#also tried to convey the 'was about to have an anxiety/panic attack but friend said something that interrupted the spiraling' on Swap's fac

[thebad-lydrawn-sanses]

Is blue talking to fell?

Blue: YEAH. HE'S MY FRIEND. Blue: SOMETIMES DEALING WITH DREAM AND INK CAN BE TOO MUCH, SO I GO HANG OUT WITH HIM. Blue: (PLEASE DON'T TELL THEM I SAID THAT)

Phone contact: vermillion bitch (/paff) vb (texting): running late srry bb Blue (texting): BB?? LIKE BABY BLUE?? vb (texting): yeah Blue (texting): THAT BETTER NOT BE WHAT I AM IN YOUR PHONE CONTACTS vb (texting): i would never Blue (texting): PERISH

[twst-campos13]

headcanons for Rook, Malleus, Silver, and Vil when their m!s/o jumps on their back biting their head screaming nonsense like a mad man. the first year gang coming running and one explains wheezing “mistake in potions, physical capabilities inhanced, out of control, immune to magic, help”

the rest of the day is spent with literally all the twst boys chasing after their insane boyfriend. tears were shed, dignity lost, pride scratched.

by the time he’s caught it’s nearly midnight and none of them know what’s real anymore since he kept screaming very philosophical things.

i await your answer with anticipation~

*weakly grips you,,,* 

it is...finished....i will leave most of my commentary in the notes...also please read the warning tags carefully! 

Warnings: language, mild physical violence, implicit dementia (Vil’s part!), poison, blood, depiction/description of death, goofy’s trial dialogue (Vil’s part), mild gun threat (Vil’s part) << no actual guns were present but was mentioned Tags: male!reader, angst, crackfic

This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Ace started it. Deuce aided. Epel volunteered. Jack said it was a bad idea and Sebek warned them. Yet in the end—in the end—they contributed. They helped. And when the smoke cleared from the explosion that shattered the laboratory's windows, beakers, and test tubes, spilling chemicals on the ground—on you—it was too late for Crewel to protect you. For your friends to protect you.

Grim called your name. Once. Twice. Thrice in a yowl of panic as Deuce held him back and carried him away when he tried to get closer to your unmoving body; it's laying in a puddle of liquid. Black? Brown? Gray? He doesn't know the colors—how doesn't know what's happening—he doesn't know and he doesn't care because he just wants you to be safe.

Ace couldn't speak. Deuce couldn't move. Epel started shaking but hid behind a mask of control. Jack's ears and tail were erratic and Sebek broke the silence with a firm command of retreating. Let the professor handle this. Let the adult handle it.

Then you moved.

They watched you rose from the ground like a corpse from the grave.

And hell breaks loose.

➸ Why did you bite his head and messed his hair up

➸ He got no time for games, fool

➸ KIDDING

➸ Granted you did jump at Vil when his Flying Class was done. It startled him and shocked everybody. His face flared because he thought your surprise hugs had gotten too far. It took Mr. Ashton and a few of his classmates to get you off him. He's pretty sure you managed to tear off a few hairs from his scalp—and skin apparently because he felt blood drip down his lashes. 

➸ Okay, that's not normal behavior for you-

➸ You were more than disheveled; your lab coat was torn and singed, blood was seeping from your clothes, and you had a dazed look. Vil fixed himself immediately, of course, but it's natural for him to get worried about you. You looked awful. Vil was sure the chemicals splattered on your skin and uniform was what was making you disoriented. What are these fools doing still holding onto you? You should be taken to the infirmary this instance! 

➸ Vil wasn't prepared for what you did next. The moment Mr. Ashton held your shoulders to lead you to the infirmary, you knocked him out with an elbow strike. What the fuck.

➸ Okay, obviously, you're defensive. Vil took out his pen and—along with a few other students and the professor??—tried to restrain you. Vil was careful not to cast any harmful spells on you but for some reason, the professor and the other seniors seem to go off on casting advanced spells that could quite literally kill you! Du spinnst wohl are they insane?

➸ It took a lot from Vil to not be hysterical. Panicking will not do him any good but having to witness you get blasted by magic and only shake it off while maddeningly laughing is frustrating. He couldn't bear the sight of seeing you get hurt and argued loudly with one of the seniors to go easy on you. The fact that you were spouting nonsense doesn't help your situation at all, especially when you declared this, "ah-hyuck! I'll fucking shoot 'em again."

➸ "Love, will you please cooperate!" was what Vil wished to say, but seeing you in this state brought a jab of pain in his heart. The familiarity of this situation—the confusion, the frustration, the worry, the pain—adds up to the pressure and desperation of just saving you from whatever the fuck this is. 

➸ Vil doesn't even want to look at himself in the mirror. He fears that he'll end up breaking the mirror from what he'll see, but he's pretty sure, with the fight and the chase you're giving everyone, that his makeup is running and his hair is a mess. Amidst nausea and chaos, Vil came up with a solution to restrain you. So, gathering what is left of his dignity and pride, and his love for you, Vil wiped the sweat and smudged makeup off his face and ran back to Pomefiore.

➸ Don't ask why he has a ready-made collection of poisons. Just don't. It's for emergencies—such as this. 

➸ Rook found him hunched over his table with the vials of poison. He calmed Vil down and assured him that you'll be alright. The only fear that Vil has is losing another person he cares about—that includes you. Rook kissed his hand and told him he will bring the poison to you. Rook knows how much you mean to Vil, and because of his devotion to his roi de poison, he will do whatever he can to ensure your safety for Vil's sanity.

➸ Rook advised Vil not to come with him, but he wants to. Vil wants to be able to hold you in his arms and be the first to make sure that you're okay. 

➸ When the deed has been done, Vil rushed to your side. He expected your body to be as cold as a corpse but still, it shocked him. He ignored the whisper of doubt and tended to the wound Rook made to put you to sleep. You've been taken to the infirmary along with everyone else that you caused inconvenience. Vil didn't come for the anxiety settled with the fatigue in his body.

➸ When Vil came back to the Pomefiore common room, sluggish and tired, he found Rook holding Epel's shoulder. The little potato couldn't look at him in the eye and frankly, Vil just wanted to spend some time in his quarters. However, Epel's confessed, and a little bit of energy came back to Vil so he can process what the little potato said to him.

➸ He what.

➸ His hand sprung up instinctively and Epel flinched. But Vil knew this wouldn't undo what happened. He knew it isn't worth it. Vil doesn't have the strength to be angry or blame Epel. It was a mistake, after all. A very stupid mistake. Epel looked pitiful crying for forgiveness so Vil asked Rook to send him back to his room.

➸ It's proven enough just how Vil cares about you.

Vil sat down in front of his vanity table. He could not bear to look at himself in the mirror. All he could do is stare blankly at nothing. Your words made no sense and Vil feared the worst when you wake up. If you wake up.

"Great Sevens..." he muttered and wiped the tears that fell from his face. He knew what he had to do next. He just had to be prepared for it.

➸  Imagine Rook saying "oh mon Dieu" with the most neutral face and surprised eyes as if the explosion was just a mild inconvenience. 

➸  POV: you're Trey Clover 

➸  He and Trey were just cleaning around in the greenhouse when the explosion occurred. Rook knows that you have a special assignment with your friends. You didn't tell him what it is but he doesn't need you to. (He overheard Epel and Ace chill he respects you enough as his boyfriend to not pry into your private life via stalking)

- ➸ He wasted no time dashing to the potions lab. Being a hunter makes you very quickly as well as expecting the unexpected. However, he didn't expect the First Year Gang to be thrown out of the door and you emerge from the smoke as if you were some sort of ravaging beast. 

➸  If you weren't obviously covered in soot and blood, Rook would have fainted from the beauty and badassery you're currently conveying. 

➸  Now is not the time to be in awe—you jumped wall to wall with a speed faster than a cheetah's and Rook was able to deflect your attack by sidestepping. However, a few students got injured in the process. Rook saw your intention despite Monsieur Heart warning the students to not get in the way, lest they hurt themselves. You had no intention to harm—only run. 

➸  Rook has two options: follow you empty-handed or grab his bow and risk losing you

➸  He's confident in his skills in finding you, so he chose to gather information first. By that, well, pulling Epel to the side to calm him down then ask him what happened. Rook managed to understand the situation despite Epel shaking like a leaf. He doesn't feel angry. Such emotion would only intensify his instincts and he might do something that will put you and everyone else in harm more. So instead he thanked Epel, gave his head a pat, and quickly dashed to his locker for his bow and arrows. 

➸  Your boyfriend is a madman before you, for he immediately knows where you were after getting his bow. Rook attained higher heights for a better view and from the roof, he saw your figure dashing towards the forest. Ah, so your instincts led you to where you wish to be. Alright, this isn't Rook's first hunt. 

➸  When everyone else had trouble tracking you down, Rook doesn't. He reminded himself that you're not in the right mind. His monsieur filou is akin to a startled, confused, and defensive wild animal at the moment. Like a little rat, he supposed. Your movements aren't that hard to decipher for a hunter like him plus he can hear your kitchen philosophy from a mile away. 

➸  He has to apologize to Vil for taking a few vials of ready-made poison. But this is a matter of life and death. You are in danger from yourself, and as your knight, Rook will save you. Quiet as he can, he laced the tip of his arrow with the poison and aimed it at you. Rook closed his eyes and reminded himself that he is doing this to save you; not to harm you. 

➸  He notched his arrow—and you caught it with your bare. Fucking. Hand. SINGLE HAND!!

➸  Rook, internally: holy shit that was hot 

➸  Well his covers have been blown and you waved the arrow around screaming something about "I trusted you little guy!" before throwing the arrow with such accuracy while saying "go and take your little mice friend family rat with you!"

➸  Mon Dieu, he does not appreciate being called a rat!

➸  The chase continued and you quite gave everyone a workout. As much as Rook appreciated the stimulating experience you gave him, he much rather wants you subdued and safe, not running around with so many people after you. Luckily, Vil came in and gave him a new vial that is much more potent than the one he stole. He is amazed by the preparedness of his roi de poison but he is much concerned at the potency of the poison. 

➸  Vil strictly stared at him and nodded at the new direction you ran to. "With his state like that, you need to take the risks." Rook took his advice. Vil is always sharp as a dagger after all.

➸  Which means he had to use a dagger than an arrow to subdue you. Yes, Rook took the risk of having the poison close to him and closer to you in a 1 v 1 scuffle. Ah, this took him back to when he wrestled his first bear. Except the bear is his boyfriend and you're still quite human...and he's going to drive the blade of his dagger in a non-critical part of your body.

➸  Finally, the drama ended, and the curtains closed when your body fell into his arms. Your blood trickles into a small stream from where he drove the blade in. Rook knelt to the ground and cradled your body in his arms. Sweat dripped everywhere on his skin but he doesn't care about that. He cares about you. 

➸  Rook reminded himself that you can be cured of your sleep-like death and prioritized the wound that he engraved on your skin. He kissed the place where he stabbed you and solemnly apologized for defacing your body. Worry not, he will have you stitched in the infirmary, and you will awaken with his kiss...atleast he hoped you will. 

➸  Epel was waiting there when Rook brought you in. The poor boy had been crying and he apologized to Rook for the mistake he had done. Rook felt no anger and instead felt sympathy. He too had done his fair share of mistakes, and Epel should not burden himself with those. Instead, he told him, take this as a learning experience as to not do it again.

➸  Rook saved Epel from Vil's harsh scolding. Now, the only one that needs saving, is you.

Even in a sleep-like death, you are still beautiful. Your pale skin is a worrying sight to many but Rook managed to calm himself by admiring it instead. Your body is like marble with blue veins spreading in varied directions.

Rook knew he cannot distract himself by admiring you like a statue of art. You are an art, not a statue. Only histories remain as statues—and you will not become history. He knew what he had to do.

"Oh, mon filou," he whispered against your cold lips, "forgive me."

➸ Just a reminder: Malleus cares for you deeply :))

➸ He was just minding his own business when you suddenly attacked him from behind. Malleus thought you were just being your usual self and lifted his head so you'd let go of his horns. But you didn't and instead, you pulled on it harder that it startled him. He knows how strong you are—meaning something is wrong-

➸ You had quite the vice grip on his horns even when he used his tail to try and pry you off and even shake you off. He didn't want to use his entire strength to throw you but the moment his skin broke under your nails, his instincts came in first, and he threw you across the hallway. 

➸ Malleus was horrified. He didn't mean to throw you much less even hurt you. The panic got to him faster than the pain on his head as he rushed to where you flew. Was it possible to feel overwhelming fear? When Malleus' saw the outline of your figure cut clean on the window, he felt something more than fear. If he had lost you and it was his fault, then his promises for you are broken. 

➸ Then he spots your hand reach through the hole in the window. And you pulled yourself up and through the hole before dropping to the floor like a ragdoll. You were covered in bruises and cuts. Malleus feared that you have a concussion as well for you were muttering loudly about the stars melting and the Moores burning.

➸ Well, Malleus could worry about that later. You were injured and disoriented. The amount of blood coming out of you is increasing and his priority is getting you to safety. 

➸ However, just before he can scoop you in his arms, his knights came to his side. Silver looked like he'd been roused from his sleep as Sebek is disheveled. He made a firm declaration of protecting the Young Master, and that would have been normal for Sebek...if he was standing proud and tall as he said it. Malleus could easily smell the anxiety and lingering guilt from the young fae. 

➸ Things got even more concerning as Professor Crewel, Crowley, a few senior students, and Sebek's friends joined in. Malleus looked back at you and saw your cornered state. He doesn't understand what's happening yet but one thing is for sure—you're equally terrified as he is. Everyone was on guard, the Headmaster and the Professor spoke to you as if you were a wild animal—which you were—but all Malleus could think of is grabbing you and flying you away to safety.

➸ Which he did do despite public opinions

➸ By public opinions, the shouts of protests that soon fell quiet when he grabbed you and disappeared...also the "protest" falling from you which Malleus couldn't really understand. It was philosophy and poetry and a prophecy that he can comprehend little; for all Malleus cares about is you.

➸ "My dear, please, what had happened to you?" The desperation was painfully obvious in his tone as he restrained you with advanced magic. Yet as he tried to call you out of your subconscious he realized that magic is futile. Whatever state you are in you are able to break free from his magic. Malleus stayed on the defense as you attacked him, yet he recognized your attempts of attacking as desperation for help. If you crying and wailing out "save me" and "free me" isn't enough to give it away.

➸ No matter how many cuts you give him, no matter how much he will bleed, Malleus refused to fight you. 

➸ He just wants you to be okay :((

➸  Malleus knew what he had to do but he doesn't know if he had the strength to do it. Your face streaked with tears and pain pushed his heart to do it anyway. So, Malleus shoved you away with a quick pulse of magic, just enough time for him to summon his staff. He blocked your mouth from biting his neck with his arm, and even if it hurts, seeing your eyes begging to be saved hurts more. 

➸ When Lilia and the others found him, he was cradling your body in his arms. His staff laid on the ground and his tears dripped down your face like a fickle rain. Lilia didn't need an answer to know what he had done. 

➸ Malleus pulled your unconscious body close to him, hoping—desperate—to feel your warmth. But he couldn't. He couldn't hear your pulse, your heartbeat, and he couldn't feel your warmth. All he could feel is cold and numbness. But atleast you are at rest. You are saved. You're okay. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay.

➸ But he knows deep down that you're not. Because if you are okay, he wouldn't be noiselessly crying and clinging to your body as if you just died. You're alive but you're also dead. Knowing the cure for this dilemma tore his heart to pieces because deep down Malleus is still afraid. He feels like he lost you even though the truth isn't far from it. 

➸ Your words echoed in his mind before he hit you with his Unique Magic. You started hissing and wailing and finally, you raised your arms in the air and shouted, "this curse will last till the end of time—no power on earth can change it!" 

➸ Can you blame him for putting you in a sleep-like death, a sleep which you will never awaken unless by True Love's Kiss? He panicked :((

➸ Malleus kept your body close to him even when he stood up and looked at Sebek bowing deeply on the ground. He was shaking but his tone was loud enough for Malleus to have an understanding of the matter and of Sebek's apology. 

➸ Hearing that he was an accomplice of what happened to you gave him mixed emotions. 

➸ Sebek vowed his loyalty to Malleus, and when you came into his life, Sebek vowed to protect you as well. And he failed. That is very clear. The poor boy must be getting gnawed inside out with guilt. Well, Sebek did say that he will accept whatever punishment that is will befall him. He should stay true to his words because Malleus is furious. 

➸ Malleus vowed to protect you and raise Hellfire to whoever will cause you harm. He wanted to curse him, burn him on where he stands, and make him pay for what he had done unto you. He could do all of these for he can.

➸ But Malleus won't. He won't do those things to Sebek. He held himself back, swallowed the anger, remained in control of himself in front of the pitiful boy. Sebek is your friend. Sebek is his family. In the end, despite his loyalty, despite his duty, Sebek is still a kid. And Malleus knows that. He won't let this burden the young boy despite him taking full responsibility for the situation.

➸ But Malleus doesn't have the words to say what he wants to say. Instead, he told Sebek to rise from his feet and wordlessly left to bring you to the infirmary. 

➸ In the end, what matters most is you.

Your words remain in his mind to echo along with the voices of his fears. Malleus wished to feel the warmth of your hand again, for when he grasped it by your bedside he could feel nothing.

True Love's Kiss can wake you. True Love's Kiss. But do such a thing exist in Twisted Wonderland? Of course, it does, Malleus, of course, it does. However, seeing your pale lips are more of a dreadful reminder than a hopeful invitation.

The fear settled in his stomach along with his insecurities. Malleus cannot lose you. He can live without you, but he does not want to.

➸ Homeboy was just sleeping under the tree,,, he didn't hear the explosion go off or even heard you running at him at full speed

➸ By that, well, running at inhumane speed and pouncing right on him like a rabid animal.

➸ He woke right up when he felt the pain immediately. It was like getting hit with a spine of a book—it jostled him enough to wake him, at least, and the adrenaline rushing through him was enough to knock you off. Silver didn't have time to get what the fuck was happening but thank the Sevens he was trained enough to be quick-footed. 

➸ He had time to grab his baton but he didn't have time to block your pounce. And damn you hit like a truck! Silver had to use his baton to block your face even if your entire weight was pressing down at him. There was something definitely wrong with you—and it's not just the look in your eyes-

➸ "What's gotten into you?!" the sudden shout made you calm down—thankfully—and Silver thought you're fine again. You looked at him blankly and the anxiety nipped at his skin. "Are you talking to me?" ????? Who else is he talking to??? 

➸ When he talked to you, like, yes dear I'm talking to you, your face contorted into something akin to bashfulness—the tipsy kind of bashfulness. The next thing you said confused and worried him more: "Mrs. Robinsons...you're seducing me."

➸ ???? Who the fuck is Mrs. Robinsons???

➸ Well, Silver doesn't have time to think what kind of enchantment table language you're daying because you're suddenly thrown away from him by a burst of magic—advanced magic that he only saw Malleus cast once because of the sheer force it can create. By that, meaning, one single hit of that magic can KILL A REGULAR HUMAN BEING.

➸ It was Professor Crewel who fired the blast and even he looked astounded at what he'd done. Silver didn't waste any time rushing to where you were blasted off. He was expecting you...dead, remains, fuck...what he wasn't expecting was seeing you still standing. Barely alive with your skin blooded and peeling and regenerating—but alive, nonetheless. 

➸ He locked eyes with you again and the cold feeling settled at the pit of his stomach looking at you. "Hey. Don't look at me like I'm fucking Frankenstein." You opened your arms at him and gave a solemn nod. "Give your father a hug." 

➸ Silver, softly: what the fuck

➸ When Professor Crewel withdrew his wand again you literally hissed like a raccoon. And it looked like he wasn't alone for Sebek pulled Silver away from your range. Ace, Deuce, and Grim were here too. Silver took a deep breath and looked at Sebek wordlessly demanding what the fuck is happening. 

➸ Sebek, as quick as he could, explained the situation to Silver. The quick run-down of things swum around in Silver's head as your nonsensical remarks made him dizzier. Guess that explains your strength and immunity to magic. 

➸ Silver: who did this to him?? Sebek, sweating: it's a funny story, really

➸ Silver stared at Sebek. He didn't have time to process what the fuck Sebek just confessed to because you screamed again. Sebek and he whipped around to see you viciously tearing apart roots and magical bonds set off by the professor along with the senior students that rushed to the scene. "ALRIGHT," you screamed, yeeting Ace, "I'm TIRED of these EFFIN snakes on this MOTHERFUCKIN' TRAIN!" Then you took off running the other direction toward the forest, and the chorus of frustration reminded Silver of the gravity of the situation.

➸ The absurd weight on his entire body made Silver wish this was just a nightmare.

➸ But it would be a nightmare to lose you. 

➸ Even when the night was starting to stretch, and the others were sent by the staff to the infirmary, Silver went to the forest with a heavy heart and his baton in hand. Sebek followed him—for what, a sense of responsibility?—and stopped him before he runs into a tree or worse. Silver snapped at him, the anger finally reaching its surface, and he glared at the young man. Silver isn't the type to fight with his fist nor his words, but this is about you. You who were struck by a mix of potions and magic and currently missing because someone's big head got you in trouble.

➸ Silver knows that Sebek knows how much you mean to him. He's also well aware of Sebek's particular dislike for humans. That remark made Sebek slightly stumble. A flash of hurt and angry was in his eyes but he never tried to hit Silver, despite almost losing control over himself. 

➸ "Fighting would not bring him back, Silver. Arguing will not either," Sebek told him. "I know my apologies will be useless in this situation and that is why I will do everything that I can to fix this." 

➸ Silver is on the verge of fucking tears but it won't compare to Sebek who remains a straight face while his nose turns bright red from holding back tears. Fortunately, before things get worse, Lilia and Malleus came from the trees. In Malleus' arms was you, quiet, and sedated. Silver would have jumped at Malleus and whisked you away but he's suddenly overcome with fatigue that Lilia had to place his arms around him. 

➸ Apparently, the two found you by the river doing whatever then Malleus struck you with his Unique Magic. At that mention, Silver felt cold. He didn't realize how tired he felt, from running around to worrying about you. Despite the heaviness on his shoulders and eyelids, he kept his eyes on you. You looked peaceful but hurt. And Silver wished he can keep you close to him to make you less hurt.

➸ He's glad that you're okay now but he feels dreadful about what's to come next. That dread never left, though, even when the slumber takes him.

"Poor things," Lilia sighed, stroking Silver's locks as Sebek carried the boy on his back. Malleus still has your unconscious body in your arms. His expression is unreadable.

Sebek felt the guilt suffocating him but he remained calm despite the lodge in his throat. "M—Master Lilia—Young master—It...this is..." Sebek stammered, failing to grasp the appropriate words for a sincere pardon. Yet Silver's weight is just as heavy as his sins. Lilia, however, stroked his head. "Save your strength, little one. The best you can do for now is take Silver to the infirmary," the elder fae instructed.

Sebek only nodded and obediently abided.

[thishintoflove]

For the bobadin prompts; maybe something angsty with a little fluff?

I feel like a lot of fics don’t do enough exploration into the ‘caring Boba’ side - the one that decided ‘I’m just gonna help this random stranger save their child because why not?’ - and it always warms my heart when I find a fic that does.

Oh I feel the same way, anon! Don’t get me wrong, I love rough!Boba fics but I also truly believe that the man has a deep, caring side too. 

Here’s some soft!Boba helping Din during an anxiety attack, shortly after losing Grogu on Tython.

Boba Fett decided that he needed more information. 

The Slave I was on autopilot, headed to Nevarro at the request of the silver Mandalorian. Fennec was off somewhere in the ship, probably polishing her weapons, and Boba decided to go track down Mando. They’d barely exchanged more than a few sentences, but here he was, piloting his ship at the direction of some Mandalorian he’d just met all because he’d willingly given Boba his armor back. 

Bounty hunters lived in a world of exchanges: everything came with a price and Boba always paid his debts. The feeling of pure relief he felt at putting his father’s armor on again was so strong that the least he could do was help this fellow bounty hunter out. 

He shook his head as he quietly made his way through the passageways of his ship. No, it was more than that. If he was being honest with himself, he felt some deep, innate need to help the silver Mando due to his unique situation. He was a father and his child had been stolen. Instinct took over when Boba realized the situation, and he’d immediately offered his services to help the guy out because the mere thought of walking away knowing that he did nothing would have driven him mad with guilt. How could he purposely leave a child in the same situation that he himself had been left in? Boba Fett was not a man to leave a child fatherless when there was something he could do to help the situation. Apparently that meant he’d offer his ship and his services without thinking twice, all because the thought of separating a father and son made his stomach churn with unaddressed feelings. 

And now here he was, serving as a taxi service and a hired hand to a Mandalorian he didn’t really know or trust yet. So he needed more information. Surely Mando would be able to explain the whole situation, and then Boba could feel better about what he was doing instead of just feeling like a bit of a sucker. 

Boba climbed down the ladder into the cargo hold and immediately picked up on the sound of heavy, modulated breathing. He quietly moved toward the sound and peered among the crates to see Mando doubled over, his hand gripping at the beskar chest plate as he tried to control his rapid breaths. 

What was going on? Was Mando injured? He hadn’t seen any blood as they’d boarded the ship. Boba quickly ran through every single possibility that might have brought on this clear anguish that Mando was experiencing, and he quickly came to the obvious conclusion: the man was having a panic attack. 

Slowly, Boba approached the hyperventilating man and cautiously called out so that he wouldn’t frighten him,

“Mando? It’s Fett. Are you alright?”

It didn’t work and the man jumped anyway. He quickly whipped around and stared at Boba through his visor, one hand immediately going to the blaster on his hip. But the movement seemed to be too much for him and he wavered, gripping the edge of the crate to hold himself up. Boba quickly stepped forward and grabbed Mando’s shoulder, squeezing it in his strong grip as he helped the man sit down on the edge of the box. The gesture was meant to ground the other man, and he hoped he could convey a sense of calmness through the touch rather than frighten the man even more. A visible shudder rippled along Mando’s arms, down his chest, and through his entire body. After a few seconds, he was finally capable of taking a full breath.

“That’s right. Try to take deep breaths, my friend. In through the nose, out through the mouth.” Boba coaxed, hoping his presence was helping Mando and not adding to his stress. 

He knew what it was like to feel small and desperately alone. Being a bounty hunter was a solo profession- there was no room for long-term relationships or building bonds with others. After all his years traversing the galaxy alone, Boba was self-aware enough to know that he didn’t react to kindness and touch in the same way that most people did. He assumed Mando was the same way. The armor they both wore put out a menacing image to others, but it didn’t change the feelings of the person inside it. They were both human, and sometimes humans needed to feel like they weren’t alone in the world. 

“It’s alright, you’re safe here,” Boba continued, speaking softly as he tried to think of what he’d like to hear if he was in this situation. He’d learned the steps necessary to regain control of his mind and body under the worst of situations and he hoped his methods would work on Mando too. “You’re safe. Take all the time you need.” 

Still sitting down, Mando’s hand landed on top of Boba’s that was settled on his shoulder. He kept his head tucked down toward his chest, still concentrating on his breathing, but his hand squeezed Boba’s in recognition and gratitude. They stayed in the same position for what seemed like an eternity before Mando finally drew his head up and turned to look at Boba through his helmet.  

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice so small and tight that Boba could practically hear the tears in his eyes, even if he couldn’t see them. 

Mando’s other hand found its place on Boba’s forearm. While holding on tightly, the younger man emanated the gratefulness he felt at Boba’s touch. Honestly, Boba was surprised that it seemed to work so well. He wasn’t exactly known for his emotional intuition, but he was pleased he was capable of calming and resetting Mando. It confirmed his suspicion that they were more alike than he originally thought.  

“How are you feeling? Are you alright?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even but a hint of worry floated beneath it.

Mando swallowed hard before answering, “I am now. Whatever you did or are doing... it’s helping.” 

He took another deep breath, still trying to regain complete control. Boba slowly ran his hand down from Mando’s shoulder toward his lower arm, preparing to pull away, but as Mando felt him withdraw he rushed to grab his hand back, ensuring they maintained contact. Boba was surprised- expecting that Mando would want the physical contact to end as soon as possible. But maybe the man was finally being honest with himself and his own needs. It’d certainly taken Boba a long time to do the same thing, and he knew this probably wasn’t easy for Mando. If the man was asking for comfort via touch, Boba was not about to deny him. 

Mando grabbed onto his retreating hand, while the other hand gripped Boba’s forearm even tighter. Boba merely nodded and squeezed back, hoping to reassure the fragile man. 

“Please… don’t leave yet,” Mando said quietly. His voice was almost pleading, surprising Boba once again. He was pleased that Mando seemed to recognize that he would not judge, ridicule or shame him for his current weakened state. There was a new feeling in the pit of his stomach too- a gratifying, contented sensation that seemed to bloom when Mando admitted he needed him. 

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, slowly reaching up to rub the back of the other man’s neck, “I’ll stay.”

Mando hummed and let his head fall forward again, and Boba imagined his eyes falling shut in relief. Boba massaged Mando’s neck, trying to stay focused on comforting the younger man while ignoring the new feelings growing in his own chest. He realized he wanted to take care of him. He’d never felt such an immediate desire to protect someone before. Now was certainly not the time to dwell too deeply on that, but later Boba would reflect on the satisfaction he felt at being needed. 

He watched Mando’s hands clench and unclench, and finally the man tried to speak again, “I’m not usually… I never…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Boba replied, “Especially not now. I know you’re hurting.”

Mando nodded, but he glanced up at the ceiling of the ship and spoke anyway, “I had one job. One mission: to protect him. And I failed.”

His body began to shiver again, and Boba moved to sit beside him, wrapping one strong arm around the other man’s shoulders as he continued. “I failed him, and now he could be hurt or… or worse…”

“You haven’t failed him,” Boba said sternly, “A terrible accident occurred today, but you haven’t failed him and you won’t fail him.”

“But the Moff-”

“Do you want to get him back?” Boba asked, knowing the answer but wanting Mando to say it outloud. 

“More than anything,” Mando replied without hesitation. 

“Then we will. We will find him and we will get him back to you.”

Hearing the conviction in his voice must have helped, because Mando finally slumped against him, practically collapsing into Boba’s side. It was more physical contact than Boba had received in months, and he was surprised at how normal it felt-- as if it were the most natural thing in the world for this random Mandalorian to slot into his side like a puzzle piece. 

“Today, you’ve done enough,” Boba told him, hoping to keep the tension from creeping back into the other man, “There’s nothing else we can do until we reach Nevarro.”

Mando was silent, so Boba continued, “Say it with me. You’ve done enough.”

“I’ve done enough.”

Boba let out a pleased hum when Mando obeyed him. He even managed to sound sure of himself, which was definitely a step in the right direction. Boba reached down and patted the man’s knee with the hand that wasn’t still wrapped around his shoulders. He heard Mando sigh, just the softest of sounds, and Boba wished he knew what the man looked like so that he could properly imagine the way his lips parted at the sound. 

“I don’t know how to repay you. For taking me to Nevarro and for… this.” Mando said, sounding a bit more like his normal self.

“You do not need to repay me,” Boba told him, meaning every word. For once in his long life, he truly didn’t want anything in return. All he wanted was to make this strange yet familiar Mandolorian happy again. Maybe it was because he saw himself reflected in the younger man or maybe it was something more, but all that mattered was that Boba Fett was now dedicated to helping him find the foundling. 

”I will stay as long as you need me.”

[achliegh]

Happy

Alright my chickpeas, my little garbanzo beans (Wtf am I even saying) I am here to bring you the “Happy we-did-it Ending”. This one was really difficult for me to write because when it comes to good endings my mind just calls them fake. Which… I mean this is fiction so why can’t it be happy. Sorry if this sucks I tried my best. Please Read at your own risk! This is a triggering fic.

Love, Your Trash Monster

CW/TW: Past Abusive relationship, Anxiety, Depression, Panic Attack, past age difference relationship (Illegal)

Part1 Part2 Part3

Characters belong to @lumosinlove

Besides Luka, I made him up, don’t care for him tho

Leo's leg was bouncing uncontrollably, he and Sirius waited for Coach outside his office, He was grateful for Sirius like he felt indebted to him even though they only talked for maybe a half hour. He runs his hands through his hair for what feels like the millionth time.

“What if he doesn’t believe me?” He didn’t mean to say it out loud but when his captain turned and gave him a soft look, he realized he did. He looked down at his hands in his lap and picked at a bandaid. It was one of the Hello Kitty ones Logan bought on accident. “I mean I have no proof of any of this happening, What if Coach thinks I just dislike Luka for no reason and am trying to ruin his life or something like that… It wouldn’t be the first time an adult hasn’t believed me. I mean, there's that double standard that “Men don’t get sexually abused and if they do they don’t cry about it” it's why I never even told Finn and Lo until a few weeks ago. I didn’t want them to think less of me.” He smiles a little at the bandaid he was messing with and thinks about how lucky he is that his boys still love him. “I’m so lucky”

“I get it.” Sirius looked up just in time to see Arthur walking towards them. He smiles a little and stands with Leo next to him.

They follow Arthur into his office and sit down.

“So, is this about all the concerned people who have been telling me something is wrong with Leo?” His brushy red eyebrow lifts and he crosses his arms leaning back in his chair. “I was also told by a little Russian bird that there was an argument in the locker room between you and Luka. Leo whatever is going on it has a lot of people worried.” He leaned forward and set his hands on the arms of his big office chair. “Leo, you know I treat everyone of my players like my sons.”

Leo takes a shaky breath and clutches his hands together tightly in his lap. Gulping down the fearful frog in his throat he meets Coaches eyes. “ What I'm going to tell you is something I’ve only told to a few people. I don’t have any proof anymore, but I need you to believe me Coach.” He feels Sirius put a hand on his arm as a comforting I’m here motion. He told Arthur and Sirius everything, not leaving out any detail that he was comfortable enough to share. It was everything from the good, loving parts of the relationship that made him sick to his stomach now. To the horribly, hellish parts of the relationship that made him choke on his own tears. Leo didn’t think much of it back then (he was a little preoccupied trying not to break) but he remembered that most of Luka and his friend would film things with Leo because they thought it was funny to see him suffer or to save for later to use as blackmail on anyone in the videos.

“Wait, you said he filmed these things?” Arthur, who had turned white as a ghost and had a furious glint in his eye, started drumming his fingers. “Do you think he would have kept these videos throughout the two years you’ve been apart.?

“I know for a fact he's kept them” They both look at him with wide eyes and a silent invitation to explain. “He would ask me if I wanted to see them… or remake them” Talking about all this as making him feel like he was gonna puke. He had a foul taste in my mouth. Arthur put his head in his hands, he's devastated that he let such a fucking asshole interact with his team. That he let his youngest player suffer like that.

Sirius had stood abruptly from his chair and was pacing behind Leo’s chair with his hand interlocked on the back of his neck. He exhales deeply, seething with anger. How could he let this go on so long, he had picked up on Leos habits because Remus had pointed out how similar the two of them were at times. He feels like he failed as a Captain for not doing something sooner.

“Is there anything we can do, Coach? I mean, can we at least fire him?” He stopped pacing and ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath as he looked at the young kid next to him. How was he so good at hiding his pain? People would say that Sirius was good at that too but everyone on the team has seen him crack and spiral. Leo was always this calm, collected, cool support. He acted so mature for being so young and it was all clicking in his head. Everything about this 19 year old goalie was formed from the love and support of his family, but also the hate and abuse from a lover. He has experienced more than most people on the same team as him that are older than him.

“We can fire him, and if we do call the police, they can seize his electronics. If he really does still have those videos they could lock him up for CP because you were underage at the time. Nothing is guaranteed though.” He's deep in though, sometime during the processing of everything Leo had told them he had grabbed his laptop and was furiously typing an email to the Lead of the Organization. He hit send and looked up to the two hockey players. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Godic and Luka together. I already had a meeting with Mr. Godric today about next year's fundraisers but this is a more important topic.” he stands up and looks at Leo “Thank you for telling me Nut. That was very brave of you” He smiles weakly and Ruffles Leo’s hair. “If you ever need anything just let me know, okay?” He nods towards Sirius and walks out the door to his meeting.

“We should get you home, your boys are waiting.” He smiles softly as Leo stands and is taken by surprise when Leo pulls him into a tight hug mumbling “thank you” into his shoulder.

Leo was so happy, he felt lighter than he has in the last two years. He gets squeezed by the man he wrapped himself around and laughs wetly. When they pull away they both wipe their eyes and smile at each other. This was a new chapter to both their lives.

Sirius dropped Leo off at home after a stop at a drive through for an ice cream cone (that he may or may not have dropped on Sirius’ floor and got an annoyed glare) he walked in the front door and was talked into a pile of limbs and smothering kisses. He laughed freely and kissed both his boys sweetly and conveyed so much love.

As the Cubs made dinner together and sang to a random playlist. Logan burned half the food and Finn dropped a third of it. Good thing Leo tripled the recipe so they had enough to eat for the night. Putting on a mind numbing cooking show they just waxed poetically about how much they love each other. Around 7:30 pm Leo's phone started vibrating and a picture of Arthur sleeping on the bus with Talker doing a thumbs up flashes on his screen.

“What happened?” He is very anxious about everything that could go wrong, all of that melted away when Arthur shared the news.

“He's been taken down to the station and his phone has been seized. He was angry when confronted and actually tried to take a swing at me before security was called. If this ends up going to court would you be able to, you know, stand trial. I mean telling your coach is one thing but a room of strangers is different. Especially because the media will be all over this case.”

Leo had to think about this, if he didn’t go and testify this case would only air on the local news. Then again, he could change people's lives. He could be a role model for people who are too afraid to tell about their experiences. That's worth more than anything. He may be shamed online but it doesn’t matter. He Needed to do this.

“Yeah, this is something I need to do.”

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Religious Trauma Syndrome: How Some Organized Religion Leads to Mental Health Problems

By Valerie Tarico

Marlene Winell interviewed March 25, 2013

At age sixteen I began what would be a four year struggle with bulimia. When the symptoms started, I turned in desperation to adults who knew more than I did about how to stop shameful behavior—my Bible study leader and a visiting youth minister.  “If you ask anything in faith, believing,” they said. “It will be done.” I knew they were quoting [3] the Word of God. We prayed together, and I went home confident that God had heard my prayers. But my horrible compulsions didn’t go away. By the fall of my sophomore year in college, I was desperate and depressed enough that I made a suicide attempt. The problem wasn’t just the bulimia. I was convinced by then that I was a complete spiritual failure. My college counseling department had offered to get me real help (which they later did). But to my mind, at that point, such help couldn’t fix the core problem: I was a failure in the eyes of God. It would be years before I understood that my inability to heal bulimia through the mechanisms offered by biblical Christianity was not a function of my own spiritual deficiency but deficiencies in Evangelical religion itself.  

Dr. Marlene Winell is a human development consultant in the San Francisco Area. She is also the daughter of Pentecostal missionaries. This combination has given her work an unusual focus. For the past twenty years she has counseled men and women in recovery from various forms of fundamentalist religion including the Assemblies of God denomination in which she was raised. Winell is the author of Leaving the Fold – A Guide for Former Fundamentalists and Others Leaving their Religion [4], written during her years of private practice in psychology. Over the years, Winell has provided assistance to clients whose religious experiences were even more damaging than mine. Some of them are people whose psychological symptoms weren’t just exacerbated by their religion, but actually caused by it.  

Two years ago, Winell made waves by formally labeling what she calls “Religious Trauma Syndrome” (RTS) and beginning to write and speak on the subject for professional audiences. When the British Association of Behavioral and Cognitive Psychologists published a series of articles on the topic, members of a Christian counseling association protested what they called excessive attention to a “relatively niche topic.” One commenter said, “A religion, faith or book cannot be abuse but the people interpreting can make anything abusive.”

Is toxic religion simply misinterpretation? What is religious trauma? Why does Winell believe religious trauma merits its own diagnostic label?

Let’s start this interview with the basics. What exactly is religious trauma syndrome?

Winell: Religious trauma syndrome (RTS) is a set of symptoms and characteristics that tend to go together and which are related to harmful experiences with religion. They are the result of two things: immersion in a controlling religion and the secondary impact of leaving a religious group. The RTS label provides a name and description that affected people often recognize immediately. Many other people are surprised by the idea of RTS, because in our culture it is generally assumed that religion is benign or good for you. Just like telling kids about Santa Claus and letting them work out their beliefs later, people see no harm in teaching religion to children.

But in reality, religious teachings and practices sometimes cause serious mental health damage. The public is somewhat familiar with sexual and physical abuse in a religious context. As Journalist Janet Heimlich has documented in, Breaking Their Will, Bible-based religious groups that emphasize patriarchal authority in family structure and use harsh parenting methods can be destructive.

But the problem isn’t just physical and sexual abuse. Emotional and mental treatment in authoritarian religious groups also can be damaging because of 1) toxic teachings like eternal damnation or original sin 2) religious practices or mindset, such as punishment, black and white thinking, or sexual guilt, and 3) neglect that prevents a person from having the information or opportunities to develop normally.

Can you give me an example of RTS from your consulting practice?

Winell: I can give you many. One of the symptom clusters is around fear and anxiety. People indoctrinated into fundamentalist Christianity as small children sometimes have memories of being terrified by images of hell and apocalypse before their brains could begin to make sense of such ideas. Some survivors, who I prefer to call “reclaimers,” [8] have flashbacks, panic attacks, or nightmares in adulthood even when they intellectually no longer believe the theology. One client of mine, who during the day functioned well as a professional, struggled with intense fear many nights. She said,

“I was afraid I was going to hell. I was afraid I was doing something really wrong. I was completely out of control. I sometimes would wake up in the night and start screaming, thrashing my arms, trying to rid myself of what I was feeling. I’d walk around the house trying to think and calm myself down, in the middle of the night, trying to do some self-talk, but I felt like it was just something that – the fear and anxiety was taking over my life.” Or consider this comment, which refers to a film [9] used by evangelicals to warn about the horrors of the “end times” for nonbelievers.

“I was taken to see the film “A Thief In The Night”. WOW.  I am in shock to learn that many other people suffered the same traumas I lived with because of this film. A few days or weeks after the film viewing, I came into the house and mom wasn’t there. I stood there screaming in terror. When I stopped screaming, I began making my plan: Who my Christian neighbors were, who’s house to break into to get money and food. I was 12 years old and was preparing for Armageddon alone.”

In addition to anxiety, RTS can include depression, cognitive difficulties, and problems with social functioning. In fundamentalist Christianity, the individual is considered depraved and in need of salvation. A core message is “You are bad and wrong and deserve to die.” (The wages of sin is death [10].) This gets taught to millions of children through organizations like Child Evangelism Fellowship [11] and there is a group organized [12]  to oppose their incursion into public schools.  I’ve had clients who remember being distraught when given a vivid bloody image of Jesus paying the ultimate price for their sins. Decades later they sit telling me that they can’t manage to find any self-worth.

“After twenty-seven years of trying to live a perfect life, I failed. . . I was ashamed of myself all day long. My mind battling with itself with no relief. . . I always believed everything that I was taught but I thought that I was not approved by God. I thought that basically I, too, would die at Armageddon.

“I’ve spent literally years injuring myself, cutting and burning my arms, taking overdoses and starving myself, to punish myself so that God doesn’t have to punish me. It’s taken me years to feel deserving of anything good.”

Born-again Christianity and devout Catholicism [13] tell people they are weak and dependent, calling on phrases like “lean not unto your own understanding [14]” or “trust and obey [11].” People who internalize these messages can suffer from learned helplessness. I’ll give you an example from a client who had little decision-making ability after living his entire life devoted to following the “will of God.” The words here don’t convey the depth of his despair.

“I have an awful time making decisions in general. Like I can’t, you know, wake up in the morning, “What am I going to do today?” Like I don’t even know where to start. You know all the things I thought I might be doing are gone and I’m not sure I should even try to have a career; essentially I babysit my four-year-old all day.”

Authoritarian religious groups are subcultures where conformity is required in order to belong. Thus if you dare to leave the religion, you risk losing your entire support system as well.

“I lost all my friends. I lost my close ties to family. Now I’m losing my country. I’ve lost so much because of this malignant religion and I am angry and sad to my very core. . . I have tried hard to make new friends, but I have failed miserably. . . I am very lonely.”

Leaving a religion, after total immersion, can cause a complete upheaval of a person’s construction of reality, including the self, other people, life, and the future. People unfamiliar with this situation, including therapists, have trouble appreciating the sheer terror it can create.

“My form of religion was very strongly entrenched and anchored deeply in my heart. It is hard to describe how fully my religion informed, infused, and influenced my entire worldview. My first steps out of fundamentalism were profoundly frightening and I had frequent thoughts of suicide. Now I’m way past that but I still haven’t quite found “my place in the universe.”

Even for a person who was not so entrenched, leaving one’s religion can be a stressful and significant transition.

Many people seem to walk away from their religion easily, without really looking back. What is different about the clientele you work with?

Winell: Religious groups that are highly controlling, teach fear about the world, and keep members sheltered and ill-equipped to function in society are harder to leave easily. The difficulty seems to be greater if the person was born and raised in the religion rather than joining as an adult convert. This is because they have no frame of reference – no other “self” or way of “being in the world.” A common personality type is a person who is deeply emotional and thoughtful and who tends to throw themselves wholeheartedly into their endeavors. “True believers” who then lose their faith feel more anger and depression and grief than those who simply went to church on Sunday.

Aren’t these just people who would be depressed, anxious, or obsessive anyways?

Winell: Not at all. If my observation is correct, these are people who are intense and involved and caring. They hang on to the religion longer than those who simply “walk away” because they try to make it work even when they have doubts. Sometimes this is out of fear, but often it is out of devotion. These are people for whom ethics, integrity and compassion matter a great deal. I find that when they get better and rebuild their lives, they are wonderfully creative and energetic about new things.

In your mind, how is RTS different from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?

Winell: RTS is a specific set of symptoms and characteristics that are connected with harmful religious experience, not just any trauma. This is crucial to understanding the condition and any kind of self-help or treatment. (More details about this can be found on my Journey Free [15] website and discussed in my talk [16] at the Texas Freethought Convention.)

Another difference is the social context, which is extremely different from other traumas or forms of abuse. When someone is recovering from domestic abuse, for example, other people understand and support the need to leave and recover. They don’t question it as a matter of interpretation, and they don’t send the person back for more. But this is exactly what happens to many former believers who seek counseling. If a provider doesn’t understand the source of the symptoms, he or she may send a client for pastoral counseling, or to AA, or even to another church. One reclaimer expressed her frustration this way:

“Include physically-abusive parents who quote “Spare the rod and spoil the child” as literally as you can imagine and you have one fucked-up soul: an unloved, rejected, traumatized toddler in the body of an adult. I’m simply a broken spirit in an empty shell. But wait...That’s not enough!? There’s also the expectation by everyone in society that we victims should celebrate this with our perpetrators every Christmas and Easter!!”

Just like disorders such as autism or bulimia, giving RTS a real name has important advantages. People who are suffering find that having a label for their experience helps them feel less alone and guilty. Some have written to me to express their relief:

“There’s actually a name for it! I was brainwashed from birth and wasted 25 years of my life serving Him! I’ve since been out of my religion for several years now, but I cannot shake the haunting fear of hell and feel absolutely doomed. I’m now socially inept, unemployable, and the only way I can have sex is to pay for it.”

Labeling RTS encourages professionals to study it more carefully, develop treatments, and offer training. Hopefully, we can even work on prevention.

What do you see as the difference between religion that causes trauma and religion that doesn’t?

Winell: Religion causes trauma when it is highly controlling and prevents people from thinking for themselves and trusting their own feelings. Groups that demand obedience and conformity produce fear, not love and growth. With constant judgment of self and others, people become alienated from themselves, each other, and the world. Religion in its worst forms causes separation.

Conversely, groups that connect people and promote self-knowledge and personal growth can be said to be healthy. The book, Healthy Religion [17], describes these traits. Such groups put high value on respecting differences, and members feel empowered as individuals.  They provide social support, a place for events and rites of passage, exchange of ideas, inspiration, opportunities for service, and connection to social causes. They encourage spiritual practices that promote health like meditation or principles for living like the golden rule. More and more, non-theists are asking [18] how they can create similar spiritual communities without the supernaturalism. An atheist congregation [19] in London launched this year and has received over 200 inquiries from people wanting to replicate their model.

Some people say that terms like “recovery from religion” and “religious trauma syndrome” are just atheist attempts to pathologize religious belief.

Winell: Mental health professionals have enough to do without going out looking for new pathology. I never set out looking for a “niche topic,” and certainly not religious trauma syndrome. I originally wrote a paper for a conference of the American Psychological Association and thought that would be the end of it. Since then, I have tried to move on to other things several times, but this work has simply grown.

In my opinion, we are simply, as a culture, becoming aware of religious trauma. More and more people are leaving religion, as seen by polls [20] showing that the “religiously unaffiliated” have increased in the last five years from just over 15% to just under 20% of all U.S. adults. It’s no wonder the internet is exploding with websites for former believers from all religions, providing forums [21] for people to support each other. The huge population of people “leaving the fold” includes a subset at risk for RTS, and more people are talking about it and seeking help.  For example, there are thousands of former Mormons [22], and I was asked to speak about RTS at an Exmormon Foundation conference.  I facilitate an international support group online called Release and Reclaim [23]  which has monthly conference calls. An organization called Recovery from Religion, [24] helps people start self-help meet-up groups

Saying that someone is trying to pathologize authoritarian religion is like saying someone pathologized eating disorders by naming them. Before that, they were healthy? No, before that we weren’t noticing. People were suffering, thought they were alone, and blamed themselves.  Professionals had no awareness or training. This is the situation of RTS today. Authoritarian religion is already pathological, and leaving a high-control group can be traumatic. People are already suffering. They need to be recognized and helped. _______________________________

Statistics update:

Numbers of American ‘nones’ continues to rise

October 18, 2019

By David Crary – Associated Press

The portion of Americans with no religious affiliation is rising significantly, in tandem with a sharp drop in the percentage that identifies as Christians, according to new data from the Pew Research Center. …

Pew says all categories of the religiously unaffiliated population – often referred to as the “nones” grew in magnitude. Self-described atheists now account for 4% of U.S. adults, up from 2% in 2009; agnostics account for 5%, up from 3% a decade ago; and 17% of Americans now describe their religion as “nothing in particular,” up from 12% in 2009.

https://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2019/1018/Numbers-of-American-nones-continues-to-rise

_______________________________

Marlene Winell interviewed by Valerie Tarico on recovering from religious trauma Uploaded on January 31, 2011

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIfABmbqSMA

24:12

On Moral Politics, a TV program with host Dr. Valerie Tarico, Marlene Winell describes the trauma that can result from harmful experiences with religious indoctrination. Dr. Winell explains that mental health issues are widespread and need to be understood just as we understand PTSD. There are steps to recovery, treatment modalities, and resources available as well. She now refers to this as RTS or Religious Trauma Syndrome. _______________________________

Links:
 
[3] https://www.biblestudyonjesuschrist.com/pog/ask1.htm 
[4] https://marlenewinell.net/leaving-fold-former 
[8] https://journeyfree.org/article/reclaimers/ 
[9] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Thief_in_the_Night_%28film%29 
[10] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+6%3A23&version=KJV 
[11] https://valerietarico.com/2011/02/04/our-public-schools-their-mission-field/ 
[12] http://www.intrinsicdignity.com/ 
[13] https://www.maryjohnson.co/an-unquenchable-thirst/ 
[14] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Proverbs+3%3A5-6&version=KJV [15] https://journeyfree.org/category/uncategorized/ [16] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qrE4pMBlis 
[17] https://www.amazon.com/Healthy-Religion-Psychological-Guide-Mature/dp/1425924166 [18] https://www.humanistchaplaincy.org/ [19] https://www.christianpost.com/news/london-atheist-church-model-looking-to-expand-worldwide-91516 [20] https://www.pewforum.org/2012/10/09/nones-on-the-rise/ 
[21] https://new.exchristian.net/ 
[22] https://www.exmormon.org/ 
[23] https://journeyfree.org/group-forum/ [24] https://www.recoveringfromreligion.org/

_____________________________________

Get God’s Self-Appointed Messengers Out of Your Head

Valerie Tarico Which buzz phrases from your past are stuck in your brain? “God’s messengers” were all real complicated people with biases, blind spots, favorite foods and morning breath. They were not gods and they are not you. So how can you get them out of your head or at least reduce them to muffled background noise?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElfyYA420F0

[silver-wield]

Hey so I was wondering if you did/could do an analysis on clouds various panic attacks ptsd episodes and how he responds to each one I’m interested to read your thoughts on each one since you usually bring a new perspective to the table for me so thanks for that!

All of Cloud's ptsd attacks? Damn, that's a lot of searching I've got to do. I might not find them all. I'll do my best but you'll have to let me off if I miss a couple lol

Ok, spoiler warning for ppl who haven’t played – do I still need to do this? Eh ok, (I tag FF7R spoilers as final fantasy 7 remake spoilers) and it’s gonna be long.

Also, this is one person’s interpretation of the scene, so if you disagree that’s cool and we’ll agree to disagree.

You’re also gonna have to excuse the janky quality on some of the screens, I’m grabbing them from Youtube and it’s frustrating af trying to get the exact moment I want.

Please check my master post to see if I've already covered your question, thanx

Recap time!

I explain Cloud's entire backstory which covers his PTSD and other issues here, so that should do for a recap right?

A further thing to note is that PTSD affects people differently and in Cloud's case it manifests as a psychological taunt in the form of Sephiroth. Embodiying his sense of failure, lack of self-esteem and self-actualisation, this version of Sephiroth is the one that Cloud reacts to the most strongly. This is the one that makes him whimper with fear and react on instinct instead of observing the situation and attacking. This is the one he fears, and it's a part of himself wearing a monster's face. Why Sephiroth? Who else has done him more harm? Sephiroth killed his mother, Tifa (so he assumes), burned his hometown to the ground and was indirectly responsible for his best friend's death, too.

And Cloud couldn't do a thing about it. He is the manifestation of everything that Cloud hates and fears about himself. Because of this, he's dissociated from much of his feelings. He still feels, but at a lesser degree than he should were he fully in touch with his real self.

Moseying on.

The first PTSD induced attack isn't actually prompted by Sephiroth himself, although he does feature in it. Cloud's first attack happens when he sees the destruction of sector 8 and buildings burning. This gives him the association of the last time he saw a burning building, which happened when his village burned. The sensory input of sights, sounds and smells prompted the memory, which combined with the high stress situation and Cloud's own latent anxiety and guilt for his part in this chaos.

You see a close up of Cloud's eye as it widens and real!Cloud's memory pushes to the forefront of his mind – remember, these memories are things SOLDIER!Cloud can't access at will, which is why they cause him pain when it happens.

Theres a static noise in the background, which is meant to convey a type of ringing in Cloud's ears and then the building's facade morphs to that of his house with the fence around it.

While much of what Sephiroth says is in line with this being a separate being from Cloud and not merely his own subconscious taunting him, there are elements of it being a combination of both. This is in line with the OG where Sephiroth was able to get in Cloud's head and make him doubt his own sense of self. With what we know of how Jenova's cells manipulate Cloud, it's believable that Sephiroth is both a separate being manipulating Cloud to his own ends and partly an aspect of Cloud's psyche that exists to push blame on him for everything. It's the representation of his mental illness that he struggles to fight.

Obviously, there's no fire, so Cloud sweating and breathless is because they're physical symptoms of his PTSD induced trauma.

Sephiroth's taunting lines about how he killed Cloud's mother are overkill when you consider the real Sephiroth's personality. The combination of the overarching Sephiroth and Cloud's PTSD version make a powerful foe that he never really beats. This is a metaphor for the fact those with mental illness are never really free. It's a lifetime battle and even if they're in recovery, that demon is just waiting for one weak moment when they can get them back in their grip.

You can hear Cloud gasp in this scene as once again Sephiroth appears to taunt him. He's not fully recovered from the last attack and now there's another right on top of it. Sephiroth appearing is once again partly Cloud's own trauma and partly the Jenova cells in him warping his perception and allowing Sephiroth to mess with him.

Unlike the time before, this Sephiroth vision is a simple taunt that Cloud is too weak to save anyone. This is his guilt and self-loathing talking about how he couldn't save his mom, Tifa or his town. It could also be hinting that he couldn't save Zack either.

The hidden implication of this scene is the fact that Sephiroth puts his hand on Aerith's shoulder. This is the only time Sephiroth touches anyone besides Cloud.

The next time Cloud has an attack is during the reactor 5 mission. This happens because of Tifa's presence drawing out the painful memory of the Nibelheim reactor where he believed she died after facing down Sephiroth.

Even in the midst of his PTSD attack he looks to Tifa. She doesn't know what's happening with him and he backs away from taking a chance to confide in her, but even during this moment when he's showing weakness he has very good eye contact with her. He's looking her directly in the eye, which he wouldn't do if he wasn't comfortable with her. This shows that Cloud sees her as a source of comfort and support.

You can see the lingering doubt on his face here after he dismisses the attack. He's not aware of what the memory means because he's not in touch with the full story – that belongs to real!Cloud kept hidden away. He knows it's left him unsettled and feeling like a failure. This is one of the few times I've seen that Cloud doesn't dismiss out of hand the content of the attacks.

Tifa repeats a phrase she said back then and Cloud's sense of failure surfaces, causing him pain and to freeze up. We get a voice over from real!Cloud referring to the time he believes he let Tifa down. Before the SOLDIER persona can get too deep into it or question what he means, Barret yells for him to focus. Cloud shakes off the paralysing feelings, but that doesn't stop Tifa asking it he's ok, which he dismisses again. This is typical of truama survivors pushing their feelings down and attempting to function without ever truly dealing with the source of their pain.

This next flash is prompted by the events during chapter 8 where the children get into trouble and Cloud has to rescue them. It echoes a similar even in his past where Tifa climbed Mt Nibel and fell, despite his best efforts to save her. She spent a week in a coma and Cloud was blamed for the incident and told to stay away from her.

The past emotions of guilt and failure mingle with the present situation to prompt a flash of pain as the memory of Tifa surfaces. It's his feelings of guilt and having failed her that cause the pain, not Tifa herself because when he says to Aerith he doesn't know how to explain he turns to the spot where he saw the vision of Tifa and smiles wistfully. This means Tifa herself doesn't cause him pain. The feelings he has about himself, do.

Chapter 13 and omg I love this freak out! I'm sorry, but this is such a great moment for Cloud and really highlights how low he is at this point. This shows the depth that we miss from him always having his SOLDIER persona taking charge. He's just lived through a tragedy. He's seen the girl he likes in pieces and trying to hold it together. He wants to comfort her. He wants to be himself, but he can't because he's just not good enough. He's feeling like a failure in more ways than one. He lost people too, goddamnit!

Then, in a misguided attempt to distract Tifa from her pain, he stumbles right into a trigger point for his own trauma. Of course he wouldn't know this. It's one of those flashes of Sephiroth ranting about his role and Jenova and shit. (I might have mistakenly said this was a future-flash somewhere, but then I remembered he does this rant right before he kills everyone in Nibelheim).

There's very little blocking to the memory. This is pretty well sealed by real!Cloud compared to his other memories. Even painful ones of Tifa have more context than this. This is something that is so damaging to Cloud's psyche that he can't even fill in the space around it.

So, we get the same kind of staticky noise we heard in chapter 2 when the vision of Sephiroth showed. Cloud gasps pretty loud here tbf. He's unguarded because of the vision and possibly his own distraction about what he's just been through. He wasn't prepared to see Sephiroth here even more than he was back in chapter 2 when he had a full on panic attack.

I mean, his pupils are seriously dilated here. Boi is scared.

Cloud's whimpering and my heart breaks for him. Sephiroth is hitting all his weakest points by bringing up failure and mentioning it's not the first time that's happened. Cloud's at a low point already, so it's not unexpected he backs away from this rather than tries to fight. This isn't SOLDIER!Cloud. This is real!Cloud. The fear has driven real!Cloud to the surface and he wants to run away, just like Sephiroth taunted back in chapter 2.

“Through suffering you will grow strong. Isn't that what you want?”

Clearly not by the look on Cloud's face. The part of him that's real!Cloud within this moment looks like he wants to scream that he's had enough of being in pain. He wants to shake his head and deny that he deserves it. What did he ever do wrong?

I feel like this is more of Cloud's own subconscious taunting him and implying that he deserves everything bad that happens to him, rather than it being the external Sephiroth manipulating Jenova's cells. He's saying Cloud secretly wants to suffer because that's all he should ever get in life. He thinks if he suffers enough pain that he'll be stronger for it, instead of the broken person that he really is. This is the type of thing people who’ve lived through trauma deal with every single day. It’s a never ending barrage of not feeling good enough and worrying that your entire existence is a bother to society. Not even just those close to you, you are a blight on the world. That Cloud’s internal trauma is so deeply rooted in this figure of Sephiroth narrows his focus and makes him project all of his fears onto him. It’s no wonder he freezes.

Now, not strictly a PTSD glitch, but it does provoke a very strong reaction from Cloud, and definitely plays into his fears, so I'm gonna include this one on the proviso it's more fear motivated.

This is the moment he sees Tifa stabbed during the VR cut scene. Sephiroth hijacked it to show them meteor, but then he also killed Tifa and then Barret. We know later on that Barret actually dies, so having seen this, Cloud may well relate back to this deep seated fear that he can't save Tifa and she'll die because of him and it'll cause further attacks. This is also a callback to the time in the reactor in Nibelheim when Tifa was stabbed by Sephiroth and Cloud couldn't save her – this ties to the PTSD flashback he had during the reactor 5 mission where he saw Tifa picking up Sephiroth's sword, so it's got precedence to cause him further trauma once he connects the dots. The fact it provokes such a strong emotional response from him – so much so that his entire face changes – I suspect that real!Cloud came out to motivate him to run to her out of the fear he'd just seen her die in front of him – again. The shock and disbelief on his face, the utter heartbreak. His expression changes from SOLDIER!Cloud to real!Cloud in less than 3 seconds. I checked. As a trigger for his trauma, Cloud's fear of losing Tifa pushes him to a lot of things he wouldn't normally do.

This is more of a memory glitch than PTSD since it's tied to the grunt recognising Cloud and calling him out on the false memories he has of being a SOLDIER. He says they went through training together and Cloud's eyes narrow as though he's trying to reconcile a truth against a lie. The truth that real!Cloud was a grunt and SOLDIER!Cloud is a fake.

There's some distress on his face here that links back to the point during the airbuster battle when he first learned about cell degradation. He knows what he believes is true isn't quite right, but he can't figure out why. SOLDIER!Cloud is unaware of the SOLDIER persona he constructed to protect his real self from further trauma. In OG when Cloud finds out – through Sephiroth’s skewed af bullshit – it causes a complete mental break, so real!Cloud's right to be wary of triggering himself because he's not in a good enough place to deal with what he's done to protect himself. He'd blame himself for being even more weak than he thought.

This is more interesting. Usually whenever anyone questions Cloud about his false identity he claims it, while also rejecting it by saying “ex-SOLDIER”, but in Hojo's case, he seems to hesitate, as though part of him knew it would be questioned and wouldn't hold up. Since Hojo's the one who did this to Cloud, it's likely the truth of what happened couldn't be kept back by the SOLDIER lies.

Pained again, Cloud turns his head away, as though he can shut out the truth. Hojo's image glitches for him and it's reminiscent of the OG moment where Cloud confronts Hojo and asks if he can be a proper experiment instead of a failed one (or something like that. I haven't played OG in like 5 years)

The trauma from what Hojo's done is quickly brushed under the carpet thanks to the arrival of the whispers. This is the second time they appear to prevent Cloud learning too much about his past too early. (Dammit, I forgot about deep ground, I'll circle back to it or I'll lose the order for my screenshots)

I'm not including the long corridor walk prompted by Jenova because that's a loading screen and also it happens not because of anything that Cloud experienced in the location, but because the outside influence of Jenova called to him. His only association with Jenova is the infusion of cells, though how he got them does set off attacks. Actually, here's a good point for the deep ground screen.

Preview of zombie Cloud for Mideel anyone? I mean, what can I say? He's totally checked out and it's scary. No wonder he doesn't wanna remember any of it if this is what he was like at the time. Imagine being so doped up with mako that you're not even you any longer? Having experiments carried out on you and god knows what else. Being stuffed in a chamber jammed full of alien dna and left to see what happens.

This is what broke him. I'd say it's similar to the faceless Squall cut scene from the end of FF8. It's chilling. No wonder he crafted an entire persona to protect himself from remembering this.

So this is the culmination of all the other attacks he's had. We get flashback elements from several that threaten to overwhelm Cloud. He's clutching his head. He's in serious pain and can't do anything. He manages to push through and ask if it's really Sephiroth. He then grabs his left arm when it begins to hurt. This is because Sephiroth is left handed. This is also the same arm that had the major infection of geostigma in AC.

Conclusion

Cloud is a messed by puppy and I ship him with therapy.

PTSD is a tricky thing to accurately show, especially in this case when it's not all totally mental illness and there are outside factors that skew how it's portrayed. Part of Sephiroth is within Cloud, though I do suspect it's more of an aspect of his own feelings of self-loating and doubt than it is actually Sephiroth. That's not to say there isn't also a genuine part of Sephiroth within these visions influencing Cloud to do what he wants, but I think it comes down to the context of the moment.

Cloud's been through a lot of shit and fronts like nothing else. He's managed to get away without any kind of vices or coping mechanisms besides this alternate persona that actually does ok in following the real!Cloud's lead when his deeper urges motivate SOLDIER!Cloud into doing things. I mean there's a point where there's a clear debate between the two about dancing for Andrea. All that back and forth eye movement and then the grimace and “fine, for Tifa” expression wasn't necessary if it was just SOLDIER!Cloud.

It's gonna be hard for Cloud to hear that he's not real in the sense that he thinks he is. It's gonna break him. We've got a preview of his scary vacant Mideel look and it's terrifying. Major props to Tifa for refusing to give up on him.

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

Insecure butterfly

A/N: this was requested by anon, I’m sorry it took so long and it’s written so bad, but I hope you enjoy none the less! Let me know what you think! I based this on my own experience. If anyone has any requests, please send them to me! 

Summary; Richie and Eddie’s daughter feel fat, and Richie and Eddie do their best to convince her otherwise. 

warnings: bad self image, and curse words 

The front door closes with a loud bang, as Richie tumbles trough it, a flower bouquet gripped tightly in his left hand. Among the flower bouquet is a combination of Zinnia’s, hibiscus and red saliva's, who granted don’t match, but they are Richie’s favorite flowers, and it’s only really meant to prove to Eddie and Calia that he thinks about them anyway, so they don’t have to.

 He’s overcome with happiness, the sun warming every inch of his skin and making the world seem that much better and more welcoming, the smiles that have returned on everyone’s face at the first sighting of the heat resulting in one on his face too.

Summer has always been his favorite season, as a kid it was because it meant he was duty free, no school to worry about and no homework that he half-assed just to get it done.  Summer was the equivalent to freedom, the losers and him always escaping to a place, mostly to the barrens, where parents couldn’t judge them, and there were no expectations, no rolls that they were forced into.

After the summer where Pennywise nearly killed them all, the season stopped representing joy, and instead depicted the dark, mind-numbing fear Richie had experienced for the very first time at IT’s hands. Then he forgot about IT, but his life dulled down so fully without his friend being there, that life was one long endless year he survived, barely taking notice of what the weather was like.

Re-meeting Eddie again after Mike called, caused summer to claim his rightful place as the number one time of the year once more.

So sue him for being excited that it’s summer break, but spending time with his family in the summer, to go camping or swimming, lit Richie up like a crystal ball, the inner child in him bubbling up to the surface. A list of things they can do holds Richie hostage, and he barely contains the excitement until he enters his home, trying to convey to the outside world that yes, he is a grown man and not a kid on Christmas eve.

He’s walking towards the kitchen, whistling a tune of a song Eddie hates, and Calia claims makes him appear even older then he is, searching around for his husband who by all means should have been home after dropping their daughter off with a friend.

Said husband ambushes him from behind, a hand gripping Richie’s bicep harder than strictly necessary, spooking Richie even when he tries to pretend it didn’t.

He turns around, his mouth halfway to making a joke already, but stopping once he spots the look of absolute dread coming from Eddie. At first he thinks it has something to do with Sonia, because even now that Eddie isn’t in contact with her anymore, devastation would still take a hold of him if something bad were to have occurred with her, but it’s not.

‘Our daughter’, Eddie says with a pinch of hysterics, ‘thinks she’s fat.’ His breathing comes in short gasps, which indicates that he’s about to have another panic attack, and Richie needs to hurry to distract him so he can steer it away.

‘I brought you flowers Eds. They smell all sweet and cute, like you.’ He decides on, shoving the bundle under his nose, attempting to make his smile as unsuspiciously as possible. Eddie takes to flowers and spares them a quick glance, before shoving them up the small table that’s mostly used for decoration, abandoning them for later.

‘I’m serious Rich, where did she even get that idea?’ He starts to pace up and down the room, sauntering in their living room where he resumes his hovering, deep in thought.

With a sigh, Richie follows him and takes a seat in their sofa. Of course what Eddie claims is concerning, but it wouldn’t be the first time that Calia entrusted him with something, and he was oblivious to the context in which it was said. Besides, at least one of them needs to be calm to resolve the situation, and it seemed like that task fell upon his today. ‘Did she say anything to you?’ Richie inquires, fishing for as much details as he can get. His earlier mood is completely obliterated, uneasy sitting in the pit of his stomach, despite his best attempts to stay focused.

‘No’, Eddie replies, sheepishly, as he comes to a stop and looks up at Richie guiltily.

‘Eddie, you can not spy on her.’

‘I did no such thing asshole’, Eddie defends. ‘I overheard her on the phone while she was in the car. There was no way that I didn’t hear anything, and it was not done on purpose.’ His hand chops in the air to accentuated his point, appalled at the accusation Richie made. ‘I’m not my mother.’

Immediately consumed with guilt, Richie scrambles off their couch, seizing Eddie’s hand in his to try and capture his eyes. The hurt that burns through him when Eddie snatches his hand away makes his feel even worse.  ‘That’s not what I was trying to say Eds.’

With an eyebrow lifted, Eddie stares at him, as if daring him to spell out what he did mean then. His hands are fidgeting by his side, and Richie notices it right away, his own hands itching to comfort his husband.

‘I’m sorry okay? You could never be like your mom. A lot of parents check their kids phone Eds, that does not mean they’re your mother. I’m just against reading her texts, it’s her privacy. I should have realized that you respect her privacy as well and I’m sorry, but I will never, ever compare you to your mother okay?’

Eddie grunts, still a bit annoyed at Richie, but he accepts the kiss from him eagerly all the same, the anger draining out of him the second their lips touch. Privileged to be the one to have that effect on Eddie, but also understanding the severity of the situation, Richie struggles to detain a smile.

‘I’m sorry too, I was trying to pick a fight because I have no idea what to do with all this anxiety in me, but that was wrong.’ Eddie accounts for.

Richie shrugs it off, they have more important things to get too anyway, and he should have worded it better in the first place. ‘Well then we’re both sorry Eddie Spaghetti, now sit your cute ass down and tell me what happened.’

Relenting, Eddie trails after Richie, sinking down next to him, while he begins to tell the story from the start. ‘When I dropped her off this morning at Nina’s house, we were running a little late, so she called her to say that we were bound to arrive soon, and the two of them got talking. I don’t know what Nina said, I heard nothing of her side of the conversation, but Calia responded to her saying ‘I know that, but I’m too fat to wear such a thing anyway’, what the hell do we do Rich?’

Something bubbling up under the surface tries to make its way up, insistent and demanding Richie to accept it, to process it regardless of his tries not to.

Helplessness settles in in every pore of his being, prolonging his suffering and making his stomach turn violently. This somehow feels worse than Calia being sick, simply because there’s nothing really to be done.

Richie has spend more than enough of his childhood and adolescence hating the way he looked, and attempting to change all the things he didn’t like, revolted by the reflection that stared back at him, and followed him anywhere he went.

And it’s not something that anyone else can fix for you either. Eddie hadn’t been able to make Richie more confident, not for lack of trying, and everyone telling him that he was beautiful as a child only had an aversion effect. He was being unheard, his insecurities swept from under the rug like they were too much to deal with.

Claiming he was beautiful felt like an escape, an easy way out of conversation that everyone was too awkward to have. He wonders if perhaps it’s something genetic, something he passed on to his daughter.

The mom’s in the Facebook group I’m in said that we should take away all mirrors, is that something we should do?’ Startled by Eddie’s admission, Richie starts guffawing.

‘You’re in a Facebook group with all moms?’ He teases, words light with an blasé tone about them. His mind flashes back to years of not being able to view himself in the mirror, feeling nothing but shame whenever he did catch his own eye.

‘Don’t you fucking start Richie’, Eddie warns, but Richie succeeds in his intent, which was distracting Eddie from the serious issue at hand, and a tiny bit off lightheartedness reared its head, soothing him by the fact that he knew what it was like, and he might be able to help her.

‘Alright, Alright,’ Richie relents, for now, his arm up in a surrendering gesture. ‘Let’s just talk to her, and then we’ll see what she says. But Eds, we’re gonna need to handle this naturally okay? Don’t ambush her.’

‘Obviously not dickwad, if anything, it’s you that has to act normal.’

Without question, it’s Eddie that brings up the topic, not even a second after Calia arrives home. She finishes taking off her shoes, adjusting her grey sweater that she was wearing, as she follows the sound of Richie and Eddie’s bickering, the way she is used to them doing.

With a greeting wave, she crouches down to grab a water bottle in the fridge, uncapping the plastic and taking a big gulp.

‘We need to talk’, is the first thing Eddie declaims since she laid eyes on them. She stops mid swallow, her eyes turning wide and her face paling, full of worry.

‘You’re in trouble young lady’, Richie jokes in his best principal impression, before motioning her over. ‘Your dad is kidding, it’s just a talk, you’re not in trouble.’

‘Jees dad, I have anxiety, don’t do that.’ Calia says, her eyes rolling with vigor. She listens to Richie, her posture relaxing and her shoulders dropping, the worry’s melting away.

‘Great job Eds,’ he murmurs quiet enough that she doesn’t hear them, while still jabbing Eddie ins the side. Already, it appear as thought the conversation is not going to go the way they planned it.

‘So, what’s up?’ She asks, flitting her eyes between her parents, attempting to gauge them. Attempting to come across as nonchalant, Richie stretches out to the back of the sofa, his entire body splayed out sinking down.

It gives away more than he wants, the alarm bells going off in Calia’s head, an eyebrow furrowed in confusion, and the nervousness coming back. The eyebrow is something she has clearly mirrored from Eddie, and at times Richie speculates what she may have gotten from him and comes to the sick and twisted realization that mental issues, might be the answer.

He shakes himself out of his stupor, resigning it to a later time maybe tonight, as he would no doubt overthink everything right before sleep carried him off to sleep.

‘Your pops and I wanted to ask you about something I overheard in the car this morning.’

Becoming evident right away that Calia is appalled at the prospect of her father budding in a private conversation, Richie hurries to alleviate the situation.

‘He didn’t mean to listen in kiddo. It was an accident, but we still need to discuss it, it’s important. ’

Calia huffs, but stay silent none the less, and Richie takes it as his cue to continue.;

‘Your dad said that you said that you were fat’, Richie’s voice cracks at the end of his word, his stupid emotion getting the better of him as his heart breaks. In all his life, Calia was the most magnificent person, Eddie not taking into account, that he had ever encountered, and it was agony to know that she felt so less of herself.

Her face turns red, a blush coating both her cheeks, while she tensely glances around the room, avoiding eye contact. ‘So’, she mumbles, embarrassment creeping up her spine.

‘Why do you feel like that?’ Eddie prods, recalling some off the things he and Richie google searched before Calia get home.

She shrugs her shoulders, and Richie relates to her desire to get out of the situation fast. It’s not easy, to talk about the things that plague us so deeply, especially not with our parents of all people, but he knows that if they don’t talk about this now, they never will.

‘You can tell us, there’s no judgment in this house. Well except judgment on your dad’s cutnes, he’s 1000 percent guilty of that.’ He reaches over to pinch one of Eddie’s cheeks, hissing when his hand gets smacked away.

‘Hey, if you two are going to do, I’ll just go up to my room.’ Set out to escape the living room without her parents taking notice, Calia stands up inconspicuously, shuffling towards the door.

When both of her parents turn to watch her, and Eddie asks her to sit down again, she groans, but still does what is requested of her.

‘Can you tell us? I promise that if you confide in us this one time and we can’t help you or you feel to uncomfortable, then we won’t ever bring it up.

‘I just am okay? Like I’m a lot bigger than most of my friends, my stomach is protruding and I have a double chin. Compared to how you guys looked, and my friends it’s a simple fact that I am fat.’

Eddie has to swallow down his tears at her words, even when he squeezes his eyes closed to stop them that way. Granting him a minute to collect himself, Richie takes the lead. He himself discovers that it’s as hard being a parent as it is being the person who has low self-esteem. He finds himself rendered so useless.

Before he has a chance to even respond, he catches the words that Calia breathes out, like another kick to an already wounded puppy. ‘It’s not like any guy will ever want me either.’

‘Okay, don’t you ever fucking say that. Who the fuck cares if no guy, or girl wants you. They do, I know in the same way that I know you’re beautiful, but I also that right now that means nothing, and you think that I’m your father so I have to say that, so let me make clear to you what is true. You don’t exits to be a wife, that is not why you are born. You’re alive to brave through the world, and to leave the world a little brighter when you leave. If that includes having a boyfriend than okay, if it doesn’t than that’s that. A body isn’t functioning because you need to please someone, it’s such a complicated and crazy thing, but it works.’

While taking a deep breath, he uses his pause to stare at Calia’s eyes, conveying how much he means what he says.

‘Who created that extraordinary painting that won her top of her class, and resulted into it being displayed at in the art museum?’

‘I guess I did’, she concurs, her full and undivided attention on her dads.

‘Yeah, you fucking well did. And who wrote all those enthralling and peculiar poems that put uncle Ben to shame?’

Giggling, Calia point at herself with both her thumbs. ‘This girl.’

‘Yeah that’s right,’ Eddie buds in, finally able to get himself together enough to participate. ‘your body did that all in it’s own, and that had nothing to do with the way you look at all.’

‘I know this sounds like such a lie, but’s not. One day you will find someone that not likes you with your flaws, but because of your them. You’re not perfect, no one is, but you have such a wonderful soul, that everything else is added bonus. The guy that’ll date you in the future will have hit the jack pot, whether you’re skinny, or chubby or fat.’

‘That’s pretty fucking deep Pops.’ Calia messes with him, giving him a gentle push to throw him off balance, and break the serious tension that floats around the room.

‘Wow, you try and be nice to your children once and this is what I get as a think you?’ Richie complains sarcastically, pretending to cry and gain sympathy.

‘And don’t curse in front of our daughter Richie. How dare you?’ Eddie adds, the smirk turning the words from serious, to playful.

‘Thanks dads,’ Calia entrusts, enveloping both of them in her arms. Her insecurities won’t be gone overnight, but at least she knows she has her dads to remind her of the important things in life, and to emphasize how beautiful she is. When the family settles in or a movie night, outside, a butterfly makes it’s way up to the sky.

[jess-rewatches-prodigalson]

Episode 11: Alone Time

Prodigal Son. Come for the plot line. Stay for the whump. Let’s dive into this episode.

SPOILERS AHEAD.

0:06 - Look at poor baby Malcolm’s black eye. :( Do you think the bullies are why he got into martial arts - because he wanted to defend himself?

0:59 - Malcolm is chained to the ground. At this point he can’t escape. Can someone please explain to me why Watkins decided to take Malcolm’s shoes and socks? I mean - no shoes makes it harder to run away but he’s chained to the ground so why bother?!? Furthermore, where is Malcolm’s tie and suit jacket? Why take those? ...he also took Malcolm’s watch but at least that one makes sense.

1:10 - This is Not Good. Malcolm looks scared and a little confused. Does he have a concussion? 

1:45 - This is Gil terrified and determined to find his missing kid. My heart is breaking just looking at him. 

1:50 - Why was this speech necessary 12 hours after the kidnapping and murder? Why to the whole precinct? Why does Colette get to make it instead of Gil? The precinct respects Gil. They don’t respect Colette. 

2:03 - JT looks sad and scared. I don’t think we’ve ever seen him look this upset. Malcolm’s wormed his way into JT’s heart. It’s sweet. 

2:08 - Dani looks concerned and scared too - but that’s not a surprise given the amount of screen time that’s been given to Dani and Malcolm’s brewing friendship. 

2:10 - Gil looks pissed when he’s staring at the floor. I don’t blame him Colette is suggesting that his kid might already be dead. He’s probably blaming himself. Is he side-eying Colette - for making an insensitive speech 12 hours late? Or Dani and JT because he wants them to ignore Colette and go and find Bright? 

2:24 - JT isn’t acting out of line here. I’ve watched enough Criminal Minds to know that sometimes locals PD officers/detectives get upset and take things personally when the FBI get involved. BUT Colette is acting like a real piece of work. She’s disrespecting JT on purpose. She clearly hates men. What is her deal? 

2:31 -  Dani is great here. She totally diffuses the fight that was about to break out at JT (rightfully) lost his mind on this woman. It makes me wonder if Dani was bullied as a kid. Colette is acting like a high school queen B. Dani doesn’t seem like the type to be a queen B so I wonder if she was tormented by one as a kid?

3:00 - Honestly, I’m pissed about this. Yes - Jessica shouldn’t have had that press conference. BUT it’s downright criminal to avoid telling a mother that her child was kidnaped. Just more proof that Colette is a controlling, b**ch. Gil looks like he’s using all of his self-control not to lose it on Colette - which is a shame because I would pay good money to watch that outburst. 

3:15 - Colette clearly thinks that Gil and Jessica are in a relationship since she caught them standing so closely in Gil’s office. It’s kind of funny but also such an inappropriate thing for her to focus on right now. 

4:10 - So Gil does have a history of church attendance. The past tense there makes me assume that he stopped going when he became and adult and moved out of his parent’s house. 

4:15 - This is the closest to a Gil outburst we’ve gotten so far. I’m obsessed with it. Look at his face. He’s furious. He’s scared. ALSO - please tell me that Matilda gets jail time for being an accomplice. 

5:40 - When Jessica is on the phone she really reminds me of Ainsley. They both have this certain inflection in their voices when their determined and having a conversation with someone. 

 5:46 - Oh no. Gil does not want to do this. He does not want to tell Jessica that he didn’t protect Malcolm well enough. Look at how wrecked he is. He looks close to tears. 

6:24 - “It’s about Malcolm.” Jessica’s face. She immediately goes from playful and determined to serious and terrified. This woman adores her son. 

6:38 - I love this whole conversation between Gil and Jessica. I love that Gil calls her Jess. It suggests that at one point in time they were good friends. Believe me - my name is Jessica. If you introduce yourself as Jessica to everyone only your close friends/family (and douchebags trying to get in your pants after knowing you for 2 minutes) will start casually start calling you Jess. Furthermore, they both look scared. I love that Gil tries to reassure Jessica that it’s not her fault - partially because he knows it isn’t - but partially because he believes it’s his fault for not keeping a better eye on Malcolm.

6:55 - It’s interesting to me that the writers keep suggesting that there’s the potential for a romantic relationship between Gil and Jessica but then they also show Gil wearing his wedding ring. I find this interesting because Gil is a dude with a iron-clad moral standard. He would never cheat on his wife. The fact that he’s still wearing that ring suggests that he would never do anything with Jessica because he still considers himself married to his deceased wife. 

7:04 - I love how determined Gil is to find Malcolm. How desperate Jessica is to help. 

7:24 - Oh hell yes. This is such a great exchange. Gil is going to visit Martin Whitly and Jessica pretty much gives Gil permission to murder him. Gil and Jessica are both so desperate to find Malcolm and it’s precious.

8:08 - I do not like the way Malcolm is smiling here. He looks drugged and delirious. I’m really worried about that head wound and the fact that he’s probably missed doses of his mood stabilizers. *sigh* I want to hug him. 

9:18 - Ok. This is great. Watkins wants Malcolm to become his murder partner. He just thinks that Malcolm needs to “go through the trials”. Hasn’t Malcolm already “gone through the trials”? I mean, his dad is in prison, he’s been bullied his whole life, he has a nasty list of diagnoses that plague him, and he has so much trauma. We shouldn’t compare trauma but Malcolm’s probably had more severe trauma than John’s “my mommy left me with abusive grandparents who locked me in a wardrobe”. What happened to John was criminal but also he’s killing people. 

9:31 - I love that Malcolm openly states that he’s not a killer. How many times do you think he’s had to say that to people throughout his life? People who judge him when they find out who his father is. How many times do you think he’s said it to himself in the middle of a panic attack? Makes me wonder at what age he changed his last name.

10:02 - Aww Dani. Girl, you’re breaking my heart. You look so worried about Malcolm. ALSO love the determined teamwork we’re getting from Dani and JT here. So sweet.

11:00 - When do you think Martin last saw Gil? Murder trial? When Malcolm was a teenager? More recently? I’m really curious.

11:20 - Look at the pure hatred in Gil’s face. Man. Gil is an absolute A+ guy but I genuinely believe he’s capable of murdering Martin Whitly without guilt. 

11:30 - Can we all just take a moment to appreciate how incredible Michael Sheen is in this scene? He’s always good but this scene is just....wow. *chef’s kiss* Martin’s eyes. Martin’s panic attack. The way Martin squints due to light sensitivity. The hysterical laugh. Ugh. So. Good.

12:18 - Gil’s face when Martin is laughing hysterically. The look he’s giving Martin is fantastic. It’s a look of anger and disgust. Watch as Gil crosses his arms and avoids eye contact with Martin a few seconds later. It’s as though Gil is physically restraining himself from crossing that red line and using physical force to get the answers that he needs from Martin.

13:16 - Anyone else hate it when Martin calls Malcolm “my boy”? It really drives home the fact that Martin is a psychopath for me. A normal man who refer to Malcolm as “my son”. The fact that Martin refers to Malcolm as “my boy” implies that he views Malcolm as an object that he possesses. It makes me feel sick. 

13:30 - Amazing. Check out this look that Martin and Gil share. For a split second Martin has Gil convinced that he cares about Malcolm. Martin’s eyes are conveying fear for Malcolm. So are Gil’s. I’m sure Gil wasn’t intending on telling Martin that Malcolm is missing but Gil’s desperate. His emotional walls are crumbling and Martin has succeeded at manipulating him into telling him about Malcolm. 

13:50 - Martin’s panic attack is really interesting to me. First of all I’m an engineering student - not a doctor or a psychologist, BUT I’ve always thought that psychopaths can’t feel empathy or anxiety. Therefore, I thought psychopaths were literally incapable of having a panic attack (a quick google search suggests that my assumptions might be wrong). Secondly, why is Martin having a panic attack? Is it truly because he’s worried about his son? I don’t think so. I think it’s because he’s afraid of what Malcolm might find out from Watkins. I think he’s afraid that the NYPD and Malcolm might discover that Martin has done more crime than has been previously thought. 

14:03 - Martin you are lucky Gil needs you conscious. If he didn’t he would’ve probably let you suffocate to death simply for traumatizing Malcolm.

15:05 - Look at the way Malcolm physically recoils when Watkins starts screaming. Huh. I never noticed that before. 

15:27 - Malcolm is too good for this world. Seriously, the guy is chained up, bloody, and in pain yet he’s empathizing with his captor. It’s not even Stockholm, Malcolm does this to every serial killer. It’s almost as if he’s trying to help them because he wishes someone would’ve helped his Dad. Or that he wishes that he could help Martin - but he can’t so he uses other serial killers as a substitute for Martin. Kind of concerning behaviour actually. 

16:30 - This whole stabbing scene is perfect. Malcolm looks terrified and confused when he finds out about Watkin’s old stab wound. Then Watkins stabs him and Malcolm descends into silent, painful, shock. My whump heart is beating so fast. I have so many feelings.

19:06 - Anyone else find the way that Gabrielle says “You need to stay alive kiddo.” is super creepy?!? Just me? Ok. 

19:55 - You know, it’s really impressive that Malcolm is so self-aware when he’s hallucinating and/or having a nightmare. 

20:11 - This is heartbreaking. Malcolm looks so lost and scared. He doesn’t care about his life anymore - just answers. 

21:21 - I’m so offended that Colette is chilling at Gil’s desk like it belongs to her. This woman is on thin ice with me. 

21:30 - Look how desperate/scared JT and Dani are. These. Are. The. Friends. That. Malcolm. Deserves.

22:00 - Of course. Colette isn’t coming because she’s concerned about Bright. She’s coming because 1) she doesn’t trust Dani and JT and 2) she wants credit for the arrest of John Watkins.

22:46 - “It’s over.” Is Martin referring to his son’s life or the very comfortable prison life that he’s established for himself. I genuinely think that Martin is afraid of what the NYPD will find out when they find Malcolm’s body (because Martin assumes Malcolm is dead).

22:48 - Martin and Gil fighting over being Malcolm’s Dad is everything. My heart is so full. Gil is getting soooo pissed. I’m in love. This scene might just be my absolute favourite of the whole season thus far (April 16,2020). 

25:35 - More suggestions that something is going on romantically between Jessica and Gil. Check out the look in Gil’s eyes there. He’s upset. Is it because he likes Jessica and he thinks he’s not worthy of her. OR is it because Martin is wasting time and he thinks that Malcolm is dying?

25:50 - Malcolm doesn’t look surprised here. He looks confused and a little scared. Huh. Did he previously suspect that Martin had been planning on killing him?

26:40 - You know, everyone reacts to trauma and bad news differently. However, Ainsley doesn’t seem nearly upset enough about the fact that her only brother has been kidnaped by a serial killer. Even when she’s trying to comfort Jessica - she looks concerned for her mom. Not for her brother.

28:34 - Malcolm looks angry here. He’s desperately trying to convince himself that Martin loves him. That Martin would never try to kill him. 

29:10 - This is the most broken I have ever seen Malcolm’s eyes. Holy crap. His lip is twitching. It’s like his brain just completely dissociated. He’s terrified and he thinks his family is in danger.

29:42 - Now Ainsley looks scared. Is it because she thinks a serial killer (other than her dad) gave her gifts as a child? Or is it a delayed reaction to Malcolm’s kidnapping. Kind of like a 5 stages of grief but for a kidnapping? She hit the disbelief and anger stages before the fear stage?

30:50 - Why does Colette feel the need to restate that she’s the primary on this case? It seems redundant and demeaning to JT and Dani. Ugh I hate this woman.

30:59 - I love that Malcolm suddenly snaps out of his dissociative state the second that Watkins tells Malcolm that he is going to kill Jessica and Ainsley. He becomes desperate and even more terrified than before. Look how fast he’s moving despite his injuries. That’s love.

31:50 - “Damn it Bright. You’re skinny ass better still be alive.” Gold. Just pure gold. JT loves Malcolm like a brother and he is so annoyed that he cares about Bright. This line is everything.

32:00 - Malcolm looks so close to tears here. He’s completely terrified. My heart is shattering. BUT my whump heart is also really happy. Because I’m a monster.

33:06 - I love how angry Dani gets on the phone with Gil. It suggests that Gil took a nasty tone of disbelief with her when she told him they didn’t find Malcolm. 

33:30 - Malcolm tries to run after John despite being chained up. My heart is so full. This boy adores his mother and sister. 

34:05 - They’re putting Martin back into solitary. Huh. Why didn’t they just have Gil question him in solitary? It was an emergency. Why go to the trouble of moving Martin through the hospital?

34:20 - Gil is definitely not supposed to be that close to Martin. That’s how scared Gil is - he just physically held a serial killer in a sort of comforting way to try and save Malcolm. This man deserves an award for Dad of the Year.

34:55 - So did Jessica not know about the tunnels under the house? I feel like that’s something she would’ve told the police about when Martin was arrested. Or at least something the police would’ve found when Martin was arrested. WHY DID NO ONE THINK TO CHECK THERE WHEN MALCOLM WENT MISSING?!? 

35:05 - Jessica Whitly is my queen. Running for her life. Terrified to death. She still has time to make sarcastic, sassy remarks to her daughter. I stan this woman. 

36:00 - Look at Malcolm. He’s completely lost the will to live. He’s given up. Until the hallucination of Martin makes him angry enough to keep living.

39:00 - “I have never counted on a man to save us and I don’t need to now.” Again. Jessica Whitly is a perfect woman. 

39:20 - Watching Malcolm break his own hand is utterly heart wrenching. What a total badass. He is bleeding out from a stab wound. He probably has a concussion. He is terrified, off his meds, and in extraordinary pain. Yet, he breaks his own hand in a desperate attempt to save his family. That is love.  Also...how did no one hear Malcolm screaming in pain when he broke his hand? How did no one hear Watkins screaming at Malcolm earlier?

40:04 - Jessica going at Watkins with a pair of scissors is both hilarious and just vicious. I love it. She is clearly terrified but if she’s going to die she is intending to die fighting. This woman is a treasure. 

40:46 - Jessica regains a sense of power when she hears Malcolm’s voice. Her eyes look less scared and more angry. 

41:20 - For continuity reasons I’m going to assume that Watkins is hallucinating that trunk and Malcolm just knocked him out onto the carpet. Also protective!Malcolm is very attractive. 

42:32 - This ending scene is awesome. That family hug. The fear in Jessica’s eyes when she asks Malcolm if Watkins is dead. The relief in her eyes when she sees Malcolm. The pain in Malcolm’s eyes. 

This episode is so so so good. Thanks for hanging out. 

[noxiatoxia]

NearlyMellodraMattic headcanons

I'm obsessed with these three lads so I felt like compiling some of my headcanons!!

Near:

- He has minor amnesia and doesn't remember anything before entering Wammy's House when he was around five. Nothing. This amnesia might be the result of him coping with a traumatic event in his past, but even he doesn't know.

- He's easily grossed out. Not by any traditional sense tho, mostly by things that trigger sensory issues (touching dirt, for example).

- On that note he has really bad trypophobia. Like, it can make him sick.

- He loses like ALL reasoning ability when he's around Matt. Like, stupid shit he'd normally not do he'd do with Matt. Matt's one of the few people that can bring out Near's silly side (and also one of the VERY FEW people that can manage to make him laugh!!)

- this ones practically canon but Near is autistic. Thankfully due to Wammy's specialized education he's better at managing it, but he still can't work without some assistance. He has sensory issues, bad at conveying and processing emotions, stims, hyperfixates, doesn't know jack about social cues, etc.

- In relation to that, he HATES thunderstorms. The sudden loud and bright noises/flashes and the general "impending doom" feeling they give him freaks him out. He tries not to show it, though.

- Him and Matt could VS in Tetris for HOURS. There's a 50/50 chance either will win.

- Near suffers from depression and existential crises. It got ESPECIALLY bad after the Kira case once Mello and Matt were gone. (Suicidal thoughts were not uncommon, although he never acted on any of them or planned to.)

- Matt introduced him to online gaming. Near has been playing Webkinz ever since.

- Near is probably really perverted. Won't give any indication of it, however.

- He likes wearing overly large pajamas so he can do the Sleeve Flap Thingy.

- Obsessed with early 90s CGI box art for like computer games and shit. He just loves it.

- He has poor as shit health and multiple vitamin deficiencies and chronic illnesses.

Mello:

- Before coming to Wammy's House, he grew up in a poor urban area with a physically abusive father. He'd go to the public library or steal books when he could, as he had a fascination with learning. Due to this upbringing, however, he has a very strong "fight to survive" mentality: always pushing himself beyond his limits as if his life depended on it and being very, very agressive with others.

- He has minor ADHD.

- Also due to his mental state and nature, he has a really hard time showing that he loves or cares about others, which can lead to him losing them down the line.

- (He almost cried when Matt admitted he thought Mello hated him.)

- He's, what we in the industry call, pansexual.

- He's always eating chocolate because a) the snap is satisfying and calms him down, b) sugar = energy, c) cuz chocolate is fuckin' good.

- His favorite subject is science and philosophy.

- He's actually a really good singer!! He can do a lot of different pitches (him and Matt have def had a drunk karaoke night).

- He's not necessarily religious, and if you asked if he was he'd say "no", but whenever he's scared or feels hopeless he'll clutch the cross on his necklace and pray. (He did this when he knew he was about to die, and recited some prayers under his breath).

- While he doesn't tell people, Mello is actually an amazing artist. Painting, mostly. (He doesn't do it often though. He thinks it's girly smh.)

- Speaks fluent English, Japanese, and German. He may also have German ancestry.

Matt:

- WEALTH OF GAMER KNOWLEDGE. Literally ask him anything that has to relate to video games, he'll know the answer.

- He actually has the compacity to become the smartest Wammy's Kid, even above Near. He wasn't born a genius like Near was, but he could definitely reach a higher level than Near. He just lacks the passion or drive someone like Mello has to actually do better.

- He has really, really terrible anxiety. Video games help him escape reality and shut his mind away from the world, and smoking helps calm his nerves. When he gets panic attacks, it's not uncommon he's unable to speak during them or that he might pass out.

- He enjoys petting Near's hair (when Near lets him); he named a Mareep after Near.

- He also has a psychic-like connection with Near?? Like, they can just look at each other and instantly know what the other is thinking. This makes them a scary duo in Smash Bros. tag team.

- Desite Mello being a bit of an ass, he considers him his best friend. He just finds everything about Mello endearing and fun, even if he can get a bit pushy or annoying at times.

- Though, he often wonders if Mello actually cares about him as a friend, or just hates him. It's the Anxiety™

- Despite how laid back and goofy he is, he's quite introverted and barely talks to people. Usually Mello has to be the one to drag him outside.

- CONSTANTLY forgets or foregoes words and replaces them with nonsense. One time he interrupted L talking about his life as Hideki Ryuga, "...so since my bookbag was heavy and I had to lift my arms up, my shoulders-" "oh, so your shoulders are gayass now?" Matt finishes for him without thinking. Of course he means his shoulders are sore now, and Mello and Near know this and don't even question it or bat an eye, but L just stops and has to think about it for like a minute.

- Doesn't actually want to be L's sucessor. Was kind of forced here because he was Smart.

- For personal reasons, he doesn't like nor celebrate his birthday. Nobody in Wammy's knows his real birthdate except for himself. Everyone else just decided to celebrate his birthday on March 10.

- Has the attention span of a fly. You have to basically strap him to a chair to get him to pay attention to something he finds boring.

- When his anxiety acts up he will aplogize for every little thing. For laughing, for stuttering, for coughing—and especially for crying. Mello as a young child said Matt's crying was annoying, so it's something he's internalized (unbeknownst to Mello).

[imma-talk-back]

Yesterday, I was called a Nigger.  Within mere minutes of being in my favorite store, it happened.  Without warning, a gentleman bisected my path and seemingly reflexively blurted it out.  It was if the word had a life of its own and was pushing forth from his mouth at a full sprint. I say this not to emphasize the innocence of the man, but to shed light on the immense power of that word. 

Yeah... I thought that’d get your attention. 

Frankly, I’ve always been one to prefer Target to Walmart.  I appreciate the structure and organization of the store, and though I am a person who thrives in areas of “organized chaos”, I’m afraid, I find Walmart to be a little too chaotic for my liking.  As someone who suffers from The Big Bad Beast that is Anxiety, I experience a visceral uneasiness in certain environments, but generally speaking Target is one of few places I nearly always feel safe in.  There are of course the antsy customers who brush past me on occasion or ride my tail too closely in the checkout, but for the most part, to me, Target represents the epitome of comfortable shopping experiences.  It’s almost as if the structure demands it’s patrons to be on their best behavior.  Unfortunately, not everyone heed these demands... 

Please allow me to begin by laying the ground work; let me explain just how much effort I put into a simple trip to the market.  You see, one of the many awful things about this lovely condition that is Anxiety is that it has the potential to make even the most mundane tasks feel insurmountable.  A quick errand run the average person puts little thought into, can for someone like me, be a delicate tightrope walk; from the moment I leave the safety of my car and began my trek though the aimless herds of self-focused patrons, to the exact position of my body in accordance to yours, while in line.  I see you in a straight line, but I take several steps to the right or left, creating a meticulously crafted triangle between you and the person in front of me; all with the intention to grant me just a bit more security.  You see, I’ve been socially distancing since before COVID made it cool.  

Well, it’s about time I get to the point, isn’t it?  So, here goes...

So here I am.. and on top of dealing with my typical feelings of sporadic and unannounced paralyzing panic that may rise at any moment during my routine errand, whilst in the midst of none other than The Zombie Apocalypse that is 2020, I am the victim of an unprovoked physical attack in on of my few “safe” public spaces.  Notice, I consider this a physical attack, because of slew of negative bio-mechanical implications it presented me with, after all the word Nigger cannot be compared to that of Bitch, or Asshole. No, when spat with the right amount of hatred, the word surge through your veins like a poison. 

Thus, I instinctively stopped dead in my tracks and felt the heat of pain and rage radiate through my body.  I shook my head, dropped my gaze, and took several steps forward before stopping.  Rather than metaphorically quietly quivering in the corner, I decided to act. 

I turned around, sought out an employee, mustered up all the poise I could find, and collectedly said something along the lines of: “Hi, I just walked into the store, and within moments upon entering, a gentleman wearing a white blazer called me a Nigger.  I would very much like for him to be escorted out of the store”.  It was important that I used the full word to convey the level of discomfort I felt in having it thrown at me.  Perhaps that did the trick because the woman responded with a look of genuine shock, without hesitation confirmed the direction the man was walking towards, and urgently called for security. I said my peace and entrusted my safety in the store to the woman’s follow-through.  

It wasn’t the first time and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I tried my best to continue on my journey as if he “hadn’t gotten to me”, but he had, I rush through the store, in search of whatever had prompted me to enter.  I can’t for the life of me remember, I imagine because I moved through the store in what can only be likened to a fear-induced haze.  I walked through the isles wondering if the gentleman would return and found myself looking at every Black passer-by, wondering if they had, or would soon experience the same. 

I power walked through the store with a combination of sorrow, profound fear, inexplicable anger, and incredible gratitude.  It instantly pained my heart to hear that a complete stranger could have so much hate in their’s for me, it still does.   Although I don’t imagine the N-word is typically equated with fear for non-Black people, for someone like me, it can be terrifying.  Despite the ever-so-obvious gravitas of that word, I know it hardly represents the tip of the iceberg of the hatred that lies below the surface.  As such, I feared retaliation from the moment I reported the gentleman, throughout the store, to my stop at the gym where I went through my daily workout routine, to the moment I drove home, parked my car, and double-checked the locks to all the doors at my house.  

Though this wasn’t the first time I’ve experienced this sort of overt display of hatred in a public setting, it was without a doubt, the first time I have ever felt seen enough to report it.  The death of George Floyd exposed just how serious the issue of racial injustice in this country is, and made it unmistakably clear just how prevalent, not to mention perilous it is.  After 34 years of just taking it, and doing everything in my power to “not let it get to me” or knowing “it’s just the way it is”, I finally feel seen enough to say; look this just happened, and you have the power to make it so this isn’t just how it is. 

You see prior to May 25, 2020, we could all live with a degree of ignorance in the matter; you could deny my life was actually different because of my skin tone and I could feign my perception of equality, but that shield has been lifted.  We have awakened from our socio-normative unconsciousness... That was deep, I know, but rather or not we choose to stay woke is up to us. The US needs a reckoning, regardless of if recent demands for equality stemming from the death of Mr. Floyd, Ms. Taylor, and Mr. Arbery can transition this moment into a movement, I am here to remind you of its importance.  You see, I was Black before you ever heard of those names and will continue to be such even when they began to fade from your memory.  I am here to remind you just how vital that demand for equality is.  

The fact of the matter is that the woman who essentially “came to my rescue” by respecting the seriousness of the matter was in shock not only the verbal brutality spewed, but also in part I imagine from simply awakening the reality that such an incident actually happened.  This brings me to my anger... you see I am beyond grateful for the fact that I can finally stand up for myself and declare something like this has happened and be taken seriously, but I am equally as enraged that in order to be taken as such, the entire world had to witness a man be crushed to death.  It goes without saying that, the level of enlightenment that the entire non POC (people of color) world is having right now is just as appreciated as it is enraging. 

On a final note, I want to draw your attention to the fact that I referred to the man who accosted me, as a gentleman.  There is certainly two contributing factors to consider in this; one I was simply raised right- with manners and respect for everyone, and I knew this man couldn’t have been in his right mind, and two, I knew the importance of remaining composed in even the most daring of times, to counter the very real likelihood of simply being written off as an Angry Black Woman.  Think about that... even in an assault, I must maintain my composure, because society says an emotional Black woman is an Angry Black woman, society doesn’t question her countless motives for said anger; no, it merely writes her off.  

Well... let this first blog entry be a testament to my Eloquent Black Rage--sitting posed, with perfect posture, well read, well spoken, highly educated in fact... with well manicured fingernails and an accented middle finger nodding to a less than subtle, “fuck you”. 

In close, I hope in writing this I have helped to explain the depth of feelings that stem from such a verbal attack, the long term impact it has, and that I have drawn your attention to just how often injustice occurs even when they are not spoken of or otherwise exposed. 

This is my very first Blog-entry, it originally started out as a wordy Facebook post, but decided I needed a more appropriate venue for my voice.  I sincerely thank you for reading and hope you continue to peek into my mind from time to time.  Congratulations, you’ve earned 10 Friend Points and good karma! 

[fredriks]

❝ What I’ve learned from a mirror? Look too hard and you’ll find you a stranger. ❞  FREDERICK ‘FRED’ WEASLEY II looks a lot like that muggle, JUSTICE SMITH, right? Only 19 years old, that GRYFFINDOR  alumnus works as a TRAINEE HEALER and is sided with the ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. HE identifies as a CISMAN and is a HALFBLOOD. [ PLOT ARC 23, PROPHECY 26, THE DROWNED. ]  (cami, she/her, 20, gmt+1)

DEATH TW, PANIC ATTACK TW, ANXIETY TW

PAST

george weasley, entrepreneur legendary, and angelina weasley, quidditch superstar, turned ireland’s national team manager. the couple was a shining example of success and happiness, and that only grew at the news that they’d soon have their first child. a new generation of the ever growing family was on its way, and fred was to take a quiet spot within it - not the eldest, not the youngest, just right. 

born to salt and mist, fred grew up by the sea, in a house his father insisted he must build himself (and constantly repair, due to all the flaws in the construction). the irish coast is carved in sharp cliffs, and some of his very first memories are the wind at the very top - which he swears would have blown him away if his mother wasn’t holding him - and the clashing of waves, making the ground shake. small as he was, frederick didn’t fear the powerful water, but was drawn to it instead. to the contemplation of how much stronger and destructive that natural force was, to the beauty of it, to a humble acknowledgement. in retrospect, he knows this should have been his first fear. sometimes it even feels like a confirmation that there was never a mistake, he WAS brave, but perhaps simply lost it along the way.  

a couple years later, roxanne joined the family. fred was always rather close with his cousins on both sides of the family, but roxanne was different. he couldn’t quite understand it, but it was with her that he developed his role of protector. even though they were so close in age, fred embraced his big brother place, and soon that tender caring way of being was shown to most, if not all. he’d rush faster than all to whichever cousin took a fall, his eyes would fill up with tears at the sight of the smallest bruise on his mother, the result of the quidditch matches she won. he quietly understood melancholic states way before he had any business in knowing what sadness was - his father got unexpected hugs and gifts of drawings after bad days at work, and at a certain date every year. from a rather young age, fred had a knack for emotional intelligence. (this is obv likely to change when we finally have a roxanne, which reminds me - GIVE US ROXANNE)

as a way to connect them to the muggle part of their heritage, angelina made sure her children got as much of a non-magical education as they could before they headed off to hogwarts. with two hard-working parents, it was also the most practical solution. thus, fred’s days were constant tastes of both sides, and that was simply his reality: in the morning he’d be walked to school, just a few streets away. they’d play and learn the alphabet and talk about their favourite cartoons. in the afternoon he’d sit with grandpa arthur, who seemed to ask lots of questions about rather normal things, or he’d “help” dad and his uncle at the store, which mostly meant passing coins from customers to the cashier (a rather important task). george and angelina worried about the potential signs of magic fred should one day show, and how they might ostracize him and later roxanne in such a society, but they soon learned they had little to fear.

fred took a little longer to begin showing clear signs of magic. long enough to bring around some speculation of him being a squib, but it turned out that his magic, regardless of his lack of control or the height of his emotions, was simply subtle - flowers bloomed a little more, a mirror fogged up, a loose thread on a shirt for pulled a few more centimeters. it still isn’t a flashy sort of magic to this day - sometimes it’s like his magic runs on a very empty pipe, leaking a few drops at a time only. others, it’s as if he’s working with a rather fine thread, rich but fragile. he’s yet to learn if there’s an actual block in his system that he need to work out, or if he’s simply carrying a type of magic he’s hasn’t fully understood yet. 

when fred was still rather young, his family showed concern about his lack of complex speech, which soon developed into a very clear stammer. caring as they were, the couple tried all methods, magical and muggle, to help their young son - after lots of trial and error, they settled on a dublin speech therapist, who stuck by fred for most of his early life in constant sessions. the little kids who copied his stuttering with mockery in the playground soon became a foggy memory and at age twelve he had his very last session. his speech was fluent. “cured”, he’d thought. 

his speech was intertwined with his signs of magic  at first. most emotional reactions, which lead magical children to show uncontrollable magic, were conveyed through his stammer. if fred was nervous or angry, it intensified, or his voice was simply blocked. it took close attention for anyone to notice all of this, and his subtle works of magic, and to this day that is how it works for fred. his spells are subtle, almost dimmed. he has an eye for the small touches and delicate work, but can’t make a single thing explode. 

then, it came the time to pick a side. there wasn’t much choice, given how it’d always been expected that the year he turned eleven, fred would move to hogwarts and leave the muggle world behind, so he didn’t say a word. however, there was real anguish in saying goodbye to his school friends and realising that the following year there’d be no way back. he was a wizard, who’d lead a wizard’s life. he BELONGED somewhere else. doing what was expected of him, the boy said a tearful goodbye to his parents, after confessing once again his fear of living away from them; held his little sister for as long as possible;  and took his cousin’s  hand, joining them in the whole chapter of his life. 

HOGWARTS

GRYFFINDOR. fred had no preferences, so he was silent as the hat pondered for a few seconds, just short to a minute. at first the decision made sense - his family had a longstanding reputation in the house of roar, so why not? his namesake, the war hero fred weasley, had been a brave man. his mother was stoic and valiant against everything. frederick had never feared the waves. 

the doubts took a few months to set in. shy and simple, his housemates often overwhelmed him, and the natural feeling of belonging that his family spoke about was a promise that never came. the true sense of displacement came after his very first winter break. he’d returned home, to his house, family, and beloved muggle friends he’d left behind. his routine briefly returned to what it was before hogwarts and january was a cold and harsh reality check - on the second day back, he drafted a letter to his mother, asking her to let him go home. but he never sent it. instead, he made the best he could with the little tools he had, deciding to become a great wizard, rather than a great lion. after all, fred could not quit. the temptation would be torturous, but he had higher expectations of himself. 

fred made few but intense friendships, mostly with kids from other houses. he accepted the narrative that he was not brave, nor noble, much less the hero type, but instead a gryffindor legacy (and that was the sole reason of his placement). he focused on his grades instead, his dream job adapting from doctor to healer - sleepless nights and migraines to achieve the one goal he had in mind, even if he’d stopped feeling the pull towards it by third year. 

from the very start, fred’s relationship with his magic was complicated. he enjoyed it, surely, and was able to perform it, but his biggest aptitude was for the theory of it all. essays, understanding the mechanics, homework. at times, it felt like not much about him would have been different, had fred stayed in the muggle world. sometimes, he even revisited that thought of leaving it all behind - but he never did. after all, he was a driven young man, he couldn’t QUIT.

everything changed in his final year. there’d been commotion in the background, but fred had willingly shut it off until his uncle’s murder. after all, the aurors got it, right? the legendary order of the phoenix got it, yeah? headmaster longbottom got it. HARRY POTTER got it. long gone were the days where children such as himself had to worry about dangers outside the stone walls of the castle, and fred had nothing in common with the generation past, who’d begun their own revolution from within hogwarts. uncle harry’s murder changed it all.

fred knew his limits and fears,  and he’d never think of himself as a revolutionary, a child soldier. yet, his heart belonged to a kinder place, and he was good. out of all the uncertainties that surrounded him and his narrative, frederick knew for certain that he was a good person, and that the world required more of him than he’d been so far willing to give. on his final year at hogwarts, a spark of  purpose lit up after he made one of the few spontaneous decisions in his life, and joined the newly formed knights.

as far as he could remember, fred was a protector, so the decision made sense. it was an unexpected decision nonetheless, but soon the boy realised that at last, something clicked. whenever their work got hard or scary, he didn’t wish to quit, but was energized by a hidden fire. for once, that flame didn’t feel dim. his passion didn’t waver, perhaps because it was more of a necessary task than a hobby. taking the codename of LUCAN - a loyal companion to king arthur even after he’d been hurt himself - fred channeled the bravery he’d never seen in himself. he channeled the knights from the myths of his group. his father and mother. his uncle fred. pushing himself to the very edge just to accumulate a little more kindle.

his seventh year was a haze. like an adrenaline rush, it went over his head. fred felt larger than life and than himself, too big for his skin. while starting his time at hogwarts was harsh, leaving was much harder. how could he in good conscience walk out when they were so close to their goal, to bring back the bravest man he knew? how could he leave them to their own devices? and selfishly, not that he’d admit it - how could he break away from his newfound purpose and from what he so devotedly believed int?

PRESENT

the order of the phoenix, counting legends among its ranks such as harry potter, alastor moody, marlene mckinnon, fred and george weasley - and now him. his friends at school collected their cards. he knew their legendary stories, some directly from the players’ mouths. 

it was the logical next step, but when he joined, just some days out of hogwarts, there was a clear distinction. he was a child once more, rather than lucan, a brave knight. the knights weren’t seen as a necessary part of the war, the order couldn’t yet comprehend the work they’d been doing. neither could fred. 

he took up the codename HORTON, after his patronus, an elephant. the mighty size of the animal, he speculates, is due to his own fears and how much he needs a big protector that can shield him - he’d never consider the possibility that there’s more of him within his small body, or that HE could be that very protector. the codename was the first thing that popped to his head, a memory of horton, the elephant, a character from dr. seuss books he was read as a kid. a kind and loyal character that somehow always achieved his goals, quite a good parallel. did he casually tell the older order people he wished would take him seriously that his codename came from children’s books? yes. no regrets. 

graduated with the soul-crushing requirements for healer training, fred had a ten year plan drawn and step one was taken care of. it was beyond competitive, everyone trying to climb higher and get the best shot - a shock to his system. fred would fall asleep over books, the work consuming him even at home, and yet it wasn’t enough. ‘your heart isn’t in it’, an older healer said to him once, after yet another failure to keep up. it made no sense. on paper, he was the perfect candidate: kind, caring, smart, high grades. hands on? he froze, it was as if his tongue was stuck once more, words and actions unable to get out. 

his heart wasn’t in it. it was busy with the order, where he kept trying to prove himself worthy despite his youth and inexperience. it was busy with his fellow knights, who he couldn’t leave hanging. 

frederick knew that to be taken seriously, he had to close the door on the knights. outwardly he did so, but his research on the resurrection never ended - it was the only logical solution, and one that would bring such joy to his family and himself as well, or so he thought. letters and patronuses, secretly sending research back and forth, maps and notes and order secrets signed with LUCAN at the bottom. their work was too important to stop, and he hyper fixated on it, until death did its bidding. 

first, do no harm. he was not a muggle doctor, but his code of ethics was the very same. on paper, they’d done all the right moves, but it ended terribly. appalled by the results, he fell into a deep hole once the consequences of his actions hit him. as a future healer, he should have known better than to meddle on life and death. as older, graduated, an ORDER member, he should have known better. as frederick weasley, with all the standards he’d self imposed upon himself, he should have simply known better. 

guilt is a consuming feeling, corroding one from the inside out, soul and body. headmaster longbottom was murdered. they’d murdered him. he’d murdered him. and uncle harry, after a life of war, deserved to rest. he’d murdered him too, taking away all that he was and knew. there was blood on his hands. 

the order could not know. if they were made aware of the extent of his actions, how he’d used their resources and knowledge to do this, how he’d not broken away after graduating, they might just kick him out. sure, he’d fed his fire too much too fast, resulting in the predicament he found himself in, but he couldn’t simply put it out. there was too much of himself depending on it, and surely he could still do some work. some good work. when asked, he justified that “it felt right then”, but never that he’d kept on going. the shame over the hurt he’s helped bring about is too heavy. now, more than ever, his younger fellow knights are stuck in war, and he can do less and less about it. 

fred sets clearer lines now. terrified of what war can do to him, and how much of a slippery slope the feeling of usefulness and purpose is to him, he tries to keep himself in check. it barely works, though. his attention is on his healer work now, and how it can benefit the war. perhaps he was always meant to be a helper, not a fighter, or so he tries to convince himself. 

he’s trying to prove himself to the order and earn their trust and respect, but is petulant enough to ignore the experience of the battle-tried leaders. how can he not when at times he’s seen a better way, and been in the very center of it? his attempts to rise up fail when he constantly disagrees with methods and positions, but his voice shakes after one simple denial.

OTHER

“The Drowned will ultimately survive the war, but they will pay dearly for it. Doomed to outlive their loved ones, death might have been a much kinder fate for them.” fred wishes he could apply muggle logic to prophecies and such, but that’s a chance he could never take. the allocation of prophecies and people is a game he’s played many times - that drawer in his bedroom full of half-empty notebooks had a distinctive coldness to it. a mathematician getting equations in place. however, he’s never even entertained the thought that he could be a part of it. even though there are more fates than leaders, he’s just assumed that the war shall be longer than expected, that others will join and be found. 

he’s avoided the topic of mortality within a war, despite it having been the cause of many a demise within is family. during his heyday with the knights, he feared it often, but quietly. he feared for others mostly, and that still applies. the thought of his family and friends getting killed in the conflict drives him into full-blown breakdowns, so he’s learned to lock it out of his head. 

fred will develop a strong sense of survivor’s guilt alongside his already rather intense guilt. the fact that he sees himself as a minor background character, rather than even a small player, and that he constantly feels like whatever he’s done is simply not enough - it all adds up to him never believing he deserved the win that is surviving over all the fallen. every time he needs saving on the field, that someone must disarm his opponents for him or that he purely freezes - it just plays in his head in a loop. how could he consider himself worthy of surviving when he needs so much aid to do so?

death is always a trade. he’s learned that with neville’s death. so who is being traded for him?

he has inherited absolutely none of his father’s famous knack for pranks and being a class and family clown, but rather the bits of dry humour he gathered from both him and angelina. he’s also just too lame in general for it, i love him

his father’s shop in diagon alley is his safe place. after a bad shift at st. mungo’s or with the order, it’s always there that he returns to. it’s more impersonal than home, so bringing that heaviness with him there doesn’t stain the memory of the place. and, of course, being there simply brings his mood up, be it the contents of the shop or his uncle, father and other employees who’ve quite literally seen him grow up. sometimes even when george isn’t there, fred will sit around in his office, or just help shelf stock, marvel for a bit at the creativity that goes into some of the products. however, he visits the hogsmeade location much less.

it was always obvious he’d likely into end up working at weasley wizard wheezes full-time, that his ambitions lied in different places. that was never really an issue within the family. 

his work with the order is a bit all over the place, when they do allocate him a task (there’s a deep frustration growing within fred, though). he’s been doing some healing work, some field as well - although he’s not very good at it; most of all, he’s been doing logistics. moving refugees, spies, soldiers and objects under the radar, organizing who goes where and how - but all under very clear instructions from above. however that flame inside of him craves for more, for the rush once more. 

bravery can come in subtle ways. it doesn’t need to be a showy explosion of dauntlessness, but rather a willingness to remain somewhere terrifying, and to give name, body and soul to something worthwhile. he’s horrified every day, though.

fred has very much built a narrative about himself and his lack of importance and bravery in his head. no matter how often he proves himself wrong, it’s quite hard to change the way you’ve always been thinking.

there’s something very CONTAINED about fred. it always feels like he’s not giving people more than a surface level insight, or that there’s a bubbling underneath, barely contained by his skin. even his closest family struggles with this. he doesn’t quite have a reason for it besides expectations he’s placed on himself - who should fred be? what would fred say? how would fred react to this? or perhaps there’s just something wrong with him, a glass wall between him and the world. 

he has trouble expressing himself. he’s also quick to quit explaining himself anyway.

he’s used glasses since he was eight! goes for a thin rounder rim currently. 

fred has truly kept all knights secrets to himself. despite not being able to deal with the consequences of their mission, he doesn’t see them and the order as partner entities, and his loyalty is much stronger with his armored friends. 

in the last year or so, the techniques he’s learned to deal with his stammer have failed him. perhaps it’s due to the stress he’s been under, but fred has found himself more and more often stuck on a syllable, or fully unable to get any sounds out. especially when he needs to throw a spell out. 

he wishes the order and thus the revolution would be safer, not visible at all even. does think they should feel like they have something to hide. they’d have so much more of an advantage if the whole world didn’t just know them so easily - but his complaints get ignored at the order, especially when he puts them out in a very distinctively know-it-all tone. 

which he has most of the time. fred is very much a know-it-all, a tad arrogant even in that aspect. 

“tell the truth and run”

please make him stop with this ‘i’m not that significant, all people considered’ mindset

fred has a tendency to accumulate until he bursts. his family and close friends have seen their fair share of intense breakdowns coming from frederick. on a smaller scale, panic attacks as well. but he’s never made any push towards getting professional help, passing it out as a ‘thing i do. we’ve all got those, yeah?’

his name is actually frederick, just often shortened to fred. but truly, he prefers the full version. it has a smarter more classic feel to it, and it also helps him forget who he’s been named after and all the complicated feelings that come with that

raised in coastal ireland, fred spent a lot of time growing up at his grandparents on both sides of the family, and in diagon alley and hogsmeade, where his family owned shops. his accent was a tad confusing before he joined muggle school, and then the irishness really fixed. 

growing up in a very halfblood sort of environment and still having to this day close muggle friends had made him develop some rather muggle tastes, especially when it comes to technology and entertainment. huge video games enthusiast, we love a gamer

also loves chess though. and as much as he loves muggle things, nothing beats the rush of wizards chess

he was already graduated when the knights divided and got their daemons, so he didn’t exactly go that route, but he applauded their commitment to doing no further harm. he fears that himself, very often actually. that there’s nothing quite as strong stopping him from falling down the same rabbit hole again. 

really close with his parents and sister. still lives at home but is planning on moving out soon, although that’s quite a daunting step and he’d miss their house by the sea. 

breaks his glasses often 

has a baby face and that only makes it harder for others to take him seriously

messy gay

george dropped out and followed his dreams. angelina was highly successful and passionate about her work. sometimes fred feels like he's lacking that drive and that one perfect goal in his life-long plan. 

he’s the human embodiment of trying too hard

loving quidditch was not a question. raised in the cheering crowds, he got quite a privileged look inside the famous sport, having pictures with loads of quidditch stars, some of them being usual dinner guests back home. he learned to ride a broom quite young, but only applied for the hogwarts quidditch team once, in his third year. he got in, but left during his fifth to focus on his studies and his new role as prefect. he still watches professional games religiously, and is a die hard holyhead harpies fan., although his main allegiance was always shifting to where his mum was playing back then

a very easy crier. tells everyone to just ignore it. 

grandpa arthur got special tours of his muggle schools whenever the family got invited to events and plays. just frederick pulling him by his hand and showing him everything and adoring the curiosity. he always loved mixing both sides of his life quite a lot.

his wand wood (black walnut) doesn’t do well with inner turmoil and loses some of its accuracy and finesse. he’s been struggling with that a lot - always has, but in the past few months more than ever. catch fred throwing it against a wall and leaving the room, only to return and apologise 5 seconds later. 

STATS

name: FREDERICK ( named after his uncle. meaning ‘peaceful ruler’. ) LLYR ( meaning ‘the sea’. ) WEASLEY II

age: nineteen

date of birth: 6th of july, 2006

hometown: lahinch, ireland

current location: lahinch, ireland

gender: cis-man

pronouns: he/him

orientation: so gay

blood status: halfblood

hogwarts house: gryffindor

financial status: upper middle-class

spoken languages: english and can read ancient runes.

occupation: trainee healer

sun sign: cancer

moon: scorpio

mbti: ISTJ-T

moral alignment: lawful good

four temperaments: melancholic

element: water

enneagram: type 1 (the reformer)

father: george weasley ( b. 1978 )

mother: angelina weasley née johnson ( b. 1977 )

siblings: roxanne weasley ( b. ??? )

pets: a dog named lando and a snowy owl named hugh.

wand: black walnut, phoenix feather, twelve inches, reasonably supple.

patronus: elephant

electives: arithmancy & study of ancient runes

NEWTs: arithmancy (A), transfiguration (O), potions (E), herbology (E), charms (O), DADA (E)

hogwarts extracurriculars: prefect, quidditch chaser (3rd-5th year), briefly in the charms club during 4th year

favourite subject: study of ancient runes

least favourite subject: astronomy

[altruistic-meme]

just ranting about my sister bc i’m tired of her bs

ok so a list of things i’m So Fucking Sick Of aka a list of things i’m gonna rant about 

1. She’s so contradictory

2. She only cares about being the Most Pitied

3. She complains about EVERYTHING and does NOTHING to fix it

4. Constantly saying I don’t understand... anything

5. Basically she’s just an emotionally abusive bitch and I’m really tired of her shit

cool? cool. that’s basically it but like read on if you want to, i’m just gonna go into detail about everything cause i’m annoyed and she just pushed me over the edge. 

1. She’s so contradictory

she has told me, on multiple occasions, “i hate it when people make everything a competition, everyone has different limits and different experiences”  and then any time i talk about... anything i’m struggling with (i.e. my depression/anxiety, my insomnia, that i’m sore, that i had a bad day, etc.) she IMMEDIATELY starts talking about how worse off she is. 

Followed closely by 2. She only cares about being the Most Pitied

I didn’t sleep well last night. “Well I never sleep well, I woke up 3 times last night, I didn’t fall asleep until 3am.” 

My feet hurt after my shift at work. “Well you know,,, I sprained both my ankles and both my wrists and my side and I hurt my shoulder and my neck and you think YOU’RE sore?? Please.”

I have a headache. “Well I have had a constant headache for MONTHS and I’m just living with it, you can’t understand how I feel, I’m in SO much pain.”

no matter what issue I have, she is 10x worse. even when it is something that I KNOW she doesn’t actually experience!!! i.e saying I’m sore after a full shift on a day she didn’t work, and she then still talks about how she’s sore despite having done nothing all day. also see: I have MDD and she doesn’t, and yet whenever I talk about anything that is a symptom of said MDD, she IMMEDIATELY starts talking about how she experiences that but worse (insomnia, negative thoughts, etc.)

*Side note: This is not me saying she doesn’t have depression because “she doesn’t seem like the type ://” or any bullshit like that. This is me saying I am medically diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder, while she is medically diagnosed with Panic Anxiety Disorder. She is NOT diagnosed with depression.

On a similar note,  3. She complains about EVERYTHING and does NOTHING to fix it

a good, prime example of this is her PAD. she is always complaining about it, and about how she feels, etc. but whenever anyone suggests something, she either just ignores it or directly attacks the person about what they’re suggesting. most likely bc she thinks fixing the issues she has will lower her chances of getting the pity points she so desperately craves. 

ex. i say “hey, maybe you should go to therapy for xyz” and she says “yeah, well, my LAST therapist gave me TRUST ISSUES :// so idk i think that’s something i should just live with, and also the trust issues that i definitely have bc of my last therapist, despite the fact i constantly complain about those too :// i don’t like therapists anyway” etc.

also see; well if you’re having issues with your ankle, side, etc. maybe try doing the things you were told would help? “Hmmmmmmm, no, i’m too tired, too lazy, it won’t actually help (despite it being what the multiple doctors she has seen about it have told her to do)” 

Then, of course, there’s  4. Constantly saying I don’t understand... anything

this is the one that really pissed me off today, and triggered this whole gd post. i think i said smth about covid-19 and she said “yeah well I had plans this summer :// “ and i said “... yeah, ok, we all did” half-jokingly

and she said “yeah but i had plans with FRIENDS” like,,,, bitch??? 

it’s hard to convey this through text but the way she said it was like... rubbing in my face that i don’t have many friends. she knows that, and she still said it with that tone, like i have no friends i can hang out with. 

but anyway she also said it like I could never understand the pain of not being able to do something I was looking forward to??? like... just because she was looking forward to doing things with her friends doesn’t mean I wasn’t just as excited about what I had planned for this summer. it just... also adds to her contradictions.

“everyone experiences things different/not everyone feels the same about everything” ->  “you don’t feel as upset as I do bc my thing was more important than yours.”

And you can probably see how all of this kind of ties into  5. Basically she’s just an emotionally abusive bitch and I’m really tired of her shit

this is something I kind of noticed a few months ago, and in 10 minutes I had written 2 full pages of things she does to me that are emotionally abusive. you should not be able to do that. you should be allowed to remove people from your life when you can do that. but of course, i’m not. because she’s my sister, and anyone i tell about any of this is going to whine and tell me to listen to her side, and that she doesn’t mean to be this way, and that she’s my sister so I should try my best to keep our relationship bc on the outside? it looks fine. we actually look really close. and we are, but we’re also this. 

and here’s the thing:

 i do NOTHING but listen to her side of things. she is constantly telling me about every little aspect of her thoughts and feelings. (but she has literally told me she doesn’t care when I tried to tell her mine)

she is FULLY aware of what emotionally abusive behavior looks like. i know she is, because we had a long discussion on it when our other sister’s friend was being emotionally abusive. (if she didn’t mean to act this way, she wouldn’t. she knows what’s she is doing. she is not some innocent baby.)

if i am not living proof that sisters can be emotionally abusive the same way anyone else can, then i am nothing. (abuse can come from anywhere. from parents, from lovers, from friends, from sisters. telling someone that they need to play nice with their abuser, regardless of their relation to their abuser, is fucked up in so many ways i can’t even begin to explain it)

I am really tired of being abused, of dealing with her erratic behavior and her NEED for attention. I’m tired of trying to explain something I’m struggling with only to be told that my feelings don't matter because she "has it worse" even when half of what she says isn't true anyway.

mostly, i’m just tired of being forced to stick it out and deal with this shit when it is killing me inside. 

[codynaomiswireart]

“Gauze in the Wound” - Part 19

With a grunt of exhaustion, King Frederic sat down and wiped the sweat from his brow as the noontime sun beat down upon the palace square.  It had been about two days now since the Saporian raid had taken place, and the citizens of the capital (as well as Frederic himself) were still hard at work repairing all of the damage that had been done.  As he took temporary shelter underneath the awning of Uncle Monty’s Sweet Shoppe, King Frederic couldn’t help but feel some slight resentment towards that heavenly body pouring its hot rays down upon his kingdom that day.  As if his people didn’t have enough discomfort as of late…

Feeling the first aches of sunburn along his neck and shoulders, King Frederic couldn’t help but wonder how his kingdom came to revere that celestial giant the way that they did all those years ago.  Sure, the sun gave life in abundance.  There was no doubt about that.  But it could also burn it away to a crisp, and cause great pain. The Sun Drop had saved the lives of Arianna and Rapunzel, but it had also been a part of why Frederic had been robbed of sharing Rapunzel’s childhood all those years ago.  And it didn’t stop there.  It had robbed him of her a second time – sending his daughter to a far-off, unknown place, where anything might happen to her.

He knew she had to go.  It was her destiny after all.  But it had been months since Rapunzel had been home, and it had been weeks since Frederic had received any correspondence form her.  And Arianna was gone now too, and the whole chain of events leading up to her and Varian taking it upon themselves to go and get Xavier could be traced back to when all of the trouble with the black rocks began, and that was all because of Frederic’s removal of the Sun Drop Flower all those years ago, despite Quirin’s dire warning.  Frederic knew he couldn’t have done any different, and that Rapunzel and Arianna wouldn’t have even been there in the first place had he not taken the risk, but he still couldn’t help wondering if things could’ve somehow turned out better than they had, if only he had known better about the other side of the coin that had been the payment for the lives of his family.

“Perhaps the moon isn’t the only light in the sky to have a dark side to it,” Frederic mused with a hard frown as he thought of these things.  “Though at least it has the decency to not pretend otherwise.”

Frederic sighed as he took a bitter gulp of water from his canteen, and squinted hard into the bright glare of the noonday sunlight as he watched his people work hard on the walls and rooftops of various buildings, and the steering rigs of the ships docked in the harbor.  The sabotage done by the Saporians had indeed been calculated, and while any injuries during the attack had been minimal, there were still those who had been hurt in all the chaos.  Especially when they had no idea if another attack would be attempted while they were vulnerable, it would definitely be another day or so before any force could be spent to do anything about bringing the perpetrators to justice, or doing anything about Arianna, Varian, or Xavier’s situations, wherever they were.

Frederic swiped a hand over his face as he tried to steady himself and prevent the anxiety that burned in his chest from showing outwardly.  He hated to admit it, but Nigel had been right.  His people needed him at this time, and he couldn’t let himself fall apart now.  “Besides,” he thought, “the sooner we make repairs, the sooner we can look to figuring out what to do about Arianna and the others.” 

After another moment of rest, King Frederic rose reluctantly to his feet, and stepped back out into the daylight as he made his way to where several of the city’s carpenters were cutting new boards to repair the roof of the bakery.  As Frederic came to the center of the plaza, he stopped suddenly as he saw and felt the large dark shadow of a bird swoop its way over him, and he looked skyward as he heared the trilling screech of an eagle sound overhead.  Frederich raised an arm to shield his eyes from the sunlight as the eagle in question came swooping down towards him, and soon alighted itself on one of the sideboards of the lumber cart before him.  The lumbermen around the cart all jumped back with surprise as the large bird of prey landed near them, and it again let out a cry as it raised and clapped its wings, clearly calling for attention as it fixed its eyes on the king.

“Steady on everyone!” the Captain called out to anyone nearby as he rushed in to investigate, with Pete and Stan also accompanying him to provide security as they placed themselves on either side of the king.  After Nazeem’s stunt with the Saporian messenger hawk, any unexpected avian visitors to the capital were certainly suspect.  Frederic was grateful for the Captain’s caution and vigilence as he approached the great creature, who folded its wings and bowed in greeting as the Captain came near.  It was clearly a wise, clever beast, and didn’t seem at all put off by the people’s skittishness as it settled itself down on the rim of the lumber cart.

“That’s right beastie,” the Captain said, his tone neither hostile nor lax as he addressed it.  “No funny business.  Now, what are you here for, and where have you come from?”

In answer to the Captain’s inquiry, the eagle raised his left leg, and the Captain could see a small graphtyc tied securely onto it.  With caution, the Captain removed the graphtyc from the eagle’s leg, and after making sure that the container wasn’t booby trapped, the Captain unscrewed the lid and removed the note from inside.  His eyes widened upon recognizing the handwriting in the letter.

“Sire!” the Captain exclaimed as he brought it forward to the king.  “It’s for you, and it’s from her majesty!”

In an instant, Frederic found both hope and dread kick into overdrive inside of him as he hastily took the rolled up parchment from the Captain, and he felt his heart beat hard against his sternum as his eyes turned to read this unexpected message.  Did the Saporians have Arianna write her own ransom note?  Or was it to reassure him that she was all right?  Was it some sort of sick hoax and not really from her at all?  Was it perhaps her desperate final words to him before the worst had happened!?

But as Frederic began to read the letter with quivering hands, most of these fears were immediately put to rest as the handwriting, style of language, and other small signs made it clear that it was indeed Arianna’s hand that had penned those words, and that she was neither held for ransom nor in any immanent danger at present.  The note also reassured him that there would be no further attacks anytime soon from the Sapoiran separatists.  The relief Frederic would’ve felt at all this good news been enough to make him melt that very instant.  …However, as he read on, Frederic came to have whole new slew of fears rise up in him, and he tensed up again as Arianna’s message conveyed to him all that had happened on their mission.

“Your majesty?” the Captain asked after a few moments, having noticed Frederic’s face turned pale as he read on.  “Is…everything all right?”

Brow furrowing hard, Frederic rolled the message back up (though very unevenly) without a word, and seemed to stare hard at the ground for a moment before collecting himself with a deep breath through his nose.  “Thank you,” was all that King Frederic said quietly to the eagle as he managed to look up, and after the eagle gave a small nod in return, Frederic turned to the Captain with a look of determined bewilderment.

“Captain, I need you to organize a company of about ten men, and have them ready to travel to Molson’s Grove within the hour.  That’s an order.”

“Er, yes, right away Sir,” the Captain said with a salute, and though still clearly puzzled by what was going on, he began to gather together the men who would be heading out for whatever errand King Frederic had in mind.  Setting a steely gaze forward, King Frederic made his way back to the palace to make his own preparations for travel…and for any possible confrontations with a potentially new yet familiar threat. 

“Oh Quirin…” was all that Frederic could think to himself as he heard the palace doors shut behind him with a low clang.  “Old friend, what have you done?”

“Ruddiger!” Varian exclaimed as he recognized his furry friend bounding towards him through the dark, and for a moment the boy nearly forgot all else around him as he opened his arms wide to receive his companion as he came nearer.  Some may have thought that upon seeing a glowing Ruddger appear out nowhere that in this dark and mysterious place, Varian might have suspected that he was merely seeing some sort of illusion or (heaven forbid!) a ghost of his little friend.  But again, somehow, Varian just…knew.  He knew that the thing he saw coming towards him was no mere mirage or some kind of spectre.  It was Ruddiger, and he was here!

“C’mere boy!” Varian called out to him as he came steadily closer.

But then-

“SWISH – BOOSH!”

Varian jumped back in alarm as he felt a sudden surge of heat pass by him on his left, his vision filled with a bright purple light for a split second as something seemed to explode a few yards in front of him, and for a moment Varian could only sit stunned, his heart racing in his chest as he had no idea what just happened.  A few seconds later, Varian came back to himself, and the pieces slotted into place in his mind as he caught sight of a bright shape dashing in a panic through the cloud of dust that had been kicked up by said explosion in front of him, and Varian also saw in his peripheral vision the shape of Lord Demanitus’s hand extended forward, with his fingers curved menacingly like the claws of a dragon in Ruddiger’s direction.

Varian gasped as he realized: His great-great-grandcestor had just fired a spell at Ruddiger!

“Oh!  No no no no!” Varian exclaimed, reaching out with his left hand to grasp Demanitus’s wrist before he could send another volley Ruddiger’s way.  “Wait!  Stop!  It’s ok!  Don’t hurt him!”

As Varian’s hand closed around Demanitus’s wrist, he could feel the man jerk his arm back slightly as he felt the boy’s touch, but Varian hardly noticed this as his eyes immediately turned again to scanning the cloud of dust for Ruddiger’s light and form.  Had Varian been more attentive to the man beside him, however, he may have noticed the slight cringe of pain that came to that face that resembled his father’s, as Varian’s grip (though firm, but not very hard) remained frozen on the man’s wrist for those moments as he tensely waited for Ruddiger to reemerge from the veil of dirt and smoke.

After a few more anxious seconds, Varian breathed out a sigh of relief and released Demanitus’s wrist as Ruddiger appeared tentatively through the curtain of dust, and then scurried as fast as he could into Varian’s protective arms.

“Hey there bud!” Varian said as he hugged Ruddiger close.  “Wh-what are you doing here?  How did you find us?  Why are you-?”

But again, Varian’s thoughts were interrupted as he now found himself having to restrain Ruddiger from lunging himself at Demanitus, who started back from the raccoon’s flailing forepaws and bared teeth as the creature snarled, snapped, and swiped in the man’s direction.

“Whoa, whoa!  Hey!  Easy Ruddiger!  Easy!  Calm down!” Varian yelped as he struggled to maintain a hold on Ruddiger.  “It’s ok boy!  He’s not gonna hurt you now.  You both just scared each other.  See?  Nothing to be afraid of.  It’s ok.”

After making sure Ruddiger obeyed and stopped trying to wriggle out of his grip, Varian turned his attention back to Demanitus, who sat with his right hand held against his chest, and leaning as far away from the bristling raccoon as possible.  “Oh, he didn’t catch you, did he?” Varian asked, as he saw Demanitus’s defensive posture around the hand he held close to himself.  “Sorry about that.  Are you ok?”

Demanitus paused, his eyes narrowing hard.  “Yes,” he finally concurred to say flatly through clenched teeth, still eyeing the raccoon in Varian’s arms with clear distaste.  “I’m fine.”

Varian frowned hard as Ruddiger bristled and hissed at Demanitus in response.

“Hey!  That’s enough Ruddiger,” Varian tutted him firmly.  “What’s gotten into you boy?” 

Looking up at Varian pleadingly from his arms, Ruddiger chattered at him rapidly, but of course Varian couldn’t understand his speech or what had gotten him into such a state.  Sure, Lord Demanitus’s magic had startled him of course, but it wasn’t like Ruddiger to not be reassured by Varian’s words about it being a mistake.  What was wrong with him?  Varian could clearly tell that Ruddiger was very frantic about something, but what on earth could it-?

Wait…earth!  Back on earth!  In the waking world!  Perhaps that’s what Ruddiger was so frantic over.  Maybe that’s why he was here. 

“Dad!” Varian gasped, suddenly remembering.  “Is that it boy?  Is that why you’re here?  You’ve come to bring me back?”

Ruddiger paused in his chattering, his mind working quickly.  Obviously, trying to convince Varian that this stranger in their midst was a hostile interloper was not working, and Ruddiger needed to get his boy away from him as soon as possible before any further damage was done.  Thinking quickly, Ruddiger nodded, deciding to roll with that explanation (which wasn’t exactly untrue anyway), and moved to leap out of Varian’s lap, and began pulling at his shirt sleeve in earnest, gesturing for him to follow.

But Varian hesitated, and his face shifted to a look of uncertainy at the idea of going back into the thick, dark, and dusty realm beyond the circle of firelight in order to follow his friend.  He was so much more comfortable here, and perhaps Lord Demanitus would be able to get him back in an easier manner if he asked him to, and without him having to brave any further places of darkness and isolation. 

…And…maybe…just maybe…maybe he could also have some more of whatever it was his fellow alchemist had been giving him to eat and drink…

Varian felt a knot tighten in his stomach, and for a moment he felt like he was going to be sick…

Again, something didn’t seem right about Varian’s eyes as Ruddiger looked up at his face, and the raccoon was beginning to grow desperate himself now, as Varian had clearly become reluctant to follow.  Tugging harder, Ruddiger tried again to pull Varian in the direction he wanted him to go.  Ruddiger didn’t know exactly where he would be taking Varian, but he knew that anywhere else would be better than here right now, and he trusted those who had sent him there.  If Pontus’s magic was able to get him here, he was certain it could also get the both of them back out.

 “I…” Varian finally managed to say, though exactly to whom he was speaking was a bit unclear, as his eyes looked to nowhere in particular and he said half-heartedly.  “I…I think I need to go now…”

“Hmm…” the stranger hummed beside him as he glanced between Varian and Ruddiger, the latter of whom fixed his eyes on the warlock with a look that was both frightened but also determined beyond measure.  The warlock knew he had to make his next move carefully.  The stinging in his wrist from where the Moon Drop had grasped him made him painfully aware that he was by no means able to survive a direct confrontation…yet.  But he did have a better foothold now, and he must not lose it.  Any misstep, and this chance would be gone.  He had to make sure his deception did not falter.

Finally, he managed a small grin, and drew his hood back up over his head as he said, “Yes, I believe you are right, young one.  You must go back now.”

“C-can you send me back?” Varian asked, hoping that the answer would be yes, and that he wouldn’t have to go back out into the dark again.  But even as Demanitus opened his mouth to speak, Ruddiger leapt forward and stood himself firmly between Varian and the warlock, with all of his fur standing on end, and his teeth beared as he growled aggressively.

The warlock chuckled from underneath the shadow of his hood.  “I believe your little friend would rather not have it that way,” he said in a tone meant to sound amused by Ruddiger’s behavior.  “Such a pity.  I’m not angry with him though.  We didn’t exactly have the best of introductions now did we?  My apologies I’m sure.”  Here he gave Ruddiger a small nod, though Ruddiger made no motion to return the gesture.  “Perhaps…one day we could be friends?”

Ruddiger remained rooted to the spot at these words, with his only movements in response was a small shudder up his spine and a quick swishing of his bushy tail in warning.  If only he could summon his battle form like the shapeshifters or werewolves from all those fairytales, then he might be able to take care of this problem right here and now.  But as it was, Ruddiger had no way of pulling off such as thing (as far as he knew), and he had no idea what this foe was capable of, even if he could.  And though this stranger shared Quirin’s face, Ruddiger was convinced that it by no means shared any of the same fatherly affections or interests for Varian in its heart as Quirin did.

This man was bad news.  Ruddiger was certain of that.  Even if he was the legendary Lord Demanitus, perhaps he wasn’t actually as good as the legends had claimed him to be…

“No matter,” the man finally made to continue after a moment’s pause.  “For now, you are quite right.  We must part.  But I’m sure your little friend knows the way home.  You may follow him back.”

“‘You may follow him back!?’” Ruddiger thought with disgust, and tried to not let the feeling of growing disease distract him from his mission as tried to remain confident about what he must do as he turned away slowly.  “Varian doesn’t need your permission to leave, thank you very much!  Hmph!  C’mon Varian.  Let’s go.”

With that, Ruddiger brushed himself up against Varian’s leg, and gestured for Varian to follow him with his eyes.  Varian swallowed, his brow furrowing hard, and for a sickening few seconds, Ruddiger wondered if Varian would ever move from that spot. 

“…Why doesn’t he trust me?” Ruddiger now wondered, slightly hurt as he looked back into those not-quite-right eyes.  After everything they’d been through, why did Varian have this sudden lack of faith in him?

Finally, though still with signs of reluctance, Varian rose to his feet, and gave an awkward, “Um…Ok.  S-see you later then, I guess…” in the warlock’s direction before forcing himself to move forward, though Ruddiger was still troubled by Varian’s slightly spacey countenance as they made off.

Though his first steps were staggered, Varian managed to keep on going slowly as he stepped away from the circle of firelight and back into the inky blackness beyond, with a softly glowing Ruddiger being his only source of light as he went forward just behind the little creature.  Varian brought his arms around himself as the chill of the darkness began to settle in around him as the pink light retreated further and further away behind him, and he bent forward a little as the knot in his gut twisted further, and he felt a wave of hunger pains claw at his insides.

But…a hunger for what exactly?  Varian wasn’t quite sure…

…Or was he…?

“Remember…” Varian heard the word whispered in his ear, and he only just managed to risk a quick glance behind him to see the hooded figure still seated many yards away now, never having moved from his spot, but his voice sounding like it was coming from right next to him.

“Remember what we talked about…Puer Lunae…”

With a small shudder, Varian continued to trundle behind Ruddiger into the increasing darkness, and after some minutes he wondered if it would ever end.  On and on they walked, with Ruddiger looking over his shoulder periodically to make sure Varian was still there and keeping pace with him.  Varian would make eye contact back with him, but otherwise he seemed strangely distant, very much unlike how Ruddiger was used to Varian behaving around him.

Something was wrong…but what?

Ruddiger tried giving a few cheerful trills in Varian’s direction, hoping to get some sort of reaction from him.  “We’re almost there Varian!  I’m sure of it!  Just keep going!” he hoped he was able to convey to his master.  But aside from only a slight raising of the corners of his mouth, Varian continued to move on in a fog.  Ruddiger frowned.  He didn’t like this at all.

Eventually, after what felt like near hours of walking in pitch-blackness (though it could’ve only been mere minutes), Ruddiger let out a squeal of delight as he saw a dim light form somewhere ahead of them.

It was the way out!

Bouncing with excitement as he looked back at Varian behind him, Ruddiger coaxed his master forward as he began to take off with swift scurrying towards the source of the light ahead of them.

“H-hey!” Varian shouted as he ran behind him.  “Not so fast Ruddiger!  Wait for me!  Where are you going?” 

Ruddiger stopped, confused by Varian’s question as he looked from Varian, to the light before them, and back to Varian again.

“Oh, don’t scare me like that!” Varian scolded him harshly as he came up to him.  “You almost left me in the dark back there!”

Ruddiger blinked up at him, nonplussed.  Then it occurred to him that somehow Varian could not see the light before them.  He was blind to it.  Ruddiger was almost certain this was due to whatever dark magic the stranger had used on Varian, and it became clear to the little creature that this was to make sure Varian couldn’t have left this trap in his mind without a guide. 

“So, that was his game,” Ruddiger thought.  “Well, thank goodness I got here when I did then!”

Gently, Ruddiger tried to reassure Varian by brushing up against his legs again, and then proceeded to lead him on again at a steady pace (though not running now), hoping that his confident strides would give Varian some reassurance that he knew where he was going.

“Wait!  Wh-what is it boy?” Varian asked as he came along behind, his voice somewhere between annoyed and alarmed as Ruddiger continued to lead him into the dark.  “Where are you going?  What are you-?”

Suddenly, Varian’s voice was cut off as the light ahead of them swelled, and while Varian still didn’t appear to be able to see it as Ruddiger could, he felt the heat and weight of it hit him like how the other guiding light did before.  Bringing his arms up to shield himself with a yelp of fright at the unseen force that hit him, Varian thought he felt himself falling backwards with the loss of balance.  Though instead of his back hitting firm, dusty turf with the fall, Varian felt himself land onto something soft, and warm.  Varian continued to hold his arms over his face defensively, as now a bright light did begin to try to pierce its way into his eyeballs.  The switch between light and dark was so jarring, that Varian could only lie there panting as his brain grappled with what was going on. 

“Varian-?”

Varian took in a sharp, frightened inhale as the unexpected voice sounded at his side, and Varian nearly flailed about in another panic as his “fight or flight” system immediately took hold of him.  But he could barely move.  While Varian had been able to bring his arms up to his face, he found he could do very little else beyond that.  He felt stiff, and groaned as the aches and pains that now coursed through his limbs, with his hands especially hurting him.

What had happened!?  Where was he!?  What was going on!?

“Whoa whoa whoa, easy Varian, easy,” the voice came again, and Varian struggled to open his eyes and have them focus on the speaker as he turned towards them from where he lay on what he now realized was a bed.  “It’s all right.  Take it easy.  You’re all right.  It’s going to be ok.” 

Varian blinked the blearyness from his eyes, and was surprised to find Queen Arianna’s face hovering over him from off to the side, and he just barely felt the gentle touch of her hand on his cheek as he came around.

“Y-…your majesty?” Varian croaked out weakly, his brain thoroughly confused as he saw her smile big, breathing out a sigh of relief, and the feeling of Ruddiger now nudging affectionately at his side.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Arianna breathed with clear relief, and seemed to be struggling to hold back tears as she said it.  Varian had no idea why this was, but he soon had other things to think about, as he looked passed Arianna’s shoulder to see two other people in the room with them, both mirroring Arianna’s look of relief.  One was a stranger to Varian, though he was just able to recollect seeing her dimly in the night sometime before he had lost consciousness. 

The second, of course, was Xavier.

“…Xavier…”

The moment was brief, but it was a moment Xavier would never soon forget…and not in a good way.  For in that moment, as Varian’s eyes met his, Xavier did not see relief, joy, or even sadness there in the boy’s countenance as he caught sight of him.  Instead, in that moment, in Varian’s eyes, Xavier saw a combination of the last things he ever would’ve wanted to see from his apprentice directed at him.  In those eyes, Xavier saw a combination of fear, then bewilderment, and then finally, an all out dark glare directed right at him.

The moment was fleeting, for soon enough their eye contact with one another was broken by Sabine slipping passed Arianna to attend to Varian, whose attention was now diverted elsewhere as she began asking him questions and tending to his needs.  But it was a moment that had imbedded itself forever upon Xavier’s heart.

For in that moment, he knew...Varian didn’t trust him anymore.

[tigerclawsremorse]

Chapter 8

The full moon casted pale light down to the forest that rested upon the trees and warriors who padded under them. Those warriors belonged to ThunderClan as they headed towards Four-Trees for the gathering. Bluestar lead the group, behind her Lionheart followed closely, then more warriors and apprentices, and finally Tigerclaw and Spottedleaf who strolled in the far back. Spottedleaf enjoyed the seclusion that gave her the chance to look up at the stars without being interrupted. Right now, the seclusion wouldn’t give her a chance to look at the stars but instead, her and Tigerclaw could speak. Although she had plenty of time to plan out her words while Tigerclaw was on the apprentice’s assessment, she found herself unable to convey what troubled her. He was totally oblivious to that his kits would be born to Goldenflower in two moons.

Pressure was what medicine cats were trained for, but not like this. What she did next wasn’t what would determine whether a cat would live or die, this would determine the rest of their lives. If she told him, he’d stay a warrior and follow a path Spottedleaf could predict was destructive; if she didn’t tell him he’d become a medicine cat, but after he came out as the kits father, he could blame her for not telling him. Her anxiety about the issue must have been clear as Tigerclaw interrupted her thoughts.

“Spotted, you doing okay? You look like you need to lie down.”

“Oh yeah,” She broke her concentration to look up at him and show she was fine. After a moment of hesitation, she continued, “We all have our secrets, right? Things that could hurt someone if they came out.”

Tigerclaw frowned, “Yes, I have some pretty big secrets.”

“My secret is basically the opposite of yours.” She mewed, mostly to herself.

“You have a secret? I thought you were as open as the sky.”

“I have my gray clouds.”

“Of course. What, did you eat two mice once?” Tigerclaw joked and gave her a nudge, but she still seemed unnerved, “I’m sure it's nothing, at least you haven't killed anyone.”

His joking helped relax the she-cat as the group reached the clearing, the other clans, except WindClan, had already arrived. There was no trace of the meadow mongering clan, but they had been late before. Apprentices ran ahead, warriors spread out to socialize, and Tigerclaw followed Spottedleaf to the other medicine cats.

As the other medicine cats gave Spottedleaf questioning looks about Tigerclaw, Lionheart called to the tabby warrior, “Tigerclaw, come tell the story about Ravenpaw catching those adders!” Tigerclaw, obviously having no other choice, said goodbye to the she-cat and padded off to join the other warriors.

“What was he doing?” Asked Runningnose, the ShadowClan medicine cat in a wheeze. “Can’t imagine why some warrior would spend his time listening in on our conversation.”

“He and I had just been talking.” Spottedleaf explained simply, settling down among her fellow medics. “He has quite the interest in healing.”

“Obviously not that interested.” Chimed in Mudfur, his tail flicking over to the tabby tom who was enjoying himself telling stories with other warriors.

Spottedleaf swallowed down her worries that were only increased by their comments, “So any news on new herbs?” She croaked to change the subject.

On top of the rock, Bluestar stepped forward. Gray fur glimmered in the moonlight; her eyes shone but hid emotion. “Cats of all clans, welcome.” Her voice echoed around the suddenly silent hollow. “It is true that WindClan is not present, but Brokenstar wishes to speak anyway.”

The mentioned tom slid forward as Bluestar gave her spot, leaving him at the center of the rock and the point of attention. “Comrades, I come to speak to you tonight about the needs of ShadowClan--”

Quickly he was interrupted by panicked voices, questioning him about the missing clan. Loud accusations with whimpers of worry were stopped just as quick as it started, with the mighty leader’s hush. The dark brown leader stared down the crowd with his dark yellow eyes, at his full height he towered over any other warrior, including Tigerclaw. His tail lashing behind him appeared to a warning of his irritation.

“As the leader of ShadowClan, it is my right to address you here.” He yowled before settling down, “With this hard leaf-bare we have been left with little prey in our hunting grounds. But we also know that WindClan, RiverClan, and ThunderClan lost many kits in the freezing weather that came so late this season. ShadowClan did not lose kits. We are hardened to the cold north wind. Our kits are stronger than yours from the moment they are born. And so, we find ourselves with many mouths to feed, and too little prey to feed them. Our needs are simple, in order to survive we must increase our hunting territory. That is why I insist that you allow ShadowClan warriors to hunt in your territories.”

After a moment of silence and then realization, panic broke out among the clan cats. Yowling and spitting flooded the air. Their objections only continued with the news from Crookedstar he gave up RiverClan territory.

“And what of ThunderClan? Bluestar, have you too agreed to this outrageous demand?” A ThunderClan elder called to the leader.

The blue furred leader scanned the crowd, outwardly unfazed, “I have made no agreements with Brokenstar except that I shall discuss his proposal with my Clan after the gathering.”

Although the tabby leader seemed unsatisfied by the ThunderClan leader’s response, he nodded. After a moment of silence, he continued on, his voice loud and raspy, almost unaware of the unease that had settled over the gathering, “I also bring news that is important to the safety of your kits. A ShadowClan cat has turned rogue and spurned the warrior code. We chased her out of our camp, but we do not know where she is now. She is a mangy old creature, but she has a bite like TigerClan.”

Murmurs spurred up, but Brokenstar mewed on, “She is dangerous. I warn you- do not offer sheltered to her and,” he paused and seemed to be pleased by the shocked looks upon the other warriors faces, “until she is caught and killed, I urge you to keep a close eye on your kits.”

With his speech delivered, Brokenstar and the other ShadowClan warriors quickly left from the hollow. Almost immediately, there was an uproar from the ThunderClan cats who had gotten a clear idea of who this mystery rogue was, and she sat back at camp unguarded.

“I tried to tell you she was a danger to us,” hissed Darkstripe.

“She’ll eat our kits!” cried an elder, who was silenced by other elders and senior warriors.

“She seemed harmless enough,” Spottedleaf who had joined her clanmates after ShadowClan left, looked to Tigerclaw, “perhaps we’ve been tricked?” Fear sprouted in her and in the rest of the cats.

Tigerclaw tilted his head above the crowd to voice his opinion but everyone was outspoken by Darkstripe.

The dark gray tom lashed his tail and stared down Bluestar, “You have to listen to reason now and get rid of her before she harms any of our young!”

With a sideways glance and a thoughtful look, she led the group over the hill and straight to camp, wasting no time in walking. Under the moon, they all rushed home to face this apparent unknown danger.

Through the gorse tunnel into camp came the cats- Bluestar first, Lionheart not a fox-length behind her, Frostfur and Willowpelt who raced after the deputy, then the others. Frostfur charged past all other cats into the nursery, her silver fur stood on end from alarm.

Tigerclaw funneled in camp, Spottedleaf at his side. “I’m going to go keep Darkstripe from, well, being Darkstripe.” The tall tabby told her, breaking away.

She watched as the entire camp burst to life, cats who once were asleep woke in the commotion. In a glance she caught Firepaw emerge in the cluster from a den and go to his friend, he was the most unnerved by the whole situation.

“Brokenstar has demanded hunting rights for ShadowClan in our territory!” Longtail yowled in response for some question the medicine cat hadn't caught.

“And he warned us about a rogue cat who will harm our kits!” Added Willowpelt. Her fur was bristled as she cried, “It must be Yellowfang!”

“Silence!” Ordered Bluestar who stood upon the high stone, her icy look halted the outbursts and instinctively cats gathered around to hear what she would say. As she began a loud yowl interrupted her as Darkstripe pulled the elderly she-cat from her nest into camp, being yelled at by Tigerclaw with every yank. She shrieked furiously as she was dumped in front of Highrock. The meeting was tense and silent except for Yellowfang who swiped at the dark tom and released several yowls of warnings before calming and turning to Bluestar.

“What is going on.” Demanded Bluestar, with a few leaps she landed next to the gray she-cat, her gaze of anger did not settle upon the ‘danger’, but on her own clanmates. “I gave no order to attack our prisoner.”

Darkstripe backed up a few paces, “We need to throw her out.” He said sternly, unleashing his claws as cats around him whispered their agreements. “We should kill her now!”

The leader squinted at him, “And what has she done?” her voice was as calm as the river on a clear night but as icy and cold as the frost.

Despite his rebuttals, Bluestar was prepared for each one, the leader made it clear there would be no hostility towards Yellowfang. The kits were safe and she had not committed any crime. ThunderClan stood alone against ShadowClan and the word of Brokenstar could hardly be trusted.

Finally, the leader announced, “I shall travel to the MoonStone tomorrow. The warriors of StarClan will give me the strength I need to lead ThunderClan through this dark time. Rest now, as daylight comes, we will have a lot to do.”

[crewhonk]

Dance It Out

Summary: Even years after the War, Pater Parker still finds himself struggling. However, dealing with PTSD is always easier when his favourite Stark is around (sorry Tony)

AN: HEAVILY inspired by Jon Bellion’s song “guilliotine”. The feel, the plot everything is being taken from the song! also, plant nanny is the best fuckin app I recommend 

ANN: Liking, Reblogging, and commenting/sending asks really encourages me to write better and faster— plus I really like talking to you guys <3

Warnings: mentions of PTSD, sad Peter, fluff

Words: 3,398

Y/N Stark knew she was lucky. Her father, Tony Stark had raised her and taught her all of his brilliance, and it translated in the inventions and designs she supplied him. She was lucky in the sense that she loved her step-mom. Pepper had become something like a guardian angel, and from a very young age had taught Y/N what it was to be a powerful woman in an industry where roadblock inhibited female success. She was lucky in the sense that she never had to worry about money, or food. She and her father had become the most generous philanthropists on Earth, besting only JK Rowling by losing their billionaire status multiple times. She was lucky in the sense that she had the Avengers protection, and that they all loved her as if she were their own— Nat, Wanda, Shuri, Okoye and Maria had all become her Girl Gang and Thor had taken special liking to her. He sparred with her when she was bored, and despite her fathers word, refused to take it easy on her— challenging the young Stark beyond what she thought she was capable of. 

Y/N Stark was lucky in the sense that Tony had sent Pepper and herself to Hawaii while the world fell apart years ago. She often found herself walking on eggshells around the compound for fear of frightening the scarred Avengers. She found Bucky in Steve’s embrace on the couch, and in the kitchen— not romantically, but in a way that conveyed Steve was desperately afraid of Bucky being taken away from him again. She found her dad always counting the people in the room, a head check to see where everyone was. When someone wasn’t in the room or couldn’t be found (more often than not, they didn’t want to be found) he would fall into a panic for FRIDAY to inform him where everyone was and suggesting him taking a seat to calm his racing heart. 

She was lucky in the sense that she didn’t wake up screaming almost every night, watching herself and the people she cared about dying over and over. 

This was where she found herself tonight. She hammered the side of her fist against Peter Parkers door, yelling for him to open up and let her calm him. They were the same age, and had been friends for four years by this point. Both barely in their 20’s, they clung to each other on missions and during training— they worked almost effortlessly together, and even a blind man could see the connection the two shared. 

“Pete! Wake up!” She tried the doorknob once more, but alas, despite it being unlocked by FRIDAY, it wouldn’t open. 

“It seems he’s locked the door with his long-term webbing solution.” The AI said, finally being able to figure out why the door hadn’t been opening. YN cursed to herself and with the help of one Captain America and White Wolf, she was able to break down the door and get in there. Peter, despite all of the banging and commotion, hadn’t woken up from his nightmare and continued to groan and writhe around in his sweat-dampened sheets. 

Before with herself, Steve or Bucky was able to even think about stepping one foot into the room, a flash of metal and light attacked the super soldiers. They fought the mass expertly, and when YN finally realized what it was, she commanded the Spidey-Suit to power down from century mode and return to its original position hanging from the ceiling over Peter’s bed. The reason why YN had been able to command it, was because it was her design and build— she had figured out nanotech long before her father, and with her genius help and some pointers from Shuri, she was able to save many lives during the War on Wakanda and the second war in Paris. 

Without further hesitation, or mindfulness of the two men behind her, she ran across the room and launched herself on the bed. She managed to hastily crawl over to stride Peters lap so he wouldn’t thrash and hurt himself anymore and placed two hands on both sweaty cheeks. 

“Peter!” She cried, wiping the tears from his cheekbones away with her thumbs. “Pete, come back to me! You’re okay.” It took several more crooning attempts to get him to stop thrashing, and even more tries to get him to stop whimpering and crying and screaming. 

“Pete, wake up. It’s just a dream, you’re safe.” She said firmly, carding her fingers through his damp hair in an attempt to sooth her best friend. Almost immediately after she said so, his eyes shot open and he launched himself into a sitting position. The quick action startled the young Stark, but she had no time to recover from his head hitting her own before his strong arms wrapped around her waist and brought her impossibly closer to him. He buried his head in her neck, and let out loud, heart-breaking sobs. She held his shaking body for a long time until his sobs quieted down into soft whimpers and dry heaving cries, all the while playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. His grip didn’t tighten by any means when she decided that it had been long enough and she maneuvered herself to roll over and lay on her back on the less-damp sheets. He lay on top of her then and pressed his head onto her chest hard enough to hear her heartbeat echoing loudly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked, curling her fingers around his now-dry locks. She asked because he knew he was awake— he had been tracing the pattern on her hoodie for an hour by now, and the feeling of his touch made her heart stutter every so often. She knew he heard the way she reacted to his touch, and it eased Peter’s mind to know that there was a chance they both felt the same way about each other. The fact that she had been there to wake him up from his second nightmare that night eased the pain of watching himself disappear on Titan over and over again as Tony laughed at him. 

“Not really, no.” He murmured, shifting so his nose barely touched the soft skin of her neck. She didn’t have a defined smell like some of the others. Wanda smelled like spice, Nat smelled like overripe roses, Steve smelled like expensive deodorant and Tony smelled like pen ink and vanilla. YN smelled like the feeling of cuddling with a pet on a snowy day. YN smelled like a road trip in the summer, driving on a full tank of gas that one could afford to pay for. She smelled like comfort, and fun, and warmth. 

He felt her throat vibrate with a low hum. “Dad likes to talk through his dreams with me and Bruce, he said it helps him deal with it. He told me to always go to him or Pepper to talk through a nightmare when I was little— he said that if you talked about it, it wouldn’t come back and it worked for a while. There was one nightmare I had over and over as a kid though. There I am, in a mall filled with mirrors with my friend's mom and the mall is empty except for one man. The man is obese, right? And before we know it, he’s taking off his shirt to reveal a 1940s-style lace bra. Like, you know the one Madonna wore with the nipples that shot fireworks during that one award show? Or was it Katy Perry? Anyways—“ And she launched into the story of an obese cross-dresser sprinting after her and her friend's mom around the mirror-mall. Peter, now exhausted, listened to her story and laughed through his nose at appropriate part. He, however, was only half listening because the way her chest rumbled with her words, and the way the low volume coaxed his heartbeat to ease sent him into a trance. Soon, he had fallen asleep, and finally finished the end of her story, she noticed the slow breathing of the man resting on her and allowed herself to fall asleep surrounded by him. 

The nightmares slowed as weeks passed. Peter had screamed less, and while the dark bags under his never went away, the incidences of him falling asleep on his breakfast lessened and the lack of focus during training was restored to full attention. It wouldn’t have been without YN Stark. He had stopped webbing his door shut at night, and only allowed Karen to come alive when a presence without the company of YN was detected. She had been more than helpful through Peters PTSD— she made sure his sheets were cleaned after he woke up in a puddle of his own wet, drool and snot, she made sure his windows were open to let the warm May breeze in and she made sure the plants she bought him to liven his apartment up got the sunlight and water they needed to thrive. YN made sure he ate the right foods and drank enough water— she had even convinced him one night to download an app called ‘Plant Nanny’ which reminded him to drink that water. When Banner gave him a bottle of medication to help with his anxiety, she had smiled and held him while he spewed all of his doubts at her. Sometimes, if he didn’t want to be alone, she would sit on the closed toilet seat while he showered, and told him stories of her childhood from the other side of the opaque white shower curtain (which she thought was boring). 

It was a Sunday when he came to her for the first time. He knocked on the door of her apartment beside Tony’s and it only took a few seconds before she swung the door open with a bright smile. When she took in his tired and worn appearance, however, the smile fell from her face and concerned, she pulled him into where she was camped out on the living room couch watching Greys Anatomy for what he assumed was the thirtieth time. She sat on the couch first, placing a fluffy pillow on her lap and making grabby hands at him. 

Without asking what she meant, he climbed onto the couch and rested his head other soft thighs, humming happily when her hands found their place in his hair. 

“You should get a haircut soon, Pete. You’re starting to resemble Steve from Stranger Things.” She joked, tugging a lock. He bit back a moan from the sudden pain and buried himself deeper under the throw blanket she pulled over him. 

“No.”

“Just a trim?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll have to come into your room and shave your head in your sleep then.”

“I’d wake up before you got the chance.”

He felt her shake her head and could swear he felt her smile down at him. “All I would need is one swipe, and then you’d have to commit.”

This prompted him to laugh quietly through his nose. 

The episodes came and went, and Peter felt her grip tighten in his hair when Maggie’s mom passed away, and he felt her gasp quietly when Maggie was almost prepared to go under Owens authority and do a procedure on a baby. He knew she didn’t understand what most of the chemicals and measurements were, but the way she reacted to each and every episode made him almost convinced she was reacting to the situations on screen for the first time, every time. He admired her ability to feel everything always without losing her mind— if he felt one emotion before the time he climbed out of bed, the rest of the day would be a complete fucking write off. 

Peter’s attention was caught by her pausing the TV, capturing the moment that Maggie lifted her arms over her head in some sort of clumsy dance. She was still for a moment before she got up and ran across the room, facing one of her book-filled shelves and playing with her phone. He grumbled when she had left and was now waiting for her to come back— his neck was sore from training earlier in the day, and the feeling of her hands in his hair was sorely missed. 

“Y/N/N, what’re you doin’?” He mumbled, jumping when a song he didn’t know blasted through her surround sound speakers. His eyes widened at the volume— it was three in the morning, and she was pulling shit like this?

“Get up.” She demanded, not seeming very threatening as she paced back to him and held out her hand for him to stand. 

“What?”

“Get up, we’re Dancing It Out.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, I’m tired of you moping and I want my Peter back.” He fought back the urge to roll his eyes, and instead pulled the covers over his head in a feeble attempt to hide from your persistence. 

“Pete, please?” She fake whimpered. When he took the chance to sneak a peek at you, he saw that she had fallen to her knees beside his head and was wearing an over-the-top pout on her thick lips. Her head was resting on the couch cushions only inches from his face, and his eyes barely flickered to her lips, wetting his own with his tongue quickly before sucking in a breath. Had she always had so many freckles?

“But I’m comfy and sad.”

“Hi, Comfy and Sad, I’m Y/N. Now get off your ass and dance with me. Half the song is almost over.” She grabbed the blanket and ripped it off of him as if it were a tablecloth, and she had been doing a magic trick. She let it float to the ground behind her and without hesitation wrapped her hand in his own and pulled him off the couch. She had pushed the table from the center of the room, so when she took both his hands in both of hers and began to pull and push them in a dance, his head fell back to stare at the ceiling. When she began to bounce, he looked back down at her and noticed that her eyes had closed and there was a smile on her lips. She was beginning to lose herself in the music, and his thoughts were confirmed when she pulled away from him and spun in a circle, still bouncing and raising her arms over her head like Maggie. 

“You look silly.” He smirked at her, and she flipped him off as she spun around, shaking her hips almost comically in response. Was that his shirt that he had lost a week or so ago on her frame? The fit flattered her hips and fell comfortably over her shoulders. 

“I wouldn’t look so silly if I wasn’t the only one dancing, Dickhead.” She continued, beginning to pant from jumping up and down in some sort of school dance dance. 

Finally succumbing to her desires, he closed his eyes and began to hop, turning his torso from side to side to the beat of the music. His arms were loose at his sides, and he let them swing limply by his sides as he spun with Y/N. Soon, both young adults were giggling and dancing as if their lives depended on it, bouncing on the couch and sharing wide smiles. Soon the fun tracks switched to something slow (Peter thinks it was something by Phil Collins, but he couldn’t be too sure) and both of them stopped jumping and breathlessly smiled at each other. 

He was a few inches taller than her, and she was so close to him that her eyesight only came up to his lips when were parted slightly in an attempt to take more air into his lungs. She looked at him and oh god, they were really close all of a sudden. Her hair was slightly messy from jumping wildly around the room and his shirt was slightly skewed, exposing her neck and collarbone. It was long enough that it covered her black shorts, and the way it made her look so small made something flare up inside of Peter. Something protective— he wanted to protect her from the world, and while it had been the other way for the past few weeks/months, he made a promise to treat her the way she deserved to be treated. 

He watched her eyes flicker down to his lips, lingering slightly and watching the way his tongue wet his bottom lip in anticipation. His hand came up to trace the curves of her neck and finally rest it against her cheek, where he swiped his thumb over her eyelid and relishing in the way she almost leaned into his touch. 

“If you need me to stop, please tell me.” His voice came out deeper than it usually was and the way it shot through her body made her cheeks heat pleasantly. She only shook her head in response, finding herself in fact, quite speechless. 

He slowly leaned in, giving her plenty of time to pull away in case she came to her senses and he was scared he would never breathe again when his lips finally touched hers very briefly before pulling away. There were tingles where the contact had taken place, and without thinking much of it, his thumb drifted over her face to brush her lips gently. 

Almost rushed, she grabbed the back of his neck and hungrily crashed her lips to his own, stealing the breath from his lungs and making blood rush to his head, making him almost dizzy. The kiss was messy, but the way he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her so close to him made it worth it. Their noses bumped against each other, and he swallowed the giggles that bubbled from her throat. She tugged his hair again, and without having much time to react, he let out a rumbling moan that made his chest vibrate against hers. She gasped in response, and as an experiment, tugged his hair again only to receive the same reaction. In what seemed like a punishment for taking advantage of his weakness, he squeezed her sides and when she gasped, he slipped his tongue between her lips, tasting the leftover flavors of mint gum on the back of her teeth. Their tongues moved together, neither seeking some sort of dominance, but working together to create some sort of pleasantly warm dance. 

Both young adults found themselves running short of breath far too soon into the kiss for either of their satisfaction and pulled away, not breaking contact from each other but instead resting their foreheads together and nuzzling their noses together softly. 

“If I had known that would happen, I would have made you dance with me years ago.” She said, a short but breathless giggle following her words. 

“You can say that again.” He mumbled, closing his eyes and resting the bridge of his nose against hers. 

“If I had known—“ Her snarky reply was cut off by his lips against her own, and he almost laughed when she chased his mouth as he pulled away. 

“It was a rhetorical statement, Smartass.”

Tag List: @yuckybucky

[bethsilliteratewriting-blog]

i’m tired, you’re lonely.

Words: 1,753

Pairing: Prinxiety 

tw for breakups, mental instability, anxiety, and self-loathing and general talk of mental illness. 

also, its a songfic!! here’s the link!

                                         What does that say of me?                           When I know it's you calling but I let it ring,                                          tell me what's left of us?                           Should this house feel as empty as it does?

Virgil has known. He's known for a while. Memories of soft touches and whispered words, quiet mornings of teasing and laughter. He remembered loud nights, play-fighting for the remote and arguing over which Disney movie was better. He remembered warm afternoons, strolling in the park, and movie nights with salted popcorn and chocolate covered fingers. Soft sounds of rain and secret smiles, even of silly nights with sickeningly domestic home-cooked meals and warm fingers trailing up and down his arms. Remembering ridiculous inside jokes and game nights with friends, to the remembrance of comfort through a panic attack, words of reassurance whispered in his ear, and soft touches grazing ever so lightly on his skin, egging him out of his own head and into lovely, welcoming arms. Virgil wanted it. He wanted it so so much, that he thought his heart would explode from the want and need of him.

His memories were brought to a halt at the loud ringing of his phone; vibrating on the table. The bright glow from the phone was the only thing illuminating the otherwise dark living room, a picture of Roman shining as the phone continued to ring.

The picture of him was one of Virgil favorites; smiling from ear-to-ear, eyes crinkling in the corners, a look of utter glee on his features. His beaming face grounded Virgil back to reality, to the choice he's going to make, to the choice he has to make. Abandoning bitter-sweet memories, Virgil hoisted himself off the comfort of the couch, where he had stayed complacent for the last hour or so. He moved his way through the dark house, not bothering to switch on the lights as he made his way into the open-floor, kitchen-living room, letting the darkness settle uncomfortably around him.

He didn't want to face the memories, he didn't want to have to see the pictures of them lining the walls, the reality of what was once there. Virgil knew every detail of the apartment they shared for a year; the rusty counters, and the creaking floorboards, even the small crack they had covered with a collage of photos.

Virgil padded over to the kitchen, socked feet making no noise, and tired eyes scanning to the clock on their stove.

5:46

He let a sigh escape him, before taking in a shaky break and wringing his hands together; trying to calm the oncoming panic attack. He focused on his breathing for a while, letting his nails dig into the palms of his hands, hoping to ground him. Roman would be home at six, and then he'd-

Virgil shook his head as if to rid himself of the rest of that thought, he quickly got to putting the kettle on the stove, busying himself with preparing two cups of tea, not stopping the preparations until two cups were sat idly on their table. He slowly slid into one of the chairs, hands trembling slightly as his hands encased the cup, looking into the tea and watching it swirl.

From the table, he still heard the jangling of keys, the opening of the door and muffled calling of his name. As the sound of footsteps approached and Virgil heard the sweet sounding of “I'm home!” it was almost enough to make him back out of this plan entirely. Virgil wanted nothing more than to run into the arms of the only man he loved, being held and kissed until all of this went away. But he couldn't. Roman was too good for that. Roman, sweet, loving Roman deserved so so much better. Virgil chokes down a sigh that wants to escape, hardening his resolve.

He stays still, glaring down at his cup, as he hears the approaching footsteps and sees the fluorescent light fill into the room. The grip on Virgil's mug tightens, and he takes a shallow breath.

“Virge?”

His name is said softly, almost whispered, caution lacing through Roman's voice and hurried but gentle footsteps racing over to him.

And where's the obvious light? 'Cause I am tired and you're lonely Screaming "babe, console me" But I've already given all that I have

“Sit,” Virgil replied, voice coming out far harsher then he intended. He grips the mug harder, knuckles turning white from how hard he's holding on.

He feels his heart rate pick up and his stomach turns uncomfortably. Bile was rapidly growing in his throat, thoughts raging out of control at the prospect of what he was going to do. But he had to. He couldn't take it anymore. Roman couldn't take it anymore. Virgil was falling apart and pulling this-

His thoughts were halted at the loud screech the chair made at being pulled out. He flinched away from the sound, glancing up at Roman's worried face. Virgil fully took in his features, as he finally looked at him. His brows were furrowed, causing a slight wrinkle on his forehead, the corner of his lips down-turned and pulled into a frown, Roman's eyes rapidly scanning over him.

Virgil couldn't take keeping steady eye contact for long, glancing back down at the untouched drink he was still holding onto. He had to say it. Virgil swallowed around the lump in his throat, trying to reel his panic in.

“Let's break up.”

It came out more of a whimper, words breathed so lightly he wasn't sure Roman heard him. Virgil glanced up through his eyelashes, trying to gouge the other man's reaction. He was sure Roman had now, the complete shock and hurt that flashed over his features. The painful twist in Virgil's chest was back, making him regret letting those words ever slip out. No. This is for the best. He deserves better. The nagging voice Virgil was used to hearing, forced it's way to the front of his thoughts.

“Why?” Roman asked, genuine shock and confusion burning its way through his tone. Roman tried his best to catch Virgil's eyes, but the other just continued staring stubbornly at the kitchen table. 

A bitter laugh that held no humor forced its way out of Virgil's lips, as he shook his head, bangs falling into his eyes. For a year, this had been going on, and he couldn't stand it. This wasn't going to fix it's self any time soon. This was it for Virgil, he was stuck like this.

“I'm sick, Roman. This isn't going away, I can't keep dragging out into this, I-” Virgil broke off, pushing down a cry that wanted to break out. He cleared his throat, buying him time to gain up the courage to continue speaking.

“This relationship isn't fair to you. I've given you everything I have, and I know that it's not enough. I'm never going to be able to be the person you want, that you need. I can't keep dragging you into these constant episodes where I can barely get out of bed.” Virgil let out, words tumbling out of his mouth and gasping for air as he tried to explain why this wasn't working. Why he isn't working. Panic lacing its way through his words, into his lungs, holding him close. 

“I can't have another meltdown and fucking hurt you again! It'll just keep happening over and over again because I'm just this huge fucking mess. I'm too much, I'm too much for anyone to handle, I can't keep doing this to you. I isolate myself for days at a time, and I know how lonely you get! I just can't, I get so tired of everything, and myself, and I cant- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'msorryI'msorry,” Virgil was too focused on his spew of word vomit to realize Roman getting up and walking over to him, only noticing as he sat in front of him.

Lage calloused hands came to rest upon his face, wiping away tears he hadn’t even realized were falling. Virgil just barely resisted burying the rest of his face in warm, tender hands that caressed him oh so sweetly.

Has it all just come to this Both wanting what the other cannot give And are we still trying to prove This isn't something we'll grow out of like old shoes

“Virgil, love," Romans' voice was so soft and gentle, it ripped another cry out of Virgil. He didn’t deserve it. 

“I understand what you're saying. And I'm so sorry you've had to live with this and you didn't tell me. But you have to understand something too,” Roman broke off, tilting Virgil's chin up until he was looking at him. “I love you, so much. I don't care if you have another breakdown, I'm going to be there with you each step of the way, I promised that when we first met, and I intend to keep that. I love you too much.” Roman murmured, standing up so he could properly hug Virgil.

They both sat like that, gripping onto one another as if they’d just disappear when letting go. Feelings and memories of their soft touches and winter cuddles mixed in with witty comments. He held on tighter, his panic slowly easing as he was engulfed in warm arms. The smell of pine and stupid overpriced cologne Roman always insisted on wearing was engulfing his senses. Virgil pressed in harder. Roman's soft reassurances were being whispered with kisses pressed into his hair and he yearned to stay like this, content in never leaving this perfection.

His grip on Roman seemed to get ever tighter, as he remembered his constant breakdowns, the disappointment he could feel when Roman couldn't help. The hurt and disheartened look Roman had worn, carved into his mind. The fact that Virgil caused that face. He squeezed once more, before slowly pushing Roman back, looking up at his face and the same worried, concerned look painted his features.

And if I was a softer person I could give you the kindness you are deserving But I'm not And maybe that's just it

Inching in slowly, Virgil pressed his lips to Romans. It wasn't heated or passionate, none of the need and passion their kisses normally shared. Just a simple press of lips together, sliding until they fit comfortably. Virgil tried to convey the amount of love he had for Roman with the soft kiss, needing him to know how much he cared about him. Before finally leaning back and stepping out of the warm embrace of his lover. He breathed out, his voice on the verge of breaking; “You can't love someones mental illness away, Ro.”

The last thing Roman heard was the closing click of the front door before reality came crashing down on him.

'Cause I am tired and you're lonely Screaming "babe, console me" And I'd stop it if only Hard hearts didn't break so slowly