#damn synonyme clusters

[alexandraisyes]

This is a flag I found for ASPD. There's an entire archive of support flags for people with different kinds of Cluster B Disorders. I just really like this version.

Antisocial Personality Disorder can be disabling and is considered a social disability. Depending on the psychologist it’s also considered an emotional disability like ADHD or Bipolar.

This may not make sense at a glance, but there’s psychologically found logic behind this.

People with ASPD have severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Chronic Depressive Disorder, and General Anxiety Disorder GAD).

The disorder also tends to be comorbid with Bipolar Disorder, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Depersonalization-Derealization Disorder (DDD), as well as some psychotic disorders like Brief Psychosis Disorder and Schizophrenia. although these last two aren't as common.

There's also a chance for people with ASPD to have overlapping traits from other Cluster-B Disorders (NPD, BPD, HPD). And many people with ASPD struggle with impulse disorders. Common impulse disorders related to ASPD are as follows:

Intermittent Explosive Disorder (IED): Characterized by recurrent outbursts of verbal or physical aggression that are disproportionate to the provocation.

Kleptomania: A recurrent urge to steal items that are not needed for personal use or for their monetary value.

Pyromania: An impulse control disorder characterized by recurrent and deliberate fire-setting behavior.

Pathological Gambling: Persistent and recurrent problematic gambling behavior that leads to significant distress or impairment.

Trichotillomania (Hair-Pulling Disorder): An irresistible urge to pull out one's own hair, resulting in noticeable hair loss.

Many people with ASPD also struggle with addiction and may be fighting addictions to drugs, alcohol, sex, shopping, binge eating, and social media because these are quick endorphin fixes that help us feel something due to the inherent nature of ASPD to be numb almost 24/7.

It's extremely rare for someone with ASPD to get disability aid. Which probably sounds ridiculous, when you look at this massive list of issues. A large part of it is our society. People tend to see someone who has a label that is synonymous with Sociopath and Psychopath (there's a difference between the two) and immediately want them in jail. And it doesn't matter how long they've known that person, or what their relationship is. (I got dumped last year when my ex found out I have ASPD and almost disowned during Christmas when I told my dad. The only reason I haven't been being that he thinks it's a demonic issue that can be "cured with prayer".)

On top of that, our psychology system isn't built to handle someone with a personality disorder like ASPD (or even NPD). I get told a lot "You're really self-aware." Which is basically them saying they aren't going to help you. Of course I'm self-aware if I'm going into the therapist's office for advice (at the least) and actual help (would be great), but I get turned away because if I'm "self-aware", so I should be able to figure it out. This isn't an issue that pertains directly to ASPD, it's also one that affects every disorder that's hard for a neurotypical to understand.

This is more personal. Feel free to read this in a mildly irritated, but not very much, tone of voice. Preferably a tired scholar from Skyrim, that'll make my day.

I cannot function in today's society. I can't hold down a job, and I've tried time and time again. I get a few months in and I hit a wall and my mental health goes to shit. I had to quit my last job for my physical safety because I got bored with just life in general, to the point I was seriously considering sticking my arm in a fry vat.

I haven't even managed to get a proper diagnosis because I don't have health insurance, and I have so many false disorders on my medical diagnosis sheet from my narcissistic father bullying my long-term therapist into giving me damn near every disorder except for ADHD and Conduct Disorder (I was below the age of 18, but it would have helped me in the here and now with securing the diagnosis I need for medical reasons.) Growing up several doctors I worked with wanted to get me set up for an ASPD diagnosis and my father told them no. And because of where I lived I had no say in it, and even if I did my father was abusive, so goodbye to ever speaking up for myself.

On top of that, I'm a woman. There's a severe gender bias in ASPD, as well as the fact that women with ASPD are reportedly less likely to be physically aggressive and more likely to be mentally aggressive, so our symptoms show up slightly differently than the stereotype. And don't even get me started on the stereotypes. Plus women are more likely to be studied for comorbid disorders than psychologists even considering ASPD. This is the same shit autistic women struggled with.

There's a massive underreporting in the female ASPD populace because of this, and a lot more masking going on because everything gets chalked up to "she's just a bitch" or "hormones". There's also just not enough research done on females with ASPD to understand how it may be different from a male with ASPD.

I'm tired. I've been fighting for a year to get people to recognize me as an individual who deals with ASPD. Every time I run into threats of being abandoned (which is horrible, considering I was abused and then abandoned by my biological mom, then put in foster care for the next 4 years), or the road block of "You're a woman. Are you sure you don't have BPD? That's the female disorder." Or just getting tired of the uphill slope. I only have so much stamina, and sure I have a lot of spite for the world, but eventually that's going to run out too. And then I'll probably kill myself.

The suicide rate in general is less than 2%.

The suicide rate for people with ASPD is 23%.

[shinelikethunder]

it'd be interesting to see a version of that Beloathed Fanfic Terminology poll that skips all the general clumsy-writing foibles and focuses on shibboleths specific to fic culture (esp LJ/AO3 "house style"). blown pupils. toeing off shoes. italicized "oh." huffing a laugh. "fisted" as a synonym for "grabbed," often in contexts where The Author Should Damn Well Know That Raises Awkward Disambiguation Issues. entire clusters of statistically-improbable dialogue tags that i can't think up examples of offhand, but would absolutely clock if i saw them in the wild. scent X, scent Y, and something uniquely him. fill in your own; i'm sure there are tons more.

some of them i find kinda charming, and most of the ones above don't really bother me except that they sometimes ring a bit cliché, and/or are so jarringly fanfic-specific that they can interfere with a narrative voice that's less so. but my stupid-ass hill to die on is that "blown pupils" drives me NUTS. I Have Never Fucking Noticed Someone's Eyes Doing That, let alone doing that from being turned on. let alone so dramatically as to be understood shorthand for "turned on," rather than "concussed" or "on the way back from the ophthalmologist's office" or "on So Many Drugs" or "having a fucking stroke." and if i - with an existing pet peeve about this phrase in fanfic - have never taken time out of a makeout session to note the relative pupil dilation of the person i'm sucking face with, i guaran-fuckin'-tee you that Emotional Constipation McManlyMan from your slash fics would not fucking say that even in internal narration, and definitely would not have that exact wording on hand as a stock turn of phrase. come the fuck on.

[art-of-mathematics]

Hello! I was wondering what textbooks you would recommend for someone looking to get into mathematical proofs and introductory physics. I don't have physics in my courses this year so any notes would be helpful. Thanks!

Hello there!

I am glad you approached my ask box (or me).

Unfortunately I may not have the answers you might be searching, but I found Keith Devlin's book Introduction to Mathematical Thinking helpful as an intro. (It's neither a textbook nor is it exactly about mathematical proofs.)

Do my fellow math peers here know some good textbooks and want to share? Please feel free to reblog with some infos and references. (I would like to know some good books about mathematical proofs as well.)

As for physics I consider the Feynman lectures merely well-written.

[Caltech has uploaded the Feynman lectures as digital format/website:]

Another source I enjoy is Hyperphysics. [... although it is not a textbook either, but a good website]

It's a very neat and very basic html website with many good javascript boxes to directly play with some equations, as well as it contains well-summarized information and an overall good visualization and explanation of the concepts.

The mindmaps with topics (and sub-topics) are clickable:

Sub-topics are chunked into well-summarized: boxes:

And the plain/simple javascript forms are helpful for getting a quick intuitive feeling for the concepts when playing around:

(It helps me to make it compatible with my imagination. I don't know if other people might find this helpful as well.)

I consider this website merely neurodivergent-friendly, as it's well-summarized, well-structured, well-visualized, chunked, minimalist and quick-to-the-point, while also using very basic design, which makes it quick to load as well as more minimalist to look at - meaning less distraction and more focus for the depicted topics/concepts.

And you have an index window on the side which you can close:

[soft--dragon]

Do you take headcanons? (specifically lee!Wilbur, but I'm not picky)

-🌟

Hello Star Anon!! Nice to see you :D and yes I absolutely have headcannons for Mr Soot

He's a squirmer when being tickled even if he asks for it, this boy cannot hold still for the life of him and it's really endearing

His tickle laugh is a bit different then his normal one. His usual laugh is loud and a bit hysteric, his tickle laugh is just an endless stream of honey sweet giggles pouring out of his mouth

He blushes quite easily, especially to teasing. Baby talk works wonders on him, it'll make him an incoherent, stuttering mess, calling him cute, endearing, adorable and every other synonym relating to that makes him short circuit. It's the most effective way to make him go red

He can say the word 'tickle' no problem usually but when he's flustered and giggling it's more difficult to handle then Tommy on caffeine

His worst spots are his hips, knees and lower ribs in my humble opinion, something about squeezing the clusters of ticklish little nerves around those sets of bones throws him into fits of hysteric cackles

He's one hundred percent someone to do that "no no no no" thing when someone approaches him flexing their fingers, he'll run but that only makes him more giddy/giggly because he knows there's no escape and he's gonna get tickled one way or another

When he gets into a lee mood he's either a sweet lil baby wanting some tickles or a straight up little shit. There's no in-between. He's either gonna be cute, or a provoking demon until he gets what he wants. His lers have learned which is which and their styles of tickling change with his mood. Soft boy gets soft tickles and brat boy gets wrecked.

Raspberries and nibbles destroy him, if you're gonna use those methods only do it for a short while or you're gonna end up with a Ghostbur on your hands

His hips are the absolute worst to get nibbles or raspberries because they're so damn sensitive that the ler just lowering their head to that area makes him start begging for another spot, anywhere else "You wanted to get wrecked Wilbur, so you're gonna get wrecked." "P-Plehehehease I'm too t-tick- I cahahahan't stahahand ihihit thehehere-" "Awww too flustered to even say tickle Wil?" "Nohohohohohoho-"

He isn't as ticklish on his feet but being tickled there flusters him so much (speaking from experience here) and it's a really good way to break him if he's being stubborn :3

Belly isn't one of the top three for him but being tickled there still makes him cackle. Especially when you just trace the rim of his bellybutton but never go into it. He's lying there, losing his mind and trying to get the ler to finally just dip their finger in but they keep it just at the outside and Wilbur can't stand the anticipation

His neck is his melt spot and is primarily used for soft or comfort tickles. He just curls up like a cat (if he could purr he would) and just giggles in bliss in the arms of his ler loving every second of it

Back tickles are also a prime choice for soft tickling, just gently scratching nails slowly down his spine causes him to become one with the couch and just giggle freely, it's incredibly endearing to see

Tommy, Techno, Phil, and Niki are his go to lers, they all enjoy tickling their boy and Wilbur loves it just as much. They all have different styles as well so if he's wanting something specific he has a few choices of who to ask it from. Niki is probably the best at soft tickles while Techno and Phil are great at both, and Tommy is the champion of rough tickles after his endless tickle fights with Tubbo and Wilbur. Tommy can go soft if Wilbur asks for it, and it's somehow more sweet because the boy genuinely tries to be soothing with it. (Wilbur definitely did not almost cry when Tommy asked him if he was comfortable and content only a few minutes into the tickles... definitely didn't)

Aftercare is a must with this guy, he needs his cuddles after being tickled or he'll get pouty. He usually falls asleep in the ler's arms if he feels safe (he always does if it's a ler of his choice)

[wormworker]

also i am so fucking sorry to everyone with cluster b disorders who have to see things like, for example,

narcissists getting stereotyped & demonized, & the word "narcissistic" being interchanged with "abusive" every damn day. OCD being used as an adjective. psychotic being used as a synonym for "violent."

[swampgallows]

1 and / or 2 from the new years ask ? Somebody already asked 3 so that's be the Music Trilogy

1. Song of the year? i think there are a couple of different songs that encapsulate different parts of this year for me. tldr is uhh trance, eurodance, mcelroy podcasts, young scrolls, and oingo boingo

early this year when i was in and out of the hospital and was still on my boingo kick from last autumn, but in my low energy and awful mood Private Life of 2019 had given way to a yearning for tenderness and healing with Stay. little did i know all the boingoloids would suddenly start empathizing with the plight of my Private Life come quarantine...

when lockdown happened i was listening to podcasts mostly (the McElroy podcast Wonderful is synonymous with Nazjatar for me now) but also a lot of trance and eurodance compilations, since they were pretty chill. i dont have a lot of memory of this time period truthfully. even my jukebox tag from this time is pretty sparse of anything super evocative.

song of the summer is definitely Chris C — A Drop of the Hard Stuff. the link is to the less fun remix (imo) but the original mix isnt uploaded anywhere. you can hear it at the end of my set from warstomp though :) (~50 min). farming mithril in felwood for all the fireworks/cluster launcher supplies for Warstomp also brings Mind of Man to mind. lots of eurodance and dark trance while farming too

the icecrown prepatch is defined by James Brown is Dead + (HAZARD remix)/James Brown is Still Alive/James’ Dad is Brown and Papa’s Got A Brand New Pigbag, all due to campin out for Bronjahm’s 34 slot Mint Condition Bag.  2. Album of the year?

Saint Jiub EP probably just for how damn much we listen to it haha. i dont really listen to traditional albums anyway; even all the boingo ive listened to has been pretty evenly split across all their albums (all but Boingo 94 anyway lol)

this is one of those times where spotify would be handy lmfao i have trouble keepin track of what i listen to and how often. memories remind me of songs more than songs remind me of memories i think

[afif-am]

Bulan Ramadan atau Bulan Bazar Ramadan?

Hi fellow humans. So recently i've seen a lot of tweets that sounded like these:

"omg bazaar ramadhan are canceled! damn bazaar ramadan is the best part of ramadhan kot!"

"what am i going to eat omg, bazaar ramadan are canceled!" sad face

"Puasa without bazaar ramadan is another level of pain."

Those tweets show how synonymous the bazaar culture with the month of Ramadan in Malaysia. It looks like a small set of data sample and maybe some of them (mostly privileged people) are just joking around but i think its something worth looking into.

When you say that the best part of a month full of forgiveness and blessings is the place where you can buy your favorite kambing bakar or roti john1, there's clearly something wrong with how you or we see Ramadan.

At times when the whole nation is fighting with a global pandemic, being able to eat your favourite kuih or drink your beloved ABC should be the least of your worries when there are people out there dying of a disease or putting themselves at the risk of it.

Bazaar Ramadan is the perfect spreading place for a disease such as COVID-19 to spread. Thousands of people interacting with each other. You don't need to be an epidemiologist2 or a virologist3 to see this through.

Even though in the slightest of chance that we could lower our daily cases drastically, everyone knows that its impossible for the government to permit people to start selling in the usual method. Even if the goverment put some restrictions or a degree of control, its not possible and the risk is too big.

Remember, the virus only needs one person to be infected and once that happened, a nuclear-like reaction will happen and we would start having new clusters and that will certainly put a strain to the already burdened health care workers and then we would need to do pkp/lockdowns again that could extend till next year. Yikes, right?

"But...but..afif..the economy?? dan pendapatan peniaga?"

Aku pasti pihak kerajaan akan mengambil inisiatif ataupun menyediakan platform untuk membolehkan peniaga-peniaga menjalankan perniagaan dalam kaedah alternatif.4

Konsep e-bazar pun kita dah nampak banyak muncul di FB. Walaupun sambutannya mungkin tidak sehangat (atau lebih hangat) bazar Ramadan biasa tapi aku rasa bolehlah menampung sedikit sebanyak keperluan peniaga. Aku pasti kerajaan juga akan cari cara lain untuk membantu peniaga. Yang pentingnya kesihatan dan keselamatan.

Apabila beratus-ratus nyawa dah melayang (kalau kita degil), barulah kita sedar yang ekonomi negara pada tahap kemuncak sekalipun tak mampu nak kembalikan semula walau satu jiwa yang telah pergi. Health over everything.

Negeri-negeri seperti Melaka, Negeri Sembilan, Terengganu, Selangor, Kedah dan Sarawak dah pun mengambil keputusan untuk membatalkan bazar Ramadan di negeri masing-masing.4

Jujur, aku juga suka bazar Ramadan. Siapa tak suka makan kan. But for once, maybe we could really learn something that we should have all along, and that is humility and simplicity especially in our iftar.

Kita semua tahu betapa banyak pembaziran berlaku sewaktu bulan Ramadan dan khususnya disebabkan oleh bazar Ramadan. Dalam satu artikel MyMetro pada tahun 2019, Bekas Menteri di Jabatan Perdana Menteri, Datuk Seri Dr Mujahid Yusof Rawa pernah berkata,

“Menurut laporan Institut Penyelidikan dan Kemajuan Pertanian Malaysia (MARDI), rakyat negara ini membuang 15,000 tan metrik makanan sehari dan 3,000 tan metrik daripadanya adalah makanan yang masih elok dan tidak sepatutnya dibuang. Bahan sisa buangan itu meningkat 15 hingga 20 peratus pada Ramadan."5

Satu tamparan besar buat kita umat Islam, khususnya di Malaysia. We keep repeating to ourselves and the non-muslims that the month of Ramadhan is the month of humility, self-discipline, self-control, and sacrifice. But instead...the opposite happened? It defeats the ultimate purpose of Ramadhan; to attain a higher status of taqwa.

Jelas kita perlu kaji semula bagaimana kita berpuasa. Sama ada kita menahan diri semata-mata atau kita benar-benar mendidik diri. Kita tahan segala lapar dahaga nafsu apa semua sebelum berbuka kemudian bila waktu berbuka kita melantak segala macam makanan yang kita nak sampai membazir. Jadi...apa yang kita dapat dengan puasa kita?

Dalam sebuah hadith yang diriwayatkan oleh Abu Hurairah RA, bahawa Rasulullah SAW bersabda:

رُبَّ صَائِمٍ لَيْسَ لَهُ مِنْ صِيَامِهِ إِلَّا الْجُوعُ، وَرُبَّ قَائِمٍ لَيْسَ لَهُ مِنْ قِيَامِهِ إِلَّا السَّهَرُ

Maksudnya: “Boleh jadi orang yang berpuasa itu tidak mendapat apa-apa daripada puasanya melainkan lapar dan boleh jadi orang yang berqiyam itu tidak mendapat apa-apa daripada qiyamnya melainkan hanya berjaga malam”. [Riwayat Ibnu Majah, no. Hadith 1690] [Syeikh Syu’aib menilai hadith ini sebagai sahih dan sanadnya juga baik].67

Yang menulis ini pun tak kurang cacat cela juga dalam puasanya. Jadi, sama-sama kita muhasabah semula puasa kita selama ni dan bertekad untuk perbaiki puasa dan aktiviti Ramadan kita yang mendatang. Moga-moga Allah mengizinkan kita untuk sampai ke bulan Ramadan yang akan datang dan selama mana kita masih hidup.

Roti John: Sejenis roti yang disalut dengan telur, bawang dan lain-lain bahan. Intinya sama ada ayam atau daging. Sangat sinonim dengan bulan puasa. Tak, bukan kepunyaan mana-mana John. Kelihatannya tidak ada John yang mematenkan nama roti tersebut. ↩︎

Epidemiologist: Ahli epidemiologi. Pengkaji perkaitan berbagai-bagai faktor yang menentukan kekerapan dan keleluasan penyakit di dalam sesuatu komuniti. http://prpm.dbp.gov.my/Cari1?keyword=epidemiologi&d=28648LIHATSINI ↩︎

Virologist: Ahli virologi. Pengkaji virus dan penyakit-­penyakit yg disebabkan virus. http://prpm.dbp.gov.my/Cari1?keyword=virologi&d=28648LIHATSINI ↩︎

Artikel Sinar Harian berkenaan pembatalan bazar Ramadan di negeri-negeri tertentu. https://www.sinarharian.com.my/article/77063/KHAS/Koronavirus/Batal-bazar-Ramadan-langkah-terbaik-bendung-Covid-19 ↩︎ ↩︎

Artikel MyMetro berkenaan pembaziran pada bulan Ramadan. https://www.hmetro.com.my/mutakhir/2019/04/450076/ramadan-tanpa-pembaziran ↩︎

Rujukan hadis dari Sunan Ibn Majah. https://sunnah.com/urn/1270930 ↩︎

Artikel Irsyad Al-Hadith dari Laman Web Rasmi Mufti Wilayah Persekutuan berkenaan "Orang yang Berpuasa dan Berqiyam yang Sia-sia." https://muftiwp.gov.my/artikel/irsyad-al-hadith/1082-irsyad-al-hadith-siri-ke-93-orang-yang-berpuasa-dan-berqiyam-yang-sia-sia ↩︎

[gone-to-fight-the-fairies]

The Thing Between Them Part 7

Series Summary: After watching 13x17, this is how I felt things would’ve occurred if Gabriel had left the reader all those years ago when he’d “died” and current day Ketch is trying to win her affection, but realizes she’s still heartbroken over Gabriel. 

Chapter Summary: To reach the reader, Gabriel goes against Castiel and the Winchesters to try and open a rift. Meanwhile, Ketch and the reader grow closer in the AU as the arrive at Dayton camp.

A/N: I’ve done some tweaking with 13x21, to accommodate how Gabriel would try to get through the rift for Y/N rather than just helping the Winchesters. Part 8 out tomorrow in the spirit of The Thing Between Them Weekend.

Pairing: Gabriel x Reader, Arthur Ketch x Reader

Warnings: swears, mild/brief gore

Word Count: 1860

Series Masterlist

~And don’t forget to comment. It keeps the story going!

"The final ingredient." Gabriel presented the tiny vile of grace, strutting into the library where Rowena, Castiel, and the Winchesters waited. The archangel beamed proudly, placing the glowing light center of the library table. "A fresh serving of archangel grace." 

Rowena, preparing the spell across the table, extracted the vile, peering quizzically at the little light encased within her fingers. Her fierce eyes glanced up at the angel with a questionable appearance.

"Chop chop," Gabriel urged her. "My not-so damsel in distress awaits."

"Damsel?" Rowena's accent purred, her eyes rolling towards Sam. "You told me he was eager, but there's a girl in the picture?"

"Like I said, chop, chop," Gabriel's tone firmed, growing impatient at her hesitation. 

Rowena's eyes snapped back toward Gabriel, her face twisting. "This what you call a serving?” She held the vial towards the angel, to see what she meant. “Oh, that poor girl." She mocked. 

"That is the jet fuel of divine emissions. It'll be more than enough to get the job done."

Rowena glanced at the boys. They nodded firmly and thus she went into motion to create the spell to open a new rift. One by one, she introduced the ingredients to a metal bowl provided by the bunker’s kitchen. Rowena poured the last ingredient into the bowl, watching the light illuminate the other contents. The boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder, preparing for their journey through the rift. "Koth munto nuntox," Rowena chanted, directing her magic across the room. A glowing orange light radiated off onto the men as the rift sprung to life. 

They watched a mere moment, waiting for its steadiness. Passing glances at each other, in sync, Dean, Sam, Castiel and Gabriel stepped towards the rift. Only to halt their pace once the light began to flicker. The vertical light curled, all heads following its motion as it began to dip. It fizzed as it's orange light began to fade into non-existence. The all stood, dumbfounded by the empty air which once held such promise.

"Well, that was... fast," Cas couldn’t congregate another synonym. 

"One could even say premature." Rowena quipped towards the archangel. 

“I thought it would be enough. Damn it!" Gabriel hissed, turning away from the group. Gabriel pressed his palm against the surface of the table, leaning against it trying to control his anger; his disappointment in himself.

The rest of the group huffed a universal sigh of frustration.

"Alright, great, what do we do now?" Sam asked, looking towards his brother, who usually had another plan.

"Hell if I know." Dean pinched the brink of his nose.

"I know." The malice in Gabriel's tone sliced through the room as he whipped back towards the group. "We need archangel grace. I may not have enough in the tank to take us there, well, there’s one other source on Earth."

Sam began to argue but Gabriel ignored his protests. "It'll take too long for me to restore even that ounce of grace. Y/N and the others are trapped over there. We don't have time to lose. We need Lucifer."

The Winchesters and Castiel decided to deliberate alone, excluding Rowena and Gabriel, restricting them to the library. Rowena remained patient, sitting at the library table, constructing the ingredients for another spell, knowing very well its uselessness until they retrieve more grace. 

Gabriel, on the other hand, was anything but calm. “Who gives them the say so?” Gabriel paced back and forth, up and down a row of bookshelves. Nerves on hinges, the angel was on the verge of an angry outburst. 

“It is their mission.” Rowena glanced back at Gabriel. “They came to you and I for help, not initiation.”

Gabriel continued his pace, shaking off the witch’s comment. “I am the one with the most experience with Lucifer. I tricked him into thinking I was dead! All they’ve done is let him out of his cage, twice.” Gabriel exhaled, releasing some of his pent-up frustration. “We need to act fast. We have no idea what the hell is happening to Y/N… and the others over there. They could be in trouble!” 

"A mighty," Rowena's chuckle stopped herself, sideways glancing the angel. "well, slightly depleted archangel obsessed with a human girl," she taunted. "Never thought I'd live long enough to see that."

Gabriel slowed his pace. "Well, uh, Lucifer and the kid's mom-"

"A good time gone bad," Rowena countered. "She was a puppet in his play. All he ever wanted was an heir."

Gabriel remained silent, winding down his impatient walk. The thought of you in that situation spiked his nerves again.

"How serious are the two of you?" Gabriel stopped completely, throwing Rowena a defensive glance. "It's just that I've never heard your name part her lips is all."

"Well, we're not technically together,” the archangel admitted. “For now."

"Oh, I see." Rowena processed the fact, observing the angel. "It's one-sided. The boys mentioned the other suitor, the man I helped back to life no less. Rumor is she jumped through for him. So, is this really about saving Y/N, or keeping her from the dashing Arthur Ketch?”

“Okay, I’ve waited long enough.” Gabriel turned quickly, hovering over Rowena. “You and I are getting Lucifer. Alone!”

"And here we are!"

Despite walking half a day, Charlie managed the small exclamation upon the arrival at the Dayton camp. Surrounded by a tight cluster of trees, it was difficult to spot any sign of a camp from the outside. Other than finding your friends, you hadn't envisioned any expectations of Dayton. However, you were surprised to see an array of armed guards shielding the perimeter, eyeing you and Ketch cautiously. 

"Bill, Thorne, how's it hanging?" Charlie greeted two of them, striking up a brief conversation as the three of you passed.

Past the armed men, Charlie led you through the trees. Slowly, human life presented itself. Children chased each other, mothers watched. You couldn’t hide your relentless, wandering eyes, searching for a sign of Mary and Jack among the people of the camp. 

"Bobby will want to see you two," Charlie spoke, leading you and Ketch further into camp. “He finds other worlders fascinating. Or maybe that’s just Mary.” You stood still immediately. Quickly, Ketch halted his step, staring back at you. Curiosity laced with worry infiltrated his blue eyes. “I want to see Mary and Jack first.” 

Charlie halted her step, spinning back to view you. “I’ve been gone almost a week; I’m not sure if they’re even here. We’ll speak to Bobby, then you can look for them. I promise.” Charlie noted your uncertain expression before adding, “Would you trust the other me?”

You gave a small nod. A soft smile formed on Charlie’s lips as she turned back, walking towards the original destination. However, you hung back.

“I’m sure they’re here somewhere,” Ketch assured, outstretching his hand towards you. “Let’s not be rude.” 

For assurance or comfort, you were unsure, you took his hand. Despite the cold air, Ketch’s skin radiated against yours. Ketch attempted to bite down his curling lip but failed miserably. He happily intertwined your fingers as you both followed Charlie towards the center of the camp.

Amongst the trees stood a few cabins. Sprinkled around were sheeted tents, once white fabric doused with age and dirt. Looking for Mary and Jack in ever face, you occasionally slowed your pace. Ketch would gently tug your arm, reminding you to keep up. Charlie led you and Ketch past the tents, straight to the farthest cabin. Two guards stood out front. Charlie spoke to them as your gaze searched the area for your friends. 

Ketch dropped your hand as the cabin door swung open. Your gaze shifted towards the noise, watching as the alternative Bobby stepped out. He was different from the man you’d considered family. Older. You imagined the stress of the apocalypse had taken its toll combined with five or so years since you’d seen your Bobby breathing. 

“Glad to see you alive, kiddo,” he told Charlie, walking across the small porch. His eyes flicked towards you and Ketch, and he froze. “I'll be damned," Bobby mumbled as his stare locked onto your face. "Y/N?"

You nodded, unknowing of what to say to a man who appeared so similar to the man you once knew.

“She’s from the other world. Like Jack and Mary,” Charlie informed Bobby. Bobby took tentative steps down the short stairs to the ground level. His eyes never left you. 

Speak of the devil, two blonde heads bobbed out of the door. 

“Y/N!” Jack exclaimed, descending the stairs in a flash, nearly running Bobby over.  

“Jack!” You swallowed hard after, realizing how dry your voice sounded as the Nephilim tackled you into a hug. He was closely followed by Mary who gave you a similar hug. 

Jack turned towards Ketch, offering a small, hesitant, “hi.” While Mary simply nodded towards the man, throwing daggers with her eyes rather than her hands. Bobby turned towards his men. “Get them some food and water. Must’ve walked a great length.” His head bobbed towards his door. “Why don’t you kids come in. I imagine that we’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Their human allies had only so many skills, Gabriel and Rowena could manage locating Lucifer on their own. With a couple of simple spells to track and drug Lucifer along with Gabriel’s wings to fly them to the bunker, capturing Lucifer was easier than either anticipated.

Still unconscious upon arrival to the bunker, Gabriel set Lucifer on his knees, careful to keep him upright in a non-compromising position. Rowena swayed over to place a bowl before Lucifer and cast a small spell to lean the devil over it. Slowly and with much pleasure, she made a succinct slice in Lucifer’s neck, slowly draining some of his grace to pour over the other ingredients.

“Hey guys,” Dean called out as he entered the library with Sam and Cas following closely behind. Upon seeing Lucifer already in the bunker, Dean halted, causing Castiel to crash into him. 

Defrosting at the sight, Dean’s attention snapped towards Rowena and Gabriel. “What the hell is the matter with you two? You were supposed to wait for our approval.”

Gabriel danced around the room towards Dean appearing boastful. “And did you muttonheads decide if Lucifer was the only option?”

Neither Dean, Sam or Cas responded. 

Gabriel clasped his hands together. “Well there you go, and now we haven’t wasted any time.” Gabriel turned back towards Lucifer. “Spell is almost ready to go. Be ready to go.” Gabriel gazed away, looking towards the Rowena mixing the ingredients. “I’m coming Y/N,” he whispered under his breath.

The Thing Between Them Taglist:

@whovianayesha  @herangelicvirtue  @heliosparadox  @nobodys-baby-now  @eurusholmmes  @natashacamillaus   @sherlockedtash88  @alangel1895  @countrygrl863  @hunterpuff  @stargazingkiddo  @supernaturalymarvel @koithings  @superwholock-fangir1  @kissmeimadragonlord  @marianita195 @honeyicouldntthinkofaurl  @laurajw14  @fandom-trash-worth-it  @jordynhartley2001  @dont-trust-a-doe  @typicalweirdbookworm @ernesto-deserved-it  @kestrelsparverius  @jayyx3oxo @waywarddaughterwrites @myfandomlife-blog

Arthur Ketch peeps: 

@quixoticcat @omgcupquak3stuff @justafangirlinaspnworld-blog @room-with-a-cat @bananyaaa @clueless-gold @fairytale07 @actualpsychopath 

Gabe taglist: 

@archangelashiah @angelontheinside @crazyevilninja-is-lame @hp-hogwartsexpress

[artlessictoan]

Day 4 - Uncle Kankuro

some kank&yodo silliness, bc I will never get tired of writing these two interacting nor will I ever get tired of pointedly ignoring canon and supplanting my own fics in its place

(ao3 version)

---

Day 4 - Uncle Kankuro

---

Yodo had been sitting quietly in the living room since he got home, lying on her stomach in the middle of the floor, idly flicking through an old novel.

She was up to something. She was definitely up to something.

Not that her reading was unusual, or her ignoring his presence as he flopped down in his lounge chair with a mumbled ‘hey brat’, but there was just something too… perfect about the scene, like she was acting bored and aloof, instead of just being bored and aloof as she normally was and, as many painful, embarrassing experiences had taught him, when in doubt, always assume she was up to something.

So, all that remained was to figure out whatever nasty little scheme she’d put into play this time, hopefully before he fell right into it.

Frowning, he stretched one of his long legs forward to prod at his niece’s foot.

She immediately kicked him back.

Not ready to accept defeat just yet, he nudged her again, big toe seeking out that ticklish spot right in the middle of her sole, he didn’t quite manage to get it before she brought her other foot into the game, trapping his awkwardly between her ankles. He snorted and easily pulled himself free, retreating back to his chair as he thought up a new tactic.

Yodo was still refusing to even turn her head in his direction, still pretending to be completely engrossed in her book; he could easily use that to his advantage though.

With stealth instilled in him over decades of hard training, Kankuro slowly, silently raised himself out of his chair, stepped just close enough that she wouldn’t notice him, balanced himself on one leg and gently smacked his foot in her face.

“GAH! You fu-!”

Letting out a scandalised gasp as he smooshed his foot against her nose, he called over his shoulder, “Gaara, quick, get in here, Yodo was about to curse again!”

The girl’s skinny little rat-claw fingers finally managed to pry him away, shoving at him until he toppled to the floor in a cackling heap. Finally free from his onslaught, she spluttered and rubbed harshly at her face. “Ugh, I was gonna say fungal infection ooze, ya donkey-pit!”

“Y’know,” he managed to say between laughs, “I think that swapping ‘ass’ and ‘hole’ with synonyms still counts as a swear.”

Her glare was sharp enough to cut glass, apparently she’d been taking notes from her father.

“Relax kid, I’m not actually gonna tell on you-” because he had no doubt Gaara would blame his potty mouth “-but I am gonna need you to tell me what horrifying prank you’ve got cooking this time.”

She rolled her eyes, fussed her hair back into its artfully dishevelled style and returned to her book. “Ain’t got nothin’ cooking,” she said.

“Riiight, and I’m the greatest Hokage who ever lived.”

“You wish,” she snorted, flashing him a quick, toothy grin, “Aunt Sakura’s way cooler than you are, talk to me when you’ve punched a god.”

His face dropped into an expression of blank horror as he pondered what the ramifications of the next generation growing up around such impossibly terrifying powerhouses might be. Damn, I’m getting old, he thought, before sitting himself upright and staring at Yodo once more. Ok she wasn’t gonna tell him what she’d done, that was fine, he could figure it out, no problem.

If she wasn’t bothered about moving from her spot, then that meant that, a) she didn’t need to do anything herself to put her scheme into motion and b) the trap was somewhere in this room – no way would she want to miss out on her victim’s reaction.

Disguising the movement behind a yawn, he scanned his eyes across the lounge, looking for anything wrong, any signs of disturbance at all.

Nothing unusual about the TV or the kids’ game consoles, Gaara had cleaned the floor this morning, so no dust-tracks to speak of, some books had been moved on the shelves, but given that she was currently reading one that could easily be put down to her choosing something to read – he mentally filed it away anyway, just in case – table looked untouched, chairs were exactly as he remembered, damnit, he couldn’t pick out anything, but she was just lying on the floor, legs idly kicking at the air as she flipped another page, cheek puffing up where she was resting it on her hand, exuding an aura that just screamed ‘trouble’.

Maybe that was her plan, deliberately act all suspiciously innocent until he was seeing traps in every shadow, almost pranking himself with his own paranoia! It was an advanced technique, but she was a quick learner and had a serious devious streak, he had no doubt she’d be capable of it… or maybe that’s just what she wanted him to think.

Damn it all.

Just as he was standing up to leave – because he had better things to do, definitely not because he was being outsmarted by a snotty little brat – Yodo had the audacity to snicker into her book, flashing one of her too-toothy grins up at him.

Oh, he was not going to take that; her book was yanked away in under a second, pulled effortlessly into his hand by a chakra thread.

“Oi, I was just gettin’ to a good bit!” she snapped, growling and jumping up to swipe at it.

He held his arm above his head, grinning wide as he said, “What’re you gonna do about it kid?” Before she could leap on him like she was clearly planning, he planted his hand right on her face, gently pushing her back even as she kept pushing forward. “C’mon, do you even want it ba-ACK! What- did you just lick me, brat?!”

While he was rapidly removing his hand from her slobbery maw and rubbing it harshly on his shirt, she managed to clamber onto his back and was just centimetres away from reclaiming her stolen property.

Still shuddering at the dampness on his skin, he tried to claw her off – carefully avoiding going anywhere near her mouth again – flailing limbs and clawing fingers grasping at the corners of the book. In all the confusion, he wasn’t sure who managed to send it flying into the air, but, following its path, he suddenly couldn’t care less, even as Yodo leapt from his shoulder and landed on it with a cry of triumph.

He was much too busy staring at the unnatural shadows hidden away in the ceiling’s air vent; normally they would allow for the cool air captured from the wind towers dotting the building’s roof to flow into the house, offering relief from the burning sun, but he was only just noticing that it was a little less draughty in here than it should be.

“Uh-oh.”

Flashing a quick, victorious grin at his niece, he casually leapt to the ceiling – chakra-coating a hand and his feet to stick in place – and reaching into the dark pit to discover what she’d hidden away there.

When he pulled out a cluster of familiar, disembodied puppet limbs, he had to stare at them for a good long minute just trying to process everything.

Seriously? She was gonna try and scare him with this? He regularly fell asleep cuddling a puppet head that Temari had once described as ‘the physical manifestation of all humanities sins’ and often found random arms and legs in his dresser when he was looking for clothes, even with the element of surprise, he was literally incapable of being scared by it.

He looked down to deride Yodo for her weak attempt, but she wasn’t there, book lying abandoned on the carpet. Frowning, he turned to find her, but was met with a blank stare.

“…What are you doing?” Gaara asked, tone suggesting that he’d had a very long day at work and would very much like to not have to navigate his brother’s eccentricities today if at all possible. Beside him, Yodo was rocking on her heels, hands clasped behind her back.

“Uncle said he wanted to play a prank on you, he was gonna make all that stuff fall on you when you sat down on the couch.”

Oh shi-

The smirk on his niece’s face was positively devious; he wasn’t sure whether to be horrified, or proud.

But he definitely knew how to feel about his little brother’s expression; the years had not dulled his death glare in the slightest. “Kankuro, what is the meaning of this?”

“N-no, Gaara you don’t understand, she set me up!”

That girl had the ‘cute pout of innocence’ act mastered. He’d taught her well – perhaps a little too well – but… he hadn’t taught her everything.

Revenge was gonna be sweet.

---

[theliterateape]

I Can't Drive 55 | Lessons Learned in the 55th Year

By Don Hall

In my thirty-second year I felt incredibly sorry for myself. I was getting my first divorce, was living in a one-room studio in Uptown, my theater company was imploding over ego-driven bullshit. I drank myself into a state of suicidal yearning. It was a rough year. 

I called my mom. Mom is that voice of reason in good and bad times.

"This has been a really shitty year. Maybe I should move back to Kansas."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"And in thirty-two years you've lived on the planet, how many of those years were bad?"

I thought about it for a moment. "Really bad? Two. No three. Three years. Why?"

"Well, three out of thirty-two is a pretty solid track record. Seems to me that you weathered those other bad years and had good years to spare. Maybe you decide to quit wallowing in how bad this year has been and get to work on next year because based on your experience you probably have another cluster of good years in store."

Some have the Dali Lama. Others have a priest or a shelf of self-help books. I have my mom.

My fifty-fifth year (or the specter of 2020) was a rough year for so many people in the world it's almost a joke. The whole year has been covered in shit—from the campaign to unseat the least capable and most destructive president in my lifetime to three months in a pandemic shutting down the planet and economic hardship most of us have only read about in Steinbeck novels—2020 looks like the toilet bowl moments after a morning constitutional from a night of White Castle and rum.

Sure, the act of comparing one's life with those around is a narcissistic self-loathing experiment best suited for recently jilted lesbians and Instagram junkies, but while the entire world has been burning down in both literal and figurative ways, fifty-five has been a damn good year for me.

In January, I was well into my year and a half managing a casino on the corner of I-15 and Tropicana. I had done my due diligence in training and had hit the sweet spot of knowing enough about the business to be an effective leader on the floor. I knew my high rollers and had figured out the best approach to dealing with the meth-addicts and prostitutes. I could fix 90 percent of the machines and could process a jackpot inside of four minutes consistently.

Then came the pandemic and the economic shutdown of Las Vegas in March. Most were laid off and in free fall but I had stumbled into working for one of two gambling corporations in Nevada that committed to keeping the payroll rolling despite losing millions per day.

The three months of closure saw me coming in to work every day, cleaning the bar and the machines, and hanging out to make sure no one ransacked the place while it was closed. I did a lot of writing in my office during that time. 

In terms of personal tragedy, my nineteen year old nephew overdosed in a parking lot in April and, virus be damned, Dana and I flew out the next day to help my sister.

We re-opened the casino in June. 

Seven months of balancing life in a pandemic with idiots motivated to gamble, arguing with people about the necessity to wear masks, and submitting essays to everyone. Getting paid to write (even in small increments) was a genuine drug.

Over the summer both Dana and I were asked to write for an anthology of essays. Las Vegas writers writing about Las Vegas. It was a boost, man. Don't get me wrong, the casino gig was solid and, for the most part, enjoyable. Getting paid to write words and sentences was fucking delicious.

The book came out in October launched with a Zoomesque gathering.

The casino gig, while solid and simple, was becoming dull. Rote. Combining the fact that my best (and meager) talents were not usable during a pandemic in a struggling casino, I told my General Manager that I needed more money for such routine grind and that I’d start looking aggressively for something more in tune with my skills that also paid a bit more on my year-and-a-half mark.

Six days after I started the search, I was hired by a Denver-based firm as a Senior Copywriter.

Turns out I’m pretty good at it. Getting a salary for writing words and sentences is sweet and working from home as the pandemic continues to rage on is smart and comfortable. No longer a slave to the swings shift, my schedule is my own.

I can, for the first time in my life when asked what I do for a living, answer “I am a writer.” In a career path marked by ten year gigs followed by "gotta pay the bills" gigs, it looks like Casino Manager is the latter and "Writer" is the former. Now it’s time to write some books, yeah?

It’s been a year, my friends.

Here are the lessons that landed in my 55th annum.

Always Leave ‘Em Wanting More

Over the course of my bizarre career as a “Writer. Teacher. Storyteller. Consultant.” to refer to my donhall.vegas website, I’ve had a tendency to overstay my welcome.

Instead of leaving circumstances on good terms, by the time I was ready to go, I was all Fuck these people! What a bunch of dickseeds! and at least a few of the people were Fuck him! What a dickseed!

I stayed one year longer than I should have as a public school teacher. I stayed at least a year too long in my second marriage and, despite some incredible shows toward the end of the WNEP Theater years, I stayed too long with that company. I should’ve left WBEZ at least a year earlier and I waited until things got weird in the storytelling scene before leaving Chicago.

With the casino, I left long before things become too rote or sour. I found the new gig, jumped on it, and was told if it didn’t work out, I always had a place to land. That I was a part of the Station Casinos “family.” My staff bought me booze and when I swung by just to see them, they are happy to be seen.

Hell, the GM even gave me one of the chairs from the Craps Table for my home office!

As I get older, recognizing the signs that perhaps it’s time to go is an essential skill. At fifty-five, maybe I’m finally into that.

Family is Always More Important Than Work

Last year, working the first 24/7/365 job in my life, I was told I had to work on Christmas. It was the first Christmas in decades I hadn’t spent with my family in Kansas. It wasn’t bad—Joe flew in from Chicago, he took Dana and I to see Penn Gillette at Rio, Kelli joined Dana and Joe on the casino floor while I worked.

This year, especially after the death of my nephew, it became obvious that family had to come first. Months before I landed the writing gig, I let my GM know I was taking the week of Christmas off, COVID be damned. I was clear that if the company couldn’t pay me for the time off I understood and if I was to be let go because of it, then that was fine, too.

The casino was incredibly cool about the request that wasn’t really a request. In fact, even though I gave my two week’s notice before the Christmas vacation pay would kick in, my GM allowed me to be paid for it anyway (see that first lesson again).

It was in every possible way the correct call. My sister needed me. I needed my mom and dad. We got to reconnect with a cousin I hadn’t seen in years. Turns out she’s a professional copywriter in Austin, TX. It was a soul-filling holiday and I’ll never miss Christmas in Kansas again.

It’s Pointless to Argue with Zealots

Maybe it’s in part due to my new-found desert surroundings or my distance from the increasingly Woke Chicago Arts scene but this last year of Trump and the ridiculous nature of angrier social media has pushed me closer to Left Center than Full-On Progressive.

As a younger man I decided that religion was simply not for me. Too emotionally charged without a sense of rationality. At the distance Nevada gives me I can see how irrational both the Extreme Right—the overtly white nationalist taint with the individualism bordering on sociopathy—and the Progressive Left—the quasi-religious circular logic of white privilege, erasure of women as a category, and focus on tribalism over all—have become. Or maybe they were always this way and it took some time away from a major urban center to see it.

Whichever the case, arguing with either side has become synonymous with filing my teeth with a dremel. Besides being as productive as screaming into an Amazon Box, taping it up, and shipping it to Congress, it’s fucking annoying.

If there is a resolution I’m attempting to adopt in the latter half of my fifties, it is this: find common ground with everyone and if I encounter someone so far into conspiracy territory that I cannot, walk away and don’t look back.

Social Media Enables the Very Worst in Us (and Me)

I can’t remember if I shed myself of Faceborg, Twitter, Instagram, and the host of social media this or last year but I’ve spent most (if not all) of my fifty-fifth year absent the noise and it was an excellent decision.

Mobs of imbeciles canceling professors, trolling J.K. Rowling, threatening violence to strangers, and organizing a breach of the Capitol all using tools for communication that should be extraordinary made me hate people I had never met. This cannot be a good ‘chicken soup for the soul’ arena to spend time in.

I’ll admit that I do feel left out of the mix some yet I’m happier for it. I jumped back recently with a new LinkedIn account (which is sortof  like social media but with jobs) and the only good thing about that has been being able to message with Rob Kozlowski.

I’m a Social Distancing Jedi

Five years ago, Dana threw me a birthday party and there was a room full of friends in attendance. This year, I’ll be lucky if even Dana remembers my birthday.

The culling effect of both getting rid of social media and the pandemic has been like a hoarder finally ridding himself of boxes of empty Altoid tins and those square plastic bread ties. Always a bit of a misanthrope, this year has cleared out so much noise and my new gig at home has me isolated from the wash of the unwashed.

Turns out I’m good with this. My interactions with people are more intentional rather than surface level and while life has made me more cautious when it comes to whom I genuinely trust, those whom I do choose teach me things I wouldn’t know and enrich my dwindling time on the planet.

Your Reality is Dictated by Your Optimism

Optimism isn’t merely hope. It isn’t happiness or a cheery disposition.

Optimism is an act of resilience against the brutal harshness of living the existential crisis.

It’s darkest just before the dawn implies that there will be a dawn. What if there won’t be? What if it’s just more darkness? If the implacable timpani of human greed, a self correcting planetary environment, and the algorithm that defines our modern interaction has no end, should that result in giving in to the despair?

As optimism is a breeze when things are going your way, despair is the path of least resistance when things turn to shit. Seeing through the mist at a better future takes effort and commitment like a solid marriage or a massive novel you’ve committed to writing. It’s a project to be managed not a feeling to languish within.

One cannot truly call himself an optimist who refuses to see the horror. Pretending that people are essentially kind and generous is stuffing the ostrich head in the sand. People are apes with higher brain functions and follow the rules of the jungle. Tribalism, essentialism, war for resources, the history of brutality of all humanity goes far beyond Hannah Jones 1619 Project. Taken in whole, we aren’t a very enlightened and forgiving species.

Further, optimism is an individual choice. It’s not something that can be enforced but it is something that can be inspired. The American Experiment, despite its many missteps and flaws, is grounded in a belief that humans can govern themselves justly and effectively. Given the larger picture, belief in democracy is only slightly more delusional than the guy playing slots so he can pay his rent. The odds are astronomically against success and yet the choice to persevere is made.

When you see someone who has one of those death camp tattoos on their arm you are witnessing a genuine, tried and true, bona fide optimist.

Optimism is hardest when things turn to shit but it is then when it is most necessary.

Becoming Antique is a Journey

For the first time I see that more of my life has been lived than I have left to live.

I recognize that I wish I could give the years I have left to my nephew because I have done a lot in my five and a half decades and he didn't get the chance. I wonder, absent the obsessive drive to achieve I had in my younger days, what I have to offer in the next ten years? What value does my existence provide to others and how do I manifest that value in pragmatic terms?

Like an old car or a pair of worn-out shoes, we all must acknowledge a certain sense of obsolescence. The pandemic has up-ended so many of the fictions we lived with up until this point and finding North on the compass is a challenge these days. Becoming irrelevant is like that boiling frog—slowly and without even recognizing the boil—we all find ourselves as vintage. 

Perhaps that's what I've become. Not the rusted Coca Cola sign in the corner but the "like new" vinyl Def Leppard album with slightly tattered and stained liner notes.

In my next ten years (if I have that much time in store or more) I'd like to read more. Write a lot more. Listen to more live music. Be a better husband. Become that cool old man on the block with good advise and a snort of rye in case it's a little chilly. Christ, I already smoke a pipe.

There is so much more to learn that, in order to avoid feeling useless, I need to learn more.

In a Pandemic, Look For the Simple Things to Keep You Sane

A really well-made sandwich

A cold beer in 115˚ weather

A road trip with your Soul Mate

A book by a new author

A slideshow of you and your Soul Mate doing things together

A long walk

Recognizing that you have a Soul Mate

Sometimes I wonder if there’s anything else. I wonder if I’d miss anything important if I simply ceased to breathe on the couch I bought back in Chicago as it sits in Nevada.

In those moments of melodramatic existentialism, I remind myself that the experience of living is this annual letter to you. A summation of the things I’ve learned and the life I’ve lived.

If I had finished this race last year, my mettle wouldn’t have been tested by a pandemic. I wouldn't have found my sister again. I wouldn’t have seen Trump slink away to Florida. I wouldn’t be sitting in a Craps Chair in a home office of my design. 

I wouldn’t have learned anything at all (you know, because dead people stop moving forward).

Here’s to another year and what adventures I will have!

[fanficsandfluff]

Supernatural: Happy National Tick-- Oh Crap

You heard it right, folks... HAPPY NATIONAL TICKLE DAY!!! 

To all my giggly, feathery beauties out there, I figured I had to write a little something to commemorate this treasured holiday. And what better way to celebrate than with some Team Free Will + Mary Winchester tickle fights??

Please Enjoy!

Supernatural (c)

Holidays weren't exactly a thing celebrated in the Bunker with the Winchesters. But now that Mary was around with them in and out, Dean took it upon himself to be the daily bearer of holidays.... national holidays, that is. 

"Happy National Thesaurus Day. Or alternatively, Joyous Nationwide Synonym Twenty-Four Hours." "Happy National Static Electricity Day." Dean rubbed the sleeve of his sweater against a knit blanket and touched his brother's face, earning him a slap on the back of the head. "Happy friggin' National Pie Day! I took the liberty of getting us every flavor of pie I like." "Happy National Bubble Bath Day. Treat yourself, mom." He tossed Mary a bath bomb he heard of online and a container of bubble bath soap. Sam was at first entertained by Dean continuing to name pointless holidays to keep the group entertained. But after a freaking month, things were getting a wee bit annoying. So the night before the 31st of January, Sam thought he'd beat Dean to it and name the holiday of the following day. When he researched it, he came upon something that you could say.... tickled his fancy. And so the morning of the next day came and Sam woke up as usual, getting dressed and such. He peeked into Dean's room to see him getting dressed. He grinned and knocked, stepping inside, "Morning, Dean." Dean turned, "Morning, Sammy. What's up?" he slipped his shirt over his head. "Oh, I just wanted to tell you what holiday is today." "Oho yeah? Stealing my job?" Dean smiled, "What day is it?" "National..." he lurked a few steps closer to Dean, "Tickle Day," and he jumped on his older brother, wrestling him to the bed. "Gah! Dammit, Sammy, don't do this!" "Whahat's gonna stop me? We have to celebrate somehow, don't we?" Sam's fingers traced some teasing patterns on Dean's side, pinching and squeezing a few times. The older Winchester's green eyes first widened and then squinted shut, along with the scrunching of his whole face as he fought the tickly sensations. "I-I ain't ticklish!" "Suhure you're not," Sam smirked, testing a few strokes along Dean's waistline, nudging his pesky shirt out of the way, "Sihit still, Dean, geez," he chuckled and moved Dean's flailing arms so they were pinned above his head. Dean started to giggle, that vulnerable portion of his lower belly being pretty damn sensitive, "S-Saham! Stoppit! Sohon of a bitch!" he bit his lip harder, his hips swaying in an effort to avoid his brother's teasing digits. "Someone ticklish?" Sam grinned, suddenly digging a claw into Dean's tummy, gripping into the flesh and pulsating. Dean arched his back, head tossed back and forth as giggles bubbled from the eldest Winchester brother, "Pfft! Bahahaha! St-Stohop!" "Nohow you're getting into the spirit of the holiday," Sam chuckled. "Screhehehew you! AhahaHA!" "Wrong holiday," Sam joked, spidering his fingers up Dean's ribs, jabbing every soft portion between the bones, never failing to generate a squeak from Dean. "Dean, thihis is kinda boring me. To really celebrate National Tickle Day, you have to laugh. And you're not there yet." "Dohohohon't dohoho what I knohow you're gonnahahaha doho, bitch!" Dean exclaimed, trying more desperately to dislodge himself from his evil little brother's pin. "Hohow exactly are you gonna stop me, then, De?" Sam slid one finger purposely slow and teasing down Dean's side, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and more airy giggles. Then Sam descended upon Dean's uber sensitive hip bones, carefully utilizing his thumbs as massaging mechanisms, expertly palpating the indents. Dean's body surged as if an electric shock was passed through him, igniting his nerve endings. "SAAHAHAHAHAM! GAHAHAD DAHAMMIT!" Dean laughed freely now, unable to help it. "Happy National--- what are you doing?" it was Castiel who walked in just as Sam attacked Dean's hips. Sam looked up, "Sohohorry, Cas, I think I beat you to it." "Beat me to what? It's National Backward Day. I walked into this room backwards... I thought you would see that, but you did not." Sam was still tickling Dean now with both hands, one wiggling fingers against his belly and his other squeezing his hip over and over, "Oho. Well, it's also National Tickle Day, Cas. Wanna join the celebration?" Castiel smiled, "Yes, I'd be happy to," he walked over and pinned down Dean's legs. "CAHAS DOHON'T!" "Happy National Tickle Day, Dean," Castiel wished with a broad smile, scribbling five fingers across Dean's sole, getting at his arches with precise strokes. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, flapping and kicking his limbs around as much as their pins would allow. The boys would have surely continued for longer before they heard a scoffing at the door and a clearing of a throat. "Goohood morning, mom," Sam greeted with a dimpled smile, turning his head towards Mary standing in the door. "You know, I think you and Castiel are taking National Tickle Day too narrow-minded," she had an obvious mischievous glint to her eyes, "Everyone should participate, not just one person." Sam blushed and he slowed his tickling on Dean, warily watching Mary step closer to the cluster of men on the bed. "Mohom, wait a second-- Ahahahahaha!" Sam burst out laughing when Dean got his opening and kneaded Sam's sides. "Tahahake this, bihitch!" Castiel smiled and hopped off Dean, "Mary, I barely had anything to do with this." "Oho, I know, Castiel," Mary smiled lovingly at her two boys, "But it's still a national holiday," she tested out a few gentle pokes and pinches to Cas's belly, knowing he was too sweet to fight back or resist her. He began giggling. "Mahahary, no..." Castiel tried blocking her hands but didn't succeed. "Hahappy friggin' Tickle Day, bitch!" Dean exclaimed, now having pinned Sam down on his own. A raspberry blown onto the youngest Winchester's tummy cemented National Tickle Day as an official Winchester household holiday.