#could a mentally ill person do THIS? [posts a prompt nearly a month later]

[deadrlngers]

also 17 for ves and nix 🤪

17. a kiss on the underside of the jaw

The dust nestling on every surface of the abandoned bookstore was indecently excessive and made Fenix twitch his nose in irritation every time a cloud of those tiny disturbing particles rose as he moved around the remaining goods of the store. Yet his undivided attention was on the partially faded titles on the spine of what few books still laid on the shelves, the colours blackened by time, and the book in his hands. His eyes scanned the few starting words of the prologue, the frustration of finding out that many phrases were nearly illegible made it impossible for Fenix to notice the figure approaching him until a pair of arms already snaked around his neck and settled over his shoulders. His body instinctively tensed up as if ready to react to any type of danger, but his mind quickly caught up with the reflexes and he relaxed to the touch.

Fenix didn't remove his gaze from the pages, there was no need: he was well aware of who tagged along on his little outing in the Badlands. “Almost mistook you for another hit man after my own life.” He half-lied; the tips of purple coloured hair made his face tingle as the woman embracing him pushed her cheek to his temple.

“After your heart maybe.” Vesper replied, her gaze following the one of her lover down to the yellowed pages. “Or maybe both.”

The addition made the corner of Fenix’s mouth twitch up slightly in an amused grin before he changed the subject for a more interesting, and funny, topic. “You grew a few inches in ten minutes or what?” He questioned, and glanced down, away from his book, to stare at the short step stool Vesper climbed on.

“Miracle.” She sarcastically retorted and patted the top of his head mischievously a few times, just to emphasize how he was the shorter one this time around – a payback for all the times he poked fun at their height difference. I’m above six feet tall, she would repeat over and over, I’m not the problem here.

“Miracles happen a lot to you when I’m around.” Finally, Fenix turned to meet Vesper’s gaze and her hand slid to the back of his neck to play with the short hair there. They both stood in silence as the space around them was immediately filled with the anticipation of a kiss, powerful and captivating and making them breathless; something like a veil of electric charge pending over them and ready to be unleashed so to push them to act. It was awaiting in the way Fenix’s eyes teasingly dipped down to her lips and lingered there before raising back up again to meet her stare, the smugness of a smirk not showing on his lips but in his gaze; and in the way Vesper’s pupils dilated, effectively communicating one raw emotion, desire.

She was ready to be the first to inch closer just enough to meet his lips, unleash that electrifying power that was threatening to burst, but just then Fenix slipped away from her embrace and pushed himself up on the highest step of the low stool in a swift movement, effectively dispelling that raw power circling around them. He grinned as his eyes scanned the other few books on the highest shelves, ignoring the surely angered Vesper: he could feel the weight of her gaze planted on his back just as she could feel his satisfaction for the goading. Fenix could’ve said a simple ‘on the short side again, mh?’ just to complete his annoying game with a cherry on top. He was expecting an irritated reaction, he wanted to set off that so funny fury of hers, yet nothing happened. Surprisingly, Vesper’s reaction was far more placid: without a word she simply jumped on top of the stool too, turning around Fenix’s frame and making the man clutch –slightly panicked – one of the dirty shelves at the instability created by the unexpected action. Vesper knew he wasn’t exactly a fan of heights, even the smallest ones. Surely she wouldn’t take advantage of that, or so Fenix tried to tell himself while he swiped away the dust on his hand by slapping the palm on his thigh a few times.

Her back was now leaning against the tall bookcase, hands behind her back and her right foot planted between Fenix’s parted ones. “Found anything?” Vesper asked as she looked up at him, no sign of impending vengeance evident in her intentions.

“Not much.” He replied and gave her a wary look, he waved the item in his hands as his eyes kept searching for anything worth looking for. “Some pages are barely clear.” He mumbled, more to himself than to Vesper.

She hummed in response. “What’s the story about? Of the book you want I mean.” She prodded on, genuinely interested in the answer.

“A baron jumps on a tree and swears he will never get off it ever again.” Fenix’s tone was plain, like he just summed up in the clearest way a normal plot.

Vesper bit her lower lip, a small giggle held back as she tried to gain any more information. “That’s it?”

“Well, it’s about the will of a man who wants to fully follow some kind of rule he has self-imposed on himself, the living on trees thing. He’s a gonk, you could say, but without that rule he wouldn’t have…hm, an identity to present to himself and others.” Fenix began rambling, turning idly the pages of the book in his hands. “He lives in a fake isolation as a man that’s actually involved in his times, he partakes in the life of men, he’s even kind to them, helps others…acts altruistically and so on. ‘To truly be with others, is to be separated from them’. That’s why–” Fenix’s chatter suddenly got cut short as he felt a faint pull on his shirt, fingers wrinkling the fabric as they clutched and tugged on it. Then surprise ran deeper when Vesper’s lips came in contact with the skin of his jawline, made scratchy to the touch by the shadow of an unshaved beard and in sharp contrast to the gentleness of the action.

Vesper stood on her tiptoes just enough to fill the modest height gap between them, then she slightly pulled back from the kiss to speak her next words. “You’re kinda hot when you act all clever. With your stupid big words and shit.”

“Act? I’m clever,” Fenix scoffed “I’m smart.” He stressed the affirmation with decision but his mouth felt unusually pasty; words were coming out with far more needed effort as Vesper let the tip of her nose slowly run down the pulse of his neck. Fenix turned quiet, any of his usual jokes died in his throat as languid chills, cold like ice, burned their way down his spine. It was challenging to not shiver.

Vesper whispered a mocking ‘right’ at Fenix’s weak defence of his ego: one last breathy word spoken over his skin to complete the arising of goosebumps. Then she lowered back to her usual height, feet flat over the old unsteady surface, and glanced at his troubled expression with amusement. Once more it appeared, again that unspoken attraction inviting them closer like a magnet. Fenix’s fingertips tingled as he held the half ruined book in his hand, he unconsciously tapped them rhythmically over the cover, just like one plays with their keys when awaiting a kiss at the doorstep and muttering a longing goodnight. Vesper released his shirt from the hold of her fingers in favour of placing her palms over his lower stomach. She looked up at him through her lashes with a type of appetite, a craving, that would indicate that finally, finally, the right time has come and yet, instead of a still missing kiss, she gave a not so gentle push to the man in front of her – just strong enough to make him snap out of his trance with his heart leaping in his throat. Fenix frantically clutched the dusty shelf and gasped out a loud curse when he barely avoided the tiny fall, while Vesper merely waltzed around his frantic moving body and left the stool, skipping the last step with a small hop.

“I’m waiting for you outside as you finish you’re little treasure hunt. The dirt in here is worse than the lowest street of Heywood.” She informed, amusement clear in her tone and a newly acquired glee to her steps as she walked away leaving behind Fenix in his stunned silence. Payback, it was always about payback between them.

[imthepointe]

When the Hourglass Runs Dry

well ok this was supposed to be for @ninjago-angst-week but considering i’m, like, a week late, i’ll just post it as a regular fic :)

angst week day 7- prompt: future

tw: death, suicide and suicidal themes / word count: 2057

Many years into the future, Pixal and Zane reflect on the past.

Death was always a fanatical topic at dinner tables, partly because each ninja tended to die rather frequently. It was always brought up in a joking manner (“I dunno, Cole’s died, like, four times at this point,” or “Zane, after Prime Empire, I don’t think you’ve died the most times now!”), and truthfully, it wasn’t really something the ninja had given much heavy consideration to in the past. They were always taught to avoid death- to cheat it- they were ninja; it was kind of their job to protect, which is something you can’t do if you’re dead. Plus, the point of existing is to stay alive for as long as you can, anyway.

It is really so unfortunate that death is not a fleeting matter, unlike youth. It is so, so sad that the inevitability of mortality affects everything. 

Occasionally, in a fit of existential panic, Lloyd would remember that he was going to outlive Nya, Jay, Kai, and Cole by at least a few hundred years. But for now, while they were still teenagers, that wasn’t something for him to worry about. Zane and Pixal had told him it wasn’t something for him to worry about yet.

Then teenage years turned into the twenties, then twenties into thirties, and so forth- such is life. 

Lloyd, Pixal, and Zane had to watch their friends grow old, to watch them age; to Lloyd, there was nothing more painful than the thought that they were all going to die and he still had a good portion of his life that he would have to live without them. But, hey- they had all made it into their seventies, which if you asked Lloyd when he was a teenager how long they would live to be, he would have set the bar a little lower.

But then Cole was diagnosed with the same illness that killed his mother when she was barely in her thirties, and the beloved team ninja was forced back into the reality that they were all going to die sooner or later, and it was probably going to be sooner.

“We made bets on who was going to die first, do you remember?” Kai had said after the former black ninja informed them of his diagnosis. Even though his tone was humorous, his wrinkles furrowed and his eyes drooped.

“Yeah, I think I said it would be you, dumbass,” Cole laughed, which promptly turned into a rattling cough.

“Ka-arma,” Jay smirked. Nya smacked him across the face.

And then Cole was dead within two weeks. 

Then Kai, then Jay, then Nya, all only a few years later.

“They lived long lives, Lloyd,” Zane had mentioned one day. “I am so glad we were a part of them. We will see them again in due time.”

Lloyd prayed he was right.

***

Lloyd had made a comfortable living with Pixal and Zane. The three had moved out of Ninjago City, to a quiet and comfortable cottage near Ignacia, where they mostly kept to themselves. 

They each tried at least once a month to all visit their friend’s graves, which was normally easier said than done. When they did go, they were alone- Lloyd liked to spend personal time with each of his friends, and he supposed Zane and Pixal had the same logic. 

Years passed, and life droned on quietly. There were no new threats to the safety of the city, no new evils or big bads to defeat. 

Lloyd began to age. Slowly, surely, but he was aging, and grew to look more and more like his father with each new wrinkle or sign of age, which was often the butt of Zane’s jokes.

Three hundred years later, and the three of them had shifted into a routine with a strong sense of normalcy. It was nice. 

It was very nice, actually, Lloyd had decided. He no longer had to worry about people in his life leaving him.

But at four hundred years, he began to worry about his leaving of Zane and Pixal. Wu has lived to be nearly five hundred and thirty years old, but as Lloyd only had a fraction of the godlike blood that Wu had, he feared he would not last much longer.

Not only that, but Lloyd found himself getting much more tired and fatigued considerably more frequently.

The three always started out their mornings on the veranda of their cottage, talking and chatting about whatever subject was most relevant to their quaint lives. 

“I’m very old now,” Lloyd had said one day. 

“We all are, Lloyd,” Zane pointed out. Pixal lightly squeezed Zane’s hand as if to say really?

“When I die, what will happen to you all?”

Pixal whipped her head around to face the former green ninja and stared him in the eyes. “Do not talk like that, Lloyd,” she scolded. “Don’t worry about us. Don’t say that.”

That was the end of the matter, until Lloyd’s health only continued to decline. 

By four hundred and twenty-three years old, Lloyd Montgomery Garmadon was practically bedridden, his extended longevity catching up to him.

He knew he didn’t have much longer on this earth.

Zane and Pixal has been taking care of him to the best of their ability, but death is unavoidable, even for the green ninja. 

“I’m sorry,” Lloyd had managed one night, his voice raspy and weak.

“For what, Lloyd?” Zane gently raised the his torso and propped him up with a pillow.

“For leaving you and Pixal.”

“Do not be sorry, Lloyd,” Zane replied with a solemn tone. “Just say hello to our old friends, would you?” 

A small tear rolled down Zane’s cheek and he held Lloyd’s hands. The nindroid was mostly sure the other boy had nodded.

Lloyd died peacefully in his sleep two nights later.

***

Zane and Pixal sat on the porch, just as they did every morning, admiring the birch trees and various wildlife, occasionally pointing at a deer or falcon or fox that happened to cross their vision.

It had been a mere three months since the green ninja’s death, with only the two nindroids left to keep each other company. But this morning, this morning was different- Zane was ‘in a funk,’ as Lloyd would have said, and the recollection of Lloyd’s funny vocabulary made Pixal laugh.

“What is funny, Pixal?”

“You seem weird today, that is all,” Pixal met his eyes, “as Lloyd would have said, ‘you are in a funk.’ Are you alright?”

“I’m splendid. In fact, I was thinking of fixing a cake in a minute. How does chocolate sound?”

“That sounds nice, Zane.”

Now Pixal knew something was definitely wrong- Zane only made cakes when something was bothering him.

But even as she watched Zane move inside to the kitchen and put on an apron, she began to think about the question that was heavy-set in her mind, as well.

How much longer of this?

They were nindroids. They could not die from natural causes- how many more years would she live to see?

Pixal, she mentally scolded herself, stop thinking like that. You’re being silly.

You’re being silly.

She stood from the rocking chair, collected herself, and went inside to help Zane- Pixal too found baking rather enjoyable. 

Zane asked her to prepare some icing, so she fiddled with the sugar, cocoa, and milk, until she had a consistency presentable enough to self-proclaimed Master Chef Zane. 

...which, naturally, there was an issue with.

“See, Pixal, you must add more powdered sugar than milk, that way it stays fluffy,” he dipped his finger into the mixture, “but it still tastes good.” With a swift motion, he scooped some more icing with his finger and smeared it on the girl’s nose. 

“Zane!”

Through her frustration, she could not help but laugh, and thus a food fight broke out between them.

By the time they were through, an even layer of flour coated the kitchen counters and floor, cocoa stained on their garments, and icing was in every place imaginable. 

Zane stood and helped Pixal to her feet and almost stood in awe of the impressive mess they had made. 

Pixal hugged Zane, mostly in an effort to get his clothes significantly more adulterated than they already were. “I would have maybe expected this from Lloyd, not from you.”

The master of ice closed his eyes. “We should probably clean up.” 

“Right,” Pixal shoved him playfully as she made her way to the cleaning supplies underneath the sink. She handed Zane a broom and kept a cloth for herself. 

She picked up a photo frame that had been completely caked in flour and began to wipe it off. Underneath was a framed picture of her friends, some four hundred years ago, after some valiant battle.

She exhaled loud enough for Zane to notice. 

“When will we see them again, Zane?”

“I- I am unsure,” he sighed, “I have been wondering the same.” He swept the flour into a neat little pile in the middle of the floor.

“You have?”

The nindroid looked lost in thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said decisively. “That is why I have been acting weird lately, I suppose.”

“Even though it’s been hundreds of years since their passing, I still miss them so, so much. Is that a bad thing?”

“Oh, Pixal, I hope not.”

The rest of the kitchen was cleaned in a thoughtful silence. 

The cake was finished and set on the small dining table, with two rocking chairs on one half of the table and a third chair cast off to the side. 

Zane sat down in a chair, and pulled the other out for Pixal to sit beside him. He cut the cake, his hands moving more clumsily than before- Pixal thought he seemed lost in his mind, and she would know- she’s been stuck there before. He carefully set a piece of cake on each plate.

 “Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear; seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.”

 Pixal couldn’t help but laugh at Zane’s sudden use of Julius Caesar. “That is Shakespeare. Why quote it now?”

“Because it does not apply to us. We will not meet a necessary end.”

She tuned back down to her cake. “That is true.”

She poked at the chocolate for a moment before setting her fork back down. “What are you suggesting? I assume this has something to do with the conversation earlier.”

“I’m just saying I do not think we will ever see Cole, Kai, Nya, Lloyd, or Jay ever again by any natural means.”

 Pixal considered his words for a moment before grabbing Zane’s hand. “I have an idea,” she said cautiously- it was risky, unsettling, and terrifying- “but only if you are totally sure about it.”

***

2 weeks since the cake baking incident and Zane and Pixal had finished eating all of the cake. Zane has immediately agreed to Pixal’s idea- he had been toying with the same idea for some time, too, he admitted.

[MANUAL SHUTDOWN DISABLED. OVERRIDE?]

Zane’s fingers wrapped around Pixal’s. The rocking chairs swept back and forth, a gentle sway, just as they had every morning, like this was some part of their routine.

Pixal looked to Zane, her voice barely above a whisper: “Are you sure you want to do this, Zane?”

The nindroid smiled softly. “They are waiting for us, Pixal,” he continued holding her hand, “I can’t wait to see them again.”

Pixal followed Zane’s gaze to the same framed photo sitting across from their chairs.

“I cannot wait either, Zane.” 

There was a silence, but not the dreadful kind- the kind of silence that is warm, welcoming, and comfortable. 

“I love you, Pixal.”

He gripped her hand tighter.

“I love you, Zane. So much.”

[OVERRIDE.]

***

Soft light cascaded through trees with golden leaves, and a small breeze gently rustled the leaves. The place seemed familiar, in a very distant way, but the two nindroids could not recall anytime they would have visited such a place with this ethereal beauty.

“You two are late,” a familiar voice sounded behind them.

The two turned around, hands still linked, to face their friends. Cole stood in the middle, a tender smile spreading across his face.

“We are here now, friends.”

[fanfic-corner]

Writer Castiel

4/12/20 - I have wanted to be a writer since I was ten years old, so maybe I’m biased here, but I absolutely adore the idea of Cas being an author if he lived a different life!

Tabula Rasa by Dangerousnotbroken on AO3. (78,240 words).

Tags: Writer Castiel, Bartender Dean, Past Relationship, Pervasive Themes of Memory, Magic, Canon Typical Violence, Mentions of alcoholism, Mentions of Past Child Neglect, Mental Illness, Witches, Ghosts, Bi!Dean, Bi!Castiel, Referenced Past Minor Character Death, Angst, Slow Burn, Memory Loss.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Once upon a time, Castiel Novak had everything. He had a happy home life, a full scholarship, and, if he played his cards right, a promising journalism career. And on top of all of that, he had Dean. Then tragedy struck, as it tends to do, and Castiel lost everything. At thirty six, he’s got none of those things. He’s got no family to speak of. He’s got a job investigating purportedly true tales of the supernatural for a magazine no one reads. And worst of all he hasn’t seen Dean in nearly twenty years. So when research for an article turns him on to a witch who apparently grants wishes in exchange for stories, Castiel figures it’s worth the risk. If making a deal with a witch can get him Dean back, what has he got to lose?

Notes: This was absolutely amazing; both written beautifully and with a fantastic plot.

the inexhaustible silence of houses by Askance on AO3. (31,820 words).

Tags: Horror, Psychological Trauma, Domestic Violence.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Almost two years after the world doesn't end, Castiel falls from grace—and loses his voice in the process. It is the impetus for confession and change; before long, he is settling into a loving relationship with Dean, the Winchesters are tired, and hunting for a place to land has taken precedence to hunting anything else. Dean and Castiel fall in love with the strange little house on the end of Swallowtail Drive, and for a little while life is as it should be—sweet, affectionate, and beginning afresh. But more and more Castiel sees and hears things in the house that beg the question of whether or not a place itself can be alive. The walls and rooms seem to shift and grow and breathe, and one night, Dean comes home from a hunt changed in a way that Castiel cannot explain. In the months that follow, their domestic bliss takes turns for the dark and sour, and the confusion of their circumstances will ultimately test everything Castiel knows about the man he loves, and everything he believes to be true.

Notes: Excellently written, made me cry, and the ending was brilliant. Technically it isn’t tagged as Cas being a writer, but he does write some poetry throughout, and I couldn’t help myself.

Lost and Found by whelvenwings on AO3. (7,762 words).

Tags: Writer Castiel, Mechanic Dean, Demisexual Castiel.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: “Chuck Shurley? Sure, I’ve read his books. Kinda Vonnegut, but like, Kilgore-Trout Vonnegut, you know?” Dean took another gulp of his whisky, and smacked his lips like an adult. The guy sitting beside him at the bar, however, did not look suitably impressed. In fact, he was staring down into the bubbles of his cider, not even noticing the way that Dean was smiling at him, giving him the eyes. “I thought his stuff was pretty good, in a kinda metamodern way,” Dean added airily, and a little more loudly. The guy only nodded gloomily. Dean almost clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in frustration. C’mon, dude, I’m trying to impress you. Twenty minutes of talking and all Dean had to show for it was a weird first name, a series of dour stares and the strangest need to know more about this – Castiel.

Notes: This was written so well that I wanted to cry at Cas’ story of the stars, even though it wasn’t particularly sad. Now I want to go and stargaze with someone.

The House on the Ocean Road by coffeeandcas on AO3. (111,351 words).

Tags: Single Parent Castiel, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Hurt Dean Winchester, Writer Castiel, Car Accidents, Past Character Death, Adopted Children, Mentions of Suicide, Slow Burn, Anxiety, Panic Attacks, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Near Death Experiences, Hospitals, Explicit Sexual Content, POV Dean.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Dean Winchester is on the run from his life. He's done something unforgivable, and can't face his family or friends ever again. So he does what any rational person would do: fakes his own death and vanishes into the ether. Wandering aimlessly along country roads, he succumbs to the elements during a violent storm and wakes up hours later in the home of a stranger: a single dad living alone in an isolated beach house, with a haunting past of his own. Cas is sweet and shy, but welcomes Dean into his home and tells him he can stay as long as he needs, never prying into his life or asking him to spill his secrets. As they rapidly forge a close friendship, Dean finds that the quiet life by the ocean with Cas is exactly what he's been dreaming of. He only hopes his past never catches up with him.

Notes: This was so gorgeous and the plot was fabulous! Also, I loved Jimmy, and Dean and Cas as parents were adorable. Weirdest use of Cole’s character that I’ve ever seen though.

What Can’t Be Seen by destieldrabblesdaily on AO3. (2,639 words).

Tags: Soulmate AU, author!Cas, Strangers to Lovers, First Kiss.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Written for this prompt: Soulmate AU where you first see color after eye contact: Cas is a famous best selling author and he’s promoting his book, so he’s talking to a crowd of people and suddenly his world is in color, and a lot of his fans pretend to be his soulmate. A Cinderella type situation ensues.

Notes: This was really cute and such a sweet and funny idea.

(un)conventional by imogenbynight on AO3. (6,100 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe, mechanic!Dean, Writer!Castiel, Conventions, Fluff.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Spec Lit Con--Speckly Con, to it’s regular attendees--is an annual weekend-long event held in Chicago, dedicated to science fiction, fantasy and otherwise speculative literature. This year Dean's favorite author, C.J. Novak, is appearing as a panelist. Naturally, he shells out the cash for an all access pass.

Notes: This was so adorable that I nearly screamed in the corridor outside my computer science lesson. Plus, the writing was absolutely gorgeous! I miss conventions :(

I Think That’s Mine by palominopup on AO3. (6,804 words).

Tags: Fluff, AU, Reporter!Dean, Writer!Cas.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: A mix up at the Atlanta Airport places Dean Winchester's laptop in someone else's possession. A series of calls and texts bring two men together.

Notes: This was so cute, Cas was so sweet, and Dean was an icon.

‘Star Wars is Overrated’ by leftdragonpainter on AO3. (38,186 words).

Tags: Soulmates, Pining, Drinking, Writer Castiel, Mechanic Dean, Neighbours, Swearing, Winchester Logic, Clueless Dean, College Student Sam, Awkward Dates, Dean Cooks, Castiel in Glasses, Slow Burn, Injured Sam, Fixing Cars, Smut, Costumes, Drunk Texting, Temporary Amnesia, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: When Dean Winchester turned sixteen he was disappointed by the words that appeared on his chest. He never expected that it would take so much to find his soulmate. He never expected to not remember meeting them...

Tags: Every time I thought I knew what was going to happen in this fic, something completely different happened, which I loved. 

Event Horizon by Winglesss on AO3. (6,442 words).

Tags: Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal Dean, Depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Past Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Texting, Sharing a Bed, Happy Ending, Veteran Dean, Doctor Dean, Writer Castiel, Strangers.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Castiel couldn't have helped his sister. That's why being offered a chance to help somebody else dealing with suicidal thoughts he took it without hesitation. When he gets the first text from someone who needs his help, nothing goes as he expected.

Notes: I don’t know if that kind of suicide prevention scheme exists, but this fic is very sweet. 

Darkly Dreaming Dean by Duckyboos on AO3. (29,008 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe - Police, Detective Dean Winchester, Writer Castiel, Serial Killer Dean, Alternate Universe - Dexter, Established Relationship, Murder, Top Dean, Bottom Castiel, Anal Sex, Innocent Castiel.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: Dean Winchester has the perfect apple pie life with his shy-but-sweet boyfriend in the suburbs. He has a steady, well-paid job with the LAPD and he’s charming and attractive. Really, he’s living the American Dream. It’s his extra-curricular activities that some may disagree with, as he’s also an accomplished serial killer. To date, his kills amount to around 36 and he’s never been caught. He’s employed by the law, remember? He knows how these things work.

*

A new serial killer arrives on the scene and despite the sloppiness of their work, Dean is intrigued by them and what they're trying to achieve, because their MO is the same as his; killing bad people. He makes it his mission to track the other killer down before the police do, and he’s left reeling when the 'Basin Vigilante' turns out to be someone a lot closer to home than he could have ever imagined.

Notes: I sort of watched Dexter a few years ago, and I absolutely love the idea of Dean as a vigilante serial killer. I only wish that the synopsis was a bit different, so the end was more of a surprise.

Finding Home by Desirae on AO3. (42,828 words).

Tags: Baker Dean Winchester, Writer Castiel, PTSD, Past Childhood Trauma, Childhood Kidnapping, Mistaken Identity, Dean Whump, Castiel Whump, Best Friends to Lovers, Emotional Sex, Fluff, Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: Dean Winchester lived a quiet life running his bakery. Aside from family, Dean had no desire to let anyone inside. The more people you cared about, the more you had to lose; A hard lesson he'd learned at the tender age of eight when Dean’s best friend was kidnapped right before his eyes. Dean was forever haunted by the event, although he hadn’t realized quite how much until Emmanuel James Milton breezed into his life; waking his sleeping heart with a complete lack filter and achingly familiar eyes. An author, with no family and traumatic past of his own, Emmanuel never felt like he belonged anywhere until he walked into The Honeybee Bakery and met Dean. It’s not long before they find out that there is a reason for their profound bond.

Notes: It was obvious what was going on here from the start, but that just made it even cuter as they fell in love again.

I think it is a shame we didn’t get more human Cas content, but I guess it is too late now. I hope you enjoy these fics, and if you ever have a specific list you want me to make, feel free to ask!

[fleckcmscott]

Bittersweet

Summary: After a little prompting, Arthur tells Y/N about his first kiss.

Warnings: Angst, Past self-harm (Don’t worry - there’s love, too!)

Words: 2,652

A/N: This was an anonymous request! Whoever you are, thank you for sending it to me. Writing this was a joy. A hearty thanks to Karen for beta-ing!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

If you’ve sent me a request and I haven’t responded, it’s because I am working on it and will answer once it’s posted!

Edit: I apologize for forgetting to thank @sweet-nothings04​ for the title! Love you, girl!

As Arthur felt the first periods of genuine satisfaction within his own skin, he discovered which activities he enjoyed the most. Performing for children, seeing their small faces beam in reaction to his magic tricks. When he was doing a comedy set somewhere and his laughter didn't occur. Working on material or listening to music. And every second with Y/N at his side.

Weaving himself completely with another person hadn't been something he'd believed possible. But during the past eleven months, his assumptions had changed. Y/N knew about the difficulty he often had interpreting people, about his illnesses, about each time he'd been remanded to Arkham. Instead of recoiling as he'd feared, she reminded him to take his medication on the rare occasion he would forget. The calendar that hung by the kitchen entrance had both his appointments or gigs and her court dates written in his scrawl. She delved into his interests by watching old comedies he rented or shows he picked out. He'd explored hers by paying extra attention to Action News and asking about the cases she was working on. And they'd gotten in the habit of watching Gotham Tonight before heading to bed. It was the repetitive mundanities of normal life, the routines and rhythms they'd fallen into, that he found most intimate.

Yet, she still had the ability to flummox him.

They were walking in Sheldon Park after dropping off their groceries and his three prescription refills at the apartment. It was a lovely evening, the temperatures balmy even though dusk was approaching. The place was more crowded than expected for a Tuesday. A group of kids were riding their bikes through the winding paths. On a nearby bench, an older man smoked a cigar while the woman he was with chattered about the day. And there were quite a few teenage couples, strolling with arms entwined or their lips locked.

Y/N must have noticed them, too, because she nudged him when they passed a pair making out on a knoll near the duck pond. "If we'd met back then, would we have been doing the same thing? All over each other without caring who saw?"

A light laugh caught in his throat. He gave her side-eye, taking a drag off his cigarette. "You already don't care who hears."

She was chuckling when she asked her follow-up, like it was the most normal question in the world. "When was your first kiss?" He halted, mouth agape as she continued on. The answer made him feel self-conscious before even giving it. It had been embarrassingly late, considering what he remembered hearing around school as a teenager.

Y/N put a quarter in the duck pellet machine and turned the crank. "I was fifteen. My ex-husband. We were at a drive-in, watching some terrible movie - Attack of the Grasshoppers or Ants or whatever." Arthur stepped towards her and put out his smoke in the nearby ashtray as she held out her hand. "I knew he liked me, but I was surprised." After splitting the feed with him, carefully pouring it into his upturned palm, she sat on the grass, legs crossed in front of her at the ankles, and tossed some in the water. "He leaned over and kissed me as hard as he could. I pushed him away, then pulled him back again."

The birds swam hurriedly in their direction, a couple of the braver ones daring to come ashore. Arthur crouched down next to her and threw some of the pellets himself. But he stayed quiet. A few minutes later, she leaned towards him. "You don't have to tell me. I know I'm your first serious relationship." Shrugging, she continued. "I just thought there might have been a high school sweetheart. Then we could share embarrassing tales."

He shook his head, throwing the rest of the food and sitting next to her, one knee up with his arm rested on it. "No," he said. "You're my only sweetheart." Normally she wasn't fond of pet names, but she let out a soft sound and scooted closer. Her arm looped through his, a kiss planted on his temple. As his lips pressed together, he wondered what she expected. She'd been surprised by his inexperience when they'd started sleeping together, seemingly unable to comprehend how he'd been single. If she'd been anyone else, he would have assumed she just wanted to make fun of him. But she'd been open about her history, and hadn't laughed at him once so far. "I was twenty-two."

"What were you like back then? Just as beautiful, I'm sure."

A short giggle escaped him, his forehead rested on the heel of his hand. While he'd never been outgoing, never been half as bold as Y/N, he hadn't yet shrunken in on himself. Though he'd had his condition, his mental illnesses had only partially presented themselves. He hadn't already been committed. Life had had its challenges, having taken care of his mother seven years by then. But he'd still been naive enough to hope it could be different. That Penny might get better. That he could meet his special person.

That was too much for this conversation. She'd asked a lighthearted question and deserved a lighthearted answer. So he gave one that encompassed it all. "Younger." It had been awhile since he'd reflected on the circumstances surrounding his first kiss. His brows drew together as he tried to remember all the details. "Her name was Helen. We were coworkers in Gotham Park. At a summer carnival."

The bit of exaggeration was unintentional. He'd been hired to work as a clown. It had been new for him, but given his natural aptitude for dancing and interacting with kids, it'd come easier than expected. The boss had told him to roam the entire grounds. And he'd tried to. But it had become impossible after seeing her.

Arthur's eyelids fluttered at Y/N tracing the veins on the back of his hand. "What did she do to win your heart?"

Not a lot. They hadn't exchanged more than a couple of words, mostly pleasantries and the odd complaint about the weather. But she could have done anything, frankly. He'd been fantasizing about dating for years. What had originally been an innocent desire for attention and friendship had, as he'd grown-up, become a near constant craving for love and connection.

Helen had worked at one of the games, though he couldn't recall exactly which one. The radiance of her skin was nearly as bright as the smile she met customers with. She always wore cute, short sleeved sweater sets, ones that revealed a sliver of her mid-riff. She was kind. Whenever she talked with anyone, she'd laugh easily and be attentive. She seemed smart, too; he'd noticed the textbooks she took notes in. The moment he'd passed by her and she'd glanced up at him with her deep, brown eyes, he'd thought he'd sensed an affinity between them. It had sparked his imagination. "She was nice. And pretty. We didn't get to talk much."

"How was it?" Y/N asked playfully, her caresses flirty as they traveled to the inside of his wrist, a spot they'd learned made his breath catch.

The carnival had normally stayed open until nine. But high winds and heavy rain had forced it to close early. He'd been sprinting by Helen's booth, when she called out to him. The front closure was stuck, she'd explained. Could he help her with it? After a minute or two of trying to fix it, she'd invited him into the back. It had taken a couple seconds to decide to go for it - he'd hoped his hesitancy hadn't been too weird. Once the rope was untangled from the hook it'd been stuck on, he'd rolled down the tarp and secured it shut. Then he'd turned to her.

They'd been drenched. Probably half his clown-makeup had been washed off, leaving his pale skin exposed. Her sweater had clung to her, the silhouette of her hardened nipples visible through the cream fabric. He'd fought to keep his eyes averted. The pitter-patter of the pelting rain had surrounded them, slightly muffled by the tall trees above and the orange canvas of the tent. It had felt pleasantly hazy. She'd looked up at him and said, in the sweetest voice, "Thank you. I owe you one."

"Yeah," he'd replied lamely, when what he'd meant to say was, "I think I love you. You're beautiful. Let's go on a date." His heart had been pounding, open, plain to see, and he'd thought he'd understood her smile correctly. It was rare they were directed his way - surely it must have meant something. When she'd offered her hand for a shake, adrenaline had driven him to take it, step forward, and press his mouth to hers.

After all this time, only vague impressions remained. Her lips had been pliant, warm, and wet. How he'd imagined a ripe plum would feel if he could ever afford one. There'd been enthusiasm on his part. And he was sure he'd been trembling. He hadn't paid attention to her reactions, having been too caught up in his own nervousness and excitement. Finally, he'd been brave enough to kiss a girl. He'd been proud of himself for not laughing.

He'd attempted to snake an arm around her waist, pull her flush against his skinny frame to feel the realness of her, the softness of her breasts, the dip of her waist. But she'd backed off, pushing against his chest as their lips parted. He'd released her instantly but kept her hand. He'd tried to hold it loosely enough to hide his desperation as he felt his heart break.

She'd cleared her throat before starting in. "You're sweet, Arthur. But... This is going to be my senior year. I have to concentrate on school." White noise had filled his ears. "I think you're a little old for me. And I'm seeing someone. And..."

Halfway through her litany of explanations, he'd tuned out and slowly dropped her fingers. His palm automatically went to his abdomen, willing his diaphragm to not betray him. "I'm- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-" He'd squeezed his eyes shut as he broke off, self-disgust filling him. "Why would you like me? I-"

The reassurances she'd given him hadn't mattered much back then. They'd actually made it worse. They'd meant that in lieu of hating him, she simply didn't want him. "I'm not mad." There'd been pity in her half-smile. "It was a nice kiss."

His anguish as he'd gotten ready for work the next morning was overwhelming and unwanted. But his brain wouldn't stop going to Helen. Seeing her again would crush him. The tightness in his chest, the tension in his arms were acute - he didn't know what to do. And anger was welling in him, at himself and what he'd never have. He'd attempted to find distraction in the radio, tobacco, the nearly scalding hot water during his shower. None of it worked. Instead, as he stood in the corner of the living room by his clothes, he banged his head, smashing it into the mirror hanging on the wall.

It was the cracking of the glass that got him to stop, got him to notice what he was doing. The compulsion he'd felt and given into to hurt himself was new. Frightening. And cemented his abnormality. He'd lifted his fingers to his forehead - there'd been no blood, at least. Then he'd squinted at the mirror and groaned, annoyed he'd have to replace it. Quickly, he took it down and threw it in the trash can, not wanting his mother to see what he'd done.

He didn't return to work that day. Or the day after that. He'd stayed at home, calling out sick and missing a week's pay.

Penny had noticed his lack of absence first. Then his failure to do anything besides smoke and get off the couch to use the bathroom. She'd asked if he was okay for the first time in months. And he'd confessed, rasping softly, "No, mom. I need someone." The humiliation he felt at yearning for such simplicities grew as he went through his list. "I want to take her to the movies. To light her cigarette. To hold her." He'd exhaled sharply and flinched. "I want her to laugh at my jokes."

"Oh, Happy," she'd said, patting his arm. In his fragile state, the nickname's familiarity had both calmed and hurt. "Just smile and put on a happy face. You can't feel bad, then." She'd turned back to the television, maternal instincts quickly forgotten. At least around her, he listened and tried to paste a grin on.

Eventually, he had dragged himself back to the carnival - the bills had to be paid somehow. He'd done his best to avoid Helen. She had spotted him once, though, and given a small, friendly wave from across the way. After briefly freezing, he'd chosen to nod back at her, giving her the acknowledgment he would have wanted had their positions been reversed.

He hadn't seen her again. But he'd clung to the memory of that kiss for ages. Reminisced when he'd ached for another life and wanted to believe it might be possible. And for less chaste longings. It had stopped being a placeholder years ago, when he'd realized he'd always live with Penny. Not alone, but lonely, until he was lucky enough to check out forever.

Until he and Y/N had stumbled into each other. Repeatedly. In this harsh city.

"Kissing you is nicer," Arthur said, slinging an arm around Y/N, meeting her gaze.

She giggled. "Oh?" Her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip, only inches from his own. "And why's that?"

"You love me. And you want me." The touch of his fingertips went to her upper arm, guiding her to recline on the grass. "All the time," he scolded mockingly, rasp barely above a whisper. His lips tickled her, just under her ear, and he delighted in the way she squirmed and batted at his shoulder.

She locked her hands at the nape of his neck and smiled up at him, like he was the only man in the world. Eagerness sparked as her fingers slid under his sweater. "I do," she replied, low and throaty. "I won't pretend I don't." Cradling the back of her head, he bent and sealed their mouths together. She was demanding, as though she sought to capture a piece of him and hold it deep within her. He sighed as he brought his hand to the hem of her blouse, not hesitating before going in for another kiss.

Neither of them heard the hooves of the approaching horse. "Sir? Ma'am?" Arthur turned up towards the mounted police officer shining her flashlight in their faces. "Aren't you two a little old for this?"

Wide-eyed, Arthur's head snapped back to look at Y/N, nearly colliding with her as she held her hand in front of her eyes. Thank god she answered straightaway. "Sorry, officer." She sat up, pushing Arthur off her. The blush currently spreading across her cheeks made him snort. "It's such a beautiful night and, well..." she gestured in his direction. Christ, would she never find it inappropriate to brag about him? He turned away and hid behind his palm.

Y/N stood and brushed off her clothing. "We'll behave, madam. I promise." The cop shook her head and rode off. Y/N covered her mouth as she burst into laughter. "I guess this means we wouldn't have cared who saw." Arthur stood up beside her, pulling up his pants and fixing his hair. "Thanks for sharing that with me," she said.

As she reached to remove a leaf from his jacket, he stepped to her and cupped her face, melding their lips once more. "I'll share anything with you."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @howdylilflower​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​ @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​

[kennyisscrewy]

Playing Hard to Want II Webgott

Thank you to @speirtons aka Lily for organizing this #bobtogether fic writing event, and kicking a healthy dose of inspiration into me! You’re seriously a GIFT to this community 

W/C: 5076

Prompt: There was only one bed

   David was already not looking forward to seeing Joe again once he was finally let out of the hospital. Every day that he spent lying on that bed felt like a new nail added to his coffin, yet another tiny spike in Liebgott’s hatred of him. And truthfully Joe had hated David before he’d even done anything wrong, so now that he had… He shuddered at the thought. The street sign boasting Haganeu blared in his peripheral like a neon warning sign. Bitterly, he mulled over the unfairness that his one motivator as he was healing up (returning back to the 101st) was now something of a cold dread in his stomach. His friendship with Joe, too, had been shot in the dirt before he’d even gotten the chance to try.

  The icy ball continued to roll around in David’s stomach as he called out to George Luz, so very relieved to see a friendly face that wasn’t frowning and somber and pitying, only to have the usually animated man respond tiredly. And it just got worse, and worse, and worse. He couldn’t seem to stop his big, fat mouth from opening; asking where’s Hoobler? How’s about Toye or Wild Bill? Where’d that cheeky little Julien kid get off to now? Nobody said a word, and it spoke miles. Finally Foley and Martin ground out something about how thin 2nd platoon had become, and David was shooed away like a buzzing gnat.

  He swore under his breath as he walked up to the next Jeep and was instantly pinned in place by mean, dark eyes. The second Joe recognized him as more than just “anonymous annoyance”, he was rolling those glittering eyes, and David resented him for looking so pretty while doing it. It felt surreal to finally take in those near-black eyes that shone in the foggy french sunlight like pebbles in person once more, rather than just using his best memory to muse over them in his hospital bed.

   David has had a long time to mull over those eyes that narrowed into repulsed little slits as some unfamiliar face finally yanked David up into the remaining empty space. Four months, according to that red sneering mouth, which was news to him. In the first month, he’d kept count, anxious to get back to his platoon and his friends (and Lieb, of course). But around the second time that the nurses had none-too gently told him that if he left, the infection would kill him before he got another chance to play hero, David had become disheartened enough that he just let the days and weeks roll by sluggishly. Joe’s pissy remark: “Must’ve like that hospital.” almost made him collapse into hysterical laughter.

  That hospital room was never ending purgatory; solitary confinement. He lay there in his soaked through clothes and waited to die a meaningless, empty death. Dozens of times he’d pictured his father's reaction upon receiving the letter. Dull, bloodshot eyes would scan over the words: “died of his wounds”, and “taken off the frontline due to his own lack of awareness” and his father would chuckle meanly. Mutter how he’d been right to tell David he’d never make it out there, and “oh I hate to speak ill of the dead and say I told ya so!” The peeling off-white wallpaper and fleshy toned curtains plagued his nightmares still; Normandy felt like a tropical getaway in comparison. He opened his mouth to tell Joe that, and see that shit eating smirk slide off his pale face with satisfaction, but looking at him gave David pause.

  Beneath those pretty, glinting eyes were heavy bags so purple they could’ve been mistaken for bruises at first glance. His O.D.s and face were dirty-which was nothing new- but seeing Joe’s hair a stringy, careless mess sent something of a shock through David. Kind of like Perconte’s dental fixation, David has always been able to spot Liebgott from a mile away simply because it was clear that, even as his bloody bandages soaked through, the man took a few moments each day to make sure his thick, dark hair was still soft and touchable looking.

...Alright, so maybe David was just projecting there.

  Regardless, he looked like HELL. Which felt oh, so wrong. David has always admired how unaffected he’d seemed by the war, both physically and mentally, and his guts twisted as he watched those long, oddly dainty fingers bring a cigarette to his lips. They were shaking . And it’s not like it was exactly cold out.

  Feeling nauseous, his gaze moved unabidden to Heffron. Unkept, ruddy stubble dotted the usually chipper replacement’s thin face, and the shine appeared to have left his bright eyes. Dirty bandaged fingertips poked out of olive gloves that looked like the kid had torn the fingers off of himself. And he was quiet; so fucking quiet.If there was one thing David knew about Philly boys, it was that you could never get them to stop yapping even if krauts were peppering them in an empty field. He was unsettled by not hearing Babe’s squeaking, weird little giggles or Bill’s cartoonish cackling carrying on the wind. Honest to God, it didn’t even feel much like Easy anymore. No Luz attempting what had to be the worst British accent he’d ever heard or Toye bitching about whatever new thing had popped into his head. None of Muck trying out an hour's worth of garish standup while Penkala and Malarkey giggled like prepubescent hyenas. Just empty uniforms and the stench of stale cigarette smoke remained.

  Tracking down Lipton was a welcome distraction, as were the multiple near-death experiences on his way to the abandoned house he was posted up in. Something downright neurotic in him took comfort in the return of the bone rattling violence. Even as he was forced to dive away from a near-direct hit, which sent stabbing hot pains through his thigh, his heart soared with a sick kind of glee at the taste of dirt in his mouth. This solidified that he was really, truly back in the fight; it was as terrifying as it was liberating.

  Lt. Speirs previously from Dog Company and Lipton signed David’s execution by reconfirming that, yes, he was being reassigned to 2nd platoon. And, as a bonus, he’d acquired a squeaky clean West Pointer to babysit! Oh joy. Well, at least by comparison, David no longer felt so much like a replacement. The moment he’d laid eyes on that fancy graduation ring, he was filled with a perverse sense of relief. Oh, the toccoa boys are sure gonna have a field day with you, Lieutenant Jones. David felt like a little kid who’d desperately joined in on hazing the new kid, all in the vain hopes that the other boys might pick on him a little less.

  Any sort of relief David was feeling vanished as he faced down his former friend’s critical gazes, bitterness radiating off them in thick, rolling waves. Wordlessly, he tossed his bag unto an empty upper bunk, and took a deep breath before turning back to the men.

“This seat taken?”

  For some reason, that had Ramirez chuckling and had Chuck swearing and rolling his eyes. Everyone in the little huddle swung their gazes over to Liebgott, who seemingly always had something to say, especially for Webster. He fidgeted anxiously as Joe took his sweet time sucking on his Lucky Strike like a popsicle, blowing a stream of smoke out of pursed, cherry lips so slowly that David dug his nails into his uninjured thigh.

“They’re all fuckin taken, Web. This look like a fuckin presidential fuckin suite to you? I know you’re so used to yer cushy hospital digs what with big canned nurses shaking their tits in your face-“

  He walked away before he’d even heard the end of Joe’s rant, dripping with acidic hatred that made the blood in David’s ears ring. He knew if he stood around any longer that he’d punch Joe right in his handsome, artfully carved goddamned face. And as badly as Joe wanted it, he wasn’t the enemy right now.

Far fucking from it actually.

****

   David could feel drying blood underneath his fingernails as he stumbled back into the dilapidated house, wondering if it were Kraut blood or Jackson’s. His head leant against the side of his/not his bunk with a dull thud that didn’t even register. Mentally, he was still kneeling by Jackson’s side, framing the sides of the boy’s head with his fingers as he pleaded for the kid to calm down. He’d told Jackson it was gonna be okay, that everything would be fine once Doc showed up. But jokes on them; Doc had shown up and Jackson was dead, dead, dead.

  He repeated it aloud when they were quietly asked about the mission’s “success”. The mission’s fucking SUCCESS; god David had to laugh. Two German prisoners captured sure, but it felt like a monumental fucking loss from where he was standing. 20 fucking years old…

“Yeah we heard.”

  Came Joe’s voice, breaking through the haze of blood and shouting and gunpowder. It was surprisingly gentle, softer than he could ever recall hearing him speak before. And for some reason that is what nearly made David crumple. Not watching a kid begging to live, not listening to McClung tearfully screaming and pointing a shaking sidearm at the German’s heads, just Joe Fucking Liebgott not treating him like a smear on the treads of his government issued boots for once. Quietly, David excuses himself, walked casually to the ransacked bathroom, and violently puked up bile until he couldn’t even feel the muscles in his throat.

   A few hours of shaking and vomiting later, and he shuffled in the pitch black room towards the bunk beds. Blindly, he made sure to step as lightly as possible (which was quite a feat for the heavy-footed man), and reached out with searching fingers for his bed. The moment fingertips made contact with scratchy, piling sheets, David hauled his weary body on to the mattress, only to be met by the sensation of something sharp digging into his side. For one crazed moment, he thought he’d stabbed himself with a bayonet that wasn’t on his person, and his hand trembled as he flickered his lighter on expecting to see crimson staining through his jacket. Honestly, he’d have preferred the sight of him slowly bleeding out to what he did see bathed in the orangey dim light.

  Half moon eyelashes so dark and thick they looked like ink blots curved against moonbeam cheekbones. Thin, dark eyebrows not scrunched down in irritation for once, and a smooth forehead oddly absent of worry lines. And of course, chapped but also sinfully flushed-looking lips, thin but shapely, barely parted and emitting sweet sighs. Liebgott, with his ridiculously bony elbows jabbing into his ribs he was so close, looking like a goddamned Rembrandt. Too stunned to speak (or even breathe), he gently grasped Joe’s elbow (“ Christ, so fragile; felt like it might snap if he wasn’t careful”) with the intention of putting some space between them. Cherubic, slumbering Lieb had other ideas, apparently, because the second David started to apply pressure, skinny little fingers were suddenly clutching his bicep and hauling David closer. Mary, Mother of Jesus , it took everything in him not to scream as the unconscious bane of his existence wrapped himself around David with all four of his sinewy limbs.

  He whipped his head to the side fearfully as sleeping Joe wedged his thigh between David’s with such a kittenish little sigh it made David’s face flush neon. Small mercies, all of the other men were slumbering, albeit restlessly. Upon second glance, actually, David was relieved to see he wasn’t the only one sharing a bunk. Heffron lay curled up small and sad on Chuck’s big, barrel chest, but there was something distinctly platonic about the pair somehow. Unlike the little wriggling motions that Joe was using to systematically ensure David’s early grave.

  He double, then triple checked that the slighter man was actually asleep and not fucking with David’s head in the most goddamned insane fashion imaginable as bony, calloused fingers knot themselves into his dog tags with a white-knuckled grip. This had to be a joke, or a hallucination. Maybe he’d been hit by some wayward shrapnel and he was actually bleeding out on the bank like that kraut.

  David couldn’t have imagined this even in his four-month stockpile of wet dreams, which Joe had increasingly intruded upon (read: starred in). In those, it was never this based in reality. Usually it was just snapshots: a long, arcing throat with rather specific scarring; the sharpest and deepest Cupid’s bow lips he’d ever seen wrapping themselves around an insult (amongst other things). Dark, bottomless eyes half lidded and digging all the way to David’s core. A scratchy, hissing drawl: “And whattaya gonna do about it, Web?”

  Actually feeling the faint press of those lips through the fabric of his t-shirt and those gorgeous, dark waves tickling the side of his throat made his head spin in a feverish haze. Not to mention the thin, surprisingly-muscular thigh that was occasionally flexing right up against David’s crotch. For the first time, he was thankful for the sharp stinging of his still-tender wound, as he was sure it was the only thing keeping his body from betraying him. Though, again, the downright coquettish way Liebgott was sighing in his ear was trying awful hard to overcome that hurdle. Blue eyes stared their own makeshift skylights into the slatted roof above their heads as David tried to freeze every muscle in his body completely. After the disaster of a patrol, he’d been pretty certain he wouldn’t be sleeping that night. But this little unconscious stunt of Joe’s had absolutely guaranteed that.

  David woke up the next morning half expecting rust coating the back of his throat as Joe shoved his bayonet down it, or perhaps to the sight of the tendons in those skinny arms flexing as he strung David up from the nearest tree. Instead, David woke up shivering in an empty bed feeling oddly lonely. For 24 years, he had woken up in a bed by himself, but this is the first time it had felt wrong.

  Carefully, he shifted himself into a sitting position and tried to shake the feeling of phantom knuckles brushing against his chest, and warm, moist air wetting his throat from lips that were no longer there. Christ, what was happening to him? Still feeling half asleep, he turned his head and was pinned in place by a bewildering sight:

"C'est bon, mon garçon, ça va. C'était un accident ... juste un accident."

  Had he not had such a distinctive, thick accent, David would’ve found it hard to believe that was Doc pressed so close to Heffron. Sleep-hazy eyes watched, transfixed, as cracked, pale lips pressed sweet french notions into the crown of Babe’s trembling, red-brown hair. Babe’s gangly, long-limbed body was curled up impressively small, with what appeared like all of his weight pressing down on Gene’s chest. The medic, for all of his scrawny stature, hardly seemed to mind having his back flattened to the mattress by his fellow paratrooper. Dark blue eyes shone with so much love, it rattled David to his core. Did the two of them not know David was still in here with them? Weren’t they terrified of being court marshalled, or worse? His skin tingled, feeling starved for the ghost of Liebgott’s skin on his, as his gaze tracked Roe’s fingers carding through Babe’s thin locks. The two men were so tightly pressed together from chest to toes that they melded into one being. And just when David felt like his reality couldn’t resemble more of a fever dream, something impossible happened.

“Regarde-moi, ange.” Doc rumbled in a low, sleep-scratchy voice before slowly moving one palm up to cup Babe’s chin. And then, as though it were nothing, suddenly they were kissing. And the way the duo kissed, searching and deep….that didn’t look like the first time they’d done that before. His cheeks flushed when a soft, sweet little moan slid out of those pressing lips-he wasn’t sure which. Okay, so now David was almost positive Doc hadn’t spotted his sleeping form across from Babe’s bunk. He decided to take pity on the guys; this was obviously a very private moment that David had no business seeing. Shifting his weight and clearing his throat, he sat up very gingerly so as not to startle the men too badly. In spite of his best efforts, he felt like a real bastard as he watched all the muscles in Babe’s back stiffen, the redhead ducking his face fearfully into the side of Gene’s neck. “For a grown man, Heffron was weirdly adorable.” David thought to himself absently, unable to connect the small, fragile boy with the sharpshooting killer on the battlefield.

  Gene slowly turned to regard David with a calm, unaffected aire that confused and frightened the groggy young man. The stony faced medic shushed Babe’s faint fretting while those strong, capable hands rubbed paths through fluffy, auburn hair and down the other man’s back. Those dark-washed denim eyes continued to pierce David’s gaze all the while, as though threatening David to open his big, stupid mouth. Of course, David intended to do no such thing (his nighttime activities from last night really gave him no grounds to) and he tried his best to silently convey that in his face. His mother had always told him “his face said everything for him”, so hopefully he’d be able to recall that skillset. Something must’ve clicked, because he watched the icy stare thaw and soften ever so slightly. And then, then: the smug bastard had the gall to wink at him. Well, that certainly went to show David just how threatening Doc Roe found him!

  Once he’d scrambled out of the house with still-wrinkled ODs and a truly wild look in his blue eyes, David had been kind of counting on Joe not being anywhere near him. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the slighter man brooding in some distant alleyway all by his lonesome, smoking like a coal train with that patented scowl on his face. ‘ Probably brainstorming how best to kill me slowly and painfully…’ He thought stormily, feeling his stomach twisting yet again. He wasn’t sure why the thought bothered him so much; it’s not like that would be out-of-character or even unlikely that Joe had not been doing that from the minute they’d met. But somehow...after what they’d shared last night… the thought stung something fierce. This was what was swirling through David’s head as he clomped through Haganeu, startled out of his thoughts by bumping roughly into Martin.

“Webster, you gotta be pullin’ my leg. After that shit you pulled the other day?” The shorter man looked-okay, well, he always looked pissed, but this was a special brand of vinegar that made him itch to immediately cry uncle.

“Aw, Christ, sir. I’m terribly sorry, honestly, sir. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going…”

“Clearly,” Johnny scoffed, but to David’s surprise, his tone softened as he mumbled, “Well, I’m guessing you probably didn’t get much sleep last night. I...I didn’t sleep a wink.”

  He blinked dumbly at Martin’s abrupt change of heart. Sympathetic words from virtually anybody (but especially Srg. Martin) were so unfamiliar to him that they almost didn’t register to him. Tears threatened to prickle ludicrously at what might’ve been the only show of kindness David had yet to receive since he’d been cleared to go back, and he shook them off so he could offer Martin a respectful nod.

“I mean, if I said yes, that’d mean I was disobeying Major Winter’s direct orders.” He smiled cheekily, also feeling a bit of a rush addressing Dick by his new title. Inside, he wriggled and preened like a puppy when Martin replied with a faint grin of his own. With a faux-exasperated huff, Johnny reached up and rustled David’s mop of wavy, bed-messy hair before moving past him with a shake of his head.

  The brief interaction made David feel a bit lighter, no longer feeling so weighed down by what he knew was coming: a complete and utter shitstorm. Just then, a nasally, california drawl spiked his eardrums; as if his thoughts had summoned the bastard!

“No, no, see, Bobby COULD get with any chick ‘e wanted to, but he’s a lil bitch!”

Oh goodie; Joe appeared to be in yet another scintillating conversation. David couldn’t quite make out Chuck’s reply, but he most definitely heard Joe’s:

“You daydrinkin’ or somethin’, Chuckie?! Iceman’s like, the most badass one! Cyclops is just posturing! He’s a goddamned nerd!”

  Okay, so maybe David was struck slightly that Liebgott even knew what the word ‘posturing’ meant. And that surprise must’ve registered in his face as he did his best to inch past the cluster of 2nd platoon boys, because Ramirez suddenly called out:

“Somethin’ wrong, Webster?” with a mean, little smirk that had Grant rolling his eyes. David had always appreciated how little Srg. Grant tolerated the rest of his platoon’s relentless pestering of David. Not enough to speak up on his behalf, of course. After all, David was pretty sure that Joe was his best friend aside from maybe Talbert.

Liebgott’s eyes slowly swung over to acknowledge his presence, and David flinched in preparation for the barrage of insults he was sure were heading his way. Both parties had stopped walking, everyone apart from David and Joe shifting in slight discomfort as the staredown continued.

“You look like shit, Harvard.” Joe offered finally before bodily knocking his shoulder with David’s. And this one was purposeful.

  The group marched on, gravel crunching beneath their feet in the silence while David stood frozen in the same spot. W-what? That was it? Joe wasn’t even going to-to acknowledge what they’d done?? No, fuck that, what JOE had done to HIM! It wasn’t exactly like David had crawled into Joe’s bunk and-and….

Oh.

 Well, it was kind of like that. But, still! He’d been more than willing to leave and sleep on the frigid basement flooring, but then Joe had started rubbing and sighing and had latched onto David’s arm! Yeah...held him captive...with his slumber-sweet breath and surprisingly petal-soft skin. Jesus Christ, what was he kidding himself? Truth was, they were both at fault here, but only one of them had done so consciously. Did Liebgott think he was some sort of perverted creep now? God, he really wished that Joe had at least made some mention as to his feelings on the situation. Perhaps if he could manage to get the stubborn guy alone.

  David saw his chances and took it after Dick had informed them that they wouldn’t have to do a second patrol that night, snagging Joe by that sharp, little elbow on his way out the door. He ignored the look of unfiltered disgust on Joe’s face for the time being, swallowing his nerve before he had a fucking heart attack.

“Joe, can we talk? Please?

  He pleaded softly, ignoring how Babe was openly staring at them both as he brushed past them. The tips of his ears and high planes of his cheeks flushed at the sudden reminder that Babe knew . What made it worse was Joe’s gaze tracking the color as it spread across David’s face; he seemed unaware that he was even doing it.

“Why should I listen to anything you have to say, Web?” The question came out choked up, and obviously not as vicious as intended.

  Rather than replying, he simply tugged on Joe’s arm and ushered him away from where Nixon and Winters were still idly watching the interaction. The pair shuffled into a nearby alleyway, and David bit his lip, struggling not to comment on how easily he was able to move Joe around. That undoubtedly would set him off, and cause Joe to storm off before they’d even had a chance to talk.

   Instead, he let go of Joe’s arm hastily, and shifted so that his weight was pressing along the brick wall opposite him. Something on Joe’s face shuttered for a half-second, but his expression smoothed over into what he probably thought looked like apathy. Again, David fought off a smile; Joe’s face was always like an open book, and the older man never seemed to not be smouldering over some little thing. Maybe he was going insane, but David had always found it weirdly cute. If he wanted to really ensure his death, he might’ve even gone ahead and referred to it as a pout. That’s what it was really; Liebgott was never not pouting .

“The fuck ‘r you smilin’ for?”

  Oops, guess he’d failed. He wiped the grin off bodily with his palm and tried affecting an air of seriousness. Clearing his throat, his sky blue eyes rolled heavenwards as he searched for the right phrasing:

“I wanted to...apologize, for my actions the other night. It was inappropriate of me-”

Joe prickled instantly: “Jesus- don’t you talk to me like I’m some skirt, Webster! I-you, it’s not like you took my innocence or-”

   He seemed to register the words he was saying and his mouth shut with an audible clack. And David watched in fascination as Joe Liebgott blushed like an embarrassed little boy, shuffling his feet and looking away from him. He’d always thought a healthy flush looked particularly fetching on pale skin, the rosy color bloomed oh so beautifully, in his opinion at least. He continued to watch in baffled silence as Joe began to babble to fill the quiet:

“Not that- I’m not- and you, you didn’t… we didn’t- Look, nothing happened! Okay?”

  His ears got much redder than the rest of his face, and David let himself think it freely now. Cute . It was fucking endearing, the way Joe continued to huff and puff, brown eyes fluttering around the dirty alley. He felt a surge of warmth in his chest, feeling perhaps a little gluttonous as he soaked in the way dark brown locks shone in the dimming sunlight. With Joe refusing to acknowledge David’s existence, he was free to admire the man to his heart's content, appreciative that he was here  in the flesh.

    A sharp, defined collarbone peeked out of Joe’s jacket where the hem had gone askew, and long, pretty fingers toyed with his dog tags subconsciously. His memory recalled how those fingers felt: not rough, like he’d expect of a man so used to heavy artillery, but soft as silk. David recognized, obviously, that Joe was plenty manly. He acted with far too much aggression and seemed to compulsively throw his weight around (not that he had much to speak of). But physically, there seemed to be a disconnect. Joseph Liebgott had been sculpted into a thin, delicate form that clashed harshly with his mean attitude and meaner words. Call a spade a spade, but Joe was pretty . Handsome, sure, but pretty was more accurate. Pretty evoked images of sculptures and artwork to David; something finely crafted and meant to be….

To be appreciated.

“Do you have any memory…? Of anything you did last night?” Anger quickly bled into concern across Liebgott’s delicate features, much to David’s confusion:

“Do? Shit, David, I...I didn’t do somethin’ stupid, did I? ‘S that what’s got you all upset?”

  Wait, what? Now Joe thought he’d-ugh- taken David’s innocence?!? Any fondness he had for the shorter faded into irritation. God, he could be thick sometimes! He fought the urge to shake Joe, less inclined to fall through with this now that he knew how easily he could push Joe around. Hypothetically, of course. Although…

“Wha- I’m not upset, Joe!”

“The fuck you’re not!”

“But, really, I’m not-”

“You’re shoutin’ in my face, Webster! Clearly, something’s got yer panties in a bunch!”

He could feel his face heating up as his anger built, ticking upwards the more they shouted at one another:

“My p- You know what? Fine, yes, I am upset! Because you refuse to talk to me about what happened!”

“NOTHIN’-”

“WE SHARED A FUCKING BED, JOE!”

  Joe surged forward anxiously and covered David’s mouth with his palm, and oh, touching was so much worse. In his haste, Joe’s body was pressing into his own from chest to thigh, and David tasted the acrid nicotine tang and salt of his fingers. As Joe hissed in a tense, barely-audible voice, their noses nearly brushed.

“Are you trying to get us both shot?? Shut the fuck up with that shit!”

He waited patiently until Joe finally removed his hand before saying: “So, you do acknowledge that something happened.”

  He practically felt Joe holding himself back from smacking him, but David didn’t back down. Once more leaning his head back against the bricks, he stuck out his chin pointedly and kept his lips pressed together. Quick, clever eyes took in the picture of defiance he made, and something shifted in Joe. They landed on his lips heavily, blatantly, and David felt the backs of his knees starting to sweat. A sly, wide smirk stretched across Joe’s full mouth that made David feel small somehow, but he couldn’t tell if he hated that as much as he ought to. They were already so close, but Joe shifted his weight so that both sides were pressing him back into the rough, dirty wall rather than just the one. He could only follow along helplessly as he watched Joe’s hand come up to cage him in on the sides of his head, and what the holy hell was going on??

“So, what if we did? Hm, David? Would that upset you, if I did remember?”

He scoffed but it sounded weak even to his own ears, “Yeah right, Lieb. You were asleep.”

Joe hummed, pressing impossibly closer, until he could feel just the barest scrape of chapped lips up against his own, near-black eyes boring holes into David that shone with a delicious mischievousness that had him shivering:

“Guess you’ll never know!” He said brightly, pulling away like he hadn’t pasted himself to David’s whole body with ease, and with a wink, he was gone.    

[almaasi]

on the subject of gishwhes (i just posted the 2016 item list for future reference)

this was item #126.

PHOTO. 126 POINTS. On a desolate, dusty prairie, a ranch hand rescues the local school marm from a runaway horse. Create a drawing of Misha & the Queen of England in the Wild West. (You pick who plays the school marm and who plays the ranch hand.)

it’s been nearly a year since i drew this, but i’ve been meaning to talk about the experience ever since, because this drawing damn near nearly killed me.

okay, actually, let me rephrase that: i nearly killed myself, but this drawing saved me.

story under the cut (warning: suicidal ideation)

here’s some backstory. i’ve been essentially bedbound for the best part of the last decade, doing nothing but mastering the art of Destiel fanfic and trying not to die. i’ve had on-off bouts of depression, but none as bad as during winter. (personally, the first gishwhes was my favourite as it occurred in summer for me, so i could actually appreciate it. this year i’ve been taking vitamin d tablets, it seems to help A LOT??? 10/10 do recommend.)

so, at the end of 2015, i crashed, horribly, dramatically. i was non-functional for pretty much a full year afterwards. i couldn’t write, i couldn’t read, i couldn’t hold a conversation without screaming at an eardrum-bursting frequency. i just lay in bed and watched youtube videos end-to-end (enter dan and phil into my life, but that’s another story).

after 9 years of ~mystery illness~ (i.e. “are you sure you’re not making it up for attention?”) i was finally diagnosed with celiac disease in january 2016. i changed my diet immediately, but it took a full year before i saw even the slightest bit of improvement.

gishwhes 2016 occurred at the end of july, at the peak (gulley?) of my depression and seasonal affective disorder. i signed up on a team with @bakasara, not knowing anyone else there, and unable to contact them properly since they were communicating using an app that required a cellphone number, and living in the middle of nowhere without cellphone signal, that wasn’t something i had.

so i was a shell of a creature, isolated, and wildly depressed. i picked one item from the list and dedicated every waking, breathing moment to making it good. all i wanted was for this thing to make it to the gishwhes hall of fame. it didn’t, but frankly i got something far more valuable.

around this time, i often got into this sort of... panic mode, whenever i heard my own voice. i’d separate from myself, internally, and get so frustrated that i was speaking, how dare i, what the fuck is wrong with you, shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up

and i’d wrap my hands around my neck and try and strangle myself, shut myself up, go away, stop existing

my family was always nearby (they were the ones talking to me when i flipped out) and they’d always rescue me from my own hands. i could feel bruises on my windpipe, i’d cough for ages after

but... i had melatonin tablets so i could sleep. i knew they were there, in a white bottle in my room, i wrote it in a fic once, i’d just sleep and not have to wake up, like that melanie martinez song i had on repeat

but i didn’t because of my family, because i didn’t want to upset them. i asked them a lot, questions about whether it would actually be easier if i wasn’t here, because they dedicate so much time and effort to keeping me alive, and i don’t give anything back. i’m a drain on resources and time and money, i’m keeping my mother from achieving any of her own goals because she constantly has to look after me

of course my mother and sister reassured me i was needed for some reason or another, though my dad didn’t get my underlying point and continued to remind me how useless i am

about 6 days in to the hunt, i left my room - probably to get food, i don’t remember - and i chanced upon my family watching tv without me. i just started pacing, ranting about something, i don’t know what, probably my anxiety about this drawing not being good enough, not being perfect, being the one thing i thought i could do and i still can’t do it.

but without interruption i just started screaming. like, banshee/woman-dying-in-a-horror-movie/cat-getting-run-over kind of scream. i fell to my knees and kept screaming for a full hour, my sister’s arms around me.

my dad went to bed, my mother watched something on her portable dvd player, and my sister kept holding me gently while i screamed, writhing on the floor in my pyjamas.

then she got me some food, got me to wash my face, and took me back to bed.

the next day was the final day i had to work on this drawing before the hunt ended. if i went to sleep, i’d miss the deadline to submit it. so i was like... you know what, it’s not perfect. the figures are stiff, there’s no life in their eyes, and the colours are all wrong. but god dammit, i’m not wasting what i’ve done.

so i spent 3 more hours on finishing touches, staying up well beyond a sensible hour for someone so exhausted. i added the birds, some depth to the sky, changed the colours up a bit, signed it - then sat back and realised it wasn’t as shitty as i thought.

no, it wasn’t what i had in mind. yes, i’d spent a full week on one item. it wasn’t as good as @euclase but who am i kidding, i’m not @euclase. i did good for me.

i submitted it to the gishwhes site having learned one thing, which i typed into that little box on the site that prompts a quote:

“I’ve been extremely sick for a very long time, and I poured the very last of my emotional, mental, and physical strength into this art piece. Through my own force of will, I learned that perfection should come secondary to Not Giving Up.”

those words weren’t just about the drawing. they were also about my life.

and dear god, i am so glad i chose to live through that week. two months later i recovered enough to start writing regularly again, and within the remaining two months of 2016, i posted The Moonlighter and the Magician, Raising Hell in a Hotel, Fight and Fool Around, and last but not least, Welcome All Winchesters - which i count as one of my strongest pieces.

of course, by january 2017 i was depressed again, but Mostly in Silence was written from that dark place. the fic, as well as the team free will self-care checklist i made to go with it, helped drag me out of the dark place. (combined with the fact i finally started to see minor improvements to my health after a full year eating a gluten-free, maize-free diet.)

it seems i’m one of those people who is best saved by creating things. expressing feelings in some abstract, outward form. if you ever find yourself in a position like mine, i have one piece of advice:

make something. make anything.

it doesn’t have to be good. it doesn’t have to be perfect. you don’t need to be @euclase. you just need to be.

and continue to be.

always keep fighting.

you are not alone.

~ Elmie ♥

p.s. i’m on patreon!! $1 would help me support myself financially!!

patreon.com/almaasi

[relatewithrelations]

Throw Back - An Honest Assessment

This past weekend I had to whip together a paper to complete my study abroad credit required for my major. Essentially they want Global Studies students to explain how studying abroad being required for our major helps us in the long run.

The main prompts were :

How and why did you choose your program location?

Did you also complete your Global Studies internship while you were studying abroad?

Please review your study abroad learning goals with me. To what extent did you manage to achieve these goals?

What were some strategies that you used to adjust to the culture of [study abroad host country]? Did you find that you had to adapt or develop new skills in your academic, personal, or professional life?

Do you have any advice for other students preparing to study abroad?

Now that you have returned, what do you want to do with the experiences you had while studying abroad? Has studying abroad changed your personal worldview

I realized while writing this paper, 2 hours after it was due, that there were two points missing. The first being honesty, because there’s a lot of things that I left out due to this being an academic paper. The second is that it was impersonal to my journey abroad. I realized that I often talk about “being gone” but the average person has no idea where I went. So for post 3 I guess it’s time to start over, and be honest. This is going to broken up into a summary of what I was doing abroad and then my most asked questions.

Summary

Between June 2018 through December 2018 I was gifted with the opportunity to work and study in the beautiful country of Spain. And when I say gifted, I mean I worked my actual butt off and had about 32 mental breakdowns to go to Spain. I find the idea that I have to grateful for some “divine right” of being given a visa kind of ridiculous. As I was the one that found the job and school program. I was also the one that filled out all the paper work, found my apartment, and acheived the required grades and work experience. But I guess I was lucky my plane didn’t crash and I made it there so I’m blessed but I digress. I spent the first 3 months in the hustle and bustle of Madrid which I followed with 4 months in the serenity of Sevilla.

As a quick over view, I had 5 main goals while working and, eventually, studying abroad:

Learning general business management skills

Gain experience in online marketing

Gain experience working with multicultural clients and leads

Develop an understanding of Spanish business culture and operational practices

Further develop language skills - specifically by working and living in Spanish

More or less I was able to achieve these goals by doing the simple thing of showing up. I went to work every day and put myself out there to meet new people. My boss allowed me to work on a case load basis. This meant my schedule depended on how efficiently I worked. This is the best type of work for me because I like to power through a few days with long hours and then have more time free. I’m, by nature, an efficient person and prefer to work smarter not harder. Along with that being able to work with a small start-up meant that I was very hands on within the company from day one. I was able to build and execute full campaigns and services while most interns got coffee. This made my experience unique and I enjoyed every minute. I had a lot of very different and amazing days at work. My most memorable day was when we got to visit the headquarters for Santander. If you’ve spent any time with me in person I’ve probably mentioned this HQ many times. It is a whole self sustaining ecosystem within the name of headquarters. There was a hotel for guests, a water park, soccer stadium, golf course, full conference center, and loads of self sustaining buildings for the workers. Honestly, I’m awestruck thinking about it.

After my whirlwind summer in Madrid I moved to Sevilla, which is in the southern-most autonomous community of Spain. Ill plop a map below to show where I lived and I’ll star other places I’ve been to or visited. Sevilla is the hottest city in Europe and did not let down on this claim. I would say nearly the entirety of the first month or so maintained a steady 100 degrees. This was one of the reasons I actually chose Sevilla when looking for a place to study. I was taking 3 classes at El Universidad de Pablo de Olavide and 2 courses within my program house at CEA. IT was pretty cool being able to go to school with actual Spaniards. My only complaint being I never actually interacted with them. The greatest downfall of this trip is that my university went to great lengths to alienate the Americans from other students. I don’t know why they did this, but had I known I would’ve gone to the other university option.

In reality, Sevilla wasn’t my favorite place on earth. It wasn’t anything against the city in general, because it was beautiful and the people were kind. I’m a city girl deep down and 200k people isn’t enough for me, especially after being in a place as big as Madrid beforehand. But the biggest experience in Sevilla was actually how often I left. In my time abroad I visited 9 other countries besides Spain and 7 other cities in Spain. I was bouncing around almost every single weekend of my time studying. It was tiring and by the end I was so sick that one of my first visits once back in the USA was Urgent Care. I know, poor me getting sick because I went to too many countries. It is something to consider though. The human body isn't made to be on a plane 3 out of 7 days a week for 4 months straight. I hit most of the continent and one country in Africa so I’m 4 continents down and 3 to go (I think I see Asia in my near future). I know I would’ve enjoyed Sevilla more had I given it the chance, but I didn’t have the time. There's also the chance had I done the reverse order of trips I would've liked Sevilla more. It also would've meant my entire experience would be different. I needed to be in the places I was at the times I was there because that’s what was written for me. Someday I’ll be back Sevilla, I promise. NODO is written on my heart forever.

Questions

How did I choose Spain?

It was pretty simple to be honest. I knew that I wanted to go to Europe because one of the biggest points to studying abroad is that ability to travel while abroad. By choosing Europe I would have that opportunity because traveling is cheap and every country is so different. I also knew that I wanted to study in a country where I could practice my second language skills. Once I decided Spain was where I wanted to go, I needed to find which city in Spain I wanted to go to. There were four options for Spain through my business program: Madrid, Barcelona, Sevilla, or Granada. I knew that I didn’t want to go to Madrid or Barcelona because I had already lived there at some point. This made the final two choices either Sevilla or Granada. Really the deciding factor was that Sevilla offered an excursion to Morocco. Having that extra excursion was so enticing I couldn’t miss the opportunity to say I was in Africa.

How did you adjust? / Weren’t you nervous about being alone?

These two question kind of tie hand in hand. I believe this because no matter how a person words these two questions what they’re trying to say is “I’m too scared to do this so why are you different?”. A few years ago I was listening to a Simon Sinek talk about performance under pressure (I’ll link it below). He made an interesting point to how every Olympic athlete is asked whether they were nervous. What's interesting is that they all say “no I’m excited”. The human’s reaction to the fear and excitement is exactly the same and it’s all in how you interpret them. I have been working ever since hearing that to tell myself that "no I’m excited" when I start to feel fear bubble up. But if that doesn’t work, I say ‘ok I’m scared’ and then I do it anyway. Everyone fears the unknown, but great adventurer embrace that and go anyway. I want to be a great adventurer so I venture on.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBF9xXhSFRc

Second, my lack of fear about moving far away is a direct correspondence to how my parents raised me. When my mom was 18 years old, she packed up all her stuff and moved 2,930 miles to Milwaukee, Wisconsin from Honduras. Then many summers later, my parents packed up all my stuff and shipped my brother and I 2930 miles back to Honduras. We weren’t raised to be afraid of not being home. Home is where I am. This mind set means I’m pretty much comfortable wherever my feet land. I know that if I am comfortable with myself, I will be safe in my environment. That is something I thank my parents for instilling in me everyday.

Now when it comes to adjusting, everyone handles it different. Most people in my program were very into the “I’m an American, and if you dont like it you can get out…oh wait…well yeehaw anyway”. That’s not my style. I try to completely immerse myself wherever I am. Even if it was for a weekend. I did have the advantage that I had already lived in Spain 2 years prior as an Au pair. I had a general idea of what everything was going to be like and was already used to the culture. But I had the MAJOR advantage of, for the first time in my life, I looked like the people I was surrounded by. I didn’t stick out as someone who was super different once I got over the different style choices. I mainly had to worry about adapting in my personal and professional life. The relationships in Spain between people are different, more personal, and it is very easy to know a lot about the people you surround yourself with. Even at work, I knew my superiors in a more informal life than I would ever know an American boss. Friends and family often live close to each other so it’s common to see them a few times a week as opposed to a few times a month. Personal space doesn’t exist in Spain. In both the literal fact that Spaniards are always touching each other. But also in the fact that they know a lot about the people they associate with. I had to work hard to break out of my shell in order to assimilate to their close knit society.

My second way of adjusting was that during my time in Madrid, I had 0 American friends. If I even heard an American accent I would turn the other way and walk out. It sounds harsh but it’s true. If you want to assimilate to a new society you can’t be by the norms of your own. My two closest friends spoke English fluently, but most of the other people in my life spoke English as a second language or not at all. You are forced to adjust when you aren’t given a choice. Advice my mom gave me once was, “go on lots of dates, but dont date anyone”. It sounds weird but that was super helpful. I’m not ashamed to admit I went on dates during my time abroad, and it was never with Americans. There is no better time to practice your second language than when you’re trying to impress someone. The most important part of a relationship is communication so I had to be on my toes. I was also able to see what dating culture was like in another country, which is super fascinating. Interacting with only Spaniards and a few other people from other European cultures also made me a better person. It helped me see how others viewed America and why. Many times I was able to dispel stereotypes or rumors, but sometimes I had to face the fact oh wait that is true. It’s not always fun, but I do know I’m more aware of my actions now because of it.

Finally, if you want to adjust somewhere new, do some research! I watched so many kids in my program struggle with simple things that could be solved by typing ‘Spain’ into google. I did some research before moving to Madrid and Sevilla about what the culture was like there. I tried to adjust myself to their eating style and life time tables prior to moving. It's the smallest things that make the biggest impact. Already adjusting to things like eating at 10pm meant that it was easier for me to meet people right away.

What advice do I have?

I get asked a lot if I have advice for people interested in traveling or studying abroad. It’s a weird question because I definitely do, but it’s not like you’re actually going to listen. My biggest advice is that if you’re going to do anything in life be all in. Don’t go abroad to hang out with American’s every day and do everything you do in the USA, that’s a waste of your time and money. It’s also disrespectful to the people you’re living around. I will never understand the people that never even tried to make Spanish friends or do anything within Spanish culture. Why did you even come?

My second piece of advice is fall in love. No, I don’t mean with your soulmate and get married type of fall in love. I mean fall in love with where you are and where you live. Fall in love with the nuances of everything surrounding you. Fall in love with who you were yesterday, who you are now, and who you will be tomorrow. Fall in love with the friends that come into your life and why they’re important. Fall in love with the fact you aren't home. Fall in love with fear. If you want a great experience you have to strive for it. You have to know that not every day is going to be sunshine and rainbows and love that.

Finally, be knowledgable. The saying goes “no one likes a know-it-all”, but I’m suspicious of how many people enjoy incompetence too much. Being knowledgable about something isn’t lame or weird. It’s actually helpful and I hate this stigma of “oh I’ll wing it”. You waste a lot of time and energy doing that when simple preparation could’ve been done. The amount of times I seemed like a PhD historian because I had bothered to look up what a castle was or where a good place to eat was is unbelievable. I’m not crazy smart, and I dont have a photographic memory. I have access to a smartphone and use it to be smart. Shocking. So be intelligent. Look things up. Know what’s going on even if it’s the basics. I rather be a know it all that understands my surroundings than someone who has to rely on others. You need to learn how to survive on your own if you want to be an adult. Google is an amazing service you can use. Be open to learning new thing and meeting new people. It’s okay to think something is better somewhere else besides the usa. It doesn’t make you unpatriotic, it actually makes you a better citizen.

Enjoy this pic of my amazing roommates: 

[marcusssanderson]

10 Important methods for managing through traumatic injury

It was the longest night of my life — that night while I was trying to recover from injury. I lay in the hospital bed, incapacitated, motionless, and sweating profusely. It was five nights after a terrible road cycling accident rendered me a quadriplegic.

My mind was jumbled with orbiting thoughts of despair, anxiety, sadness, and anger. I knew my life was at a crossroads. Which way was I going to go? Surrender and give in? Or fight the good fight and give it everything I had?

Here’s how I was able to manage and recover through traumatic injury.

Methods for managing through traumatic injury

1.) Make a choice.

Nobody chooses to suffer a catastrophic injury. Nobody chooses to be afflicted with some terrible illness or disease. But we can choose how we respond to such unexpected events. You can make the choice to aspire, persevere, and prevail. Do not look at the rear view mirror and second-guess your choice, or wonder if you should turn around.

Make the choice to fight the good fight and do whatever it takes, for as long as it takes. Without choice, there is no way forward. You are simply going in circles. You can choose – but choice without action will leave you in the same place — stalled.

  2.) Apply effort.

It will not be easy. Whatever may be ailing you will require action on your part. You have to want it — whatever that choice is — and be willing to push through the forces that will try to hold you back. Be unwavering. Commit to working on it every day with faith that you’ll achieve success after all your effort.

I remember in those early days post injury, I had a brief conversation with my physician. He said to me, “Jamie, get independent.” Those are two simple yet incredibly powerful words: get independent.

  3.) Find your focus.

For the last decade since the injury, those words have guided every step of my recovery. I made it a point to do everything in my power not to be enabled by anyone or anything. I made it my focus to attempt to do things on my own, as frustrating and painstakingly slow as it was.

People always wanted to offer help, but I would just thank them and say that I need to figure out how to do things on my own. I was maniacal in those initial months post-injury to do everything possible with medical interventions of one kind or another.

There were many times I would do six, 10, sometimes 12 appointments a week. This included physical and occupational therapy, pool therapy, acupuncture, reflexology, massage, and so much more. I was under the wrong notion that the bulk of recovery occurs in the first six months post-injury and tapers after 1-2 years. I felt this tremendous sense of urgency and didn’t allow myself to rest.

  4.) Pace yourself.

My occupational therapist had said to me early on that there were four things I need to remember if I want to recover from traumatic injury: plan, prepare, prioritize, and pace myself. The most important of them was pacing. I didn’t listen, at least not initially. My body was screaming at me to rest, especially in the first year when I was still in a state of spinal shock.

My failure to pace and rest when needed caused a serious “second” crash. I learned a hard lesson. Going through trauma of this magnitude turned my life upside down. Everything was shattered from a professional, familial, marital, relational, financial, recreational, and spiritual perspective.

My life crumbled. I thought I had the mental fortitude to deal with everything on my plate. But I quickly learned after the “second” crash that I desperately need mental health counseling.

  5.) Seek mental health intervention.

It took me a year post-injury before I finally did, which, in retrospect, was a monumental mistake. It nearly cost me my life. I could have easily committed suicide. Once I did engage with a skilled therapist, I continued with her for the next five years.

Initially reluctant and impatient, I slowly adjusted to the process. I can say that I have been able to successfully process feelings and emotions deep down in my psyche. I used to think this was a sign of weakness – but it’s not. In fact, it’s a sign of strength; a tacit acknowledgment that it’s best not to go through the process alone.

From the early days when I was in the hospital, I remember just trying to get my forefinger to touch my thumb. Seems pretty pedestrian – except when you are neurologically impaired. My level of injury from the spinal cord injury was C7, which meant that the paralysis started at my mid abdomen and extended all the way down to my toes. It affected all of my fingers.

Working tirelessly just to get the two to touch took weeks. Frustratingly slow, but, eventually, I was able to do it. That little benign, innocuous goal became a little victory. This put in motion a parade of little goals, which turned into little victories. Over time, the goals and victories became cumulative. They grew into bigger goals and victories.

  6.) Have goals, constantly.

The goals can be of any shape and size you want, but start off modestly. Keep working on them until you can check the boxes and move on to your next set of goals. Think ahead of what you want to set yourself for. Do whatever it takes to accomplish them.

The victories will come. They will give you the confidence to take on your next targets. In time, you will be amazed at what you are able to do. I had heard of the words ‘mindfulness’ and ‘visualization’, but didn’t understand what they meant or what they could do for me. Through friends and books, I gained a better understanding of them, especially visualization.

I would often visualize, for example, this beam of light emanating from the heavens, shining brightly and aimed at the lesion in my central cord. I pictured it like a laser beam, dissipating the damage like the morning sun burning off morning clouds.

A decade later, I still hold on to this vision – particularly in my quiet moments, or when I’m stretching after exercise.

  7.) Visualize.

I’ve used visualization coupled with mindfulness to make internal movies of things I want to accomplish. I think of myself as a moviemaker, the author, scriptwriter, editor, and publisher of my own movies.

Back then, I would visualize what accomplishing those goals would look like. I’d choreograph them in great detail and play them over and over in my mind until the movie could play itself without any conscious prompting. It’s been vital in allowing me to make the extraordinary recovery I have achieved since 2007.

I got dealt a bad hand in this traumatic injury – and I knew I wasn’t alone. Most people are either dealing with something themselves or know someone who is. I don’t have monopoly on misery. I am not a victim. I don’t feel sorry for myself that something bad happened.

This doesn’t mean there aren’t many more good hands to play. Nobody ever promised life would be fair. For most of us, that has been the case.

  8.) Make the best of it.

It would be easy to think about all the things I can’t do anymore. So many things used to bring me joy, fulfillment, and identity. I have struggled for years trying to figure out my new purpose. Why am I still here? What am I supposed to do?

I understand now what my mother-in-law, Muriel, would often say after she was faced with the consequences of an auto accident that caused a traumatic brain injury to her second husband. She would frequently tell me, “Jamie, I make the best of it.” I understand now what she meant.

I’m dedicating myself to doing something I did very little of in my early and mid-adult years. That is to give back. I remember many years ago when I was seeing a mental health therapist unrelated to this injury. She asked me a number of deeply personal questions. My answers kept skirting around her questions and she finally quipped, “Jamie, you’re like a greased pig. I can’t seem to nudge you to speak from your heart.”

She then asked me, “Do you know what it’s like to be vulnerable?” I didn’t even know what the word meant. Or I had built up such an external armor that wouldn’t allow me to feel that way.

  9.) Be vulnerable.

When faced with any kind of traumatic injury, it can be easy to want to hide from others. Being infirmed can be shameful and embarrassing. It can even make us to want to be reclusive. I believe that if we can shed that veneer and allow ourselves to be real, raw, authentic and even vulnerable, we can draw people closer to us.

Being engaged and connected with others can be as important as taking medicines, doing therapies, or following doctors’ orders. After I suffered that terrible “second” crash, I became fearful. I was afraid of doing too much that might, in any way, set myself back and negate all that hard-fought progress.

I was cautious about everything – working, driving, and exercising. Fear is helpful up to a point. It can guard us against doing things that could be too risky or harmful. Beyond that, fear can also become an impediment: a roadblock that can get in the way of making meaningful progress.

  10.) Trust yourself.

After three years of intensive physical, occupational, and pool therapy, it was suggested that I join a gym and continue rehab on my own. I did join a club I belonged to years before and was reacquainted with a friend who was also very knowledgeable about the weight room.

He took me under his wing and trained with me. In the early days of working out together, I said to him: “Sam, when I tell you enough is enough, enough is enough!” He replied, “Jamie, you need to learn to trust yourself!” He was right. Fear was in the way of me making further progress in my recovery. His words helped removed that significant barrier.

The work that Sam and I did together in the ensuing years changed everything about my recovery. It helped defy the odds in spinal cord injury recovery. After several years, I have been able to ride a road bicycle and get on skis again – all without assistance.

Incorporating these 10 methods can help you recover from traumatic injury and get your life back together. You just have to realize that it starts with a choice.

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