon, indulge us.” (The lens adjusts, sharpening.) “Y’know, since some people in this house refuse to talk about their damn feelings.” (The camera shifts in Joel’s direction.)

(Joel just glares at it.) “What are you tryna pull? Turn that thing off.”

“Hey, don't be such a sourpuss.”

(Joel doesn’t meet it. He’s now staring at the ceiling, hands templed on his nose, like he’s willing divine intervention to strike Tommy down where he sits.)

(A soft hum of agreement from Maria, somewhere nearby.) “It’s a good question. I wanna hear it.”

(Leela glances sideways at Joel, hesitation flickering in the crease of her brow. But that set of her mouth—small, teasing—suggests she’s not entirely opposed to this game.)

(She tilts her head, the motion easy, natural.) “You go first, Joel.”

(The footage picks up the sound of Joel sighing. His shoulders roll back as he glances toward her out of the corner of his eye. One hand moves—rubs at his jaw, then drags down the back of his neck. The camera catches the exact moment he exhales, muttering—)

“Well, Leela’s... goddamn smart.”

(Off-screen, Tommy groans, the camera giving a small, jostled shake like he’s throwing up his hands.)

“C’mon, man. That’s what you’re goin’ with? Everyone and their mother knows that.”

(Joel shrugs, his mouth twitching like this whole conversation is exhausting him.) “Well, she is. Her brain is so big and weird. She even speaks in nerd real cute.”

(The lens catches the quick flicker of a smile as Leela nudges his knee with hers. The camera wobbles slightly as Tommy shifts again, leaning forward.)

“That’s it? Nothin’ else, just her big brain?”

(Joel exhales, shoulders stiffening. He really hates this. Then—without looking at her—his voice dips lower.)

“She’s got a good heart. She cooks like a mad scientist, and her food is downright sinful.” (A pause, a shift in his expression, reluctant—then, almost reflectively—) “And... she's beautiful.”

(The camera picks up the way Leela blinks at him. Joel rubs the back of his neck, gaze fixed somewhere near the floor.)

“She's really beautiful.” (A beat.) “Could watch her all day if I could. Just being. Braiding her hair and stuff. One smile and...” (He shakes his head with a small grin.)

(Silence hums through the speakers—just for a second before the camera lurches slightly. A blur of motion as Maria smacks Tommy’s arm, a flash of her grin as she hums the wedding march—)

“Dum-dum-da-dum, dum-dum-da-dum... there's really no saving him now.”

(The camera refocuses just in time to catch Leela still watching Joel, an unreadability in her eyes. Her lips part slightly like she wants to say something—but before she can, the lens wobbles again, a brief static crackling as Tommy clears his throat.)

“Alright, honey, your turn.” (The camera steadies on Leela.) “What do you like about big ol’ grumpy over here?”

(Leela, still looking at Joel, tilts her head. The footage picks up the flicker in her eyes—affectionate, thoughtful.)

“Hmm.” (She drags out the sound, considering.)

(The camera catches Joel shifting beside her, his hand twitching slightly against his knee. His voice—grumbled, almost embarrassed—murmurs—)

“Just say my face and get it over with. I'm tired.”

(Leela laughs—the sound clear through the speakers, genuine. The camera catches the way Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile and losing.)

“Well, I like it when Joel plays his guitar.” (Her voice is softer now, the corners of her mouth still curled upward, loving gaze on him.) “I love that he's an artist at heart, the exact opposite of me.”

(The footage picks up the way Joel clears his throat, fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans.)

(Leela hums, quieter now, more thoughtful.)

“And... I love when he's with Maya.” (The camera zooms slightly, catches the shape of her smile, the certainty in it, the careful way she speaks—like she’s weighing every word.) “She loves him. And he loves her, too.”

(Joel swallows, gaze dropping to his entwined hands.)

(The footage shifts slightly as Tommy clears his throat, the camera adjusting with a jostled movement.)

“Alright, alright.” (His voice, still light, but gentler now.) “You heard it here first, folks. The mean man’s a big ol’ teddy bear.”

(The camera shakes slightly as Joel tips his head back against the couch, groaning.)

“Jesus Christ, Tommy—”

(The lens steadies, framing Leela as she laughs, reaching for his hand. The footage captures the way Joel naturally laces his fingers through hers. He lifts it to his lips—)

(The screen flickers. Cut to black.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #14

(The footage wobbles before settling, the lens clouded with the faint smudge of tiny fingerprints. Maya’s face wedges the frame—round cheeks, big curious eyes, the softest scrunch of her nose as she pokes at the camera, inspecting. A chubby hand reaches, pressing directly against the lens, smearing a blur of warmth and colour across the screen.)

(Muffled giggles. The grainy recording shakes slightly as Maya shifts, little fingers gripping at the edges of the camera. The background is soft—white pillows, blankets, the low glow of a bedside lamp casting everything in golden hues.)

(A blur of dark hair enters the frame, then—Leela, tilting in, resting her cheek against Maya’s head, her voice sing-song and sweet—like she's sharing a secret.)

“What is baby Maya doing?” (The camera jostles as Maya shifts, little hands still gripping the device.) “Is she making a video? Is she Maya Spielberg? What are you looking at?”

(Maya’s mouth opens in a wide, toothy grin, giggles bubbling up from her throat. The camera shakes with her laughter, tiny hiccuping sounds breaking up the quiet.)

“Is that Maya’s smile?” (Leela’s fingers brush gently over her lips.) “Big, big smile? Look at her big girl teeth. And her cute little nose...”

(Maya throws her head back, her giggle turning into a full-blown squeal, arms flapping wildly in delight. The footage shakes, unfocused for a moment, before a low, familiar voice rumbles from somewhere off-camera—tired, amused—)

“Don’t work her up before bed, darlin’.” (The footage tilts slightly, catching a glimpse of Joel’s veined arm as he shifts somewhere out of sight.) “Can’t get her to sleep without pullin’ a muscle.”

“Oof, Daddy's in a mood again.”

(Joel sighs gruffly.) “Daddy has to wake up early, but is distracted.”

(Leela laughs softly, shifting Maya onto her lap and pulling her close. The camera steadies just enough to capture the moment as she presses their cheeks together, her voice lilting—warm and full of affection.)

“C’mere, baby.” (She tilts her head, looking directly into the lens.) “Wow, look at that. Maya looks just like Mama. Mama's hair, Mama's skin, Mama's eyes.” (A gentle kiss to Maya’s temple, a soft murmur—) “Can you gimme a kiss?”

(Maya hesitates for only a second before turning, pressing a wet, tiny kiss against Leela’s cheek. The screen wobbles as Leela laughs, delighted.)

“Oh, that’s a big kiss.” (She nuzzles in closer, rocking slightly.) “Now, can you say ‘I love you, Mama’?”

(Maya makes a sound—soft and sweet, a garbled attempt, not quite words but close.)

(Leela gasps, grinning.) “Oh! Almost! That was so good!” (She brushes her fingers over Maya’s cheek, teasing—) “Do you love Mama more or your Da-da?”

(Before Maya can respond, a hand—large, rough—enters the frame, pinching at Leela’s cheek, pulling playfully. Joel’s voice rumbles, equal parts exasperation and affection—)

“Fair play.”

(Leela swats at his wrist, half-heartedly.) “Ah-ow.” (She rubs her cheek dramatically, throwing Maya a conspiratorial look.) “Did you see that? Big bad daddy.”

(Joel grumbles.) “Sure, I'm the bad guy.”

(Maya squeals, bouncing in place, eyes bright—) “Mama!”

(Leela stills slightly, looking down at her, like she can't really believe it.) “Me? You love me?”

(Maya beams, pressing a small, chubby hand to Leela’s cheek.) “Mama, Mama.”

(The camera shakes as Leela gathers her closer, pushing her lips to Maya’s forehead, eyes closing briefly as she whispers—soft, whole, like it’s the easiest, truest thing in the world—)

“I love you, too, Maya. Mama loves you so much.”

(The screen lingers for a moment longer—the softness of them, the quiet hum of contentment. Then, a small static pop—black.)

X

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #242

(A soft click. The hum of the recorder comes alive, accompanied by the faintest rustle of fabric—Leela shifting, settling. A sigh, deep and measured, like she’s leaning back. Maybe the wall. Maybe Joel.)

“This is my final log for the R. hypothesis documentation.” (A breath.) “I’m not stating any benchmarks. No primes, no numbers. None of that matters anymore. Not tonight. I'm done.”

(A soft exhale—she’s smiling.)

“The night is sweet. My daughter, who will turn one this month, is sleeping. I am safe. My skin feels clean. I have…” (A small, almost sheepish laugh, barely more than a breath.) “Made love... to the most perfect, cynical, gentlest man on this planet, who apparently loves me, too.” (A muffled snicker—like she’s covering her mouth, shaking her head.) “That’s personal. Joel doesn't like to flaunt. So, off the record, okay?”

(She sighs again, slower this time. Something moves—her tone, her posture, her thoughts.)

“I keep thinking about how the last ten years of my life have been… numbers.” (A breath.) “A set of variables and primes. A world so little I could carry it between my palms, hold it in my mind.”

(A faint rustling—her fingers tracing, maybe the fabric of Joel’s shirt.)

“I stayed in Jackson. Cremated my parents. Lived. Died. Survived. Delivered a baby girl.” (A long, slow inhale. A quiet realization.) “Found a partner I love and trust.”

(There's no sadness. It's simply final.)

“And the thing is… I did it. I proved it. Every part of it. I took the step to live, and I finished what my parents started. I reached the end of the proof. And I thought—” (She exhales.) “I thought I’d feel… bigger. Massive. Like the sky should crack open, like humanity should turn its head and finally, finally listen.”

(She laughs—not bitter, not regretful, just… acknowledging it.)

“But it won’t. It never will. Because there’s nowhere to send it. No one left to care. No world left to change. I think this is it.”

(A beat. A quiet moment where she lets the truth sink into her. Then—a softer change. A lighter note.)

“And I’m okay with that. I accept it now.”

(The creak of the bed. A shifting weight—like she’s leaning back, closing her eyes.)

“I don’t need anyone to hear it. Because I did it. I solved it. And maybe it’ll never matter, maybe it dies here with me.” (A slow breath, controlled.) “But I know. I know what I achieved. And Joel does. My new, small family does. And Maya will someday.”

(A quiet hum. More static of the recorder. An anticipatory breath—like she’s structuring her thoughts before speaking.)

“It's strange... how do I put this? You know, a function is defined by its inputs and outputs. A system or machine is shaped by its limitations. A theorem is valid only if every variable holds true.”

(Leela’s voice is quieter, warmer now.) “For ten years, my variables were singular. A closed set—isolated, self-contained, unworkable. I measured my life in absolutes, limits and intersections. And then…”

(A long pause. Her voice softens.) “The equation changed.”

(An infinitesimal sound—the murmur from Joel, deep in sleep.)

“Dare I say more complicated? New inputs and outputs. New limitations. A system with unknowns. And somehow—against every probability—”

(Her voice quiets, like she’s reaching the final line of a proof, the last, inevitable step.)

“It balanced.”

(A slow inhale. A hand smoothing over fabric, maybe Joel’s arm.)

“One woman. One child. One man. The sum is still whole. My system works. The theorem is valid.” (A beat.) “That's a good enough proof for me.”

(An understanding silence. A breath. Certain. Absolute.)

“This is Leela, signing off. If you listen to this, know that I'm still trying despite this. I am going to fight like hell to put my findings out, even if it's a long shot. Please help me prove what I've left behind, in case I don't. Prove that we haven't lost yet.”

(Click.)

X

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[zivazivc]

Not exactly a character sheet but something akin to it... an all around sound reveal/analysis for my punk funk guy

yapping on top of yapping under the cut:

Les's musical style is a wide range that typically leans heavily into funk metal or punk rock, or both!, although he is quick to get inspired by other genres too. In general he likes music that sounds at least a little droll and unexpected. I hope the selection of albums I compiled can paint you a good idea of it (because I sure as hell don't know what I'm doing!).

He is, first and foremost, a bass player and he's very good at it. Heavy funky slapping and popping is prominent in his music as is usual in funk music in general. He's got an old (ugly) second-hand bass guitar, that he cherishes like it's his baby. He could probably save an get a cooler-looking one for the stage but that in itself is uncool in his book.

He's also not so bad with the trumpet too, doesn't own one though, so he only plays it when he gets a chance. He learned to play it from his uncle Adewale.

Singing on the other hand is not his forte; he doesn't have super impressive vocals plus he's holding himself back. His singing style sounds droll and kind of jaded (often even deadpan and monotone although thought out and not lazy in any way), and closer to speak-singing. Big reason for that is that genuine honest singing makes him feel vulnerable in an uncomfortable way he's not willing to face, and it hints at a possibility for emotional release he very much prefers to not see happen. Y'know, singing is therapeutic and he doesn't want the therapy. 🥲

He typically balances out his singing with sarcastic/dramatic lyrics or unusual storytelling that keep his true thoughts and feelings well encrypted under layers of metaphors and allegories (subconsciously or intentionally) — which funnily enough makes him a very clever lyricist. But he doesn't put any of it down and has no interest in joining Hed and Floyd with writing songs for the band.

His singing VA is John McCrea from Cake, and when I say this I mean from the sound of his singing voice, all the way down to how he delivers his lines and the lyrics themselves. ':) More examples: 1, 2, 3. (I put only two of their albums on the drawing but honestly Cake has so many good Les songs.)

NoMeansNo is a close second when it comes to lyrics, but they're more like vent songs for Les, when you catch him in a weird angry/depressed mood. I also really like that band's prominent use of the bass, it's not very funky but it scratches my Les itch very much.

Butthole Surfers' songs have good Les lyrics too, although those are more "him singing about weird hallucinations while high out of his mind" or when he wants to be shocking for the sake of being shocking. That band is just weird overall, I like the singers southern drawl though. I'm still on board the idea of Les and Hed having a bit of a southern US accent.

Incubus is an amazing band overall but their first two albums are such a good flavor of funk metal and early band experimentality. Their singer is really good in regards to the word intonation I imagine Les having, he's too skilled for Les to keep up with in some parts though. 😅

I think the perfect Les sound would be some kind of chimera of these four bands... or maybe not, maybe that would sound terrible. XD

But still, to get a feel for Les's sound overall you have to give all of the examples below a listen, or at least the ones I put in bold.

- The albums featured in the drawing ↴

Incubus - S.C.I.E.N.C.E.

NoMeansNo - 0 + 2 = 1

Cake - Comfort Eagle

Incubus - Fungus Amongus

Beck - Odelay

The Damage Manual - The Damage Manual

Primus - Sailing the Seas of Cheese

Cake - Motorcade of Generosity

Fungo Mungo - Humungous

NoMeansNo - Wrong

Butthole Surfers - Electriclarryland

L.A.P.D. - L.A.P.D.

Bonus "Lena" album:

13. Jack Off Jill - Clear Hearts Grey Flowers

[ninaskitchn]

𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐞 ༉‧₊˚.⁀➷

therapist! jonathan crane x female reader.

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: when your father decided that you needed therapy, taking you to his dear friend dr. crane to treat and help you, you thought it wouldn't work at all, but it turned out to be everything you needed.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: SMUT(minors dni!!), noncon/dubcon, depression, cursing, crane is a mysoginistic prick, using therapy for unhinged reasons, smut, hair pulling, jonathan just being an creep, choking AND strangulation, dacryphilia, hitting, unprotected sex (safe sex its great sex!!), breeding kink, forced breeding, power dynamics, i think crane should be a warning himself, reader being borderline stupid and naive. also this has a lot of backstory i’m so sorry i got carried away lol.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 7.1K

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: omg my first fic on here!! this is also my first work on english and my first smut ever so i apologise in advance for any mistake!! i hope y'all enjoy it anyways ahahahaha live laugh love jonathan crane👏🏻 feedback its very appreciated so i can improve and continue to publish better works, anyways enjoyyyy 💓

𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘁

It was awkward, to say the least.

You were sitting across from Doctor Crane in the couch at your dad's house, legs crossed as you watched him write on his clipboard, something about it making you feel anxious, a little nauseous, even.

This wasn't your first session, you started doing this four months ago, not long after your divorce that caused you to fall into a spiral of sadness and misery. Your failed— and short marriage was the main reason you started taking therapy with your dad's friend, the chief of Arkham, Jonathan Crane, and still, you couldn't bring yourself to talk about it.

He was patient, you told him several times that he was a saint. Regardless, before you started with the sessions, he explained to your dad that he didn't really do this; therapy really wasn't his strong suit, but for a friend, a desperate one, he would gladly do it.

Your dad came to him, offering a big stack of money if he would talk to his little girl, make her recover her once joyful personality, like you had one to begin with. Jonathan really couldn't say no, and not really because of the money, he had other reasons in mind, unethical reasons.

And there you were now. You were quick to open up to him, eager to talk, to be listened and he, on the other hand, was ready to listen, to give you advice, console you and help you get through the sorrow that was following you since you were young, playing the role of your knight in shinning armor.

"I can't believe you don't actually do this" you said once, sniffling your nose with a handkerchief he gave you as he examined you with a warm gaze, an empathetic grin on his face. "You're really helping me"

Jonathan was quick to wave his hand and tell you that it wasn't a big deal, that he was just doing his job, and if you weren't so innocent, so stupid, you would have noticed the mischievous sparkle that flickered in his eyes for a split second.

You were landing right in the palm of his hand.

Not even thirty minutes into the first session you told him everything about your past; every little thing you thought he needed to know to treat you. And you were slightly right; he did need to know those things, but not to treat you, just to manipulate you and mold your little brain into what he was envisioning for you and your future together.

Truth was, you hated everything about your life, regardless of the fact that you had everything. That's what you've been told since you were a child; a big house, a lot of money, maids taking care of you so you wouldn't have to move a finger and just sit pretty and relax inside the walls of the huge mansion that confined you since you could recall.

You have everything. That was bullshit.

Sometimes, you couldn't help but think that people told you that out of pity, like they knew how miserable you felt, but not daring to say a word about it. Your dad was a powerful man, and you were aware of that, ever since you were born, he had bussines with Falcone and you knew that people feared him, he practically ruled Gotham, that lifeless and dangerous city that you had to live in.

You have everything. You were tired of that sentence. You didn't care at all about these nice things surrounding you, those dresses in your closet, those diamonds in your jeweler, that fancy car you owned since your eighteenth birthday, no, that was useless in your eyes, because all you really wanted, was love.

It was a lonely life; you learned how to do everything by yourself, how to comb your hair, how to deal with your period when it first came, how to dress up properly and do your makeup. You didn't even had to learn about boy problems because there weren't any boys in your life, you were homeschooled. So you were quiet, not really having to talk at all, there was nobody to talk to.

And since Jonathan was the only person you were talking to at the moment, you started to feel like you loved him, the idea sitting right with you without you even knowing it, thinking that this was how therapy normally went.

Loneliness striked your life at a young age; your mother died from a strange disease when you were eight, leaving you with a shattered heart thad bled everytime you walked past her bedroom, or saw a picture of her. You practically watched her die, a witness of how she lost her strength, how her once beautiful skin turned pale and yellow, and lost every little spark within herself, and the worst part was that all the money you had, couldn't even help her.

It was a deep wound that you carried with yourself, with nobody to talk about it.

Your father spent his days locked up in his office, and when he wasn't there, he was out in the city doing unthinkable things that you didn't even wanted to know about, leaving you on your own, having to fill all of those silent and empty rooms by yourself, with nobody to laugh with, nobody to hold you and see you grow. He wasn't really around, working all the time, too busy to know that his daughter didn't seem to care about all the expensive stuff he bought for her, not even taking the time to have dinner with you or hold a simple conversation. He loved you, you knew that, he just wasn't the type to show his affection with words or actions, but with gifts. And you hated everything about it.

But now, Jonathan was there, making you feel listened, finally saving you from falling into loneliness again. Your whole life, you thought you had a horrible sickness, that you were doomed to this awful destiny of sorrow and silence, but now, with his sweet words and good company, you couldn't be more than relieved.

You wished sometimes that you met him earlier, that this whole therapy stuff started before, and you even confessed it to him. And it irked him a little, that you didn't even remember how you two really met each other, hiding his annoyance with a warm smile.

Some months ago, your father started to brought you to parties he attended, parties were all the corrupts scumbags from Gotham reunited and celebrated how they were dragging the city to the gates of hell on their benefit, and you couldn't be more happy to attend them. You knew he was bringing you because he recently broke up with the young girl he carried with him— that was most likely your age, and needed a pretty thing to hang of his arm and take care of the people he didn't feel like talking to.

So you accepted this new life, eating up this role of socialite like it was made for you.

It was a chance to know people, to speak and make new friends, but you learned quickly that those people weren't there for that, and picked up on how mostly of the people who talked to you just wanted to climb up the social ladder and gain some extra points from your father.

He, even, introduced you to a couple of people that seemed close to your age, and you chatted with them, feeling extremely anxious because you weren't used to this, so it was weird to them seeing such a pretty woman, with your status and fortune, acting so shy and quiet in a place that your dad practically owned.

After a couple of hours, you learned the agenda. All you had to do was put on a fake smile, get them off your father's shoulders and pretend you were very interested in what they had to say, hiding your uncomfortable expression behind your glass of champagne, promising them that you would arrange a reunion with your father someday.

One of those nights, your father introduced you to someone, someone who you didn't pay much attention because he seemed to be uninterested too, only being there for the sake of his job.

"Pretty girl, come here" your father said, a cheerful tone of voice as grabbed you by the shoulder to get your attention, snapping you out of your train of thoughts. "I want you to meet my friend, Doctor Crane"

You looked at the man in front of your dad, his pale blue eyes already sizing you up discretely, looking at you up and down in a way that didn't go unnoticed by you, a shiver running down your spine as his eyes finally locked with yours.

You couldn't help but feel small under his gaze, your glass now forgotten in your left hand, the right one extended to take his and stretch it for a quick second, returning to your first position, his expression remaining serious.

"Nice to meet you" he spoke, his voice sounding like velvet in your eyes, not quite sensing the undertone behind it. "Your father told me wonders about you"

You grin, the irony of that sentence making you laugh a little, what wonders could your father know about you? But you kept your composure, the conversation not going any further, and you forgot about him fast enough, when in another of those annoying parties you met the love of your life — or so you thought.

That same night, when you went back home, you were thinking about spending the rest of your life with some guy that flirted with you at the bar, and Jonathan, prayed to whatever thing listening to him up there, that crossed your path with his again.

He practically obsessed with you, because it felt right. You were young, beautiful, wealthy and had a last name that could open even more doors for him, getting tired of saving Falcone's man of going to jail; you were an opportunity, tied to a nice pair of legs.

After a few weeks of stalking, it kinda broke his heart that naive as he expected you, you got married to the guy from the party; he told you then his name was Lewis, and now you doubted it that was even true.

You were finally going to get what you always wished for, a family, love. And it was perfect. Everything was perfect.

It was a dream that you were living in. A dream that shattered in front of you no longer than three months after.

After you contracted married with this man, you took care of the house, now learning all of these housewife duties that you didn't know anything about, but making your best effort to please him, to be the perfect woman ever created, departing from your old life and habits and adjusting them to his own.

You couldn't be more happy, regardless of your bad cooking, the bad-swiped floor and the half-done bed that welcomed you both every night, you finally had love.

It lasted three months. Your wholesome real life fantasy of a marriage destroyed when you found out, accidentally, that this man was just an employee of your dad, willing to get a promotion if he married you. At that moment, you didn't know who you hated more, if the bastard, or your dad who was literally bribing the bastard to love you.

But your dad only wanted to make you happy, tho.

You were embarrassed, not quite sure of how to tell this to Jonathan, because after all, he was there for you, just for the money your dad was paying him. Your cursed the day your dad became rich, because all of it was making you miserable and it felt like it wasn't going to stop.

At this point, a feeling of despite against you was growing within Jonathan, after a few weeks treating you, he quickly remembered why he didn’t chose this path of career, but remembering that he was there because of a major reason; a reason more important than your helpless cries for attention.

He was sick of you, all you ever did was complain in the commodity of your million dollar house, unaware that there were more important problems in the world. It isn’t completely your fault, Jonathan thought one day, you were just an ungrateful brat, and his work was to tame you, and he planned to do just that today.

"So," he startled you, narrowing his eyebrows, an expression in his face that you could only understand as concern. "remember, if you don't speak, I can't help you".

You chuckle and shift your weight in the chair, immediately feeling your eyes fill up with tears as you confronted the fact that you had to speak about it, right now. He was quick to offer you his handkerchief, as he always did and with shaky hands you took it, sniffling onto it, closing your eyes as you felt your whole body shake with each one of your cries.

You felt Jonathan put his hand on your knee, softy caressing the skin that his thumb could reach, opening your eyes and looking at his, Jonathan welcoming you with a pitying look. You put the tissue aside, both him being so close and his scent impregnated on the piece of fabric making you feel a little giddy, a little confused.

Why was your heart racing so much? He was your therapist, here to talk about your former husband.

Jonathan couldn't help but grin a little, knowing he was maybe breaking a rule here, touching you like this, being so close. He couldn't care less, after all, he wasn't here listening to you cry and bitch about your whole life for the sake of your well-being. He was here because he wanted you to break and get on your knees to him. Figuratively and literally.

"It's so embarrassing" you struggled to spit out "He didn't even love me, Doctor"

He hummed, dragging his chair so he was a little closer to you, you looked at him through your teary lashes and tried to keep it together, this wasn't the first time you cried in front of him, but the reason itself was enough to make you feel full of shame.

He didn't say anything, this being a motivation for you to continue.

"My dad was paying him" you murmured, cleaning the mascara off your cheeks. "It was all a lie"

The whole situation was absurd, what happened to you still felt like a sick joke they were playing on you, your dad and Lewis, probably waiting for the perfect moment to tell you the truth.

But that wasn't going to happen, right now the only thing that felt true to you was Jonathan. He set you up to that, and you blindly fell on his silly trap.

"Poor thing" he cooed you, moving his hand a little further up your thigh, noticing the goosebumps on your skin. A mastermind, that's how he felt. "How could they?"

That was all the mendacity he fed you with since you started seeing him, making you believe he was actually empathizing with you, full of loathe against everyone who hurt you, who dared to leave you alone, but now he was there, his task being to pretend to care.

"It's pathetic" you blurted out, leaning into his touch when his prying hand went up to your cheek. You really couldn't say anything more, crying against his hand like it was something you did every monday morning. "I'm so sad. I don't know what to do"

He shook his face, your eyes meeting his with a confused expression, black stained tears dropping on your lap and wetting his hand before he returned it and looked over his clipboard, pretending to think.

You were so vulnerable, ready for him to destroy. He finally got you where he wanted. He then explained you that you were so sad that it made you unaware of a lot of things, blinded by your own pity against yourself that every door that opened, you closed. It all came down to a thing; you needed a diagnosis.

He gave you a moment to process the information, ready to continue with his plan.

"Actually," he started, his tone now more firm, more strict, the one he used when you were approaching the end of the session. On the last one, he recommended you to touch yourself, to liberate oxytocin on your brain or something you really didn't understood.

It was almost evil from his side, he knew that your only thought while doing it would he him ordering you to do so.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of such awful news, Y/N" he stated, making your heart skip a beat. "But I think you're sick"

You nearly gasped, the air got stuck in your throat, more tears gathering in your eyes. You lifted one of your hands to your chest, a million thoughts crossing your head as Jonathan's clever eyes examined your expression.

Bingo.

"Sick" you repeated after a moment, almost like you were making peace with the revelation. "How sick?"

It was an innocent question, your tone of voice shaking as your inferior lip trembled, holding it with your teeth in an attempt to not burst into tears again, your whole body feeling like it was going to break into a million peaces by how much you were shaking in the couch.

Jonathan was quick, standing from the chair he was on and taking a seat by your side, his hand swiftly placing in your knee. You looked at him confused, he never got this close, maybe your sickness was serious.

"What am I, Doctor?" you whispered, your eyes showing him a hint of fear that made him finally lose all his faked professionalism. "Depressed? Crazy?"

Both of you were dying of anticipation now; meanwhile you feared that you were going to get admitted to Arkham, Jonathan was seeing the golden ticket to the best future he could ever achieve, and all thanks to you.

"Oh, no, no" he purred, his hand making its way up to your thigh. "You're sick, not crazy"

You parted your lips as his hand moved more further, not really sure of what was happening, not daring to stop him, too scared of your mental health to think about anything else, not helping the way your legs started to part too.

A sudden gasp left your lips as his hand squeezed your tight, a smile you never saw on him appearing on his face. The crying stopped a moment ago, the surprise of having him so close making you go a little numb.

"I know what a girl like you needs" he said, almost sternly, like his hand wasn't centimeters away from your panties.

Was in that moment, that you knew this wasn’t about therapy anymore.

"You think so?" you whispered, your voice still shaky, but now for a whole different reason. "And what is it, Doctor?"

"To be fucked stupid"

It almost shocked you how he said that as it was a normal diagnosis, like he gave you a name of a medicine you could go and buy at any drugstore in town. You gulped and didn't move when his grip tightened on your leg, your face growing red.

A loud gasp escaped your lips when at your lack of response, Jonathan grabbed you hard by the jaw and forced you to look at him. Your eyes glistened with nothing but fear, your brows narrowing as you mumbled something that he really couldn't understand, and it wasn't like he wanted to.

"You're sick, Y/N" he repeated, more harshly this time, his hand moving your head as he spoke. "And I'm going to cure you"

He let go of your face to clasp his lips against yours, a kiss very far away from sweet, his mouth moving roughly against yours. You never had been kissed like this, so you tried to play it along, trying to show him some of the love you felt for him, that you thought you owed him.

But he didn't care if you felt loved during the kiss, trying to assert the dominance he held upon you, his hand now holding firmly the back of you neck to prevent you from pulling away.

It was a mess; your teeth clashed, drool was dripping from your chin as his tongue explored every space of your mouth, not leaving anywhere of it untouched. Your movements were a little stiff, unsure of what to do, trying to provide the sweetness that he lacked.

His hand moved to your the front of your neck and squeezed it a little, making you yelp in surprise, the sound muffled by his mouth. You tried to get away from the kiss, confused about his rough actions against you, a little scared of him even, almost like you didn’t trust him every little part of your brain in this same couch for the last couple of months.

But then it clicked on your foggy brain, he knew you, perfectly— you only knew his name, you didn’t know what this man was capable of.

You could only move a few centimeters away from his hungry mouth, your lips parted as tears welled in your eyes from the pressure he was applying to your neck.

“Stop” you managed to stutter, your breath mixing with his. “I can’t- breathe”

You doubted that he listened to you, your voice not coming out of your throat at all and getting stuck in your larynx, your voice-box completely muffled by his strong grip.

“Shut up, brat” he spitted, his tone sounding full of abhor, your eyes wide open as you felt the air leaving your body and your lungs starting to burn. “Always getting what you want”

You weakly placed one of your hands around his wrist, another attempt of gasp elicited from your agape mouth as he lifted his other hand and choked you with both, something in your dizzy mind telling you that he was possessed.

“Crying all the time- complaining” he continued, not caring if you were listening, the suffocation being to much to bare now. “So selfish”

And maybe he was.

Your brain was filled with fear, wondering how it all went from a kiss to this— almost getting killed by your therapist in your couch. You opened your eyes to meet his, feeling like your chest was on fire as there wasn’t any air flowing in, seeing how the blue of Jonathan’s eyes has darkened and his lips were parted as well, the muscles of his jaw twitching as he choked you to death.

Your eyebrows narrowed together in terror as you noticed that familiar tingly sensation in your lower belly and your thighs clenching together. Maybe it was something about him exercising this power over you, how you felt so feeble under his touch, that was probably leaving bruises on your neck for you to carry and show around what he was making you do it.

You didn’t have enough time to think about it, you were practically dying.

“And you are enjoying this?” he said with an amused tone, probably noticing how your thighs fragily contracted against one another.

You felt yourself slowly lose your consciousness when finally the relief came and the air started to flow again to your desperate lungs, taking long and loud puffs of air when his hand let go of your neck. Your erratic breath was interrupted by a loud moan that escaped you when Crane yanked you by your hair and shoved you to the floor.

He was quick yo position you between his legs, looking at you through his unfixed glasses, giving you a twisted smile that made you quiver in fear, that growing wet patch on your panties making you feel like a really sick girl.

“Doctor-” you mumbled, closing your eyes as he pulled your hair, withdrawing a mewl off your mouth. “Hurts”

“You talk when I tell you to talk” he snickered, adjusting the way his fingers gripped your hair. You thought that he might just pull out the strand he was tugging. “I’m sick of your whining”

You felt more tears well up in your eyes; not sure if it was from the pain in your head or how his words felt like a knife that landed right on your heart. You were confused, sad, angry— a little hot, too.

“I pay you yo listen to me” you said, your voice so shaky you were lucky he could understand you. You wished he didn’t understand you.

Another sort of moan left your lips as a hard slap made a landing in your cheek, your face turned to the side because of the impact. You closed your eyes in disbelief, a cry coming out as you felt helpless, wondering if this was some exposure therapy he was experimenting on you.

He repeated himself, instructing you to talk only when you were told so, nodding in defeat as you accepted whatever this was and continued to play along with Jonathan’s sick fantasy of controlling you, without even knowing it.

You looked at him with nothing but inquietude, the look in his eyes giving you the foreboding that nothing good was about to happen now, frightened of what we would do to you.

He didn’t show any hints of letting go of your hair anytime soon, just holding it firmly to keep you looking at him through your heavy lashes, a wicked grin on his smug face.

“Let’s give that whining mouth of yours a good use” he said, and you gulped, understanding what he wanted and quivering in fear, not really understanding why the sticky sensation between your legs grew.

“Undo my pants” he commanded, and you stayed still, your eyes not leaving his even when another slap landed on your tear-wet face. “Do as you’re told, brat. This might be your only cure”

You couldn’t help but sob a little, his tone sounding so definitive, so professional. Your trembling hands reached his belt and unbuckling it ungracefully, taking longer than he expected, you heard him chuckle as you unbuttoned his pants afterwards, then putting your hands back in front of your lap.

“C’mon” he pulled your hair again, causing you to moan in pain. “Don’t make me tell you what to do”

You looked at him again in nothing but shame, trying to resist to this humiliating request of his, but complying it anyways. He said he was going to cure you, but now you doubted it, right now, you only wanted this to be over.

With a last look at his eyes you returned your attention to the growing bulge in his slacks, the shame in your brain being present at all times, not quite helping the way your eyes were fixated on his clothed member. You were quick to free him out after your staring earned you a other harsh pull of hair, your lips turned into a line when his cock slapped his abdomen, causing his dress shirt to wrinkle a little.

“Go on, Y/N” he encouraged you, as you looked at him with pleading eyes, silently begging him for mercy, knowing that even if you screamed it at him, he just wouldn’t listen. “This isn’t about what you want, anymore. Is about what you need”

A tear slid from your eyes and disappeared down your cheek when his free hand placed the tip of his hard cock on your parted lips, gesturing you to take it and not waste more of his time— more than you already did.

“Open up, whore” he said under his breath, using your hair as a device to move your head and help you shove his length down your throat. You complied, the tears in your eyes now soaking in you cheeks by the effort that you were making trying to welcome his thick shaft down your mouth.

You were sure you scratched him with your teeth a few times as he bobbed your head up and down with his strong hand, manhandling you without care for his own pleasure. You placed your hands on his knees, trying not to gag, but when his tip touched the bottom of your throat, you couldn’t help it.

You cried as you felt suffocated again, now for a whole different reason, a more humiliating one, and you almost wished he killed you then. His hips buckled everytime your lips reached the base of his cock, the room filled with the sounds of your mouth and saliva coating his shaft and the soft moans that came out of his poisoned lips.

“Take it, whore” he said, his voice now husky and distorted by the pleasure, the pain that your teeth accidentally inflicted on him turning him even more. “God- you are horrible at this”

He chuckled between heavy breaths, pulling you by the hair and releasing his cock from your mouth, a vulgar pop filling both of your ears at the sudden separation of your lips and his member. Your eyes looked at the floor, feeling such a shame that the mere thought of meeting his face with your fearful face made you cringe, the pulsating pain on the back of your head making you dizzy.

“You can’t suck dick properly” he said, his tone sounding like he was making fun of you. “No wonder why your husband left you. You’re just pathetic”

You finally rose up your face to look at that insufferable smile of his, ignoring the way his cock was still hanging there in front of you, almost brushing your nose. His fingers finally untangled from your hair and giving you some sort of solace, the consolation that this traumatic session was over.

Maybe the remedy was worse than the sickness itself.

“Jonathan, stop it, plea-”

Your imploration was completely ignored, followed by another slap on your wet cheek that made you cry even more, not understanding how this man could’ve been the same one who made you felt loved and finally listened. You fell for a lie once again.

“Get on the couch” he simply said, his words were like a bucket of cold water fell on you. “Stop the bitching, don’t want to hear it”

“And I’m your doctor. Not Jonathan” he reminded you, making you feel even more ashamed.

You did as he told, again, half-standing from the floor and sitting next to him, trying to take as much space from him as you could before he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you closer, your face growing red as his face was now centimeters away from yours.

“You look so beautiful when you cry” he whispered, caressing your face but trying to nor wipe the tears away, almost like he was admiring you. It made you melt into his touch, glad that his kind demeanor was there again. Even if his words made you cringe— and the fact that his cock was still out, you felt your heart grew warmer by the way he tenderly touched you.

It didn’t last much longer, when his lips twitched into a malicious smile and went down to nibble your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses around the bruised skin and bitting where his fingers hurt you previously, making your fingers wrap on his hair and cry for mercy, trying for him to stop hurting you this much.

“Shut up, stupid brat” he repeated that same insult, making you swallow your cries, closing your eyes in disbelief as he continued to injure your already suffering skin.

You arched your back in surprise when all of the sudden his hands reached for your breasts, groping your tits like his life depending on it, stimulating you through the fabric of your shirt, but all you felt was fear and anger, impotence flowing through your veins because you just couldn’t scream and push him away, fear was freezing you on the spot.

The worst part? You maybe didn’t wanted to push him away. Because maybe if he gets what he wants now you would be cured and he’ll be back to normal, returning you the sweet Doctor Crane that you met once, not this monster that was groping you like a piece of meat.

He clicked his tongue and dropped both of his hands to spread your legs open, forcing your back to drop onto the hand rester of the couch. You looked at him with big eyes, your heart felt like it was going to jump out of your chest and scream to Jonathan that enough was enough, you just couldn’t take any of this anymore.

But your heart stayed there, between your lungs that seemed incapable to hold any air, making your breathing erratic. So nobody screamed Jonathan to stop, and he continued with his profanation against your persona— your dignity.

He bit his lip at the sight of your fucked-up face, your legs open as it showed him the dark patch on your baby blue panties, darting his eyes from your half-exposed crotch to your teary eyes.

“God, keep crying and I might come now” he growled, lowering his face to meet your pussy, kissing it through your underwear, making you mewl, closing your eyes at the sudden attention your core was getting.

You felt embarrassed at how much you enjoyed when he moved the fabric to the side and started making out with your cunt, swallowing your fluids like a starved man.

“So wet” he mumbled against your labia, the vibration making your eyes roll back, bitting your lip to prevent any moan to come out; he was raping you, why did he make you enjoy it? “I bet you like this, to be treated like a whore”

You shook your head, more tears falling out of your eyes as you felt nothing else but humiliation, pleasure washing over your body everytime his tongue brushed your clit, your back arched against nothing.

“You like it?” he said, finally pulling out and pushing his body up so his face was in front of yours, his cock grazing against your now stimulated pussy, a gasp leaving your lips, a gasp that quickly turned into a hurting moan when his hand slapped you again, this time in your throbbing cunt. “Answer me”

“I- I do” you whispered, gripping his shoulders when you felt him align the head of his member with your whole, scared of how it was going to fit. You had trouble taking it when he face-fucked you, how the fuck it was going to fit down there?

“I’m going to fuck you so good” he whispered between pants, jerking himself off before entering you. “You’re going to forget that pathetic husband of yours”

You couldn’t help but cry, trying to push him off by the shoulders, a terrified look on your face. “It won’t fit, Doctor” you pleaded, a crooked grin on his face as you keep on calling him that. “I beg you, don’t-”

“Yes, beg me” he said, starting to push his member inside you with a slow but relentlessly pace, not giving you enough time to adjust, just to scream and hit him weakly on the chest, face and shoulders before ge grabbed your hands and pinned them down, on the sides of your body. “I’m going to cure you- do you so good”

His voice was low, as he barely could speak when he felt just how tight you were, your walls hugging his cock just the right way, his pulsating head making your mind dizzy, the stinging pain starting to be forgotten.

But when he slid out and entered back it, the hardness of his movement made your insides burn with pain, a loud cry echoing in the walls of the living room as he started to trust into your pussy with a fast pace, not caring at all if you felt good.

He snapped his hips against yours with an animalistic force, growls escaped from his mouth every time his cock was welcomed by the warmth of your stretch whole, the sensation making him go even more feral, making you cry more.

He let go of one of your hands and grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at his eyes as he fucked you vigorously, the blue on his iris not existent anymore, only his widely dilated pupils meeting yours, your blurred vision distinguishing the depraved expression in his face.

“You- so tight” he snarled, his voice barely audible, covered by the sound of skin slapping and your loud cries. “I bet your stupid husband didn’t fuck you like this”

You felt nothing but shame as you felt his cock now sliding in and out more easily, the wetness of your cunt growing as he spoke to you like that, that familiar heat flourishing in your lower belly as his words degraded you, your cries quickly becoming moans.

“This was all you needed- fuck” he said, his spit splashing your face as he talked, his words full of disdain. “A good dick, that’s all it takes to keep bitches like you quiet” You nodded, thinking that if you agreed he would stop. How wrong you were.

In a quick movement Jonathan took his cock out and spun you around, not giving you time to get on your ass up by laying your chest down before he stabbed your hole again, pushing your skirt all the way up to see how his pelvis came into collision with your ass.

You were moaning like a bitch in heat now, sure that the maids were listening, not really caring about it anymore. Jonathan was fucking you nice and hard, your mouth wide open as his tip brushed your cervix, screaming to him to keep it right there.

“I’m close” he said, pulling your hair back to press his chest to your back, his other hand going down to play with your swollen clit, wanting your to come around his cock like the slut he knew you were. “Come with me, you whore”

“Yes” you moaned, your tongue out as his cock hit the right spots, making your hips to move against his, grinding against his hand and dick, feeling your wetness drip down to your thighs. “Yes, yes, I want to”

He laughed, approaching your ear with his tongue to bite it, leaving a long and wet kiss underneath it that made you grow hotter, your eyes closed as you let him use you; the only thought in your mind being him and his wonder-working cock.

Truth was, he was fucking you stiffly, every slam of his hips stronger than the last one, but you were so deprived of touch, so dick-starved, that even if Jonathan was fucking you like a lifeless doll, only for the sake of his pleasure, you loved it, even when it hurt you.

“I’m going to fill you up” he said against your ear, his hand leaving your clit unattended as he grabbed your hip to increase the velocity of his thrusts, ramming your hole like a demented man, making your head drop against his shoulder and scream at the ceiling, now knowing what he meant by curing you.

“Going to get you pregnant” he said, more to himself than anything “so you don’t have to bitch about being alone anymore”

You opened your eyes with terror, you didn’t want children, you were so young. The idea made you frightened, the moaning now sounding like little nos and pull outs, but Jonathan didn’t listen.

“Doctor please, please, pull out” you pleaded, reaching for his hips and trying to push him away, one of his hands slapping your ass and pulling you down by your shoulder blade so you wouldn’t fight anymore. “Doctor Crane please”

“I will fucking fill you up, Y/N” he chanted, laughing at the idea of your round belly and your swollen tits, carrying his baby all day and feeling all worked up and needy all day, only waiting for him to fuck you all day. “You won’t be alone again. You won’t be sad again”

Then you realized it.

When he came, your hot walls creamed every single drop of his cum, making his thrusts sloppy and slow, his moans filling your ears as you sobbed under his touch, feeling his seed paint your walls and load your insides with his sperm.

That was your cure.

His hot release that now flooded inside your leaking cunt, that was your so-promised antidote. He took away your solitude by giving you his and yours firstborn, a bastard baby that would give you the company that you lacked.

You felt him chuckle as he rode out his high, the chase of his own climax made you forget yours, so now there you were, your swollen cunt looking for its release while his rested among your insides calmly, like it was meant to be.

He didn’t pull out immediately, taking his time to appreciate the sight of your skirt resting in your hips all rolled up, your bruised neck and messy hair, the way your ass was exposed to him by the way he had you arching your back. All for him— for him to wreck.

He pulled out and rolled his eyes when you started crying, now being annoying instead of hot. You sat on the couch and saw him button his pants and fix his hair, hissing when you felt nothing but pain growing in your worn-out pussy. You explained through your weak voice how he ruined your life, that he was the worst person you’ve ever met and that now you had to carry the product of his sick and twisted rapist-fantasy, even tried to hit him, but your pathetic tantrum only gained you another slap in the face, and a stern look.

When he tried to stand up and leave, you grabbed him by the wrist and begged him not to, he couldn’t just leave you, not now, not ever.

“Don’t be so ungrateful” he said, a smile that made you feel nothing but trepidation in his face. “You’ll never be alone again”

You couldn’t help but feel scared. Scared of him, of what just happened, of what’s going to happen next, scared for your future son with this evil specie of a man.

When you continued to cry, and he pulled you for a hug as he assured you that he would never leave you; and how could he? He had a long life of success waiting for him now, giving a girl of your status his last name, his children. Oh, it’s going to be wonderful, he just needed to tame you and make you the perfect slave for him, and that wasn’t going to be hard.

You were sure that you’ll never be loved, but at least now Jonathan was going to be with you. You’ll never be alone again.

thanks for reading. w/love, fenina;)

taglist: @lovesickxcherries @genini @ilunapb @ostricx @devotedlyshadowytheorist

if you want to be added let me know, it’ll be my pleasure🫶🏻

[godhasatenderheart]

I implore you gently to read your Bible today. If you’ve never read the Bible before, you can start with the first four books of the New Testament. These are called the gospels. They teach you about who Jesus was, what He did, and what He said. I think you will be pleasantly surprised and how much you agree with Him. God is not what you’ve been told He is! He is on your side and loves you deeply.

You can also read the Psalms. These are songs written primarily to or about God by David, an ancient king. They’re quick and easy and really useful when you’re feeling strong emotions. David is often depressed, despairing, and angry in these songs. But you get to see the journey through David’s relationship with God between each psalm. I think you will find these relatable. There are so many of them that have comforted me while I was in a terrible mental state. There are many joyful ones too.

If you need some help, message me. God bless you. 🩷

[iliiuan]

I have more thoughts about stilling as disability, and the narrative surrounding stilling.

Stilling as disability is so on point. The person is no longer able to do a task they were previously able to do. They are ostracized by their peers. They often sink into depression.

In the books, we get to explore the experience of stilling with four characters: Logain, Siuan, Leane, and Setalle. Each character handles their disability differently. Logain falls into deep depression and his only motivation to keep going is basically revenge. Siuan has a somewhat similar motivation, although her revenge is much more complex. Leane chooses to embrace her life, to become the woman she would have been if she hadn't become Aes Sedai. Setalle moves away, marries, opens an inn, and works to help women kicked out of the White Tower. Each finds new life after stilling, the women a little more easily than the men (an effect of the taint?).

How do these narratives align with narratives and realities of disability in the real world?

The ostracization is perfect. People are very quick to drop a friend who suddenly requires considerably more effort to spend time with, and who is possibly unable to reciprocate favors, who has almost no money, and who is probably really negative about life. In the books, it's very much presented as the stilled woman being a reminder of what could happen, and no one wants to be around that. Which does also happen with disabled people, especially those with physical deformity. The Aes Sedai take it one step further, though, and pretend that they are ostracizing the woman for her own benefit, to prevent her from feeling the loss that she experienced. I find all of the book narrative of the social response to stilling to absolutely reflect the social response to disability in the real world. Ostracization as "protection" is less common, but it does happen.

Next, we have depression. This is so incredibly accurate to the experience of becoming disabled. I can't speak as well to the experience of congenital disability, but I imagine that they also frequently mourn what could have been. But it's not just the loss of ability that's driving the depression, is it? It's also the loss of social network, standing, and power. Being helpless is depressing. Being socially isolated is hell. The Aes Sedai have another layer to their depression, though: The loss of power and Power. Moving from being one of the most powerful people in the world, someone even kings and queens give deference to, to being just another ordinary person — that stings. To lose contact with a source of Power regularly referred to as something akin to the Sun — that's devastating. The book narrative surrounding depression as a response to becoming disabled is absolutely accurate.

Now let's look at the individual responses of our four stilled characters, what they say about each of them, and what we can about how the narrative handles disability.

Logain has the double disability whammy of being affected by the taint on saidin, and then being stilled. His sanity is suspect from the beginning, but for all appearances, he seems to stay sane throughout the series. The depth and timing of taint-induced insanity is quite random, which is very true of many debilitating illnesses. (Schizophrenia is a pretty analogous illness in that its usual onset is in a person's early 20s, but can manifest across a great range of ages.) When he is stilled, Logain is also pulled from a seat of power. As False Dragon, he had amassed an army and was actively conquering new territory. His decline is 100% in line with someone who has been removed from power and Power, who has a minor identity crisis in accepting that he is not the Dragon Reborn, and who has been removed from his entire social support network to be watched by a bunch of Accepted who would rather do almost anything else. He is having a Very Bad Time. So when Min, Siuan, and Leane pick him up, he is quite understandably hitting rock bottom.

The three of them fight tooth and nail to keep him alive, keep him motivated, and keep him going. Layered with their determination is Min's viewing that he is destined for greatness. Even though his destiny is written, they still have to do the work in the moment that keeps him alive. They choose to shelter and protect him, in part out of fear of what he might do left to his own devices, in part out of compassion for a fellow human being who is Going Through It, and in part out of the habit of believing that he is their responsibility. The disabled banding together to take care of each other is a powerful narrative. It is sad that the world throws us away, but our worth as human beings cannot be so easily destroyed. We bring value and strength to each other, and are able to move forward all the same.

Siuan, very similarly to Logain, is removed from a seat of power, as well as being stilled. She does not have the shadow of the taint to contend with, and her identity is rock solid. She has her mission, which has been her whole world for nearly 20 years, and she simply decides that it will continue to be her whole world. She makes strategic decisions based on long-term plans. She is changed, but also remains the same. In Siuan we see how disability creates difficulties and obstacles that can be overcome. This particular disability narrative is toxic by itself, and yet also a needed narrative within the broader discussion of how disability affects people. It does not serve anyone to pretend that disability is always devastating, never surmountable, always so absolute that there is no escape. So if Siuan's story was the only disability narrative in the books, I would call it inspiration porn. Thankfully, it is not the only narrative. Rand al'Thor has terminal illness that he can't escape. Min has chronic illness that causes her constant problems, and limits her participation in the world. The male channelers have madness that can strike at any time. Within the Wheel of Time, we have a great diversity in disability representation, which places Siuan's arc in the position of true inspiration, not a toxic narrative of applauding ability in the face of disability.

Leane, while occupying a seat of power, was a support power rather than a principle power, and therefore does not have as much difficulty in accepting her lowered position. She does have a new perspective on her identity, though, and actively chooses to embrace who she was before she entered the White Tower. For her, letting Leane the Keeper of the Chronicles go is what allows her to continue forward. She displays a much greater flexibility with her identity than either Logain or Siuan, and more successfully moves into being a new person. She is still a follower at heart, and continues to support Siuan, but it is out of loyalty to Siuan-the-person, not because she has any illusion of regaining political power.

Some people deride Leane for chasing men as a way to deal with her stilling, but they have overlooked some key aspects of who she is. This is a woman who openly flirted with Perrin in The Great Hunt. She is Domani, for whom flirtation is a social construct used to gain and maintain power. I feel like a lot of her critics are prudes who don't want to admit so. Domani flirting is to suggest, to entice, and to leave satisfied even though everyone stayed dressed and sat apart. It is an artform, and she chooses to re-embrace it now that she is no longer tied to the Tower concepts of sexual frigidity masquerading as professionalism.

Leane's response to disability, then, is to embrace something that her ability had taken from her. Many newly disabled people indeed find that they cannot do much standing, but they suddenly have time for fiber arts that they can do while lounging. Or they are physically incapacitated, but now have time to read and think and learn. Similarly to the narrative surrounding Siuan's stilling, Leane's storyline would be disappointing if it was the only disability story in the series. In contrast, however, I cannot think of a single character who was so disabled that they could not do anything productive. I could make excuses for this, such as reading a story about someone who can't do stuff would be boring, or that the world lacked resources to deal with that level of disability, but it falls a little flat for a series as long and complex as The Wheel of Time.

Finally, we have Setalle. Now Setalle is different in that she burned out while interacting with ter'angreal. She was not in a seat of power, but burning out removed not only her Power and social network, but also her life's labor. She could no longer do the work she loved. I've watched quite a lot of Dancing with the Stars, and one of the judges, Len Goodman, can no longer dance. He has been cut off from doing what he loves by a body that betrayed him. He can still function in the world; indeed, he still participates in dance as choreographer, teacher, and judge, but he cannot dance. This is Setalle's experience, without even the peripheral participation. She must find something else to do. When we meet her, she has already worked through her grief, found new motivation for life, and built a business and family. She shows that the Tower is not telling the entire truth about stilling, that life without Power is possible, and that the true reason they kick people out is so that they themselves don't feel discomfort.

Setalle's narrative is so spot on for how most people respond to disabled people. They don't want to associate, because they don't want to remember that they are only human, that disability comes for us all eventually. Her story also highlights the lies we tell about disabled people, as an excuse to not provide accommodations, to brush them into a care home and give up on them.

We as a society create categories of people who we've decided can never be part of society: people with Down Syndrome, Autism, and Schizophrenia, to name some of the better known. While there absolutely exist members in each of these groups who cannot function without 24-hour intensive care, there are many more members who can actually participate fully in society. Such participation requires regular society to make some concessions, however, and people are generally unwilling to do so. An adult having a panic attack and therefore removing themselves from the source of panic? Cringe. What's wrong with them? Someone who talks to imaginary friends? Or who is spaced out most of the time? Creepy. Someone who misunderstands instructions, or often forgets things? What a hassle to deal with. Why should I be the one to bother? We are very unkind to those who do not have what we consider a baseline skill level for dealing with life. But we also didn't even try to bring many people up to their full functioning level. Occupational therapy has changed things for very much the better on that front, though I think we still have a long way to go.

We find ourselves now deep in the mire of disability vs ability. Is a disabled person only valuable with respect to what they are able to do? Is a person not worthy of life and love if they are completely incapacitated and dependent on others? On the other side, should we ignore a person's potential just because they will never acquire certain skills or abilities? How do we find the balance between supporting a person so that they can fulfill their potential as human beings, and providing for them because they cannot do things? The conversation rages, and I do not care to provide answers here. I simply wish to acknowledge that finding that balance is not straightforward, and will be different for each person.

The narrative in The Wheel of Time focuses solely on people who do have ability, whose disability is an obstacle that can be surmounted. I do think it's fair to criticize the story for lack of total disability, but not harshly. The story is about what it is about. Other stories address complete incapacitation. (Please, please read Vorkosigan Saga for a broader perspective on disability and inherent worth.)

With respect to stilling in particular, the story also provides a cure. What's interesting about the cure is that it does not restore the patient to full capacity if performed with the same half of the True Source. So, a saidar user cured with saidar will not be as Powerful as she was before stilling, whereas a saidin user cured with saidar will return to his original strength.

The Cure is always floating in front of the disabled person. If only I could get the Cure, my life would be great again. Which is not entirely true, and the narrative of the cure for stilling does an excellent job of demonstrating this reality.

Logain, when cured, has his full strength, but he also is re-exposed to the taint, and the countdown on his madness restarts. What's more, he is now seen as a danger to the people who have been caring for him, and transitions from being a free-roaming prisoner to being watched and guarded non-stop. The cure did not, in fact, fix his life. He still has to work through the problems at hand. He is not returned directly to his former glory.

Siuan, when cured, is far weaker in the One Power than she was before. Because of the way Aes Sedai rank themselves, she finds herself at the bottom, required to follow. She is stubborn and manipulative, though, and finds a way to maintain her power through Egwene. It's horribly corrupt and delightful to watch. She becomes a puppet master, leading from behind. Even so, she is aware of her limits, and to whom she owes what. Her manipulation is often straightforward, especially with Egwene in particular. She becomes the trusted advisor because she proves herself trustworthy. Siuan's story arc shows that even with the cure, a disabled person will still often come out the other side with lower social standing than before.

Leane, on the other hand, decides that she is a new person, and insists on switching Ajah. Her response to the cure is very similar to her response to the disease: She will become the person she thought she had abandoned and suppressed. Her main point of conflict after being cured was with the Green Ajah accepting her. Her story provides a lens into how a person can change profoundly, but the people around them are unable to accept their change.

Setalle, having burned out rather than being cut off, could quite possibly not be curable, which provides a nice balance to the narrative of the Cure. Not everyone can be cured, and we should still treat those who can't be as full human beings deserving of respect.

On balance, The Wheel of Time provides an array of narratives that give us ways to understand various levels of disability, the different ways disabled people cope with their disability, and the social consequences of disability. While it lacks any examples of complete disability, it does very good work with the themes that it does explore, including what happens when someone is cured.

[3llio]

hey

please hsc for Leo, Raphael, Donnie, Mikey

you will be mutated during the fight with shredder (mutation is irrelevant paste whatever you want) for some time you have to hide with turtles in hideout, you are more and more desperate and longing for your old life, how does your boyfriend react? how does he try to comfort you? does he blame himself for this situation?

Thanks you

Mutagen Mutation

All 2012 turtles

AN: You didn't specify an iteration so I went with 2012! I hope this is to your liking ヾ(＾∇＾) and wozers… all of this is just under 900 words! It really doesn't look like it- also, I tried to give them each about the same amount but Mikey was kind of hard to write simply bc this is probably my first time writing for him (ノдヽ) hopefully I’ll get better with time!

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

Leo

He definitely blames himself the most out of the four, he’s the leader, yk he should have been able to do something to prevent it from happening in the first place.

He does what he can to be there for you in your moment of need though.

He constantly feels like he's trying to make up for what happened.

His room is open to you any time you want to just lie in bed undisturbed, whenever he eats he makes sure you get something too, and he leaps at the opportunity to do anything for you should you ask.

But he definitely takes it the hardest, (as read in bullet point one) and constantly beats himself up over it because he's not smart like Donnie or he would be finding the cure himself.

It kind of kills him to wait just as long as you do.

Like if you didn't know any better you would have thought he was the one that was mutated.

Leo does whatever he can to make you just a little less miserable.

Whether it be physical affection, watching a show that you like, or even just sitting together in silence, he will do it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Raph

At first he was actually kind of hyped. Cut him some slack okay- his partner just got mutated and after the first day he was like “so now you finally get to see what it's all about.”

But he's really quick to understand you don't enjoy this.

He definitely also blames himself but doesn't sit around beating himself up over it either.

He is on Donnie’s ass about getting everything sorted out the way it's supposed to be.

He’s not the best at comforting in general so he tries to be there physically. (Even if hugs aren't really his thing)

Don't get it confused though, he doesn't let you sit and stew in your own depression for long.

He won't force you to train with him or anything outside of your abilities but he does pull a “you got two legs that work, let's get moving.”

If he gets impatient waiting on Donnie (which he probably is by day three) he’ll start to take matters into his own hands and do some… “independent research” topside.

He hates sitting around while you suffer because of something that could have easily been prevented.

Once you are back to normal he doubles down during training to an extent that puts Leo to shame.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Donnie

While he may not blame himself as much for the initial accident, he does start voicing it when it starts to take too long to figure out a way to turn you back.

Yes, he does heavily blame himself for not protecting you at the moment but what really grinds his gears is his inability to make any progress in the lab.

Because of this, if you’re wanting any comfort you would have to drag him away from the vials on his desk for the first few days.

When his progress begins to slow, he may become more aware of your emotional needs and your deteriorating motivation.

He can be good at comforting when he actually tries to be.

He gives good hugs and reassurance falls from his lips pretty easily late at night when it's just the two of you.

But he’s constantly apologizing for everything.

He’s sorry you got mutated. He’s sorry he hasn't figured something out yet. He’s sorry he’s not good enough to cure you right here right now.

Your voice of concern to go home hurts him. So he does the best he can to make that a reality.

Even if it means pulling another all-nighter after wiggling his way out of your comfortable sleeping embrace.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mikey

At first he was hyped after the initial shock of everything and confirming you're okay.

His significant other just got turned into a mutant like him! How could he not be happy?

But while Mikey may miss some cues here and there, he is not stupid.

He notices when you start to withdraw from hanging out with everyone, instead huddling up in his room.

So he goes where you go, if you’ll have him.

He makes for great company late at night when you can't sleep in a body that isn't yours.

Surprisingly deep conversation flows between the two of you as you both lie on your backs, staring up at the ceiling.

He’s really good at trying to change your negative viewpoint to a positive one.

You miss your family? “Well you’ll get to see them again soon, Donnie’s working on a cure. Until then, me, my brothers, and even Master Splinter can be like a second family!”

Sometimes though, words aren't enough to mend the wound in your longing heart.

But until they are, he’ll continue to motivate you and push you to enjoy the time spent in the lair by occupying your time with various activities.

Pranks, It's mainly pranks. But, seeing Raph get covered in water, flour, and feathers does make for great entertainment.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

[veebeeboo109]

Cleaning up the Timeline

{You get your job back and celebrate. And then you meet someone at the park.}

Read on ao3. Part One.

Tags: Reader/L&DS Men, Romance

Chapter 17: Gravity

Your knee won’t stop bouncing with anxiety. The sights and smells of the Hunter’s Association are familiar but foreign. It’s been too long since you’ve been in this building, and you feel like everyone can tell. 

Xavier leans over to place a hand on your trembling knee and gives you a warm smile. “It’ll be alright. You can do this.”

You sit up and take a short breath, “I didn’t talk to any of the counselors she recommended. I technically haven’t done anything to prove I can come back to work. What should I say? Oh, I’m feeling much better! My four boyfriends helped me stop being all dark and twisty inside?”

Xavier chuckles and sits back in his seat. The two of you are waiting for an appointment with Captain Jenna, and you’re close to bursting. Thankfully, Xavier is more than calm. If anything, he’s bursting with excitement. He’s tagged along to personally request you as his permanent partner. 

Jenna’s assistant calls for you, and your heart jumps into your throat. Xavier takes your hand to stand and follows you all the way to the door— only letting go when you enter without him. You have to speak with Jenna alone first, and at least Xavier believes in you. 

Jenna is as stoic as always. A tall, thin figure of authority that rivals Zayne with her icy expressions. “It’s good to see you.” She says almost warmly and nods to the seat across from her desk. 

You take a steadying breath and sit, “Thank you for seeing me.”

”I heard you were hurt,” Jenna wastes no time, cutting to the quick. “How are you?”

You laugh sheepishly, “There was a small stalking incident. I suffered a mild rib fracture, but I’m fully recovered now! I’m ready to get back to work.”

Jeanna sits down at her high backed carbon-black chair. The screen on her desk is illuminated with the many open files she has up— open cases of protofield fluctuations, wanderer sightings and attacks, and an increase in flux stabilizer vandalism. 

“I’m willing to talk terms.” Jenna says like she’s opening up a hostage negotiation. “If you can tell me why I suspended you in the first place.”

Your hands clench in your lap, and the scarf around your neck feels suddenly too hot. “I…I wasn’t performing to standard. I was slacking, and missing work without reason.”

Jenna’s eyes narrow, and she leans back in her chair. All of a sudden, you’re eight years old again. Sitting in the principal’s office of your elementary school, wondering what the right thing to say is to get you out of trouble. 

You can tell that isn’t what she wanted to hear, and so you try again, “I wasn’t taking care of myself. I was depressed and not coping with what happened. You suspended me for my own good, because I wasn’t well.”

A beat passes, a quiet tick of the clock as Jenna lets you mull over your words. At the time, it’d felt like one cruelty after another, but you know now– with a clear head and a healing heart– that it was the right thing to to do. 

“I also  heard that you were evicted from your apartment.” Jenna’ voice is even, but her eyes are frigid. “When I inquired what had happened with the landlord, he told me you left no forwarding address. I apologize for that. If you had reached out, I would have made things clear with the landlord and fixed it.”

Sitting up a little bit straighter, you mind whirls at that. Spinning with the conjured alternate present that would have occurred had you thought for half a second. Why hadn’t you thought to just ask Jenna to talk to the landlord? The past three months would be so different. 

You look out the window at the skyline of Linkon city, and imagine a world where you hadn’t been on that park bench. Where you hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to be Zayne’s housekeeper. 

Spring is just around the corner, if you had been smarter, would you be greeting the cherry blossoms alone? It’s hard to fathom that. A reality where you aren’t intertwined in the four of them. 

You shake your head, “To be honest, it didn’t even occur to me. Everything happened so quickly and I was so…well, you know. I was out of it.”

“I regret placing you on leave without ensuring you had a support system. I fear I may have only made it worse.” Jenna’s face curdles with guilt. 

You’re quick to correct her, “Oh no! I reconnected with a friend, and I’m very happy where I am now. I have a new place, and they’ve helped me back on my feet. That’s why I’m here today. I want to come back, ma’am.”

Jenna’s features soften, and her warm eyes fall on you with a little bit of hope. “I see. I’m glad to hear it. Well, as I promised, your position here with the UNICORNS is waiting for you. But, protocol dictates that you be put on probation for ninety days before you’re fully reinstated.”

You nod emphatically, “Of course, that’s fine. I understand, and I’m ready to prove myself.”

Jenna taps away at her computer for a moment. “Tara, of course, will be ecstatic. The others missed you as well– I was certain there would be a mutiny.”

You can’t help but laugh, “I apologize for any grief I may have caused, captain.”

“I prefer fruit bouquets over flowers.” Jenna remarks, and then stands from her chair. A dry joke that she merely smirks at. “Now, I’ve sent a message down to HR to reinstate your ID. Head over to armament and they’ll set you up with a new watch– we’ve upgraded since you were last here.”

You rise to your feet, and follow her back towards the door, “When can I start?”

Jenna smiles in that matronly way she does when one of her subordinates amuse her, “Next Monday. There’s a cleanup effort on the south side of the city, and they need some Hunters to supervise in case of Wanderer interference. I’ll send you the details when you come back Monday morning.”

“Right! Thank you so much Captain Jenna. I…I really can’t thank you enough for letting me come back.” 

Jenna opens the door and you step out, feeling fifty pounds lighter. The Captain of the Unicorns shakes her head, “This was always the plan. Go ahead and check in with the others if you’d like. I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes I need to get to.”

Xavier is standing six feet away. Though his expression is even, you can see the eagerness sparkling in those cerulean eyes. The twinkling of wishing stars. 

“I won’t keep you any longer then. Thank you again, Captain. I’ll be here bright and early on Monday.” You try not to bounce too much with glee, and Jenna laughs at your barely tempered excitement. 

Captain Jenna retreats back to her office, and you approach Xavier. He takes your hand like he might lead you in a dance, but instead just draws you close. “How’d it go?”

“Perfectly, just like you said. I start again on Monday.” You practically squeal. 

Xavier’s eyes crinkle with his smile, and the air around you feels a little bit lighter. “That gives us enough time to get some more training in. We should run some simulations as partners to make sure we’re on top of our game.”

You elbow him with a bubbly giggle, “Are you ever not on the top of your game? C’mon I have to get a new watch from Armament. And then I want to stop by HR to make sure they got Jenna’s message.”

Your coworkers are happy to see you, and Tara nearly tackles you when she spots you in the office. Some confess their concern when you disappeared– how much they noticed you struggling, and how much they fought Jenna on suspending you. 

It’s startling, realizing how much your fellow Hunters cared. Even when you were lost in a fog– when their faces had turned into nothing but blurs and their words fell on deaf ears– they had cared. The anxiety you’d been feeling since deciding to come back eases even more. There wouldn’t be some great awkwardness to overcome, thank god. 

Xavier lingers near you while you’re fitted for a new watch, and the armament team goes over the changes. An updated GPS system. Improved vitals tracking, and increased sensitivity to protocurve fluctuations. 

HR is….hr. It’s a corporate nightmare of legal jargon and people-pleasing. You minimize your time there as much as possible, only making sure someone has it in the system to reinstate you as an active Hunter. 

Xavier treats you to oversized ridiculous boba on your way home. The kind that’s way too expensive but comes in a cute pink cup with a round bottom and three different color gradients. You sip happily at your treat in his car, simultaneously giddy from the familiar weight of the hunter’s watch on your wrist and the realization that the place where your boys are is home now. Forever. 

You hook arms with Xavier to take the elevator up from the garage to the main house and he’s looking at you with this funny kind of playfulness. Like he’s in on a joke that hasn’t been told yet. 

The elevator dings and the doors open, and you hear the hushed voices arguing.

“Don’t touch that. You’ll set it off prematurely.” Zayne’s voice hisses under his breath. 

“I just want to make sure it works! Geez…” Rafayel’s replies with signature sass. 

You turn towards the living room and see a large banner strung up across the windows, a multicolored ‘Congratulations!’ written on a confetti background. 

Rafayel and Zayne stand in the middle of the room. Zayne smiles when he sees you, and Rafayel nearly jumps in utter delight. A party popper in each hand, the minute you step into the room and out of the hall they pull the strings and pop! A sharp burst of confetti explodes towards you, not just from Rafayel and Zayne but from either side of you as well. 

You jump and squeak, turning to see the two bird masked hooligans of Sylus’ who snicker all too pleased. They pull out more party poppers and pop them, covering you with more strings of confetti. 

“Congrats boss girl!” Luke cheers from your right, and then Kieran pops another, “Good job on the— whatever it was! Hooray!”

“Boys,” Sylus calls from behind Luke, and they flinch a little. Caught being a little more than just helpful. The young masked man turns back to you and offers you a sheepish shrug. 

“We’re behaving!” Kieran adds as he throws his arm over his brother’s shoulder, “We can have cake yeah?”

“What’s going on?” You laugh as you pick some confetti out of your hair, “Why all the… confettiing?”

“It's for you, dumbie!” Rafayel scoots around the couch to get to you, “A congrats party!”

“What?” You mumble, looking at the banner, the streamers, and even a sheet cake sitting happily on the kitchen island, “For what?”

“For you, of course.” Sylus adds, walking his fingers up your back and plucking another errant piece of pink confetti from your hair. “For getting your job back. Or for choosing to stay with us. Regardless, the day felt worth celebrating.”

You feel like you're made of cotton candy. Tiny strings of heated sugar spun into cottony webs. So fine and airy that you melt upon the tips of tongues. Strawberry flavored and filled with the memory of sunshine and summer. 

What an utter, lovesick fool you are. And how lucky you are to be cradled in the arms of those who love you for it. 

“You didn’t know that I’d even get the job back,” You argue as Zayne cuts you a piece of cake with a picture of a Hero from Super Hunters punching a Wanderer on it. He places it onto a little pink paper plate and then shrugs as he hands it to you. 

“There was little doubt, love.” He says with certainty. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Luke and Kiera waiting patiently at the dining table, buzzing in place as they wait for their cake. Sylus had had to tell them to sit down with as much force as a father to toddlers, and so they sat– albeit impatiently. 

You wait till Zayne cuts another piece and then take both plates over to the poor kids. From what Sylus has told you they’re barely eighteen, if that. They’re kids. Kids that work for an international criminal syndicate and arguably more dangerous than even seasoned criminals, but kids. 

They thank you in unison for the cake and then you retreat back to the kitchen for your own piece. 

It seems that cake and confetti are not all you have to look forward to in this little celebration, because Sylus drops a large aluminum crate at your feet with an obnoxiously large red bow on top. 

“What’s this?” You ask.

“Your present, kitten.” Sylus says with a grin that’s too smug. “Open it.”

Setting aside your half-eaten cake, you hop off your barstool to open the large metal monstrosity. You pluck the bow off of it and use the adhesive still on there to plant it onto Sylus’ chest. He chuckles at you, and leaves it there. 

You unlatch the crate and you have an inkling of what awaits you inside. Black egg-crate foam meets your eyes first, and then– as you expected– a pair of shiny silver handguns. They’re chrome, with carbon hand grips and red detailing down the barrel. A pair of shiny chrome blades sit next to them, a thigh holster for each one. And lastly, a small pocket handgun that’s baby pink with a kitten on the grip– tiny enough to fit in a clutch handbag.

“There’s more below,” Sylus whispers at you, and you pick up the first layer to reveal more. 

A layer of combat gear. An elaborate set of body armor as pretty as it is functional. It’s similar to some of the armor worn by hunters, but this looks custom. 

“Wow, this is amazing, Sylus!” You breathe in awe. Looking at him, you can practically see him preening like a peacock at your excitement, “Thank you!”

“Me next!” Rafayel inserts himself in front of Sylus and offers you a small, blue box. 

You rise from your crouch and take the softly texture box. Opening it, you’re met with the most delicate, beautiful piece of jewelry you’ve ever seen. An elegant chain with little teardrop gemstones the faintest shade of blue. At the center is an oblong, opalescent centerpiece. It takes you a second to realize what it is. A scale. A large, paper thin scale like something from a massive fish. You can only fathom what kind of ethereal sea creature this must have come from. 

“It’s beautiful.” You say, turning to Rafayel with stars in your eyes.

“You have to wear it everyday, okay?” Rafayel insists, grabbing the box from your hand and taking out the necklace. He moves around you fluidly and places it around your neck without request or hesitation. 

“This is too nice for everyday!” You argue, “I couldn’t wear this while working!”

“You have to.” Rafayel chirps, “This is scale from Lemuria. It’ll keep you safe.”

You sigh and concede. You’re not entirely sure what Lemuria is, but it sounds fancy, and if it makes the second biggest worry-wort in the house chill, then so be it. 

Zayne’s gift is a little snow globe. Well, a glass globe with a sphere of ice inside it. Within the ice is a small pool of water and a shell you recognize from one of the many you found at the beach. It’s a beautiful memento, and he blushes when you gush over it. 

Xavier gives you a crystal replica of the solar system to hang up in your room. Each planet is a different precious stone, reflecting the light with sunbursts and rainbows. 

Once you’ve had cake and drank some bubbly concoction that Rafayel mixed, you hang up your gift from Xavier above your bed– with a little help of course. You place Rafayel’s necklace safely back in its box, Zayne’s snowglobe goes on your bedside table, and the arsenal from Sylus gets slid into your closet. 

Sylus comes to you to kiss you goodnight, mentioning some work over in the N109 zone he has to get done– that he won’t be back until late tomorrow.

Zayne, dressed in pajamas, catches him just before he leaves your doorway. And catches Sylus by the back of the neck to press a kiss to his temple. His signature parting farewell. Sylus chuckles into it, and you feel that familiar fizzy happiness at seeing the two of them so content. 

Sylus parts, and Zayne follows you into bed. 

Rafayel and Xavier drew the short straw of tidying up the little party, but you’re sure you’ll see them in bed soon enough. 

It’s been a long, rollercoaster of a day. And everything is almost back to the way it’s supposed to be. You have Zayne. Xavier. Rafayel. Sylus. You have your job as a Hunter. 

Love. Purpose. A future. It lingers on you like an expensive perfume. You stink of happiness. 

If only things could stay this way….

A week later, the weather is warming up. You still can’t leave the house without a jacket but gloves and scarves can be left at home. The smell of earth fills the air as the soil gradually thaws, and the energy of the city shifts from its sleepy, winter hibernation to its maiden-pink excitement of spring. 

You’re back at work. Fighting wanderers but this time Xavier is at your side. It’s distracting at first, watching him fight. He’s as graceful as a ballerina on the field. His precision with the blade is masterful, and you’re caught starry eyed a few times on that first day. 

He pushes you harder now in training. You attend simulations at the Association to get better fighting side by side without the danger, and you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the feeling of resonating with Xavier’s Light Evol. It explodes like a supernova beneath your skin– utter destructive power with the potential to create universes and decay time itself. 

The household chores are divided. A little schedule and a checklist that the five of you divvy up. Zayne doesn’t mind doing dishes, so that’s his preferred chore. Xavier likes to cook, but can’t so he does mostly dusting and tidying. You’re pretty sure Sylus has someone sneaky coming in at night to do his chores, and so long as he’s not making the twins do it– you’re fine with that. 

You should have known it was too good. Nothing gold can stay, and all that poetic nonsense. Something about the other shoe dropping or the calm before the storm. The glassy top of your pool of happiness ripples. 

A phone call. 

Your old phone has been off since your accident on the roof. Better to let it die, you thought. The stalker could just be an unfinished chapter– not knowing was better than chasing. 

It was one of the very rare early mornings that you were alone in your bed. The echoes of your lovers were there, indents in the bed and the sheets from where’d they’d been.

 Zayne had risen for work at nearly three– an early shift that the rest of you dreaded. Sylus had business that night and was likely not even home yet.  Xavier had been put on night patrols this week. His light evol and experience specifically requested by some stuffy higher-up he couldn’t say no too. And Rafayel was likely passed out in his studio, trying to finish his latest painting for an art exhibition coming up. 

Alone in your big bed, the last to rise and it's a nagging buzzing in your drawer that pulls you from sleep. 

Half-asleep, you yank the drawer open and pull out the phone. You’re struck with irritation more than confusion, but when your eyes finally adjust to the bright screen, your stomach drops. 

You’re suddenly sitting upright. Covers pushed away from you as your hand begins to shake. An unknown number. A plain white-blue screen, and the rhythmic humming of the ring over and over again. 

Answer it. You’re feeble, reckless mind cries. Answer it quick!

When you press the phone to your ear and answer the call, you’re met with silence. Barely even static meets your ears. Your hands tremble, but you force yourself to hold together. “Hello?”

Music meets your ears. Discordant and garbled like it's being played through a speaker, and then put through the phone. The sound of wind cuts through the melody before you can hear it again, and dread slinks down your spine, coaxing every hair on your body to stand on end. 

It’s more than creepy. It’s haunting. Is this some kind of threat? Or a message?

You keep listening, Holding your breath so you can hear the receiver over the sound of your own rattled breathing. 

The melody shifts, and you can hear rustling of something and then something that sounds like— children? Playing? 

It’s barely 60 seconds. A mess of sounds and then click. Nothing. 

You pull the phone away to check, making sure the call was disconnected. With quickened breathing, you go to the home screen of the phone. Checking for anything else– a text. A voicemail. An email? Nothing. 

You throw the phone back into the drawer and close it. Rising out of bed, you’re out of your room in record time. This time you won’t be foolish and end up with a punctured lung. You rush down the hall and into the spacious studio. The light of dawn casting everything in a grey-blue haze. 

“Rafayel!” You call, unable to find him for a moment. But a jolt of movement catches your eye, and you go to him. 

You’re not sure why it’s rattled you like this. Why this time it’s made the scar on your ribs ache or your gut tight, but Rafayel is barely sitting up from his place on the couch before you fall into him. 

Chests pressed together, you hold him close and he wraps his arms around you without question. He hums like a satisfied cat, pleased that you’ve come to him, and he seems keen to go right back to sleep. 

But you squeeze him tighter, and hide your face away in his neck. Only when  your inhale sharply does his mind rouse from sleep enough to realize something is wrong, and he holds you all the tighter. 

“What happened?”

“This has gone on long enough.” Sylus states with murder is his voice when you finish explaining the events of the morning to him. 

It’s midday when you’re able to gather everyone together. The living room feels cold, but you’re sure that’s your own anxiety making you break out in a cold sweat. You’ve had your hunter weapon on one side of your hip all day, and Rafayel at the other. 

“Believe me, I’m way ahead of you.” Scoffing, you continue your pace back and forth next to the windows.  Zayne and Xavier are sitting on the couch, but they're at the edges of their seats now. 

Sylus had dragged his tired feet through the door at five am, less than an hour after the phone call. And you grabbed him the second he was inside, and when you explained that had happened, you watched as his previous exhaustion melted away– replaced by a cold, deadly determination. 

Xavier had gotten home around six, and he’d run into Zayne on his way in– much to the blond’s surprise. But a quick call to Zayne had brought him rushing home, the tremor in your voice more than enough to reassign some surgeries and take the afternoon off. 

“I’m serious, kitten.” Sylus practically growls as he rests his hands on the back of the couch. The matching bracelet the five of you wear shines on his wrist. “It is one thing to have your life at risk from Wanderers. This stalker will not be tolerated.”

You let out a strangled breath and run your hand through your hair the umpteenth time today. “The call was nonsense. Some music and some sounds. No words. Not even heavy breathing.”

“There must be some reasoning behind it.” Zayne rises to his feet as he speaks, “Do we think the motivation is simply to terrorize? Or is harm the ultimate goal?”

“Terror has been achieved. Harm has been achieved– which was my fault, but still.” You bark out, and then laugh uncomfortably, “The crazy thing is I think I recognize the music.”

“You do?” Xavier asks.

Rafayel quietly comes up to your side, and with a hand at your waist, he halts your pacing. Being anchored in place you take a deep breath, surprised by Rafayel’s silent support. 

“Do you remember that park near where we lived as kids, Zayne?” You say a bit more evenly. 

“There were a few…”

“There was one. One that took longer to walk to.” Your voice goes a little quieter as you pull the memories from deep within your mind. “There was this carousel. Antique. It cost a coin to ride it and we would– we would go there during the summer a lot.”

“Ah, yes,” Zayne concurs, “Adams Park. You’re right. That one was farther out than the others, but I remember the carousel. Last I recall, it’s out of commission now.”

“The music…” You sigh, “I know it's crazy but– but it reminded me of that. There was wind, and the sound of kids playing. I think….I think it was telling me to go to this park.”

“Absolutely not.” Rafayel hisses, “Even if that were the case, why play into their plan? No. No.”

“I can send Luke or Kieran to scope it out.” Sylus says as he’s already tapping away at his phone. 

“No!” You shout, “No, don’t involve them. If this is dangerous, then I’m more than capable of handling it. I’m telling you guys because the last time I did something stupid I got a broken rib.”

“You’re not thinking of going?” Xavier’s dulcet voice is serrated. 

“I am.” You say, though you’ve only barely convinced yourself of the fact. “Either it’s a nonsense noise meant to scare me, or it's a way to find this guy once and for all. End this.”

“Kitten…” The pet name is purred, but it’s dripping with so much disappointment that it sounds like a threat. Sylus looms like a shadow, reckoning with the apocalypse. “I would highly suggest you don’t do that.”

You adjust the gun at your hip and do not cower under Sylus’ ire. “Then come with me. I’m not planning on doing this alone, not again. Come with me. If it’s a setup, then I have backup. And if it’s nothing, I’ll buy ice cream.”

The park is smaller than you remember it, and the trees are just starting to bud. The scent of fresh rain fills the windy air, brushing against you as you exit the car with the four of your lover’s right behind you. 

Sylus comes up to you once again, adjusting the strap of the body armor across your chest. As if touching it settles some anxious worm in his heart. He has to make sure its real– that it's secure. You’re armed like you’re going into battle, and so are they. The necklace at your throat feels cold, the scale shifting so lightly against your clavicle as if to remind you of it’s presence. 

Your group must look quite the sight, walking into the park and along the winding path that leads across it. The carousel sits as the centerpiece of it. Its once colorful brocade faded with age and wear, and it sits completely still and quiet. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen it last, and you’d all but forgotten those days of summer scouring couch cushions for coins to ride it. Over and over and over again, choosing a different horse each time to make sure the ride was the same. 

There’s a temporary fence surrounding the poor ride, and some tape warding off troublesome teenagers that might think it’s fun to climb on it. 

“There’s no protocurve fluctuations that I can detect,” Xavier remarks while examining his new Hunter’s Watch. 

“I doubt we’re dealing with Wanderers.” Sylus rumbles, hands at his hips and he slowly scans the surroundings. Casually like he isn’t slightly dewy with anxiety. “Unless you’ve got a creep detector on that thing, it’s not of any use.”

You huff in amusement at his comment and go over to Zayne, who is standing stiffly looking at the carousel. “Do you remember it?”

“Faintly,” Zayne replies. “I didn’t come here often.”

“I remember one time we did.” You say, looking towards a pair of horses side by side, one set higher than the other and frozen in time. “It was when we were a little old. Ten maybe? You didn’t want to ride it, and so I rode it alone. I think that– I think that was the last time I ever did.”

Zayne turns to look at you and there’s guilt in his eyes, “I’m sorry.”

You laugh, “Why? You were a teenage boy at that time. You couldn’t be seen riding some childish carousel with some girl.”

“I should have,” Zayne says softly, “Even if I looked silly. I should have ridden with you. One more time.”

You open your mouth to reply– to ease that forlorn melancholy in his voice because it hurts you just as much to hear it as it does for him to feel it. However, Rafayel’s voice cuts like a blade, “There’s someone here.”

The five of you turn in unison, the path towards the other side of the park from the way you came is occupied by a figure. A person clad in a light grey hoodie, and walking with their hands in the pocket. Their hair rustles wildly with a sharp gust of wind, and it shifts with shades of ash mauve, taupe and russet. 

His pale skin is ghostly, and the dark circles under his eyes don’t disappear no matter how much you try to imagine them away. 

Gripping Zayne’s hand so tightly, you’re sure that it hurts, but your muscles have locked. Death itself has come to stand before you, clad in the face of one you once loved. Wrenching from you a horrid, desperate gasp that won’t leave you. Air is stuck in your lungs, and breath won’t come. 

Fifteen feet away. You measure the distance with your eyes, and dammit, why does your vision keep going blurry? What’s happening? The man is fifteen feet away, and you can cross that distance in less than ten seconds. Faster even. You’re fast. He always said so. 

A step is taken, but you’re not sure if it’s you. Not until you step again. The sound of your footsteps so loud in your tunneled mind that it might as well be thunder. 

Your hand slips from Zayne’s because you’re moving. Drawn from those who wish to hold you to that which you have lost. Back to that void in the cosmos where there lies only one singular star. 

“Caleb,” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it is. It’s you weeping the name like a keen wail. Like if you say it aloud it will keep the spectre of his spirit here in this mortal world, and that he won’t slip away the moment you reach for him. 

Through the grey of his pallor and the tired look on his face, Caleb smiles. And when you reach out to him, he’s solid beneath your fingers. The cotton of his sweatshirt meets your skin and it's real. It’s tactile. This horrid hallucination. 

The two of you collide harshly. Crashing into one another like colliding atoms in a supercollider, nothing but immeasurable quantum energy. You fit back in his arms like you’ve never left and underneath the scent of sterile soap and ash it’s him. 

Caleb’s arms are tight around you, hiding you into his chest like you’re the one that might slip away, and you sob brokenly. 

“Caleb…” You wail. Wail like begging for rest, “Caleb…”

You feel his lips against the crown of your head, and the heat of his breath as he exhales heavily through his nose. “Pipsqueak. Oh god…it’s me. It’s me. I’m here.”

<- Previous Next ->

[kilesplaysthings]

I posted on reddit a while back my ideas if the boys were in a band. and now, I’m traveling for a vacation and have been listening to a lot of Linkin Park in the car.

Which got me thinking more ideas..

If the guys made a hard rock/nu-metal band together. Maybe the can call themselves Linkon Park heh 😆

Here we go (because a girl can dream lol). The LaDS boys in a hard rock/nu-metal band: the good, the emotional and the depressing

Rafayel:

Founder of the band during their college days. The idea came to him when he heard Caleb listening to some hard rock one day to unwind after a hard basketball practice

Really liked the sound because it went against everything he was taught growing up; the rebellious nature of it was alluring to him.

He had been pursuing a career of singing, either in theater or opera. He was from a wealthy, prestigious family but was fed up with all their pomp and circumstance. So he rebelled and abandoned the opera singer route. He wanted to make music, not just perform it.

Is the lead singer. AMAZING voice, a delicious baritone that can hit various notes. Can hear a tune once and knows it by heart. Also good with other forms of music; even dabbles in some rap. If he plays an instrument, it’s the guitar, but he knows all types of music in general.

He is also the face of the band, writes a lot of their songs and choreographs their looks. However,

Tends to be very moody when it comes to other people. He’s sweet to the fans, but his band mates have seen his temper come out on occasion. Has butted heads with Caleb over a few things. It usually is Zayne or Sylus who calms everyone down.

Also not a fan of paparazzi or interviews. Can lash out at them if in a bad mood. Just wants to focus on the music. So, it’s usually Caleb who does the PR side of things

Xavier:

Initially, he went to college to pursue a career as a concert pianist because he wasn’t sure what else to do

Had been playing piano from a young age due to coming from a renowned family of musicians and piano players

But, he had a falling out with his family because he went to a school they disapproved of. Because of this, he was on his own and working several jobs while also studying piano

He and Rafayel shared classes together, so he was the one who approached Xavier to join the band

Xavier was secretly a fan of hard metal so was excited to be a part of a band. Initially, he agreed to be the keyboard player, however,

He was a master at playing any instrument. His teachers called him a prodigy. Keyboard, violin, saxophone, cello, you name it, the man can play it. He’s the renaissance man of the band, playing various instruments

But it’s the electric guitar that’s his true love. Playing that, he can get lost in it. If there’s any sick solos or awesome guitar riffs in a song, it’s probably him

The phrase, “it’s always the quiet ones” apply to him. He’s soft spoken and polite in interviews but on stage, he’s tearing it up. The type to spin and jump while playing

Very laid back. Can sleep anywhere, no matter what’s going on. Whether it’s on the tour bus, during makeup, the quick breaks between concerts, he can take a quick nap. But once he’s on stage performing, he’s alert

Zayne:

Actually the last member of the band to join

Was studying to be a medical student until his roommate Caleb brought him to a band rehearsal

Hearing their sound, he was entranced

The four members had been struggling to find a bassist for the group. They were using stand-ins for songs, but had no full time member

After a lot of hesitation and time thinking, Zayne approached Caleb and volunteered.

Having quite the mathematical mind, he picked up reading music rather quickly. Had a good mind for rhythm as well

They had considered him for rhythmic guitar or backup player, but he seemed to catch on to the bass guitar the best. And as someone who’d rather not stand out, being at the back by the drums as support suited him just fine

Is very dedicated to the band. The guys are like brothers he never had as an only child.

Tries to be a peacekeeper with the group and cares for them like a mother hen. It’s because of him and his medical knowledge that the group never got addicted to hard drugs

Gives up his medical degree in the belief that he found his true calling. This did not please his parents and there was a time where he had to leave the band.

It broke everyone. They had a stand in, but it wasn’t the same, not for the band or for the fans. It was only when Sylus approached Zayne and showed him a video on his phone when they were all shouting “we miss you mom! Please come back!” that he tearfully agreed

Sylus:

Xavier was the one who told Rafayel and Caleb about Sylus.

He wasn’t going to college, but was doing multiple jobs, including some gigs with a small band at night clubs as a drummer. Being a bartender at one of those clubs is how Xavier became aware of Sylus

Having lost his parents at a young age, Sylus had been working since his teens in various odd jobs to support himself and his two younger brothers Luke and Kieran

When the offer to join their band was made to him, Sylus was intrigued. He liked the sound and energy of what they had going so agreed

Was more than happy to be their drummer as he was a bit tone deaf so he was fine not being a singer. Even so, he can keep rhythm pretty well

If Zayne is the mom of the group, Sylus is the backbone. His laid back and chill attitude has a big hand in keeping the more hotheaded members of the band in check. He’s quite easy going so he’s cool with most things the others suggest doing, as long as it’s for their benefit

Is the best at handing the business side of things. Helps deal with their record labels and manager

He can be a bit of a tease/jokester sometimes. He likes to tease and prank Xavier a lot, but it’s all in good fun

Helps write some songs. He’s rather poetic, to the others’ surprise

In some of their songs that have a more electric sound, they sometimes have two guest members acting as DJs, aka Sylus’s brothers

Caleb:

The co-founder of the band. While he and Rafayel ran in different circles, they both bonded over music

Had been considering different career options, like basketball player, chef, pilot, but ultimately his heart was won over by the band

While Rafayel is the face of the band, Caleb does a lot of the PR. His easy going attitude and bright smile is disarming and he can easily talk to interviewers and paparazzi

However, he’s not a pushover when it comes to paparazzi. If they’re too nosy, he’ll be ready to put them in their place

Acts as the back up guitarist and also back up vocalist. While Rafayel is a brilliant vocalist, Caleb is a surprising wild card.

Struggled in learning how to play the guitar at first but he was determined. Rafayel and Xavier helped him quite a bit

Behind that cheery smile and blase attitude he shows others, Caleb has a different side that can come out in the music

Had a hand in writing some of their most emotional songs in which Caleb provided some powerful screaming solos (ok, hear me out, his vocal range reminds me of Chester Bennington’s voice so I can imagine him singing/screaming like him!)

It’s in these more emotional songs that hint at Caleb’s innermost thoughts:

Did not have a happy childhood. From an abusive and neglectful household. Ran away from home a lot as a kid

It’s only with the band members that Caleb felt like he was part of a family. He admitted this during one tearful night of drinking with the others

Only the band sees the hurt behind his smile and happy-go-lucky attitude. One time he admitted to Rafayel that he didn’t know what would happen to him without the band

Had to have an intervention due to alcohol abuse at one point. Zayne helped him get the help he needed and the band went on a brief hiatus with how serious the situation was

But with the guys’s help, he persevered and there was a huge celebration at his return

[n3ptoonz]

Hello! I saw your most recent headcanon list thing with the Earthrealm guys being caught Slonking it Silly Style™ and uh. I was just wondering if you'd be willing to do something similar with the Outworld guys as well? Obviously you don't have to if you don't want to, but I think it would be neat! Thank you so much in advance! I love your work :)

deep, dramatic sigh. (kidding anon tysm i gush over comments like this ily smoochhhh) also the terminology made me laugh out loud ty for that

Shang Tsung

kinda sorta didn't gaf. who's to say he didn't want you to hear him. the world may never know

you were to report to him about some findings for his experiments and there he was, leaning over the table and straight up cranking it over a bucket (he's odd like that) honestly when you acknowledge your own presence he's like... can i help you?? you see i'm busy???

but at the same time he's like hold up i have a fine specimen here to help me out here...he's leaving here with SOMETHING (studio laughter)

Rain

i don't think he'd care either if you walked in on him. in fact, he might welcome it. he's used to having his own space, but he doesn't mind sharing it with people he's ok with being around. yes that includes you (is it only you? not even he knows yet)

day 8163 of using Rain's arrogance to push my narrative that he's not only in love with himself but how he looks in the mirror. you definitely walked in on him wanking it in the mirror and he'd freeze but recover so quick

ain't no way you're leaving here after you just caught him though. how else will his problems get solved? you went and made him hard all over again!

Reptile

syzoth has two, let's get that out the way. AND he uses both hands for them LMAOO

president of syzoth is a lil subby bitch society. so when you catch him tugging on both and reduced to a pathetic mess from his own hands??? he's frozen and quite literally has no clue what to do. he's sweaty, there's tears in his eyes, and his fangs are much more pronounced than usual

once you give him the green light that you're into whatever tf he was just doing watch him crawl over to you on all fours and hug your legs, practically begging you to touch him

Havik

expect this smug fuck to claim he wanted this to happen. dude was hunched over and going at it behind his own desk, grunting like a cave man who discovered self pleasure for the first time

1000% expect him to demand you help him, but instead it's after he froze for like 5 seconds and then tried to play it off

he would also be internally shocked when agree to finish the job, but on the outside it's like "that's what i thought...now get over here" whole time he's jumping up and down and twirling in his brain

Reiko

it's already rare that he has time to himself and definitely RARELY has time to be with you for an extended period of time, so you catching him when you wanted to surprise him with your presence it triggered his fight or fight LMAO

legit laughed at the thought of him jumping up from his chair hands ready to be thrown...but his dick is swinging PLSSSSSS

he's like well shit now he deserves your help after you almost got two pieced by your own boyfriend...but who's complaining?!

General Shao

this man weirdly reminds me of bowser sometimes. with that being said i think he'd do a BUAHA as a shocked sound when you catch him thwoping the schlong

as much as i can't fucking stand him he does look a lil better in this game i will admit. i'm not gonna sit up here and lie, he def has a HUGE wanker innit. so you didn't miss shit when you walked into his chambers

he would also demand your help. but if you have a lil push back just for fun, he'd eventually say please and be all soft and shit. why? cause it's you god damn it!

Baraka

let's be fr. truly i do not think mk1 baraka would masterbate simply bc he's like depressed all the time😭but for the sake of shits and gigs, ill humor y'all

let's say he hasn't seen you in a while and misses you dearly. he knew you were on a quest for a while, and he was very pent up... so what better way to release stress other than sparring! oh. not enough? time for another type spar 😈

if this were old baraka i'd say he has two 👁️ but since this version of tarkat is a disease let's say it made the skin around his wee like ribbed or something ya SO when you caught him he was in a straight up panic and apologizing profusely but once you calm him down and tell him you're glad he missed you so much, he's like oh shit...well help me out then...only if you want to!

a/n: i did it y'all FUCK. my bad for taking so long to release this i'm a perfectionist to a fault💀

[eimids]

Your worst enemy

Arsenal x reader

Reder is suffering with depression and doesn’t want her teammates to know.

Warnings: depression, mention of suicide (nothing happens tho), HEAVY on the angst, hurt/comfort?

words: around 3k

Your thoughts had been spiraling for a while, first you didn’t even realize it. Starting with only tiredness and some not so good days. You just brushed then off.

Your depression wasn’t back, it couldn’t be it.

Last time it got so bad that you were almost hospitalized. So this time it couldn’t get to that point. You changed your whole life after your last depressive episode. You changed from Manchester United to Arsenal. You cut contact with toxic people in your life, especially your ex.

But without you even realizing, it became more severe. Not having any energy, going to sleep at 9pm and sleeping for almost 12 hours every day. You were also getting irritated really easily. If something didn’t go your way, you were ready to fight (and cry). Practice was the only moment you had to be energetic. You couldn’t let things affect football. You didn’t want to be with your teammates, the bonding nights only seemed like a lot of work to keep a happy surface.

During best days, everything felt almost normal. But just almost. Something felt always off. Sounds were too loud, lights were too brightbut you were happy. You were supposed to be happy. Why couldn’t you just be happy. Everything was good, what did you have in your life for you to be depressed? Absolutely nothing.

You tried your best to not let anyone notice but you failed miserably. Alessia was the first one to notice and tried subtly to talk to you about it. You were closest to her at Arsenal. You transferred with her from Manu so you knew each other from there. Although you were only 19 you and Less where getting along really well. After practice she offered to grab coffee with you, then have a nice girlsnight with her.

“Oh it’ll be fun. We can just go to my apartment to watch some movies and order your favorite food” The older woman tried to convince you.

You were hesitant at her suggestion. After the long day you were already overwhelmed and tired. You just wanted to sleep away the never ending tiredness. You hadn’t had even that long day. Only practice and recovery. Then some quick media stuff. But even that made you exhausted. Wanting to just rot away in your bed you made some excuse for Less.

“I’m sorry i’m just really tired today and I’m gonna have to call to my parents about them coming to visit” You said as casually as you could.

Lessi almost believed it, but she knew something deeper was going on. She’d seen you get more and more tired during the last months and she didn’t really know what to do about it.

“You know you can always talk to me if you have something on your mind?” Less blurted out.

You were pondering your options. You could say that things were ok and not to worry about you. But you could also confess the hard truth. Your depression was back. But Less would have to tell that to Leah and Kim, who were obligated to tell Jonas and the team management.

“I know Less, but I’m doing okay” You said and smiled. Then you just grabbed your kitbag and left the training grounds.

It was already 8pm and it was getting dark. You still didn’t have your drivers license so you couldn’t drive by yourself. You could ask a lift from one of your teammates but most of them had left or were still doing media. Uber felt useless waste of money so you decided to walk home. It was only four kilometers so it wasn’t anything too bad. You started your walk on the quiet roads of England. There was some pubs and bars you walked past to. Hearing the usual catcalls from some gross old men. You tried to ignore them you put your music louder in your headphones and continued walking.

Your phone was on ‘do not disturb’ mode as you continued your walk. You didn’t really notice anything around you. Not even truly caring about anything. You just wanted the numbness and tiredness to go away. Somehow you managed to get to your apartment. You took your shoes off and walked straight to your bed. Not caring that you were still wearing your day clothes. Your apartment was a mess so you didn’t even bother to look for any other clothes.

The next day you woke up and it was already 10am. Another 12 hours had passed with your sleeping. You knew you were going to be late but still didn’t bother to get up. You decided to check your phone only to find 3 missed calls from Less and texts.

Lessi🤍

8.47pm

Viv said you didn’t ride with her back home? Don’t say you walked! I could’ve driven you home..

9.12pm

Please answer to me that you are okay y/n. I just want to know you got home safely.

10.39pm

I really hope you are already asleep at your house. I’m worried please call me when you can.

You were alarmed when you heard something from your kitchen. You quickly got up and went to look for the sound. Your kitchen was cleaned, the living room was cleaned, what was happened.

Alessia. She stood there in your kitchen making you breakfast. You were confused about everything even though you had given Less your spare keys.

“Morning y/n, we need to have a talk” Less just said. Clearly not happy.

“Well yeah, you can’t just show up to my apartment” You answered.

“Yea I can when I’m worried sick about you. I asked almost everyone on the team if they had taken you home but no. Did you walk home? You can’t be that reckless, something could’ve happened. So when you didn’t answer I decided to come over to see what’s going on. I’m glad I found you safely home, sleeping” Less started her lecture.

“I didn’t walk” You lied. “I ordered an uber and got home safely” You continued with the lies. You could see the anger and worry on Alessia’s face turn to guilt. “I was tired and didn’t want to bother anyone so I just ordered the uber. You don’t have to worry about me Less, I’m okay” You said with a smile. You were trying to be convincing although all that came from your mouth was lies.

“Oh i’m so sorry y/n. I don’t know what got to me but you’ve been acting weird lately and I just got so worried when you didn’t answer. Maybe I should get going, I’m sorry again” Alessia said and started to grab her things.

You stopped her by hugging her. You weren’t mad at her, although you didn’t want her to be worried about you, I felt nice to know that she cared about you. “You can stay Less, have breakfast with me” You said to her softly.

So she did. You ate your breakfast in a comfortable silence and then talked about your next match that you were going to have in couple days. You were supposed to leave to Manchester later that day. After you ate, Less grabbed her stuff again and left. You were happy with yourself that you convinced her that everything was okay.

You and Alessia both missed the team meeting of that morning but were on time to get to your bus to leave to Manchester. You got a little lecture from Jonas but didn’t really care. Wasn’t the first time.

On the bus most of your teammates were on the back of the bus listening to music and chatting. You however were sitting in the front. Headphones in listening to Taylor Swift and trying to sleep. It wasn’t hard with how exhausted you were. Sleep came nowadays always easily.

At some point you were woken by Kim sitting next to you. You tried to just act like you were sleeping but the skipper knew better.

“I know you’re awake y/n. Why don’t you come to the back of the bus with the others and have some fun, you have missed a lot of team bonding nights lately and the girls miss your company” Kim stated to you. You could hear Katie singing in the back of the bus and laughed a little.

“Okay I can come for a while. But I really need my beauty sleep” You tried to joke. Kim laughed a little before walking back to her seat. You followed her and were welcomed with teasing from your teammates.

“Well good to see you y/l/n, feels like I haven’t seen you in ages” Katie teased as she saw you walking to the back of the bus. “Come sit next to me” She continued.

You really didn’t want to hear the teasing from Katie but decided to still take the seat next to her. In front of you were Beth and Viv. In the next booth of four were Less, Leah and Kyra. Music was blasting and you saw as Katie was filming a tiktok about the her day. She filmed you in it with the something along ‘She’s alive’. You smiled for the camera but actually you wanted to cry. You were tired af the teasing. You were tired of everyone fussing about you. Why couldn’t you just enjoy some peace and quiet.

You zoned out for a while and next thing you realize was that Leah was gently waking you up.

“Wake up sleepy” Leah said quietly and smiled to you.

“Oh sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep” You said while looking around. Everyone else had left the bus, you were at your hotel.

Leah just hummed and helped you get your stuff and then walked with you to the entrance. Your teammates were sorting out rooms. You were hoping to get a room for yourself all alone. When you’re name was called at last you found out that you were paring with Leah. Kim and Leah changed looks that you didn’t notice.

Some of your teammates, mainly Viv, Beth and Less had went and talked to your skippers about your weird behavior. They had all noticed the signs of depression. Especially Less who had known you when you had your latest episode. They had made a small plan to get you to talk. Leah would be rooming with you, Kim would encourage you to be more with the other girls. Viv and Beth where just like parents who took notice about your behavior and made sure that you took care of yourself. They didn’t want to talk to you yet about it. They want you to come talk to them, or to anyone at that matter.

The rest of the day was a blur. You had a practice on the pitch, some recovery in cold pool, dinner. At practice you were almost benched because you were playing recklessly. Taking stupid risks and tackling people. A lot of your tackles were not even towards others, more so you could get yourself hurt. They were stupid and you knew it but just didn’t care.

After dinner your head was a mess. You felt overwhelmed and you couldn’t really take a notice of your surroundings. Kyra was walking next to you to the elevator. For the next couple of hours you were supposed to spend time with your teammates. You knew you had to show your face there for people not to get suspicious but you were in a bad mental state and just wanted to be alone. You walked hand in hand to the meeting room where pretty much everyone was in already. You smiled and talked for a while before trying to make an excuse to leave.

“Don’t leave yet, you just came here” Viv said to you. Trying to find someone else in the room who was in on the plan. She saw Leah and waved her over.

“I’m just not really in a mood to be here, I was thinking about having a shower and just going to sleep” You answered. Not having the energy to make up excuses.

“Y/n it’s not even 6pm, can’t you just stay here with us for a little while longer?” Leah asked hopefully.

Everything was just too much for you. The music in the background, Leah and Viv asking too many questions. Your breathing started to pick up pace. You knew that if you didn’t get away now, you would most likely end up having a panic attack. So you left. Without a word to Leah or Viv. You just turned around and walked away. You ran to your room and quickly closed the door. You fell to the ground and couldn’t help the tears in you eyes starting to spill.

You hated it, hated it all. You hated your mind for not being normal. You hated yourself for not accepting help from the other who clearly were just worried about you. You hated your teammates for trying to help. You hated the feeling in your head that just didn’t go away. You just hated it all.

Leah and your other teammates decided to give you some time for a while. Letting you calm down. But they all knew that they needed to do something. Leah and Kim decided to talk to the team management the first thing the following day. They knew you needed help and couldn’t watch on the side as you were slowly ruining yourself. After sometime Leah decided to come back to your shared room. She expected to find you sleeping but was concerned when you weren’t in the room. She checked the bathroom but no. You weren’t there. She got worried quickly. Her mind went first to the worst scenarios. Did something happen to you, did yo do something to yourself, was it too late for her to come look for you, she was blaming herself instantly.

“She isn’t hear” Leah said in a panicked voice as soon as Kim answered her call.

“What do you mean Leah?” Kim asked worriedly.

“She isn’t in our room, what if something has happened” Leah worried.

“Okay let’s not panic yet. Come back to the team room and we’ll make a plan” Kim said to Leah. Being the captain she knew she had to stay calm. They talked as Leah walked back to the team room. Kim had asked most of the girls to go back to their rooms and have a chill night. Not wanting to consern them.

Viv, Beth, Katie, Alessia, Leah and Kim were the ones to stay. They knew you the best and right now all they wanted was to find you.

“Has anyone called her?” Beth asked.

“Well yeah but she didn’t answer, it went straight to voicemail” Leah answered.

“She’s an adult and can leave if she wants, right now there isn’t much we can do unfortunately. Leah I suggest you go back to your room and see if y/n comes back. Inform us immediately if she comes, Viv and Beth can you go to the restaurant and bar to check if y/n’s there?” Kim started to make a plan.

Kim, Less and Katie stayed in the teamroom. Alessia was crying. She knew how bad it could get for you. Last time, about two years ago, she and Ella Toone had found you on the roof of the hotel, ready to jump. After that you started to get better. You were put on antidepressants and went to therapy for a year. She was happy that you were getting better. She didn’t want to believe the signs of depression when she first noticed them again. She didn’t want you to go through that again.

The team didn’t have to look for a long time before you showed up back in your room where Leah was pacing around. She stopped immediately when she heard the door open. Next she saw you with tears in your eyes standing there. Looking so fragile.

“I think I need help Leah, please help me” You said with the tiniest voice, lips quivering but Leah heard you. She came running to you before you collapsed on her embrace. You cried as she carried you to the bed and then continued to let you cry against her.

She quickly found her phone in her pocket and sent a quick text to Kim that you were back. Then she ignored the respond she got and just continued to hug you.

“I’m here for you and I’m going to get you the help you need” Leah whispered in your ear.

—

This was supposed to be longer but I don’t really know how to continue this so I might do a part 2 where reader sorts with the aftermath about everything. Would you be interested in part 2?

[nevertheless-moving]

Stormlight AU 27B: Elhokar time travel

From Death to Way of Kings. Tries to get help, but unfortunately Elhokar is alone here.

Alternate version of this meeting, in which Elhokar uses his elementary light weaving skills to sneak into Sadeas bridgeman barracks, absolutely scaring the shit out of them.

Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes entering the barracks [it is his first time trying to be invisible. He is bad at it]: hello stormbles — do you all just sleep on the floor? And what is that smell? Heralds, this is depressing.

Bridge Four: WHAT THE — VOIDBRINGER! VOID —

Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes: wha — I am not a voidbringer! Stormblessed, tell them! I don't look anything like a voidbringer!

Kaladin: what? What are you? how do you know me? what do you want from us?

Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes: i — i thought —

Kaladin: Bissig, your knife, quick —

Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes: ah! keleks breath! Knife is not necessary, i, look — look — you remember, right? You saved me from assassins? We flew from Urithiru to Alethkar? Rescuing — well, attempting to rescue the queen? Come on hero, your kind of my last hope here, you have to remember —

[Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes turns into pretty light eyed woman]: tada! I - I swore my first oath! Just before I….you were there!

Teft: damnation! You're one too, aren't you!

Moash: uh, kal? It… might be a good time to talk about your past now?

Lopen: gancho, does this have something to do with your, you know, thing.

Skar: thing? what thing?

Rock: captain, i believe this woman too has god with her

Drehy: god?

Kaladin: i … have no idea what's going on. Who — what are you?

Brightlady [starting to tear up]: i — i thought for sure you would…you're the hero, not…oh stormfather, what am i supposed to do now?

Lopen: gancho! Very rude question! If you can't remember a woman's name you're supposed to fake it eh?

Moash: yeah kaladin, don't you know anything about women? Also, seriously? a lighteyes?

Kaladin:

Kaladin: i'm sorry ma'am, i don't — i have no idea what you're talking about

Brightlady [sniffling]: okay…alright…you don't remember, but you can still fix this— you can fly right? You could take an army to the voidbringers before they bring the desolation —

Hobber: you can fly??

Moash: don't be stupid, she's clearly insane — that black smoke must have been some kind of trick — listen lady —

Teft: lad…

Kaladin: i can't —

Syl: actually i just remembered! I think you might be able to — well not fly like me, but uh, fall? Upwards?

Kaladin:

Kaladin: I — I don't know how to fly! I'm not who you think i am!

Drehy: did anyone notice he didn't say he couldn't fly. because he definitely changed what he was going to say just now. Like i don't know how to use a bow, but i probably could, if someone taught me

Moash: Kal, just say you can't fly and end this conversation already

Kaladin: ...I have never flown before in my life

Bissig: i KNEW there was something about you — you're a herald in disguise, right?

Kaladin: what?! No! I — I might be a surgebinder, but seriously, I have no idea what's going on, alright?

Moash: what in the name of jezrians balls is a surgebinder?

Brightlady: i can't free you yet — dalinar will die…

Kaladin: wait, you can free us?

Brightlady: i mean i could probably buy you from Sadeas…but dalinar won't listen to me, he thinks i'm being paranoid — he would die — the entire kholin house would fall…

Kaladin: i don't give a cremling's leg about the kholin house! My men are dying! The bridgecrews are a death sentence and we're making runs every day now! If you want me to be some big voidbringer slaying hero then free us first!

Brightlady: oh? And the thousands of dark eyed soldiers under his command? You don't care about them?

Kaladin: what are we supposed to do as slaves that —

Voice from outside: hey! Bridge Four! What's that racket?

Moash: chull dung

Skar: Captain —

Kaladin: ah! Quick, change back to the voidbringer!

Brightlady: I'm not a —

Kaladin: if they find a brightlady in here we'll all be strung up! Hurry!

Brightlady: who would dare — oh, right right, uh —

[Brightlady transforms into nondescript herdassian man]: how — 'ows that?

Lopen: cousin!

Anyway after Elhokar leaves bridge four is left with the distinct impression that Kaladin is a herald who lost his memory.

Kaladin: i haven't lost my memory! I remember my whole life! I just don't like talking about it! None of us like talking about our pasts! Teft tell them what you told me —

Teft: …i mean i thought you were a surgebinder, but…

Moash: seriously what in damnation is surgebinding

Teft: it's people with the same powers as knights radiant. People who can breathe in stormlight and do things with it. After he survived the highstorm i brought him diamond chips…it's how he healed

Kaladin: which you didn't actually tell me right away

Skar: why didn't you tell us?

Moash: yeah. I thought we were in this together

Kaladin: i – i didn't know what to think. I still don't. For all i know I'm cursed, like the Knight's radiant were.

Lopen: you ain't cursed gancho! What kind of curse let's you stick rocks together?

Rock: stick rocks together?

Moash: alright, i can see why you wouldn't share a storming useless power

Teft: i thought you were a radiant but… most people say that the heralds come first, warning the world and then training the radiants. In some ways it makes more sense to be a herald alone than a single radiant without a herald…

Drehy: oh! Which herald do you think he is!

Kaladin: i am not a herald!

Sigzil: i believe that woman would have been Shalash — i have seen her depicted as a many faced woman capable of soul casting

Moash: huh i have heard that soulcasters are actually something unnatural under those hoods

Kaladin: seriously moash? You believe this?

Moash: i mean i already knew no one was answering prayers. If you're a herald that just means that the gods are fumbling around confused and screwing up, which would storming explain a lot about the world

Skar: oh that's a good point

Kaladin: no it's not!

Hobber: its alright sir! Er, my lord!

Kaladin: do NOT call me —

Eth: when i asked him about washing hands before and after touching wounds he just said 'wisdom of the heralds'

General bridgemen: oooh

Kaladin: my father taught me that! He's a surgeon! I grew up in a rural farming village in Sadeas! Enlisted in the army when i was 15 – i can remember my whole life, alright? Every miserable detail! I was 11 when King Gavilar died! I — and I can't believe i have to convince people of this — am not a Herald!

Bridge Four:

Rock: have heard of men whose minds make up stories after hitting head

Lopen: oh! oh! or, maybe its like, a past life thing

Sigzil: some religions do tell of mythical figures being reborn in times of need

General bridge four: ooh

Kaladin: YOU THREE AREN'T EVEN VORIN

Lopen: exactly!

Sigzil: reluctant as i am to be on the same side of an argument as lopen, it is not really heresy for us

Teft: i think jezrian and nale were the ones who could walk on walls and whatnot

Jaks: Jezrian sort of rhymes with kaladin!

Kaladin:

Kaladin: I'm going back to sleep.

[teeny-tiny-revenge]

It's home cinema manufacturing time! 🏴‍☠️ Gonna put my pirate show on my shelf! (I'm doing an Arts and Crafts Project and I'm making it everyone's problem.)

After seeing how much they cost, I abandoned the idea of getting a Blu-ray writer for now. For the time being, good old DVDs is what it's going to be! My TV is old and not very big, so DVD resolution is gonna be fine.

It's been ages since I last burned a DVD. For the full experience, I'm gonna create nice menus and pretty sleeves for the boxes. Graphic design is my passion! Um.

Well. First needed to find a program to do stuff with. I'm a Linux guy, so I'm using Devede. (Which is free, btw. In case someone else wants to do a low cost spot of putting pirate show on the shelf.)

DVDs fit a maximum of 120 minutes of video. So, four episodes, I thought. But after a quick attempt, the program refused to do more than three (maybe because of the menu also taking up space, and four episodes cutting pretty close to the 120 min mark?). Anyway, three episodes per disc it is. It's a pretty nice runtime for watching the entire disc, IMO. An hour and a half, and then you can return to reality to realise you should probably eat something, or go to bed because it's midnight.

OFMD with its current two seasons has a total of eighteen episodes, which is divisible by three. You get the following setup:

Disc 1: Pilot, A Damned Man, The Gentleman Pirate - That's pretty good, Stede's introduction to piracy all on one disc!

Disc 2: Discomfort in a Married State, The Best Revenge is Dressing Well, The Art of Fuckery - All bangers. Great to watch together, our boys meet and shenanigans happen!

Disc 3: This is Happening, We Gull Way Back, Act of Grace - Many romantic moments, lots of great scenes, shit hits the fan at the end there. Alright!

Disc 4: Wherever you go, there you are, Impossible Birds, Red Flags - ... Pain and angst! What have I done!?! The disc of horrors. Gotta make sure to have tissues at hand when I watch this. But hey, it also has messy bun Ed! Small mercies.

Disc 5: The Innkeeper, Fun and Games, The Curse of the Seafaring Life. - Another disc with all winners. I love all these episodes so much! (You can watch this disc to recover from the trauma of the previous one!) But seriously, this one slaps.

Disc 6: Calypso's Birthday, Man on Fire, Mermen - Great combination again. Season finale! Love and excitement!

... Honestly, except for the psychological damage of putting all the most painful episodes together, this is coming out pretty cool. Says a lot about how good the show is. I actually really love all the episodes (yes even the painful angsty episodes of massive depression). Thinking about this little project really reminded me how much I love this entire show.

So, we got a tracklist, now menus, then we can burn this stuff!

I did the menu backgrounds in GIMP. Realised I have a big folder full of screenshots I took myself, screenshots someone else took and posted on Tumblr, official promo pics for the show, and I have no idea anymore where most of them are from, because I named the files according to what's on them. Which is useful for when you want to find pics (Need a picture of cursed suit Stede? I have files named that, easy peasy!), but not so great if you wanted to give credit to whoever took a given pic you used. (It's probably @sherlockig or @ofmd-ann or @blakbonnet. Please feel credited, your beautiful screens and gifs brighten my day, and some of them are now probably part of my DVD menus. Shrunk down and cropped, but, yeah.)

I originally wanted to structure my menus as having the title of an episode, then some pics from it, then the next episode, then pics from that, and so forth, but I couldn't convince the program to give me the necessary padding between the menu items, so I ended up just putting the episode images below the menu. Still like it.

Anyway, DVD menus can also play sound! Behold a crappy video of my beautiful creation (provided entirely for sound):

It plays Gnossienne N°5!

More crappy pics of my other disc menus:

Gonna make them some nice sleeves next. Some day. Gotta make sure they all work properly first. So. I'll be on my sofa, watching my DVDs. With menus! (Edit: here are!)