#everything they knew and just sort of instilled in them a good set of values. Tuchidarumon isn't around anymore and it left Impmon sort of

[lunarduties]

👪 FAMILY - what is their family like? what is your character’s relationship to them? does your character have any siblings?

EMOJI HEADCANON MEME. ― ( NO LONGER ACCEPTING! ) ↬ @inkorrnate

yue was the only child born to her father, chief arnook, and her late mother, chiefess sedna. the couple attempted to have another child after yue, as arnook received pressure from advisors to have another (particularly male) heir that could be a "backup" of sorts due to yue's chronic sickness. this led to sedna's passing, as she grew ill towards the end of her second trimester, leading to the loss of both her and yue's younger unborn sibling. yue was coming up on her fourth birthday when their deaths took place.

this left just yue and arnook as the primary members of the royal family. they were joined only by arnook's brother, tulimaq, who was only two years his junior and served as one of the members of the chief's advisory cabinet, and tulimaq's wife, mikiruk. tulimaq was an even more staunch traditionalist than arnook, and fit in well with the conservative cabinet. he was never super close to yue, but encouraged a friendship between her and his son (her cousin), kanguk.

in depth descriptions of yue's relationships with all of these people under the cut.

arnook: yue and her father are each other's closest confidants and best friends. before his rule, it was not custom for women to be on the chief's advisory committee, but arnook loved and trusted yue and her opinions enough that he nominated her for a seat on her fifteenth birthday. after almost losing yue, seeing the vision of her becoming the moon spirit, and then going on to lose his wife and unborn child, arnook took it upon himself to make sure that he would do everything in his power to protect her. this included things like being deeply involved in her daily life and setting up her arranged marriage so she would have a clear path in life.

still, arnook's dedication to tradition and yue's unwillingness to disappoint him because of their closeness leads to a silent distance between them. if he's honest with himself, he knows that his daughter longs for more freedom, but refuses to give her more than what she has out of fear of her dying an early death. this, in turn, impacts yue's happiness, though she respects her father and the values/duties to their tribe he's instilled in her far too much to ever voice such a thing. this positions them at an impasse, a father and daughter who love each other too much to disrupt the system they live in.

sedna: with sedna dying when she was only four, yue does not remember much of anything regarding her mother. while she was alive, however, yue was sedna's entire world. eager to watch over yue as a result of her being born sick, the two were rarely ever apart for the first few years of her life. sedna, who was deeply proficient in sewing, made many of the clothes that yue wore throughout her childhood. this is what began the princess' affinity for purple, as sedna would always use purple thread for her to differentiate her from the standard water tribe blue. when she knew she would pass, sedna undertook a final project and made a pair of purple gloves for yue to grow into as a teenager.

sedna was also a deeply spiritual woman both before and after tui saved yue. because of this, she would often take yue to the spirit oasis as a toddler, igniting her love for the space. yue would often return to these deeply spiritual places throughout the northern water tribe as she grew to feel closer to her mother.

tulimaq: yue and her uncle tulimaq were never very close. while they loved each other as family does, he frequently voiced worry to arnook that yue's chronic sickness and connection to the spirits would not make for a good ruler. when arnook refused to make his brother's eldest son kanguk his heir, tulimaq advised him to consider hahn as yue's betrothed fiancee, having always liked him. besides this, yue and her uncle frequently butted heads on arnook's advisory committee, leading her to believe he didn't care for her very much. despite their differences and his opinions about her, if anyone else where to question yue's abilities, tulimaq was always quick to silence them.

mikiruk: yue was always closer to her aunt mikiruk than she was her uncle. a quiet, timid, and kindhearted woman, mikiruk was among many of the waterbending women in the tribe that were taught to be healers and attempted to save yue as a baby. being one of the only older women in her immediate family after, yue often went to mikiruk about issues she didn't feel she could talk to arnook about. she also often dismissed her chambermaids and caretakers so that yue could watch her younger children, a job that was deemed unfit for the princess that she thoroughly enjoyed anyway. to yue, her aunt and uncle's dynamic eventually somewhat resembled that of what she believed would befall her upon marrying hahn.

kanguk: a friendship between cousins yue and kanguk was established early and nurtured by both sets of parents. the two were only months apart in age and, because of their royal blood, were often segregated from other northern tribe children for things like school, etc. all of these things led to them growing close, particularly as they entered their teenage years. kanguk, a waterbender like his mother, expressed frequent unhappiness with not being able to train with other boys his age under master pakku. he was yue's only confidant regarding the suffocation of royal life and, unlike his father, slightly more liberal when it came to the tribe's sexist views.

[duckulamoved]

Cleaned it up a little but still no color palette. I’m also still trying to decide between names for oc girl (Waffling mostly between Sophie and Penny but I don’t know if I like those either). Her and Impmon oc have personalities that are very similar in many ways- quiet, shy, non-confrontational. But willing to step out of their comfort zone to help others. OC girl makes like friendship barcelets and little beaded bracelts with those little letter beads. Impmon has a little orange and yellow ladder bracelet and a messy beaded bracelet that says Impmon (with a little heart bead on one side and a sun bead on the other). And I want to imagine it carrying over when digivolving. So please imagine a Beelzemon with little friendship bracelets hangin on their Jacket or something thanks. 

I sort of just took some existing Digi Lore and spread it around and added a lot of my own stuff for fun. I feel like across the series Digimon is such a sandbox with branching ideas it’s ok for me to mess around a bit. 

[awarmbowlofhomemadesoup]

AceAro Miles Edgeworth’s Platonic Crush on Phoenix Wright Headcanons

Platonic crush: the desire to be platonically intimate with someone without romantic or sexual attraction. Intensity like any kind of crushes can vary. 

In Childhood:

When they were children, Miles would often talk more about Phoenix than Larry, to the point that Ray Shields began teasing him about having a crush on Phoenix. And Miles would be like, “No?” because last time he checked he wasn’t experiencing that “heart stuff” that he sees in zany cartoons.

When they have to sit and rest somewhere, Miles would read a book with at least his knee touching Phoenix. Or if there was enough space, his back touching Phoenix’s side. No, Larry, it’s not a snuggle, now hush. (Similar to how a cat would lounge at their favorite owner’s side while casually not looking at them).

As much as he enjoyed them as the Signal Samurai trio, his favorite moments were just talking with Phoenix about anything under the sun -in the early hour before class or when they have dropped Larry home and it was just him and Phoenix. 

He often looked forward to the quiet instances that Phoenix would hold his hand while they’re walking home alone since Phoenix is more at ease with affection than he was.

Some teenagers hollered at them for it and Phoenix let go, embarrassed, while Miles was wondering why he was embarrassed when they both know it was because they were good friends. So he just stubbornly grabbed his hand again and dragged him away from those immature buffoons.

Miles was neutral when it comes to Valentines Day. But when Phoenix received a box of chocolates from a girl he likes, Miles became more aloof and disinterested. He wondered why there was no celebration for friendship. Idle time was spent on thinking what gift he would give Phoenix if there was a proper day for celebrating best friends. (Larry is also his best friend but he doesn’t have the word that distinguishes his friendship with Larry and friendship with Phoenix.)

Miles was disappointed that he was unable to find the specific term between best friend and deeper best friend. Even his father doesn’t know. Gregory Edgeworth assured him he would find it someday.

Being someone who thinks ahead, Miles knew that someday Phoenix might not prioritize and value their friendship as much as he does once Phoenix would get a girlfriend. Miles tried very hard not to think of the time they would be in middle school.

After Gregory’s death, Miles never received Phoenix’s letters as von Karma wants to isolate him from his original home. Even when Miles appreciate the song request from Phoenix dedicated to him, von Karma made it clear that sentimental relations will distract him from perfection. Plus, Miles thought it was a one time and that Phoenix probably had a girlfriend to dedicate himself to by now.

In Adulthood (Platonic Crush to Queerplatonic Attraction to QP Love):

Early Career. When Miles received college Phoenix’s letters, his first reaction was confusion. Out-of-the-blue this ghost from the past was asking him why he was being called Demon Prosecutor. Second reaction was stonewalling. There was no point delving about how a person used to make him feel. 

State vs Fey. After the trial, Miles told himself he developed an intellectual hyperfixation towards Phoenix Wright as he arranged his brand new custom chess set with the “spike-y” pawns. He was half-right. If only he wasn’t so entangled with von Karma’s opinions on “sentimental relations”.

State vs Powers. Miles’ platonic crush resurfaced somewhere after Will Powers’ case and Phoenix asking to defend him.

State vs Edgeworth. He faintly realized at the moment Phoenix had smiled at him in relief once Miles got acquitted, that Phoenix was someone he wanted in his life. If only Miles deserved so. 

Miles would never admit he finds a unique sense of enjoyment in working with cases where Phoenix had to defend. He doubted if a lot of people experience intimacy in rivalry.

State vs Skye. Unfortunately, Miles have bigger things to deal with like coming into terms with a mentor that had both raised and twisted him, struggling to find a new norm as eyes watched him, his very story available to the public, then having to face the Skye case that made him question everything he was as a prosecutor. 

It all became too much and he wasn’t thinking straight and one of those thoughts was that Phoenix was better off knowing a better person than him. 

State vs Engarde. The belief was instilled when Phoenix got mad at him for faking his own death.

After having a talk and Miles realizing that cutting people off abruptly was more of a dick move than he thought, he and Phoenix kept in touch after.

In the space he had given himself in Europe, Miles decided that aside from becoming a better lawyer, he wanted to be the friend Phoenix deserved to have in his life, with the same intimacy they had in childhood that he still couldn’t name. 

State vs Iris. Miles was pretty much neutral around Iris. If Phoenix would decide to rekindle his relationship with her (though the deception made him wrinkle his nose no matter how true Iris’ feelings were at that time), he wouldn’t care as long as he and Phoenix would still be in good terms as partners. Even if Phoenix would not put as much special connotations as he would in their partnership. That was all he could ask for after everything. 

Ace Attorney Investigations: Miles Edgeworth. Whenever Kay would tease him about “that man”, Miles would just look at her dryly. At this point, he should know not a lot of people would understand.

7-year Disbarment. Phoenix’s disbarment drew them closer together after Miles’ was finally able to contact him when Phoenix shut everyone out. Miles couldn’t do much being in Europe but he does what he could from flying them to Europe so that Phoenix could help him with his cases to caring for Trucy.

Their commitment for each other only grew from raising Trucy together to righting Japanifornia’s legal system. 

Miles wished he could kiss Phoenix on the forehead without making it weird. It just felt like Phoenix needed it. Comforting Phoenix with hugs and handholding, at least, was never questioned for romantic interest.

When Phoenix began to study for the bar again, Miles often enjoy Phoenix falling asleep on his shoulder. Unseen, Miles would smile before poking him awake.

He enjoys movie nights with the Wright family where Trucy and Phoenix would snuggle close and dinner/banter with Phoenix every week. 

Fantasies of sleep-snuggling with the man he admires and trusts the most and has an intense emotional-intellectual connection? Of course, he does. “So near and yet so far” has never been so painful in that one time they have to share a bed.

After Phoenix got his badge back, Miles was pretty much satisfied. His life was more stable, inner and outer, than it had ever been. Phoenix and Trucy’s life were also stable. Miles now felt more confident and comfortable in their bond and Miles would do what it takes to keep it as a part of his life.

He may have felt a little thrill when they both become comfortable enough for Phoenix to be casually affectionate with his touch -an arm around his shoulder as they laugh about something, a hand on his arm when asking about a case- it felt like back in their more carefree childhood. 

State vs Wyatt. Miles was pretty much ruffled with questions about marriage directed at him of all people. But if he has to marry someone, it might as well be someone he knew so well and trusts so much. Miles may have opted out some of his opinions in marriage but he was no longer the person who would lie to himself of who that someone would be.  

He wanted... something. He wanted a sort of exclusivity with Phoenix. The idea of Phoenix dating other people made Miles realized he wasn’t the type to share. The revelation itself was frustrating when he was neutral or repulsed of varying degrees when it comes to different romantic and sexual acts.

With a combination of finally having the words to describe what he wanted in Google Search and help with his therapist, the name of what he wanted with Phoenix was a queerplatonic relationship with a compromise on whatever would be Phoenix’s romantic/sexual needs from him. If Phoenix would have him as so. And if Phoenix wouldn’t... well, their friendship had been through a lot of things, this one event wouldn’t change it much. 

(This is from my own experiences and wants as someone in the acearo spectrum. I’m not the universal experience for acearo and it can be different for everyone else.)

[extremelyblackandwhite]

illicit affairs

pairing: sheriff lee bodecker x younger! reader

warnings: smut (18+), cheating, age gap

a/n: i love perfumes which smell of daisies so i made the reader use something like that. i do imagine her going for a very much female appearance and aura despite her personality and i can see lee fancying that sort of fragile femininity look paired with her independency. this song is based of illicit affairs from taylor swift but i was also listening to all too well at some points so i think some of that passed onto the writing. hope you enjoy xx

> DRESS

Leave the perfume on the self that you picked up just for him so you leave no trace behind like you don’t even exist. Take the words for what they are a dwindling, mercurial high, a drug that only worked the first few hundred times ... And you wanna scream don’t call me “kid”, don’t call me “baby”, look at this idiotic fool that you made me. You taught me a secret language I can't speak with anyone else. And you know damn well for you I would ruin myself a million little times ...

The snow settled onto the ground, a view she could see from her white window. Sprawled against her window pane, the blue soft fabric of her dress cascaded down her body as she watched the snow fall and become one with the mass of white covering the once green grass of her home. Her feet dangled in anticipation, hair cascading into hairdresser set curls, held away from her face with a pearl barrette. Her fingers dangled across her collarbones, feeling the cold matching pearls which unlike her barrette clip, had been offered to her by Lee on thanksgiving. “A pretty girl like you deserves her own pearls” his voice echoed in her mind whenever her feeling felt the smooth irregular circle shapes of the pearls laying against her collarbones. There was nothing more than she wanted than to wear those pearls to the police winter ball, to show up wearing something he had bought for her with what money he gathered from his fickle Captain position, but she couldn’t. Everyone knew what she had, what jewellery she had, it was all valued at the insurance centre downtown and the pearl necklace definitely wasn’t. Her own pearls rested inside her ivory jewellery box along with the ribbon she was wearing around her waist when she first kissed him, and the comb that held her hair in place whenever she met him during windy nights. 

Her grandmother had left before her, leaving with the grocery shop owner as her date for the ball but she had stayed behind. She had told her she’d rather go alone, blaming her loneliness on the fact all the boys her age were either engaged thus going with their wives and the single ones not wanting to do with her. Of course that was further from the truth and as she watched the snow fall, she imagined Lee’s cruiser driving through the snow, stopping in front of her home and knocking on her door to take her. But those were nothing but impossible scenarios created from the deepest part of her psyche. Looking over her shoulder, the clock on her bedside table shone 9PM into bold red letters. She should get going before her grandmother got worried. Her eyes lingered across her beauty parlour to the silver platter with her perfume, the one she’d picked just for him after hearing how much he loved the smell of daisies. She had to leave it, she couldn’t put any perfume on, she couldn’t take her pearls, she doesn’t exist. At least, she as Lee’s lover does not exist for all that everyone could know and nothing hurt more than the sound of her pearls returning to her ivory box. It was were they belonged, away from everyone, hidden, a mysterious sin secret. 

With her white fur wrapped around her arms, she entered her glossy yet dull red car, pulling the hood up despite the weather. She wanted to feel the cold, she wanted that numbness to hide what she had been feeling for the last months. It was all so exhilarating when it began; the summer walks, laying in the middle of the forest in an old towel as he feed her ripe strawberries, escaping from her grandmother’s house at night and meeting him up under the apple tree in light dresses. However, at time wind down, she started to crave the rest of a relationship, the holding of hands. Instead what she got was clandestine meetings in parking lots, behind the bars or in the middle of the forest when no one could see them. She constantly told herself it was going to eventually be her turn, he was gonna leave Jane for her. Yet, she seemed to constantly fall on the same error every mistress before her did, the mistake of forgetting her place. Stopping in front of the old town hall where the ball was being held, she could see the soft lights, hear the laughter and it made her sick. She didn’t want to go in, she didn’t want to see those happy couples but she had too. She had to put up a show, be the little pedestal trouble starter woman she was expected to be and so she would. 

Stepping into the hall, her eyes immediately found Lee in the corner speaking with the Sheriff, arm draped over Jane’s shoulder while the other hand held a clear cup probably with his favourite drink. Her heart sunk to the same place it always did as she got lost in the dance floor. She knew everyone in this town hall, from the first boy she ever kissed Jonah and his third wife Elizabeth to Billy whom had been prom king with her. There was nothing new anymore and what once felt new and true was now anchoring her inside a fishbowl of images of her own mistakes and unfulfilled life needs. 

      - Hey, Y/N. - Billy called out for her attention. She held onto the fur wrapped around her for comfort as she prepared her facade of a happy girl at a happy party. - Your grandma told me you ain’t gotta a partner for tonight. Could’ve told me, I would’ve taken you. 

      - It’s ok, ain’t like I need a man. - she replied, almost angrily although he deserved no anger from her. - What’s the stage for? We’re getting a band tonight?

      - No, the new sheriff candidates announcing themselves tonight. Prepare for the blood bath. 

      - Sounds interesting. - she spoke out, her voice getting mumbled out as the mic’s sound hurt her and everyone else’s ear. The police chief stood there in his best attire, holding a small piece of papers, his fat thumbs hitting the mic to gather everyone’s attention. He already had their attention merely by wearing a cowboy’s hat with a formal suit. 

       - Now folks, we all now how much we gonna miss our good old Sheriff but it’s time to elect a new one. - his southern accent was pronounced, too pronounced, cartoonish even. Y/N remembered laughing as a child when she first heard him speak only to immediately shut up when her grandmother looked her way with a look which left room for no questions. She herself had barely developed an accent, her grandmother still very keen on instilling in her the education she herself had gotten. However, the longer she spent with Lee, the more it would sometimes slip; one or two words, nothing major. - Of course, Leroy is running again.

     - I don’t know why he tries. - Y/N whispered to Billy, concealed laughing smile behind her hand. 

     - You gotta admit it’s a good thing to imagine. Damned Leroy and his prostitutes running the town? We’d be forgotten by God.

     - We’re already forgotten by God. We were banished from the garden of Eden, don’t you remember? - she teased, always enjoying to toy around with the religion Knockemstiff was so hang up on. - We’re probably direct descendants. 

     - You ought to keep that mouth shut if you don’t wanna get in trouble. - he warned yet it went through deaf ears. Y/N liked stirring it, specially when it came to things which were so analytically flawed. 

The regular list of candidates continued to go from officers to common folk who all believed they could make the town better. At least that was all they said they wanted to get some votes but at the end of the day, they just wanted to control the town with an iron fist. Do what they wanted without anyone question it. She couldn’t blame it, humans are hardwired to go crazy for power and let it consume them so she just let it pass. She knew all the candidates, they were always the same. Leroy, Matthew, Edwards ... all the common ones, she even wondered why they kept announcing it. Those three competing for the sheriff position was as certain as the sun coming up each morning. 

      - The last candidate is our cap’tain Bodecker. - her head snapped to the stage as every sound seemed to dim until she was surrounded by pure silence. All she could hear was the buzz from her ears as she watched him climb up the stairs to the stage, shaking the chief’s hands. 

Everything seemed to be stuck in slow motion yet her mind was running faster than a shot bullet. The clapping was slow, everything was silent yet she could see their hands slowly clap and their lips moving in whispers. Her eyes roamed the crowd finding Jane right in front of the stage, looking up at him with adoration at the possible place she could possible hold; the sheriff’s wife. The slow motion ended with a loud crash and suddenly everything seemed just too fast. She ignored Billy’s pleas for her attention and moved straight to the small plastic tables covered in burgundy towels to make it look fancier where all the drinks and food were being held. One of her only friends from high school Mary was the one in charge, happily serving food and drinks to anyone who asked.

     - Hi Y/N. - she always looked like the perfect housewife and that was always what she wanted to be. Beautiful, bountiful blonde hair with a few flowers matching her pink dress. Despite it all, she was always nice to her even with their different life goals. 

     - Hey Mary. How’s Paul? I heard from rumours you two had quite a nice honeymoon. St.Louis, right? 

     - Yes. He booked us a nice honeymoon suite, it had flowers and those heart shaped beds and chocolates. It was real nice, I’m hoping to be pregnant soon. What about you? Your grandmother said you came alone. You could’ve told me, my brother would’ve taken you.

    - That’s alright, Mary. I don’t intend to stay for long ... Uhm, can I have a drink?

    - Of course. Sidecar, as per usual? 

    - I think I’ll just have a double cognac, please. Or maybe some gin ... whatever can make me dizzy the fastest.

    - Everything, okay?

    - Just need to forget some stuff, it’ll be okay. - she forced a smile. At least half that phrase was true. Mary served her up with her best gin and she returned to the dance floor, trying to blend with the rest of the attendees, however her baby blue dress was much too different from anything else in town. 

Y/N thought she’d be best outside where no one could see her and so she left, avoiding Billy who kept asking for her. She leaned against the old wood of the town hall, mascara running down her cheeks, and gin glass on the other one. She looked like the perfect warning tale of why you should not mess her married men. She knew better, she knew so much better but she still did it, like the idiotic little fool she seemed to be. Y/N sighed, the air condensing in the air as she drank from the glass.

     - Pull yourself together, Y/N. - she looked to see side, her grandmother standing outside with the look she used to give her when Y/N embarrassed her as a little girl. - What did you expect?

     - I’m just not having a good day, nana.

     - You’re hanging around with Captain Bodecker that’s what you’re doing.

     - What?

     - Don’t play innocent with me, Y/N. You’re just like your mother and I’ve raised your mother so I’d know. I saw you leave in his car last week. Do you want to defend yourself?

     - Is it even worth it? - she took a sip out of her drink. - What do you want me to say? 

     - I want you to pull yourself together and go inside. You better have this finished off before those elections start. I will not have my granddaughter be a home wrecker.

Y/N ignored it. There was nothing her grandmother could say that hurt more than what she was already feeling. She watched the snow fall from the cover of the banner covering the town hall, cold and icy yet somehow warmer than her. The drink didn’t last forever and although it was much stronger than what she was used to, she didn’t feel the slightest bit dizzy. It was if the universe was punishing her for her choices. She shook her head, leaving the glass onto one of the windows. She’d be better off at home and she’d already made her appearance. If someone asked where she was, she could’ve blamed it on their drunkness. Opening her little clutch, she started fishing for her keys through a sea of change, makeup and receipts. 

    - You better not be thinking of driving after you just drank. - she turned her head to see Lee with his hands on his waist, playfully smiling at her. His smile faded as he noticed the streaks of mascara from her eyes to her jaw. - Did that shithead Billy say something? 

     - No ... Lee, I wanna go home okay. - she sighed. - Can you just pretend you didn’t see me drink?

     - I was hoping we could spend the night together. Rent a hotel room outside town. A real nice place, with a pool and some room service. My treat of course.

     - I ... We can’t, Lee. Your wife is inside as she’s gonna notice you’re not there and you’re not home. 

     - She’s going home early. Jane’s been taking a few sleeping pills. She’s down for the night, won’t even notice. - he took a few steps closer to her, knowing everyone was too drunk to even remember. - I was waiting for you to come greet me, congratulate me. I can’t believe my girl wanted to leave before showing me how pretty she looked. 

     - You didn’t tell me you were running for Sheriff. - he cupped her face, thumb caressing her cheek. - You said it was a silly position.

     - Yeah but ... it’s a Sheriff. I could become Mayor, ya know. The old sheriff thinks I’d be good for it. - he scratched the back of his neck, something he always did whenever he was nervous or was confronted by something he did not expect. Y/N had learned to read him and knew him better than her own favourite books. - C’mon, kid. It’s a night worth celebrating, don’t you think?

     - Don’t call me kid. - she shot her head his way, his word hitting a particular hurt spot which she didn’t realise she had. 

     - Hey, I’m not trying to mock ya. - he rose his hands. - What’s wrong, huh baby? Hm? Tell me sugar, I hate it when you’re upset. Besides, if it was that Billy kid I’ve been wanting to give him a good beating.

    - Don’t call me baby, either. - she sighed, throwing her purse inside the car, before turning to him. - Billy didn’t do anything I’m just ... tired.

    - I’ll drive you home, then.

    - I don’t wanna go home either. - she pushed her hair from her forehead, looking at the ground. The snow engulfed her feet and her shoes, yet it might as well have engulfed her entire being. Lee noticed her lip trembling and how her free hand was trying to stop tears from falling down. He looked behind him, the town hall door shut, before taking his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders, and opening the car door for her. 

 Y/N daren’t look him in the eye, instead sitting in the passenger seat as he pushed the hood of her car up. After all, most people did not enjoy driving in the snow with the hood up. She didn’t know where he was taking her and for all it mattered she didn’t want to know. If he was driving her to her killing location, it sounded much better than having to work out through the bubbling feelings in her tummy. Y/N didn’t even noticed how much she was crying until the tears started streaming so fast they were falling onto the palms of her hands like diamond daggers. She leaned her head against his shoulder, watching the road ahead through the blurry orbs of her own eyes, trying to find some warmth through him. The drive seemed endless and her mind rushed in an even more endless way as she considered all her choices til now. She found it unbearable how not guilty she didn’t feel about it. She could still remember the feeling of the cold water against her body and his lips against hers, being tangled in his bed sheets while he drank a beer, his grunts as he thrusted into her inside his patrol car. She remembered every detail either it being lust or romantic but most importantly she remembered how he looked at her. It was almost as through rose coloured glasses, most of the times agreeing with her pessimist view of the town she was in. Lee looked down on her, watching her perfect hair break through the gelled curls she had set down. He never liked the polished look anyway, he loved to see her walk in her white dresses and freshly washed hair flowing with the wind. This woman sat next to him was gorgeous but he preferred his Y/N, he preferred the woman who would poke fun of casualty and rush into the woods with her nightgown. This woman next to him was pretty yes but she seemed tainted by a sadness he could see yet couldn’t help. He didn’t want his Y/N to be the slightest bit sad. She did not deserve it. She was too pure, too young to be consumed by the loneliness, darkness and sadness that came with being an adult. Yet again, he had to start learning the young woman she was wouldn’t stay young forever. He wanted to know how to help. he wanted to be the man who wakes up next to her on summer mornings and winter evenings but life is not how we plan it out to be.

She watched the snow fall from her window as “You are my sunshine” played on the background from her radio. Looking up to him, his eyes were glued to the road, the sign of leaving Knockemstiff way past them and the hotel on the horizon. She called it the Heartbreak hotel, with its red walls and luxurious nature. A more fancy place for those who wanted to give a better night to their mistresses but that was not why she called it the heartbreak hotel. It was due to the fact she ended up crying every time she or he left. While inside those walls, she could pretend they were Mr. and Mrs. Bodecker, young couple moved out of Knockemstiff on a romantic getaway yet she wasn’t Mrs. Bodecker, Jane was. She had seen who the future sheriff’s wife was and it was not and it would never be her. He stopped the car in the parking lot, looking at her who was lost in thought, leaned against his shoulder.

   - Come on, sugar. What is it? - Lee kissed the top of her head. - The heck happened in that Town Hall?

    - Just being silly, Lee. - she shook her head, faking a smile. - Just don’t like parties one bit.

    - I hate ‘em too, sugar. All show no action. Besides no party is a party without my baby. - he hooked his ring finger under her chin, softly pulling it up. She tried not to look at the moonlight illuminating the silver band around his finger, a symbol he belonged to someone else and she knew it. She had seen the wedding photo on his secretary, a much younger Lee with a much younger Jane with the facade of a happy marriage. Thinking about it always made her sick and ever since seeing that picture she couldn’t bring herself to do so. - Come on, let’s get you a bubble bath, yeah?

She followed him into the hotel almost in a zombie like state until the reception. The talk was a dance she had danced before, it was all the same. Lee would present money in cash so it wouldn’t show up on his credit card statement. He would sign in with a fake address but with his own name and no one would question it. After all, the staff wanted money, they didn’t care if it was an illicit affair or not. To be honest, she didn’t care much anymore.

     - Mrs. Bodecker? Mrs. Bodecker? - the receptionist called out to her but it didn’t even register until she was looking her into the eyes. Mrs. Bodecker, she was definitely not. - Would you like a complementary tea? You look cold.

     - No, it’s okay. - she smiled while Lee grabbed the keys. His hand wrapped itself around hers, leading her over to the elevator.

God, she wanted him. She really did, he thought to himself. It was an unbelievable feeling to have someone who loved him back, someone who always had encouraging words to tell him, someone who would stay after a fight. He thought and imagine what it would’ve been like if she was born earlier, god he would’ve courted her and would’ve married her the second they were out of high school. Sadly, the woman he loved was born 10 years after and he met her when he was married. He led her to the 13th hotel room and closed the door behind them.

     - Things are gonna be different when I’m sheriff. No more sneaking around, no one will dare  say a word. I can move to Brewer Heights, heck, I can buy two houses, one just for you and me.

    - Lee ...

    - Where are your pearls, sugar? You know I love to see you with them, makes you look so pretty.

    - You know I can’t wear them in public, Lee. I am not your ... - she shouldn’t say that, she should not let those words out. - They’re not insured under my name, people would comment about it.

     - You worry too much. - he pushed the fur that covered her arms down, placing a small kiss on her elbow. - My little over-thinker.

     - One of us has too, Captain Bodecker.

     - How about some champagne? - he pointed towards the champagne bottle in the ice bucket by the dresser before walking towards it, raising it so he could inspect the brand. He longed for the finest things in life, no longer wanting to be that middle to low class man he’d been forced to be. Being Sheriff, Mayor someday was going to be really something, it’d be his chance.

    - I’m not 21 yet, Captain.

    - Only a month til you are, kid. - he filled two long crystal flutes, handing it over to them. - By then I should stop calling you kid, huh?

    - You shouldn’t call me kid, now. - she took a sip of the golden liquid, hoping it would take away her jealousy. Lee hummed, leaned over to kiss the crock of her neck, climbing up to her jaw in a move that was sure to leave marks. It was okay for him to leave marks on her, she was unmarried, young but on him? Sometimes she wanted to, sometimes she wanted to mark his pale plump skin as a possession, one that screamed Jane might have the wedding ring but she had the man. Yet, she couldn’t. - You look so handsome tonight.

    - You’re my worse critic. - he smirked, placing his glass on the bedside table before pulling her chin towards him, placing a soft kiss on her plump, painted lips. - God, you can’t even imagine how fucking hard I got when you walked in.

    - Such gentle behaviour. - she teased, fingers lightly tracing the skin of his face. He moaned, leaning in to kiss her again. - I wore it just for you. Blue. I knw you like it.

    - You’re always such a good girl for me. - he started to remove his jacket, pushing on her chest lightly so she laid against the luxurious bed.

The alcohol sure did a better job than her about making her forget what she was doing it. The alcohol and his kiss, his touch on her skin made her forget the clench in her heart when she saw Jane Bodecker clap once they said his name. It made her forget she couldn’t hear perfume around him unless he showered, it made her forget. Both of her moaned through the kiss, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that it was a sin. Maybe that’s why it taste so sweet, the sin, the thrill. None of them cared really and all he wanted to do now was hold her, touch her, look at her.

    - You are so beautiful. - he spoke, more to himself than to her specifically, leaning down on the bed as he spread her legs, taking his place in between them which was so familiar to him. Lee ran his knuckles through the middle of her folds, cold hands making her shiver. - Ev’ry darn day I wake up and I think, I got myself the most beautiful woman in the world.

Her eyes were glued to the ceiling, the white paint of it engulfing her as his hands caressed her thighs. All she could feel were his cold hands massaging the skin of her thighs, spreading them apart and giving him full access to her. His lips attacked her core, always chapped which made her feel so good, it made her know it was him giving her that pleasure. She moaned out loud as he dwelled in like a starved man, her head relaxing against the pillow. There was never any mercy with him, he teased her like he owned her, focusing on her clit while licking her folds. He had her exactly where he wanted her - starving for him.

   - You’re gonna see. - he mumbled out while he relentlessly ate her out. - When I’m sheriff there will be no more hidin’. No one gonna dare say anythin’ about it.

   - Lee, please ... no foreplay. - she whined, begged even as he stopped his motions. His eyes curiously searched for hers, hands pulling his body up as he stood on top of her. - I just want to feel you.

   - Weren’t you feelin’ me, sugar?

   - You know what I mean, Lee. - she wrapped her hands around his neck, head cocked to the side. - I don’t want any foreplay today.

    - Oh sugar ... - he chuckled leaning down to kiss her collarbone. - You’re just a cock slut for me, aren’t ya? Can’t just wait for me to treat ya right ain’t it, baby?

     - Lee, please. - she whined, hands wavering over his police issued chunky belt. Lee smirked, holding her hand before she could do anything. Y/N pouted, head leaning against her shoulder. - C’mon.

   - But baby, you look so pretty when you’re begging. - he returned to kiss her neck, leaving marks which were sure to become hickeys tomorrow but she didn’t care. No one was going to see it. - I was expecting you to come congratulate me in the way you always do, maybe in the back of the town hall. Hoping someone would catch us so they’d see you’re my girl.

    -  Lee ... -  she whined as he kept kissing her neck and collarbones. - Please.

    - Tell me what you want, baby. You know I do everything you want. - he rose from her neck, toothy grin as he leaned down to kiss her plump, pink painted lips. - Tell me you want my big fat cock. I know you do, baby. Tell me how much you need it. 

  - Lee ... please, need you.

  - You have me, baby, tell me what you need. Tell me what you want. - his knuckles ran through the middle of her folds again. - You’re so wet, baby. Just tell me what you want, c’mon

  -  Lee ... please. - she looked at him with those wide eyes that could get someone to commit murder for her, as he pushed down his trousers. - I want you to fuck me with your ... big fat cock, Capitain. 

  - Oh, baby ... - he leaned his forehead against hers as he pushed his cock past her entrance, eyes shut tight  as he tried to keep himself sane at the mere feeling of her walls contracting against him. His lips found hers as he shed himself fully into her. Her hand searched for his, as Lee slowly rolled his hips against hers, basking in the mere high that was being inside of her. - You okay, baby? 

  - Yeah. ... fuck, move. - she whined as he removed himself from her and pushed back in, slowly starting to rock into her as he always did. The little tease. Her hand clenched his as he speed up his thrusts, lips returning to hers in a messy, moaned filled kiss. All she could hear was the sound of skin against skin and interrupted breathing. - Lee, fuck.

  - I know, baby. - he laughed, returning to kiss her the way he liked as her walls started to clench more forcefully against his member, milking him for all he was worth. His free hand grabbed her hip as he further sped up against her, bruising her skin as his breaths got more raggedy. He bite onto her neck as he felt his control over his own orgasm disappear. 

  - Lee, fuck! - she moaned, almost raising off the bed as her own orgasm washed over her. Her head fell against the pillow, sluggish as he continued to thrust into her until ropes and ropes of cum painted her walls. He chuckled mid grunt, holding her against him as he turned around in bed. 

  - You all fucked up, aren’t ya, sugar? - he kissed the top of her head. - You’re gonna see, sugar. Things are gonna be so much better.

  - Right ... - she cuddled against his chest. - Hm ... Lee can you drive me back home early on?

  - Early shift?

  - Yeah.

  - Okay, sugar.

The morning was a harsh breaker of dreamy hazes and just like that she was back to the place where she always was, in her home, surrounded by the scent of the perfume she had bought just for him. She sat on her dress, taking the necklace he had given her from the little mother of pearl seashell shaped box and holding them against her chest. She loved him, she really did. Some people had their downfalls and hers was painted onto her neck and held by her hands. He was her downfall. 

The sun was high up on the snowy midday in Knockemstiff and once again Lee had been resigned to desk duty after the Sheriff not taking it too lightly he decided to run without his permission. Normally he would’ve been upset but he knew, he knew he was close to winning and then he could throw away those stupid hotels and just get her a little house close to him. God, he couldn’t fucking wait.

    - Captain Bodecker, someone here for you. - his secretary knocked on his door. - Mary Gillies, sir. 

    - Mary Gillies? - he knew her to be a friend of Y/N’s, perhaps her only friend other than that punk Billy. - Send her in.

    - Good afternoon, captain. - she said as she walked into his office. - I’m so sorry to be bothering but Y/N ...

    - Is she alright? - he interrupted her.

    - Yes, well ...  - she rummaged through her bag to find a cushioned envelope with his name on it. - She told me to give you this.

   - What is it?

   - I don’t know, captain. I must get going, my husband is waiting for me.

   - Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Gillies.

He waited for the woman to be out of his office and for the door to be shut for him to open the envelope. The minute he opened the envelope, pearls fell into his desk, the same pearls he had given Y/N followed by a small note in the dusty pink stationary that normally laid on her dresser. Turning it around, he saw the words he’d been dreading to read or hear ever since he met her. I’m sorry, Lee. He threw the letter on his desk before getting up from his desk as fast as he could, ignoring the calls from his colleagues as he got into his cruiser. Damned, Brewer Heights, why couldn’t it be closer?

He approached her home fast and closed the door as fastly as he ran up to the door. Her hag of a grandmother was possibly at church and he had learned where they kept the spare key; behind a violet pot. His heart was beating as fast as a deer on a hunt as he climbed up the stairs and found the once filled room was empty, with only a perfume bottle on her empty dresser. He observed the whole room as if he were in a nightmare, sitting on her bed as he clenched the pearls he had given her not so long ago, the smell of daisies in the air as some song played on the still turned on radio.

You never know dear how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away ...

taglist: @lookiamtrying​ 

[hb-writes]

Don’t You Dare Touch Me

Summary: When Sam and Dean let Nora in on a hunt, she gets more of an experience than she bargains for. She deals with it the only way she’s ever seen a hunter deal—by burying it deep down below a level of anger and alcohol.

Characters: Dean Winchester & Nora Winchester

Content Warnings: Angst, typical Winchester family business - murder/ death, emotional pain/ trauma, and alcohol consumption.

--

"I think that's enough."

Nora scoffed, her eye contact with Dean remaining steady as she pitched back the drink, feigning indifference as the whiskey seared her throat, sending a warmth through her chest that barely flickered when compared to the pain surging through her as she searched for some sort of release or whatever it was that her brothers and father and every hunter she had ever known seemed to be chasing down the bottom of a bottle.

Dean rarely had much to say about his sister having a drink these days, hadn't really since she turned eighteen. He didn't have much of a leg to stand on considering he'd started consuming much earlier than she had and it didn’t bother him much anyway. Nora was a good kid. She was usually responsible about it. 

Nora had only gotten drunk once in the time since she’d started indulging without asking permission, and she’d done it in the company of her brothers, the three of them collectively getting a little out of hand in the name of celebration, but this was something different. This wasn’t a finger of whiskey enjoyed with her bare feet up on the coffee table or Nora and Sam sampling a fancy bottle of wine. It wasn’t a beer used to wash down one of Dean’s famous burgers. 

He recognized this as something else entirely, something he’d done more than once, something he’d never wanted for his sister.

Dean wasn't sure how much Nora had had, but his sister had been alone in the library since they arrived back at the bunker, heading straight there without a word to her brothers, the music coming from Sam's laptop growing steadily louder until it finally pulled Dean from his bedroom to check on her while Sam went out to pick up dinner.

The bottle of whiskey sat beside his sister was nearly empty. Dean couldn't remember how much was left before they'd gone out for the latest hunt, but he imagined it had been more than half-way full the last time he’d had it out of the cupboard. How much she’d had didn't matter though. His concerns were more closely tied to the fact that his sister had sought this out on her own, reaching for oblivion as she pored over the book they should've read a bit closer the day before, poring over the passage he shouldn't have rushed her through.

She'd been curled up with the book in the backseat for the entire ride back to the bunker, completely silent with her headphones firmly in place, not a single request to stop for the bathroom or lunch or to stretch her legs made during the seven-hour journey, not a single interruption to Sam and Dean's conversation voiced, no complaints or sounds coming from their sister in the back seat other than the turning back and forth of pages as she memorized the words Dean hadn’t given her a chance to even skim.

She'd gone for a shower back at the motel, been in there for maybe twenty minutes and she’d come out what Dean would have called stoic, strong and stoic and in control of herself. Dean was a little impressed, proud of the way she was handling everything, especially considering what she'd been through, what she'd ended up having to do, but Dean recognized it was his father’s voice in his head. It wasn’t him. 

He and Sam should have known better than to be impressed, should have known better to be proud of Nora for something like that, something their sister wasn’t even capable of, pushing it all aside like that in the name of soldiering on. Sam and Dean knew their sister better than that, knew better than to accept her words at face value when she insisted she was fine after what she’d been through, what she’d done. And even if it hadn’t been their sister, even if it had been some random person, Sam and Dean should've known better to accept that sort of nonchalance because neither of them had been fine the first time someone else’s blood made its way onto the soft pad of their inexperienced hands. It wasn't something you could ever really wash away, not in the span of a shower, not in the span of a lifetime.

That's why Dean had always relegated his sister to the role of researcher. There were no blood splatters where the books were concerned, not direct ones anyway. It was safer, set a physical and emotional distance between Nora and what they really did, spared her aside from the occasional paper cut and whatever ideas the knowledge put into her head. But Dean understood why she was eager to experience the rest of the job. He'd been the same way once, curious and pulled to it with no real clue as to what hunting really meant.

But just like Nora’s consumption of alcohol, Dean and Sam had been able to push her introduction to it much later than their father had done for either of them. Sam and Dean had spent years instilling in her how important the research was, reminding her how necessary that component was to the success of her brothers’ business.

It had all started as a way to keep her out of the actual hunting, to keep her occupied on the long days left alone in hotel rooms or to entice her acceptance of the long stays at Bobby's, emphasizing the opportunity it gave her to learn from a seasoned hunter and his extensive library. It had been designed to keep her happy and safe, but it had become more than that at a certain point, more than a diversion and a convenient excuse because Nora was good at researching, better at it than either of her brothers, something Sam and his big shot college education were loath to admit some days. 

Nora was smart, natural with the academic stuff like Sam had always been and always with a book nearby from the time she could read, but she had a hint of rebellion in her that kept her from loving school in the same way Sam did. And whenever she hadn't done as expected in regards to the school stuff, she was always quick to point out that Dean hadn't done as expected either, something he often had a hard time arguing with.

So her diligence and skill she’d developed with the research had come as a bit of a surprise, something Dean partly attributed to Nora being so eager to prove herself to them, so eager to fit some place in her brothers’ business that her determined eyes saw things Sam and Dean’s eyes more quickly dismissed or passed over. 

Her determined eyes had still been looking, barely glancing up when they'd come back to the motel the day before, more engrossed in the words before her than her brothers’ updates, and Dean should have paid more attention to that, should have given more weight to the slew of old tomes and Sam’s laptop spread out in front of Nora on the motel bed. He should have heeded the fact that she clearly wasn’t finished with her part of the job, not ready to relinquish the work to them, but Dean hadn’t read his sister right. He’d gone ahead and announced their next course of action, decided what the kid was and that they could take care of things easily without his sister finishing her part of the job, a simple extraction and they'd have Jesse Miller back to frat parties and sleeping through the 8 am college classes his parents paid for from their retirement savings. 

Nora had fought him at first, asking after a few more hours with the books just to be sure, but Sam had already agreed and Dean had easily dismissed the need for confirmation, their collective confidence in the plan enough that a bit of doubt about her abilities, doubt about her experience and hunches, crept into Nora’s mind, and her own confidence fell away, allowing her to set her own plans aside as she agreed to the course Dean charted, moved along that road by the fact that Sam and Dean were letting her come along. 

It had been a while since Sam and Dean had let her do anything more than sit in the car, and she’d been eager, but now they all wished they'd left her behind sulking at the motel. Nora hated it and she usually railed against her brothers' protection with varying levels of intensity, but it had protected her, physically and mentally. It had kept her safe and whole and all of the things Sam and Dean hadn't been for a long time.

Nora met Dean's eye before filling the glass again, her hands shaking as the liquid sloshed over the rim.

“To saving people, hunting things, the family fucking business,” she said, lifting the glass in his direction and offering him a smile that made him feel sick in the pit of his stomach.

"Nor—" Dean stopped himself when she tipped the whiskey into her mouth, a soft hiss coming from her lips before she started filling the glass once again. "I said that's enough."

Nora stood and backed away from the table, taking the glass and the bottle with her as she stepped away. Dean took a few steps toward her, hand extended and reaching for the glass though her back was to him as she trailed away.

“Nora, give me the glass.”

Nora tilted her head back a moment before extending an arm out behind her, setting the now empty glass in his outstretched hand while retaining the bottle and the small bit of whiskey left inside. She let out a self-satisfied snort and sent a smirk over her shoulder at him.

Nora was drunk. She wasn't herself, wasn't in control. She wasn’t conscious of exactly what she was doing. Dean knew that and he knew that he had no right in being pissed off for her behaving the way she was. It wasn't on purpose, but it set something ablaze in him anyway, a flash of anger running through him at his sister's smartassed defiance.

Dean set the empty glass aside, letting it clash with too much force as he placed it on the table and he moved with a more deliberate pace to close the distance she'd put between them.

"Nora, give me the goddamn—"

Dean didn't have a word to describe the sound that ripped from his sister's throat as he pulled her back to him, one hand wrapping around her arm as the other closed over her hand in an attempt to release the bottle from her grasp. Dean understood it though and it stirred something old and nearly dead, something interred deep within him, the sound of his sister's pain resonating so strongly with the residual something that still lived within him, a pain applied and buffed into his bones and soul, so well permeated that he'd never wash it away.

"Don't you dare touch me."

Even if Nora hadn’t growled the words, her wants had been made clear enough, discernible in the way she recoiled from Dean’s touch as if his fingers burned the skin through her shirt sleeve, made obvious by the way she tried to rip herself away from him. Dean didn't allow her to break the contact though, not even when she released a scream so high pitched that Dean could still hear a ringing in his ear a few seconds later when she stopped to take a breath.

The bulk of the remaining whiskey had spilled out in the struggle, drops of it covering them both, but Nora still gripped the neck, her effort to keep hold of the empty bottle renewed as Dean attempted to rid her of it, to get it out from the small space that existed between them, to save them from an even bigger mess, a different kind of pain. Dean couldn't imagine having to physically hold her down to bandage the cut that would inevitably come from allowing her to continue having the thing in her grasp.

Dean made a decision then and almost mechanically took hold of the bottle, twisting Nora's wrist as she cried out in pain, her whole body turning as he did it, her fingers involuntarily releasing the bottle which Dean quickly set aside, freeing her wrist, almost certain she'd use the opportunity to put some distance between them, use it as justified ammunition to keep him away. 

Nora put her hands up and shoved at Dean’s chest hard enough that he stumbled back a step, dazed for a second as she rushed forward, whatever energy she’d been using in retaining the bottle, all of the focus and determination she’d held, now directed at her brother instead, and Dean simply took it, took the fists pounding against his chest, standing firm as Nora pushed against him, trying to move him back, trying to push him away as she sought a bit of the satisfaction she’d gained when he’d first stumbled, her words starting to come as the adrenaline subsided, a string of pained demands taking the place of the pounding fists, a continuous stream of cruel words wielding more power than any of her punches could have, most of them heavy enough and true enough that Dean tried to ignore a good bulk of it, tried to remember that Nora was working at creating a distance between them, both physical and emotional.

Her arms grew slack and Dean finally got a grip on her wrists, her fight renewed as he gained control.

"You can't push me away, kid."

She stopped fighting against his hold then and Dean sighed, relief just beginning to flow into him as he shifted his grip, preparing pull Nora against his chest, to work on getting her through the worst of it, to help her to shift from the anger to the tears, hoping he’d get her to sleep after that.

"You're murderers,” she said, her words barely above a whisper though they held a certain conviction. “You and Sam. Killing innocent people. Innocent fucking people. Ruined. Broken."

Dean swallowed as Nora stepped back, using his second of shock to put some distance between them, both of them working through her words and pulling out what they'd really meant, so much more than Nora labelling her brothers as exactly what they were.

Sam and Dean were hunters. And they had killed innocent people, hurt innocent people, ruined innocent people, broken them.

And Nora had now done the same. She'd summed it all up in words that took her only seconds to get out, expressed that she'd been ruined and had done the ruining, some precious part of her, the person she would never be again, killed in the three seconds it took for the knife in her hands to plunge into Jesse Miller's side, that part of her dead before the kid was, taking its last breath before the first bit of Jesse’s blood came to the surface of the wound she'd inflicted in the name of self-defense, the wound she'd inflicted because her brother had been wrong, wrong in not letting her finish the research, wrong in allowing her to come along, wrong in not watching over her more closely once they were in the middle of it, for putting her in that position.

Dean looked away from Nora for just a moment, to gather himself and avoid having to look at her as she came down from the anger, the hurt taking over as the venomous rage subsided, the tears coming from her heavy eyes somehow different than those that had been there just a moment before, the choked sobs somehow screaming at him though no sound came from her mouth.

"I—"

Dean rubbed a hand down his face, pulling his eyes back to Nora as she tried to speak, her feet moving just a step or so forward as she tried to fill the gaps, tried to fill the space between her and Dean and the space between what she'd said and what she'd meant, but Dean didn't need her to say any of it. Although she hadn't been able to get past that first syllable, Dean knew his sister had opened her mouth intent on labelling herself in the same ways she'd labelled her brothers.

Murderer. 

Killer. 

Ruined. 

Broken.

Dean took a single step, the distance between them already small enough that he could easily reach out and pull Nora against his chest. Any composure she’d had left her shattered as he did it, her whole body shaking with the sobs that were no longer silent, her pain no longer buried under a layer of anger and stoicism as she clung to her brother, barely aware of his attempts to soothe them both.

"It's alright, kiddo. I know."

--

Bye, Bye Apple Pie (Supernatural) Masterlist

500 Follower Celebration Masterlist

[atarahsofer]

Activity Check - 04

“This is your karma. You do not understand now, but you will understand later. The source of pain is within your own larger expression of being.”

The first thing she noticed was the coolness of the concrete digging into her face. Even before her eyes opened, she knew something was wrong. Her body felt so weak, as if it would take everything within her to move. A sharp breath escaped her tiers as she tried to push herself up. Her hands dug into the concrete but she couldn’t do it. It felt as if it was the hardest thing in the world. Her head was foggy, everything ached and she couldn’t remember what had happened. She didn’t know how much time past before she finally had the strength to peel herself from the concrete, jade hues slowly fluttering open just to be greeted with darkness.

Where am I?

She couldn’t see anything but she knew that she certainly wasn’t in her apartment. The last thing she remembered was doublechecking her alarm and falling to bed with Bamba curled up against her head. So what happened? Her head was so fuzzy, the memory between then and now completely blank, as if it were nothingness. Had she taken too strong of a sedative? She’d relied on some aids to help her sleep but she’d never woken up in a place she didn’t remember. Maybe it was the new pill?

With her inability to see, she focused on other things. First, she listened. She wasn’t alone here. Then, she felt around until her hand was on someone’s thigh.

“What the hell?” A familiar male voice called out, clearly irked.

“Mick!” She let out a sigh of relief at his presence.

“Who are you and why are you- Atarah?” His voice lost most traces of annoyance as the recognition softened it but his hand pushed her own from his lap. “Where are we?”

She blinked, trying to let her gaze get used to her surroundings. Knowing Mick was beside her only filled her with more questions, until she heard other voices. Silently, she tried to count them. Everyone was confused, everyone was asking questions until recognition hit her. Their entire community was here. All thirty of them were here. She didn’t exactly know where here was until everything seemed to fall into place. When it all became clear and the discovery of a note seemed to seal their fate, the sinking feeling in her stomach only grew.

What had she done to deserve this? She remembered the words of the rebbe. The phrase still rang in her ears - Middah k'neged Middah. It was essentially “measure for measure,” what comes around goes around. It wasn’t the concreteness of karma but knowing that the only escape was teshuvah – repentance, through Torah – studying the bible, and through good deeds. So much of the Torah, Tatte had said, was to try to instil values and to develop character. Her father had dwelled on his readings, on the rabbinical studies, on making sure that all of his children were ingrained with a fear of God, that they would understand and never shift from the righteous path.

Except she had.

She’d turned her back on everything she knew because she hadn’t been able to come to terms with what was expected of her. It was followed by her first heartbreak.

Middah k'neged Middah.

She'd been punished again twofold - being held as a POW and watching Chaya die. While in captivity, she'd wondered if this was some form of karma - if God was punishing her for her sins. How could the figure who was supposed to love His people hurt her so much? Had she truly deserved it? Was her happiness less important than the religious teachings of her youth?

Atarah had always been rebellious, her parents had always known about her wild streak but she'd gone against everything and it had landed her here. She'd had to hope that ending up in Sanctum had been some sort of consolation prize. She'd been given the great opportunity of a new life, to open a business, to be successful but she couldn't ignoring the nagging in the back of her head - that she should've died instead of Chaya, that she'd given up everything for this, was it worth it?

Of course, now, that she was locked in a basement with her peers, a familiar question came to mind.

Do I deserve this? Is this another case of Middah k'neged Middah?

They were here to make amends. Clearly, this was a forced resolution on the issues that had transpired between the group. Her arms wrapped around her knees, clad in the black sweatpants she'd fallen asleep in. Her thoughts were heavy, confusion setting in. What had she done? What issues had she caused? Surely she had done plenty. She had to repent; she had to find her version of teshuvah now.

She must have earned this. While she kept her crimes and her sins close to the vest, she knew what she was. No matter how much she wanted to present herself as a good person, it was a facade. A bright smile couldn't hide all of her secrets. She had to be better, she had to make amends not only with the others but with herself.

Middah k'neged Middah.

[koorinohebi]

I am curious: how would you describe Kiomi's relationship with Jiraiya? And with Koji Kashin? What you've shared about them so far seems very interesting and I must know more!

Thank you for dropping by and asking about my life blood for Kiomi! xD

Kiomi's relationship with Jiraiya is by far one of my most favorite things (it ties with Sarutobi Arai, another OC whom she formed a really strong bond with over the years, to the point where they are like sisters).

A little tidbit before I begin; to be perfectly honest, with the amount of stuff I dish out that's Jiraiya related, one couldn't have guessed that he was one of the characters that I absolutely HATED back in the day. Whatever admiration I have for Jiraiya mostly stemmed from Kiomi. 

Now, where do I start...

JIRAIYA

I have 3 verses for Kiomi's interactions with Jiraiya. One follows the anime/manga, one is my main verse for her which follows my RP with the Jiraiya she came to know as her sensei, and then one verse with which I've started a long long time ago (and still ongoing with @ambitiousparagon​). Since the most fleshed out is her main verse, I'll be talking about that. 

Truthfully, Kiomi's relationship with Jiraiya is supposed to border on platonic going to enemies. However, fate has a funny way of letting the stars align.

The initial plot for this was Kiomi's desperation to prove herself useful to Orochimaru that she agreed to not only get intel on Konoha, but also take down one of the 2 remaining Sannins. A suicide mission, I know. Since Tsunade had value to Orochimaru as a healer, and someone whom he believed he could still EVENTUALLY sway to his side, her lord instead sent her after the most rumbunctios one of them all. He wasn't going to tell her how to do it. Since she’s so eager to prove herself, he allowed her to plan everything. Which she did, starting with pretending to be a defector from Otogakure. Kiomi had plotted with a few of the Otonins to help her out, set an attack, do as much damage as she could while she escaped to Konoha with pretty valid info (about Sasuke, and maybe a few plans here and there) to try and earn their trust. And while she was accepted, Konoha wasn't so stupid as to simply believe a previous underling of Orochimaru. SO. In order to prevent her from doing any sort of damage, and at the same time to keep her under surveillance, Tsunade had assigned Kiomi as a "student" to Jiraiya who had just returned from one of his reconnaissance missions. And with Jiraiya being a person who doesn't stay long in the village, it seemed like a good course of action to take, one which also worked to Kiomi's advantage because it brought her closer to her goal.

Their student-teacher setup starts out very platonic. Kiomi has always been quite the curious kid. She does her best to learn whatever it was that she could. With her arrangement of being a student, it allowed her to work closely with Jiraiya who, well...being Jiraiya, mostly had his nose stuck in a hot spring somewhere. This made her wonder if this was some kind of weakness that she could exploit when the time was right so she kept a close watch. She'd been warned about his lecherous ways, but since she was a teenage kid who didnt really see herself much of anything, she could care less about his reputation. In fact, there are times when she would wonder if his so called "research" was worth all the broken ribs and bones. Often times she would also use Jiraiya’s love for women and sake as motivation to head to a new village for whatever work they need to do.

Eventually though, the more they traveled the more they kept ending up in trouble's very welcoming arms. And these were the moments when a bond of trust formed between the two. Kiomi had been very open about her principle of not caring about other people's live. Who died and who didn't. After all, she was groomed to be a tool. Her mentor, however, was not having any of that nonsense. Jiraiya instills in her repeatedly the value of human life. True enough that taking one was easy, but preserving it along with learning how to understand one another despite all the differences was the goal of being a shinobi. He also pretty much treats her like an actual human being rather than just someone expendable, which sparked Kiomi's curiosity all the more. Because while Orochimaru had been kind (manipulative), Jiraiya was a very warm individual who didnt seem like his kindness had any strings attached. He also allows her to just bloom into her own person, encouraging her to rediscover herself as more than just a Shinobi, but as a living breathing human being. More than being a mentor on jutsus and other skills, what endeared Jiraiya to Kiomi was how much values and lessons about life she learned from him. To the point where she could no longer push through with her mission of assassinating him, and instead permanently defecting to Konoha. It also helps that Jiraiya hinted that he knew about her supposed betrayal. Where one would have normally sentenced her to execution because she was the enemy, the Toad Sage believed in her, and it was that benevolence that ultimately defeated her.

So it went from platonic to an eventual slow burn of becoming a ship. Which was all accidental, because apparently, due to all the trouble they got into, and due to always having each other's back, the sage developed his own brand of protectiveness over the girl and vice versa. That ended with him being half in denial and half in acceptance of what he was feeling, despite knowing it was probably wrong. He doesn't act upon it though as their bond as Master and Student was what was most important. At the same time, Kiomi who is as dense as a rock had no idea about what exactly it is that she feels. But when she realizes what it is, she tries to avoid it at all cost, as being Master and Student was also more important to her. Every once in a while though, a little bit of their feelings slip through. Mostly when one of them is half dead. (And they get into so much trouble that at the end of a specific arc, one of them is either REALLY injured, or near death, and in one occasion actually died.) There are also times when it just slips on its own from either side, due to careless words, or perhaps impulsive actions that creates a bit of awkward situations.

Here is an example of when Kiomi gives in a little to her own feelings.

===

What am I doing?

She couldn't sleep. She ended up shifting for a while there, turning to look up at the stars that Jiraiya had been so keen on seeing. Everything was pitch black which made her, for a moment, appreciate the little specs of light that seemed to glisten in the vast distance of space. Pretty. However, beautiful as they may, they gave her no comfort. The moon that had so graciously lent them its light was now hiding behind the midnight clouds, shying away from her sight. I can't sleep. At this rate, there would be no rest for her for the entire night.

That was when she felt just a slight shift beside her. Curiously, she took her first glance of him after that short period of silence. A soft sigh passed through her lips. At least, one of them was getting some sleep after a long day of training and misunderstandings. Still, from the looks of how his face was contorting, his slumber didn't seem all too pleasant. I'll check just a little.

And so, she sat up, silently and cautiously moving close enough so that she ever so slightly hovered over him. He didn't look like he was having a good time at all. See, this is why bed was the better choice. The mental note was made. Maybe she should wake him up, just in case he was having a nightmare. In that moment wherein she wanted to call for him, no words came out. Instead, a free hand moved on its own in an effort to touch his face. But they stopped. Just inches away from his cheek. Kiomi remembered the way that he had caressed her own (when he seemed under a delusional trance), but she had no courage to do the same. Even when her mouth moved to speak, only soundless words came out. And even those, she couldn't even finish. Again, she bit her lip inwardly. She didn't have the right to say them. After all, the expression on his face from earlier...the one that enthralled her to the point where she couldn't think straight, wasn't even meant for her.

So instead, her hands retreated to a few strands of hair that was long enough for her to take. Gently, just pressed her lips against them before finally relenting, retreating back to her own spot. And apparently just in time, since a few moments after that, she felt him move. Heard him speak. She had to hold her breath for a moment. Again, pretend to sleep. Closed her eyes.

What...am I doing?

===

In this main verse (where Jiraiya survives through the 4th Shinobi War), we've gotten to a point where they've admitted to what they feel (above is a prelude to said revelation), BUT! More than the awkward lovers they end up as, what's most important first and foremost is their relationship as teacher and student. It’s always the main element, everything else is basically secondary. Their relationship whether it's platonic or romantic, has always been one of learning.

And as proof to that, here is a scenario wherein Kiomi and Jiraiya were having a small lecture on the workings of the heart-- affections vs. unconditional love. She, out of curiosity, blurted out the question, "Isn't it frustrating if you can't touch the person that you love...?". To which the answer came as such:

===

"Hold that thought." He replied as she spoke the last of her words, wanting to take the time to address the prior question which was awkwardly blurted out on her behalf earlier. "It's very frustrating, yes, but...if you can't touch a person's heart with sincere feelings first, then no amount of hugs, kisses, or anything else can fill the void inside of you. There were many things that kept the woman that I loved and I apart. War. Misunderstanding. My own personal faults, but I find that I would've given anything within reason, even not being allowed to touch her in ways that would've held significant meaning for us both, just to be accepted as someone that she loved and was genuinely in love with."

Indeed, he had harbored those feelings for someone else. The unrequited love of the century, in fact, but what was worse in his mind was to succumb to the despair of not being accepted, was giving up on the prospect of being loved or in love at all. This was the man who believed that a ninja's worth was measured in his determination not to give up on their mission. So come what may, this brief skirmish of feelings with Kiomi had strengthened his resolve to maintain that belief system all the more no matter what the outcome between them would be.

"The better question is, why are you alright with hiding so much from yourself?" A contrast sharper than the edge of the most menacing blade, the internal conflict that she was experiencing was the true focus of his next words. "In other words, you won't get anywhere in life if all you do is hide from what you feel for anything." There were no exceptions going to be made, because this was suddenly about far more than mere affection or literary prowess. It was the central issue of Kiomi's very being which needed addressing in its own due time. Jiraiya felt that in the moment, it was his duty to plant the seeds which might otherwise allow her to consider the best options about how to confront and move past so daunting a thing. And there, without ever needing to say a word, his argument was given it's apex example. It didn't matter what realizing the truth of that matter cost if she could manage to pull it off. No price would be too high to pay, even their sacred bond, if it meant that she could grow past the limitation of inhibition which had placed a virtual strangle hold on her heart and mind.

===

Obviously talking about Tsunade in the first part. She feels an irrational bout of jealousy over a person who didn't even choose him, and feels her own emotions to be ugly. It's definitely a different type of envy compared to when she's jealous of Sasuke being Orochimaru's choice for a vessel.

And Jiraiya here made a really good point. The more she hides from what she feels, the more she doesn't get anywhere, which is why in verses where he is dead, Kiomi is left with an overwhelming regret of never having the chance, let alone courage to admit to her feelings and confess. Because she knows that he loves Tsunade, she is prepared for any sort of rejection (and knows that it'll even probably legitimately make her cry all the tears she can cry). If she had just allowed herself that little bit of honesty, then she probably wouldn't be stuck in the mud, unable to move forward in the years to come.

Ultimately though, Jiraiya's happiness is what's important to her. Which is why after the war, Kiomi works closely with both Otogakure and Konoha in order to protect the place and people that her mentor loved and died fighting for.

At the end of it all, I believe that for these three verses, the finality of her relationship with him is one of absolute trust and loyalty. Whether or not her feelings are reciprocated, she has already accepted the fact that Jiraiya ignites a flame within her, not necessarily one brought about by romance, but in the trust that he puts in her. He never was the type to give answers directly. It wasnt a mind game, but Jiraiya's brand of teaching encourages a belief in one's self to find an answer that the student can believe in, something in which he too comes to have faith in.

Kashin Koji’s route comes in a separate post. 

[priorireverte]

Congratulations Emily!

Your application for George Weasley has been accepted. I feel like George is often a character who gets overlooked, or reduced to ‘twin and prankster’. You have definitely not done that, adding so much more to him in a realistic way that a war would. I’m very excited to have him around!

Please look to the checklist for the next steps and reach out if you have any questions!

OUT OF CHARACTER

NAME & PRONOUNS: Emily, She/Her

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I am currently searching for a job, but that does leave me with some time on my hands for rping purposes! Trying to keep myself busy in a multitude of ways when the world is not helping y'know </3

ANYTHING ELSE: TW: rape, sexual assault

CHARACTER DETAILS

NAME: George Weasley

BIRTHDATE: April 1, 1978

DEATHDATE:  N/A

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY:  George identifies as a cis-man and uses he/him pronouns. He is fairly comfortable with these. George is hetero-romantic and asexual, although I would not say this is a term he understands or would use for himself. Whenever his friends would talk about their partners sexually, George would play along with the others, but definitely would look to change the subject as soon as humanly possible. It is simply not something he can comprehend about himself and he does best ignoring feelings that he may not yet understand. The only person he has ever even mildly revealed this to would be Fred, but George was not comfortable going into any major detail in regards to how he felt. At most it was an offhand comment here or there.

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

OCCUPATION: Shop Owner of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes

FACECLAIM: I think I am going back and forth on this and I am also terrible at these—I believe I was debating between Caleb Landry Jones or Luke Newberry. But I think I finally decided to go with Caleb!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND

POSTBELLUM

They say there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They also say that time heals all wounds. George has found out that hard way that this is all a load of rubbish. What they don’t tell you about losing the most important person in your life is that you never fully stop grieving. You can’t heal. Because healing involves forgetting. A bouquet of flowers from his great aunt was nice, but it’s not going to make George forget and it’s not going to bring Fred back. And George has no idea how to keep plants alive, anyway.

It seems like most others have been able to move on; start families, or careers, but George can’t seem to get past it, and he forces himself to deal with his loss head on every day by working day in and day out at that store that haunts him. He sees Fred in everything; from the letterhead on his desk that still reads “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Proprieters Fred and George Weasley”; to the kids who come in and test the screaming yo-yo’s in front of him; or the mirror in the bathroom that is for employees only. He has buried himself in his work post the war, and quite literally expects to be buried in it.

While George will never fully get over the loss of his twin, he has since stopped having panic attacks in the bathroom and got a haircut, which he considers major progress. It has also helped that he has finally taken Ron up on his offer to help run the shop, which he realized he needed a long time ago, as the bills have piled up from all his discounts. [Happy to redact if Ron’s mun decides they don’t want to follow this plot!] He still snaps at his family more than he would like, but they know how suffocating they can be.

The news of the Returned may have been the happiest anyone had seen George in years. He cracked a joke and even went out of his way to visit his siblings, instead of making them come to him. To Hell with adjusting to his new life, he was ready. It seemed clear to him that those who died valiantly in the Battle of Hogwarts were returning—After all, if people like Professor Lupin and Lavender Brown were coming back, it was only a matter of time until Fred did too, right?

PERSONALITY: What are they good at? What do they struggle with? What are their strengths and weaknesses? 

Boys as loud as their hair, is what George heard Filch say about him and his brother once, and it lit up his face with a wide bright grin before he tapped Fred excitedly on the shoulder to share the good news. It was this unbridled optimism, this impractical belief that he could do anything that gave him the confidence and courage to follow his dreams. That, and having a partner by his side.

George was easy to get along with, because for most of his life his decisions had been made for him and all he had to do was saddle up and play along. Fred was always the one setting the wheels in motion, and George was grateful for that. He wasn’t shy by any means, but people just flocked to Fred, and by association George. They were known to light up any room they were in, and were always the first to enliven a crowd if it was too dreary for their liking. He liked having the same friends as his brother. He liked being a package deal. He knew Fred would always have his back so when he felt like he wanted to retreat, he knew Fred could carry a conversation or sort something in the shop without him.

Perhaps that’s why it’s been so hard for George to adjust to life on his own. Now all of that pressure falls on him and it feels overwhelming. He was never the business-savvy brother, leaving Fred to come up with price points while he worked on ideas for new products.

Now, it feels like half of himself is gone. Sometimes he feels like a body walking around and smiling because that’s what people are supposed to do, but the joy just isn’t there. The smiles are artificial now. He is trying, but few things can bring back that spark that his twin so easily transferred over to him.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY: What was being part of their family like? How did they grow up? What values did their parents/family instill in them?

His parents instilled in him and all his siblings a love and joy greater than most, and George was grateful for that. The Weasley’s weren’t well off by any means, but that only bubbled the creativity in the twins, especially when it came to ways to cure their boredom. He remembers fond birthdays he shared with Fred where they made their own cake scream or spent an entire afternoon perfecting exploding snaps in their bedroom, much to the dismay of their parents. The Burrow was unkempt and chaotic, but George loved it, squeaky floorboards and all.

He hasn’t been back in years, purposefully choosing to close himself off from that space. He knows his mother isn’t happy with his choice and that guilt eats him up inside, but that shrinking feeling in his heart is better than the burning feeling he would get of seeing his brother’s hand on that clock. Still, George loves his family endlessly, even if he hasn’t done a very good job of showing it these last couple of years.

HISTORY: What was their life before the end of the war in ‘98 or before their death? What was important and formative for them?

There was a time when George thought that the worst thing that could happen to him was having to de-gnome the garden after flying a car underage. Then there was a time he thought the worst thing that could happen to him was losing an ear. George and his siblings grew up in a loving, but shabby home. He loved his siblings and knew they loved him, even if he and his twin brother were always pranking them. They were carefree, and they had each other.

Fred was the one who first suggested the two go into business, and George was always the first to agree with his big brother. It felt like a dream, leaving the drudges of school behind and spending all day doing what he loved with the person he cared about most. They never fought. They had been a well-oiled machine since birth, so it only made sense that their business ran smoothly. The one knew where the others’ strengths and weaknesses lied. Fred was better at bargaining and he didn’t care what color the walls were, like George did. Growing up did not seem like growing up, because he had a partner by his side.

George was the one who first brought up going back to Hogwarts. Given their proximity to the Order of the Phoenix and Harry, fighting alongside them was their only option. Additionally, George felt they owed Harry for helping them start their business in the first place. He will always believe that the cause they fought for was noble and right, but he sometimes wonders if the victory was worth the loss. He doesn’t spend much time with folks of his past. George doesn’t want to, but a piece of him resents Harry. He would never tell anyone, but he wonders if they hadn’t gotten so close, felt it was necessary to fight alongside him, if Fred would still be here. He wonders If he wouldn’t fall asleep alone at his desk every night curled into a ball; he wonders if he would ever make a new product instead of staring, detached at the efforts that just remind him of his brother.

OOC EXPLORATION

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? I feel like finding a post-war trio era rp with a unique plot that is also para-based is me asking for too much, and yet here you are!! I have never explored Post-War George and I think his trauma is so fascinating and it could affect his life in so many different ways, as it already has. The addition of the Returned is asking for more ~angst~ and boy am I here for it :) In particular, I am interested in exploring the dynamics George has with his siblings especially, as I am sure some of them have very different reactions to him kind of closing himself off for a bit, and his guilt is obviously through the roof because of it. But also all characters tbh!!! I love for plotting out entirely too much backstory haha.

ANYTHING ELSE?  I made a mood board for George here! https://www.pinterest.com/ebateman64/ch-george-weasley/

And also some head canons!:

George has a hard time sleeping (he always has) but he actually enjoys sleeping in his office. The papers piled high, the Pygmy Puffs that squeak at night–the clutter and chaos actually feel like the most stable thing he has had in a long time. Immediately following the war, George stayed at the Burrow for a few weeks to be closer to his family, using it as an excuse to get any leftover stock that might still be in his childhood bedroom. But it was too troubling to sleep in that room. It was bare-boned, not only because he had taken most of his belongings, but because one of the beds was empty. After the first night, he slept on the couch in the living room instead.

While he barely feels the loss of his left ear these days, occasionally there is a ringing sound that fills his head and gives him migraines from the pain, major enough that he needs to lie down. This only happens occasionally, and he usually chooses to push through it by clasping his hand to his ear for a few minutes.

George actually used to care quite deeply about his appearance, however, that has definitely gone downhill in recent years. Some could say he is going to a “rugged” look, but it’s really just because he can’t be bothered to wash his hair. In the last couple of weeks, however, he has donned the old suit that he used to wear to work everyday. He can’t fill it out like he used to, but it gives him some semblance of hope.

[ailynyaxley]

            i am strong but also destructive. i’m restless and harsh and hopeless.              though i have love inside myself. it’s just that i don’t know how to use love.

AILYN ZANELE YAXLEY really is the spitting image of ANTOINETTE ROBERTSON, right? For someone only 26 years old, AILYN has been forced to endure so much. Yeah, that PUREBLOOD has been scraping by at the sanctuary since JULY, 2028, working as a HISTORY TEACHER in the DIVISION OF CIVILIANS. SHE is a CIS WOMAN and is known to be INDIFFERENT and SECRETIVE but also INTELLECTUAL and ADAPTABLE. Best of luck surviving through this.

LINKS – pinboard, stats. playlist. CHARACTER PARALLELS – elle woods (legally blonde), allison reynolds (all for the game), michaela pratt (how to get away with murder), sun bak (sense8) TRIGGER WARNING – sexism, alcoholism, abuse, trauma, death (all have a trigger warning in-text too)

pre-outbreak

sexism tw || ailyn was born as the first child to andre and thandi yaxley, the first granddaughter to corban yaxley (who, at the time of her birth, was still rotting away in azkaban). she was wished for, kind of ----- her parents didn’t wish to raise children together, but did wish to have children so they could further their legacy. and then, of course, there was the fact that ailyn was a girl, which was a bit of a disappointment for andre yaxley, who wanted his firstborn to a son, because --- well, he’s instilled with traditional values that make no one happy (except him, i guess). || end of tw

andre yaxley is not a good man. he grew up in the shadow of his father ---- a successful death eater, who pulled the strings behind a ministry coup once, filled with a bitter wish for justice for him, angry that his father is imprisoned when he was so good at what he did, constantly hoping that the day will come where he can prove himself to be as good at scheming, plotting and cruelty as his father

spoiler: he’s not. he’s a useless piece of stale bread.

alcoholism tw || ailyn is raised in a web of lies. her father had inherited the once successful family company and had let it go bankrupt due to his incompetence, the shame that followed the family name and again, his incompetence, but did not speak of this: every day, he’d kiss his wife goodbye and go to work. but his workplace was the pub, and his work was drinking more beers than good for a man. her mother, who acted as if she was happily married to andre yaxley, smelled of other lovers when she came home from shopping or tea dates with friends.

ailyn is a smart child, an observant one, and figures out all the lies her life is built on quite early on in life. she learned how relative really truth is, how easy lies come. she confronts her father once, when he’s intoxicated and half asleep, and he tells her that he doesn’t have a job any more, that all the money they have comes from his parents-in-law, and he’s angry and disgusted and ailyn thinks he’s angry with her at first, but later understands that he just hates himself. (she would too, if she were him.) 

abuse tw || but while he is mostly angry at himself, he does sometimes direct his anger towards his wife, towards his kids. mostly verbally, sometimes physically. || end of tws

her brother is born when she is five. he is a boy, and her dad prefers him, and she would like to say now that she never cared about her father’s useless opinions, but she did, and she hated it. but she loved her brother, even though he wasn’t as critical as she was, and kept truths from him because of it. 

hogwarts rolled around, and ailyn was sorted in slytherin, though she was nearly a ravenclaw. she would have thrived in both, to be honest, but the sorting hat saw her ambition and self serving nature and thought her a slytherin more. she didn’t care either way. at hogwarts, she kept up her family’s façade, pretending that they were indeed like many other old pureblood families --- rich and thriving, despite controversy. 

she was bitter, though, didn’t want feigned success and richness, wanted something to be really proud of -- not just those fucking lies. ailyn’s hunger for her own success was born then. 

hogwarts was where she learned --- where she learned about her own power, and her lack of it. because here’s the thing: ailyn isn’t a good witch. she’s no good at wand waving and spells and any kind of practical magic besides potions. she understands magic --- delves into the theory of it and understands the tough texts --- and writes stellar essays, but when it comes to charming or transfiguring things, she’s shit. and honestly, ailyn has always had her doubts about blood purism but never pushed herself to actually doubt those ideals (because that’s what she was learned, and sometimes she’s scarily indifferent, and it puts her on a pedestal, and she didn’t mind that for a while), but when she sees that she -- a witch with so-called pure blood -- is no good at magic when others with so-called lesser blood are ten times better, she understands: it’s fucking bullshit.

she’s vague about her stance on it, mostly keeps her feelings hidden under layers of eye rolls and cynicism --- part of her is scared of word getting back to her parents, she supposes. another part of her likes being vague, too. an enigma. 

ailyn also found her love for history at hogwarts. not because of binns, of course --- she wishes she could kill a ghost multiple times during her years in his class --- but because of the work she does herself. obscure parts of history are devoured by her in the library. she learns about muggle history, shamelessly, intrigued by the ethics and morals of humans. 

ailyn might be a shit witch, but she’s very, very intelligent. she’s booksmart, able to read tough books with ease, able to write stellar essays and retain a lot of information at once. she likes learning theoretical stuff, likes getting her head dirty rather than her hands, and it’s because of that that she keeps passing her classes. 

besides, she thinks that it’s more valuable to have a good set of brains than to be good with a wand.

after graduation, ailyn got an administrative job at the ministry, just to make a bit of money, not because she wished to kickstart a career there. she started interning under a historian, and once she had made enough money from her job to have a bit of a safety net, she moved out of her parents house.

and then she didn’t look back. she didn’t cut ties, not really, but she started sending letters less frequently. her relationship with her parents had only worked when she had been dependent on them, and now that she was no longer, she no longer had any interest in being close with them --- she hated her father, thought her mother a coward, knew that they didn’t care about her, not really, not as they should. and so a wedge grows. ailyn shows up for family dinners every now and then and keeps in touch, but she focuses more on her own life, her life outside of her family.

ailyn gained the title of historian when she was twenty two, and started writing essays, starting doing research, comparing patterns in muggle and wizarding history, writing for magazines and reveling in her own success. she builds her own life, in her small apartment in cardiff and does what she loves, and does it well. 

outbreak

ailyn is working on her first book when everything goes to shit. she is in talks with obscurus books about a publishing deal, and is working on her first draft --- it’s a dream come true, and then everything goes to shit.

sexism tw || a bit of background on her family: her father and brother rejoined the death eaters, her father so fucking desperate to live up to his own father, her brother in his turn desperate to make his own father proud. ailyn isn’t even asked to join as well, because she’s just a girl, and she’s a bad witch at that. she doesn’t care. she doesn’t even want to join, anyway --- the death eaters are stupid, just as blood purism, and she doesn’t care that her father underestimates her because of her femininity. let him underestimate her. || end of tw

cardiff is overrun when she’s at home. she barricades her doors, her windows, everything, thinks that she can survive in her small home, sit it out, but it doesn’t fucking end --- there’s no government to fix this, no one is coming, no one is fixing this --- and ailyn is terrified. she can’t stay at home, but where can she go? 

away. and eventually, hogwarts. she travels by foot -- and sometimes by car, or another muggle vehicle -- with a small group, made up of muggles and wixen alike. she doesn’t dare apparate, because she was never very good at it and she’s unable to get in the right headspace to even try. besides, she feels a sort of loyalty to the people she’s with. which ... is odd, because ailyn has always only felt loyal to herself, and maybe her brother, and maybe some of her friends --- and yet it feels good, amidst all the bad, so she sticks with them. 

trauma and death tw || ailyn isn’t built for an apocalypse. of course, no one really is, but her weapon of choice is wit and words, and she can’t fight inferi with those. and so she fights with a bat, at times, rather than a wand. it’s not an easy journey --- of course it’s not --- and ailyn sees things that traumatise her; death and decay, and the inferi in general, and she’s not sure how she’s able to keep moving because she’s not built for this, she’s not, she’s not

she arrives at hogwarts in july, and has to prove that she’s not a death eater --- which she does with an eyeroll, even if she understands. she’s filled with trauma and grief, but she’s not the only one at least --- which is a strange comfort, but a horrible thing, too. she’s not sure how to deal with these emotions, though, because they’re overwhelmingly real, and before she was always able to choke her feelings down and ignore them, but now she shakes with them at times, and she doesn’t know how to talk about them, or what to do with them ---- theyre just there, these traumas and memories and feelings, and she can’t do shit about them. end of tws

ailyn becomes a history professor, teaching kids and teens, an infinite times better than binns ever could have. and she loves that. she finds comfort in that, that she can still do something with her passion. she returns to the library with warmth in her heart --- that’s the only good thing about this, she supposes, that she has unlimited access to the hogwarts library again (ye - she is a nerd)

it’s all ... a big learning experience, mostly. a way for ailyn to learn about the danger of her own indifference (which is fading more and more), a way for her to learn how to be compassionate without feeling like she’s weak, a way for her to open herself to people she wouldnt have looked at twice before

the circumstances suck though lmakldfhsjdf

personality & details

ailyn is a true neutral, powder pink lipstick lesbian who will drag your ass through the mud while speaking to you sweetly with a :) smile :). she has a mean streak and her nature isnt necessarily malicious but she can be when she chooses to. this streak most often shows itself in front of people that ailyn thinks lesser of/people that annoy her

she’s just … tired. tired of humanity and all the people around her and the ruckus theyre causing. ailyn just wants people to Chill Out and use their heads in stead of whatever’s motivating them ( their genitals, hearts, stomachs, whatever ). she feels very … Genius LMAO because she’s such a realist and she thinks she has the world all figured out when, obviously, she doesnt.

ailyn is very sure of herself, incredibly confident — sometimes too confident ( though she’s of the opinion that girls can never be to confident ) and in turn she can be condescending and haughty. she’s self aware, though, about most things. she knows where her strengths and weaknesses lie and has made peace with it, even knows that she’s arrogant and harsh, but doesn’t care much.

ailyn is hyperfeminine, believes in lethal femininity and the colour pink. very much elle woods in that sense — she loves fashion and make up and velvet high heels and looking good, but has a ready mind that she’ll apply to reach her goals at any given moment in time. will Not be underestimated because she’s girly (or, well, youre free to underestimate her, but you’re wrong and she cant wait to let you see that). a firm believer in the matriarchy. lover of womanhood.

she also … just thinks lowly of men a lot. like — her dad’s a deadbeat idiot alcoholic broke dude and he Sucks, and then there’s people like grindelwald and voldemort and a long string of ministers, prime ministers and presidents that just proof that men shouldnt be in power to her LMAO. her interest in history is mostly just ailyn sighing at the deeds of men and how they continue to disappoint her.

LOVES greek mythology and medusa is her #1 fave

emotionally constipated but less so than usual???? whew

she’s .... a nerd ... .... we stan

tbh she can be quite charming and fun to be around but she also can be all sharp edges and iciness ... depends on the mood, and who you are

idk i just love her and she’s ... rly living up to her potential here whew!!!

[iudae]

educational

LANGUAGES

roger was raised bilingual by his parents, speaking english with his mother and welsh with his father. because the only people he truly practises his welsh anymore are his family, he isn't quite as fluent as he used to be as a child, but he can make himself understood.

his english is still tinged by a welsh accent, though, which he is too proud to abandon even during these years of studying, working and living in scotland and england.

CHILDHOOD + UPBRINGING

he grew up on the welsh coast, sheltered and cared for by his entire loving family. the countryside gifted him with an ease and feel for nature, the close community of the town with sociability and integrity. from his mother he'd inherited his temper, but she also instilled in him important values of fairness and friendliness, as well as taking initiative and assuming responsibility. his father, a very laid back man, taught him the worth of hard work and appreciation for the pleasures in life. his grandfather arthur also had one of the biggest influences on roger, he infected him with his burning passion for quidditch and good humour.

EDUCATION BEFORE HOGWARTS

because he never went to school, roger was taught the basics of magical and non-magical life by family and friends. penelope took the time to give the basics of reading, writing and science on to him like she had learned in the muggle world, dilwyn taught him about history, plants and all kinds of magic, and whatever else his parents had given on to him. eunice and mortimer gave him more practical knowledge of farm work, craftsmanship, household tasks and tending for animals, and arthur gave on everything he knew and loved about literature, music and art ( of course, next to everything about the wizard sport ). surprisingly it was alys, his pureblood grandmother, who took it upon herself to teach him mathematics. she had always had a knack for numbers, and thoroughly enjoyed tickling the magic out of them.

HOGWARTS HOUSE

the sorting hat briefly considered both slytherin and gryffindor, yet, without telling him why, ultimately sent him to ravenclaw, where he “ obviously ” belonged. roger only had to wonder for a very short time what that meant, because within. says he had settled in comfortably in his house and and immersed himself in the social life. for seven years, the ravenclaw tower served him as a home, and the people he lived with grew to be some of his closest companion. even after graduating, he still proudly identifies with the eagle sigil.

FAVORITE SUBJECTS

roger always very much enjoyed charms class, not only because it was taught by his head of house whom he was not only fond of but who also favoured him ( at least outside of class, as he nonetheless remained an impeccably impartial professor ), but because it fascinated him what he could do with a wand and the right words. it was craftsmanship, really, without having to be particularly crafty ( which he wasn't ). it is safe to assume that the only delicacy of feeling roger ever displayed was in the context of his charmwork.

in his third year, he first took lessons in interpreting and translating ancient runes, a task that he likes well enough but that more importantly seems to calm him. it doesn't exactly come easy, it is related with quite a lot of hard work, but he finds it easy to lose himself in it, which he finds quite relaxing.

he also quite enjoyed defense against the dark arts at times, although the rotating teachers and teaching methods quite exhausted him. even though it turned out to be a sham, he enjoyed gilderoy lockhart's classes the best, closely followed by remus lupin's.

LEAST FAVORITE SUBJECTS

whatever spark of passion exists for the subject of history is quickly extinguished in the lessons of professor binns. roger drags himself through them until he doesn't have to anymore, and feels a bitter boring aftertaste every time he picks up a history textbook afterwards.

he also isn't particularly fond of potions, although it fluctuates with the years and the potion they work on. he is not terrible at it, but he doesn't really have the patience for it, or much interest for that matter.

ELECTIVES

his choice of ancient runes and arithmancy proved very good, at least to him. in ancient runes he found a new passion, and arithmancy reminded him of the lessons with his grandmother. he kept taking both courses until graduation.

EXTRACURRICULARS

in his first year he couldn't get enough of the colourful, hectic life at hogwarts, and tried to take every opportunity he could, which is why he joined the charms club. their activities were easy enough, it proved helpful in class and the club meetings often resembled a social gathering than extra class, which roger enjoyed, so he remained a member until his fifth year, which brought more important responsibilities. because as a principle, no house team ever accepted first year students into their team, roger only tried out for his second year, where he was accepted into the reserve house team — not because he was bad, the captain assured him, but he lacked experience and maybe a bit of maturity. a year later, it apparently was sufficient, and roger was accepted into the squad of chasers of the first ravenclaw house team. he also attended the ancient runes club in that year, but it demanded too much of his time, which he did not want to sacrifice. the years that followed were quite turbulent for ravenclaw quidditch fans, and in his fifth year, roger was nominated as the team captain, and led it until his graduation.

ACADEMIC RESULTS

GRADUATION

roger was not exactly the top of the class of 1996, but somewhere very close. he is studious and booksmart enough to achieve the grades he has set out to get, and he is ambitious enough not to let himself get distracted when it most matters.

CAREER

there was only a very slim chance of roger following in the footsteps of his parents and starting a career at the ministry of magic. first he would try his shot at fulfilling his dream of becoming a professional quidditch player. he tried out for several teams in britain, and was ultimately accepted into the junior team of caerphilly. this was also where the scout of the tutshill tornados found him. he hadn't made the cut for the second professional team, and the junior team picked their players personally, so he had made his peace with not being able to play for his favourite team just yet. when the scout offered him a spot in their junior team for the next season, he was overjoyed, and agreed to switching, even though in that year tutshill was falling far behind caerphilly.

in tutshill he truly earned his spurs and was soon promoted into the second team, where, to his dismay, he found morale low. these were players who had made their peace with never flying before the big crowds, not even being substitutes for the main players. he managed to raise the hopes for some, and his energy and enthusiasm awarded him not only the captainship at only twenty years, but a chance to try out for the first team. in what was probably the performance of his life, roger earned a place among the ranks of the historic team from tutshill, an dream since his childhood. four years after roger had joined the club, the current captain retired, leaving the spot open for a successor. while there were players older and more experienced than roger, he prevailed against the competition and, at 24 years, became the team captain.

[antiquecompass]

Things I Forgot I Wrote But Found In My Files While Looking For Something Else:

This samstevebucky OT3 Urban Fantasy au that @lavenders-bi asked for during, what I’m guessing, was a prompt meme thing:

The 107th Precinct usually got its fair share of odd calls during the first truly hot nights of the year—something about summer in the city making magic go fucking haywire—but this was getting ridiculous.

"All I wanted was a nice night out with my vowed-partners," Bucky Barnes said as he pulled off his jacket and threw it in the back of Jim Morita’s squad car. “There was going to be cake, damn it. It’s supposed to be my night off.”  He waved to Sam and Steve from the street and tried not to count just how many date nights had been interrupted by his job.

 “Gabe’s grandkid is in a school play so he’s unreachable. Monty had to use the Middle Way to pop back to England for some family curse business. Jacques is upstate translating for a loup-garrou, and you’re the one who forbade me and Dugan from working together. It’s on you, oh illustrious leader,” Morita said.

  Bucky knew he shouldn’t have taken that promotion. Pros outweighing the cons bullshit. He was burning the list the next time Sam suggested one. He spared one last look to the restaurant before slipping into the passenger seat.

  <i>Be careful</i>, Steve sent down their communication link.

  <i>Or I’ll tell Natasha to kick your ass and stand back and laugh</i>, Sam added.

  <i>Love you too</i>, Bucky sent before muting the link. He worked better in the field when it was just a background hum.

  "Just one goddamned night of peace, quiet, and decent food," he said as he pressed his metal fist into the dashboard. "But do I get that? Biggest fucking nope ever. I’ve now got to politely encourage a friggin’ swamp monster away from a fire hydrant before the sprites descend like a swarm of mosquitoes to devour it and the power lines for half the city."

  "You seem a little wound-up there, Barnes," Morita said. “Let me cool you down.” He sent a quick shot of ice-cold flame at Bucky’s exposed arms.

  Bucky gave him the finger, ignoring the fact that it just made Morita laugh harder.

  "It’s not like Sam or Steve are going to leave you for missing another dinner,” he said. “Steve’s known how you operate for the better part of a century now, and Wilson’s caught on quicker than anyone else I’ve seen. If they wanted someone with decent hours, they should’ve dated a banker. It’s what they get for being stupid enough to vow themselves to you. I was pushing for Gabe to complete their triumvirate."

  "You’re getting close to being kicked off the Christmas Card list, buddy, and you know how much Steve’s artwork goes for.” He gave the siren on the dash a quick electric jumpstart. “Drive, Morita. We got to pick up the rookies before Cthulhu comes looking for one of its babies.”

  "Didn’t the messenger update you? Swamp monster slid back down the sewer grate towards home," Morita said.

  Bucky rolled his eyes. “Fuck. What’s really wrong then?”

  Morita howled.

  Fucking wolves. Bucky clenched his metal fist. It’s not like he’d already given an actual limb to this job or anything because of the fucking wolves. He hated wolves.

  “I’ll promise not to let you lose the other arm this time,” Morita teased.

  “Just drive,” Bucky ordered.

  <center>**********</center>

  "Really?" Kate Bishop asked as she sorted through her quiver of enchanted arrows. "You could’ve told me I needed the Deterrent Spell arrows before we got out here, Barnes."

  "I’m sorry, I thought your mentor would’ve told you to be prepared for everything," Bucky said as he ducked behind a dumpster. The only good thing about urban warfare was the hiding places.

  "He’s obsessed with Boomerang Spells," Kate said.

  "What?" Bucky asked. He laid his flesh hand on the ground and pulled from the electricity running through the streets below. He sent it out towards the crowd as a warning shot. Fucking bystanders were still trying to get too damn close to wolf fight. He knew technically a Conduit such as himself wasn’t supposed to aim for the non-magical human targets, but fuck ‘em all if they weren’t smart enough to run in the other goddamned direction.

  "Boomerang," Kate said. She hopped up on the dumpster and prepared to take shot.

  “Is that a boomerang one?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Kate said.

  "Then what are you throwing at ‘em?" he asked.

  "I call this one <i>Sleepytime Tea</i>," she said.

  “Hold,” a familiar voice yelled at them.

  Bucky turned to find his other lost little rookie running up to them.

  "I thought we only had winter wolves here," Eli Bradley said as he slid to a stop beside them. He had his grandfather’s shield strapped to his back. It was probably the most powerful weapon among the three of them due to its age and legacy.

  Bucky was only a little jealous he still had to make do with borrowed shield spells and he was a fucking sergeant.

  "You’re late," Bucky said.

  Eli shrugged. “You were the one who told me take those nighttime classes. There was traffic, Sarge. Some pegasus decided the freeway was a good place to take a nap. Agent Carter gave me a note if you want to see it.”

  Bucky waved him off. He’d let it go. <i>This time</i>.

  "So what’s going on?" Eli asked.

  "Turf war," Kate guessed. She took a breath and let loose her arrows. They hit their targets and both wolves went down without any more of a fight.

  "Huh, well how about that," Eli said. “Didn’t even need me here.”

  Bucky held up his hand. “If either one of you make a comment on how not difficult that was, I will send you both to the Itemization Squad for a month.”

  He liked to think their salutes were genuine and not the least bit sarcastic, but he’d trained them both so he knew better.

  <center>**********</center>

  Six in the morning was the time for waking up, not coming home after a supposed night off, and Bucky Barnes was monumentally pissed off. Not quite as bad as I-Lost-My-Arm-For-Your-Cause-And-All-I-Got-Was-An-Enchanted-Metal-Limb pissed off, but pretty damn frustrated.

  He smelled like shit. Actual shit. Northeastern Troll excrement to be exact for the discerning. He just <i>had</i> to help a group of fauns cross the one bridge left in the area that still had a troll under it. That was at midnight. After a small battle requiring Eli’s shield, Kate, her personal mentor Clint, and both of their Boomerang Arrows, and Morita’s ability to make the earth actually move, he was finally home. Still ready to slam an inanimate object down to the lowest depths of hell via an electrical charge, but home at least and at last.

  He was supposed to have the more settled life now. That’s <i>why</i> he took the promotion and the leadership position. The most dangerous thing that he was supposed to battle these days was paperwork. He’d taken all those steps for the quiet life: house in the ‘burbs, officially a year-and-a-day’ed signed-sealed-and-delivered to a schoolteacher (who was really a retired Winged Guardian, but Sam liked to keep that knowledge quiet. Never knew when he’d need to fly again and surprise was the most important part to those with hidden wings) and an artist (who was actually a wizard, but Steve liked to keep that quiet because there were only so many times someone could ask him for a love potion before he’d lose his temper and get into the sort of epic ranting that actually turned molehills into mountains. He was so much happier making his weird-ass wizard dreams into artwork). He had a flock of birds (Sam’s), a dog (Steve’s), a mortgage, and a car payment. He should not have to stand outside at six in the morning and hose himself down after stripping and setting his own trash can on fire because there was no saving his clothes.

  And those where his <i>nice</i> slacks too. They were the expensive khakis Mrs. Rogers bought him for his birthday. They were as classy as Bucky got outside of uniform, and he loved those fucking things. The last time he wore those were for their anniversary dinner, and he quite liked just what wearing those pants had gotten him.

  "Wow. You actually smell like shit," Sam said from the garage. He was dressed for work and Bucky wanted to maybe cry because he’d missed his chance already to mess up that pressed shirt and tie. He loved when his guys were halfway between professional-looking and artfully rumpled courtesy of Bucky’s ministrations.

  The day officially sucked and he hadn’t even slept yet.

  "Please tell me there’s coffee," he said as he turned the hose off himself and on to the small fire.

  "There is, but I don’t know if Steve’s going to let you near his precious coffee pot when you smell like actual shit. Jesus fuck, Bucky, what happened last night?"

  "Everything," Bucky said. He was not pouting because he did <i>not</i> pout, even when Sam damn near ran past him.

  "Weakling!" Bucky yelled at him.

  Sam blew him a kiss from his car before backing out of the driveway.

  <center>**********</center>

  A century ago Bucky fell in love with little Steve Rogers because he was noble and fearless and selfless. They’d had a lot of asshole instructors at their training school, many who only thought strength meant brawn and not spirit; that somehow innate power could be measured by height and muscles and not be sheer potential. They were the type of teachers who had should have never been allowed to help form the minds or opinions of the young, poor, and vulnerable. The kids who attended the school went there because they had no choice; they either lacked parents, guardians, mentors, sponsors, or their families were too poor to afford anything else.

   Bucky and Steve fell in that last group. Steve’s mother refused to charge for her healing spells outside of her official hospital job, refusing to make their family rich off the suffering of people who couldn’t afford traditional medical care. She’d instilled her son with that same set of values and a backbone of steel, even if no one really knew just how gifted Steve was back then.

  Bucky went to the institute because he was he eldest and figured his younger siblings deserved better. They all showed signs of telekinesis and manipulating matter. Bucky just knew how to talk himself into and out of everything. Sure, he had started a few accidental fires with his mind, but that was country wizarding stuff. Everyone could basically do that. The institute seemed a good place to hone his less than honorable skills though. He had dirt gathered on all the instructors just in case. He learned to walk in the paths of the shadows, and didn’t realize until years later that sometimes the shadows were following <i>him</i>.

  Back then though, he was just a smart kid with a smarter mouth and little patience for authoritative bullshit who fell in love when he saw a scrawny twelve-year-old throw himself in front of an instructor’s punishment spell to protect an even younger kid. The kid’s only crime was not performing in a way the instructor wanted, but fucking seriously that’s what you got when you tried to make someone who’s power existed in <i>creation</i> try to bring down a wall.

  The move to protect someone else was enough to earn Bucky’s respect and admiration. The fact that the spell bounced off both of the kids, hit the instructor back by a power of threefold, and brought down the wall? That was pretty much it for James Buchanan Barnes.

  Steve was honest-to-god noble. Bucky decided it then and only had it reaffirmed in the subsequent years. Fuck the royal magical and wizarding blood lines; Steve was as good as it got. Sam was probably the second-to-best person Bucky knew, and certainly was the actual voice of reason between the three of them. The fact that they both still stayed with Bucky, and his ability to court trouble in places where no trouble should exist, was kind of a miracle.

  The Steve standing before him now though looked constipated by his own guilt.

  “You’re going to shit an actual brickhouse if you don’t unclench,” Bucky said.

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

Life Story - Part 63

(i just want to throw in a trigger warning for sexual violence being mentioned. It’s probably fine, but i don’t want anyone who is struggling personally to be hurt by what i have written.) 

It's just shy by two weeks or so from a decade to the days I started painting my first canvases. I realized when I started painting that it had actually been my thing all along. I couldn't work with lines the way I worked with color. I guess it stems from the way I saw the world through my perception, and the lead of a pencil was simply not conveying what I wanted. I was so much better of a painter than I was an illustrator too. Having drawn so much for years did help me paint – it helped me lay the ground work, and painting in the long run helped me do things like shade better and be more experimental in how I drew. It was finally great to find something I was good at for once, and some way I could express myself.

I like drawing still of course, it was a cheap way to get through school, something to do with all the free paper and pencils that I had to have in my hands anyway. I still do it time to time when I am bored, but it's always somewhat cartoonish when I draw. Line work is just not my way of expressing myself artistically. I could demonstrate so much more by use of color and contrast in a way that seemed flat when I drew. This had been the first time in a very very long time where I felt good at something I had done. I felt like I had some kind of value. I had been proud of my critiques in high school, but it never really mattered to me like painting did. It wasn't as personal as this was.

I set up a deviantart account, and I kept it for a few years to put my art on. I lost the password several years ago, started a new one, and though I check it maybe once every two months or so, I never have any art to put out, and I have struggled with having a place to put my scanner. But all of it is still there for what it's worth. This became my life in a way – reading, listening to music, painting, MySpace

Strangely enough though, the act of painting caused/causes me a great deal of pain though, and in saying this, I don't want to also say that I don't love to paint, because it hurts and is also a passion, albeit a confusing one. I believe it might be the frame of mind I get in, some psychological aspect I don't quite understand, but it really does screw with me physically. My heart begins to race, I feel sick to my stomach. I have a fever. I start feeling paranoid and meaningless and lonely. Everything feels wrong. I often have to get up after painting for twenty minutes and pace the house. I will check the bathroom to make sure nobody is in there. I will look outside to try to cool off. My mind has these impulsive feelings of feeling like someone is watching me from a closet, to feeling paranoid that I am not real – I am merely a figment of someone else's imagination and this is all an illusion. I get this feeling of intense loneliness and wanting to close the doorway that I am looking through mentally that I paint from. I start going crazy, and this is why I have struggled to be prolific. It exposes the fact that underneath my demeanor and my sense that I am in control, I am actually a chaotic lunatic.

I've never talked to another artist who had those symptoms from making artwork that they enjoyed. Everyone I have ever spoken to seem to feel at ease with what they are doing. It feels good – liberating even. Not me though. I feel the liberation, but then I feel even more suffocated. And yet, it is still worth doing. I suspect that I am at my best when I am discontent and obsessively closed off, which is unfortunate for me most likely. I feel I am more efficient, clear minded, creative and a better person when I am unhappy. Maybe the psyche aspect of my painting self is one element of this self truth? I don't seek out misery, however, misery and despair are very easy to find.

On the weekends when we were all at our mother's, my brother was beginning to be a bit of a bully to the household. It was a strange phase he was going through and it only got worse and worse. There were some very dark reasons for all of this, and I will try to explain. I think it came from a deep seated insecurity he had that my father had instilled in him in fear that David would be too feminine. David had stuttered as a child, due largely to my father screaming at David about his speech impediment and mocking him. Being the only son of a man who had been raised by a mean-spirited brother who shamed him, it must have been sort of difficult emotionally for David. He was always spoiled too, separate from us somehow. It was a strange mix. My father was always shaming David to act competitive and masculine.

David's truer personality is shy, meticulous, and honest. He had a temper from the day he was born, but it could have been dealt with differently. Maybe it was the way he was taken out of the womb? David's head got stuck in my mother's womb, and when the doctors pulled him out it misshaped just a bit. I know that even a minor altering of the human brain can cause people to lose control of things like their emotions. Anyway my father didn't like what he perceived as feminine in David, freaked out at me once for putting David in makeup – probably kids at school made him feel vulnerable and weak when he stuttered and was shy as a child. So David, feeling vulnerable, weak and unhappy and not really connected with, began walking around starting fights with everyone at home when he turned eleven or twelve – especially me and Allison, and getting disturbingly deeply violent in the nature that he attacked everyone. It was honestly a lot more terrifying then it sounds.

At random times, he would believe everyone was out to get him – in a way that went beyond typical. These were delusions. I know from experience that most boys I have known go through something in their personality at this time in their lives. Some hormone stuff happens, and boy culture at school causes them to feel a compulsion to compete and do what they perceive to be tough. But this was particularly disturbing. He walked around with clenched fists. He took whatever he wanted. His ego was over the top. At times, he was cussing us out and threatening everybody in the house. I fought back a few times, but in the end, I just became scared and closed down. I could still take him down if I had to, but David was a particularly strong kid, and I knew that it would only be a short matter of time before we were equals if it came down to a physical altercation.

Looking back, David caused me an immense amount of stress that stays with me to this day. I feel weird pointing out trauma that happened in my late teens to early twenties rather than something that happened when I was four as having a long lasting effect on my mental health, but it's truth. Years of constant uncertainty of a blow up eventually ground me down. And I don't blame David per say, but it eventually nearly ruined our relationship, which was a shame. David has a thoughtful intelligence to him that is very rare. He is one of the few people who opens himself up in a way to truly care about everything he sees around him, and it's a shame that there are parts of him that are so painful. It's a shame for his own sake. From the time David turned eleven, everyone in the house was walking on egg shells – eventually my father was even walking on them.

My mother in a weird sort of way, spoiled him even harder – maybe enjoying in this weird way that he was in control of the household, and trying to appease him constantly to avoid conflict was kind of fun for her. It made her feel special. By this time in my life I had drastically changed as a person too. I could kind of understand some of the stuff David was going through emotionally. It hadn't even been a year or two before and I myself had thought everyone was out to get me. No doubt some of this was David innocently picking these behaviors off me. But I had changed, too late, but I had. I no longer felt any room to be a person at all in a lot of ways – I couldn't feel mad. I stopped thinking in the first person at all. I thought only in facts. I tried to rely on the feelings underneath the words. I tried to be a ghost in the house whenever I could. I didn't like the way I looked and thought I was going to die, so I just had sort of shut down. If I let myself think about myself too much, if I got personal with myself at all, I would often times struggle to breath and would have these moments of intense and sudden panic that I would choke down even harder. My thoughts would scramble, and I would feel this sense that I was teetering on the edge of something I couldn't even explain. I didn't let anyone see me that way of course. I saw, and rightly so, my family in their various forms as wolves who would pick me off if I showed weakness.  

I felt like my only option was to hide away, to play and believe that I was dead inside. I needed to be somewhere private. It was hard to even do that though since the house was small and if someone was looking for trouble they would find me. So, when I was at my mom's I would lock myself away in the bathroom and read, for hours upon hours. It was a strange pattern for me. I would wake up, eat quickly and impulsively, grab a book and lay in the bathtub sometimes hiding in there for eight or nine hours a day. I would only get out when people needed to use the bathroom, and occasionally to let it air out. And then I would get back in. It was the only way for me to escape David and everyone else in the household, and it kind of worked. The bathroom had an atmosphere that was harder to fight in, and besides, out of sight out of mind. I would hear David screaming outside the door, and I would mentally shut myself off so I didn't feel anxious. But I was anxious anyway. I just didn't let myself feel that or cognitively let myself process it. I compartmentalized everything about myself as a defense mechanism. And nobody in my family noticed.

I have to take a step back, and try to understand my brother's behavior for what it was, because it was a combination of many things. It was borderline personality disorder in a very early stage. Sometimes David would be delusional. His eyes would look glassed over and he would accuse you of having said something you didn't say. And I could tell he believed it. He chased us all away, and then was hurt that we had left him alone. I could tell he knew he had manipulated the fabrication, but believed it anyway and it was beyond frustrating. My parents never cared one bit about our mental health, and he had done similar things as a little boy – the tendencies had been there, but it could have been corrected had anyone cared about what David was actually going through instead of buying him whatever he did or didn't want. But rather than sit down to talk to David, they either spoiled him and favored him – somewhat rewarding him for his bad behavior. Our father, if he did anything at all, would use fear and frighten David so he didn't act that way around him. David behaved himself, but more or less, he was only bottling it up. To my father, he only saw the problem in context to the misery it caused him personally. He didn't want to be bothered, and if he yelled or was frightening enough, we would be too afraid to act in a way that was unpleasant to him personally. It was second nature to my father, and he naively believed I think that if he wasn't seeing the behavior, then it was not there.

Nobody would ever addressed the real problem in David's  young life. Nobody cared about what was really going on in David's mind at all. I tried to care, but I was mentally fucked too, in my own way. I couldn't compete with my parent's ways of dealing with him. I was not his real parent. And though I know he was not capable of fully understanding that, and though he was a terror to me and Allison, he definitely contributed to mental concerns later on in my life (and has probably shaken Allison's mind too), I must also take a step back and realize that my early babysitting techniques with David had been abusive and horrendous and probably had something to do with what was now happening later on. So to a degree, who am I to judge David? Of course, it had been several years by that time since I had raised my voice or treated Allison and David unfairly. I was their ally now – or at least I tried to be, but it didn't matter. I may have stopped years ago and become a different person than I had been, but it doesn't make the pain I caused someone else to simply vanish. That's not how it works. If anything, I am not saying it was all my fault. I had been severely neglected in a sense myself, and I had been in my early teens. But it was still abuse, and I can only try to mend what has been broken. I can't just say sorry and wash my hands of the whole mess.

Not all of this was on me though. David was also abusing and taking advantage of every power display he could because he, well – could. I think most people are capable of some pretty shady stuff if they are given free reign to do so. It's just a part of being human. Power corrupts. Rage can be an addiction for some people. My mother pampered David and made him feel entitled – and disabled to a degree, and my father pumped David up with toxic masculinity issues. David had the advantage over Allison and I and he gained something from using that power. It was disgusting and obnoxious and animalistic – but it was a territory he was allowed to cross at an early age without any repercussions. He was being mean for the sake of being mean. And on this end of it I grew to resent him deeply. I didn't understand what it meant to feel that much animosity towards others. I would almost feel bad about how much I resented him at times because if I let myself feel too much, I almost felt nauseous with resentment and confusion about how he acted. And it hurt because I loved him. He was such a deep thinker and so collected, noble and humble even. We had a lot of fun sometimes. There were days when we really connected. It was like there were two different versions of him. He was deep down a very sensitive and thoughtful person. And that was partially what made it so upsetting. Because he would destroy our friendship over and over. He never felt he was given enough. It made me sick eventually.

Lastly, and probably most importantly in David's development, was that a grotesque sociopathic older boy had locked David up that summer, overpowered him and molested him. I think this obscene and horrible situation ruined his life forever. We didn't find out about this till many years later. He never told anyone. David started trying to tell my father one time that summer, and my dad laughed at him and told him he was too young to know what he was talking about – like, David didn't know what sex was by that age. It makes me truly sick to think about on every level. David told me some of what happened that summer – mostly talking about what the neighborhood boys were doing in this club house on the hillside, but augmented the story explaining that he had managed to get away when they chased him. I look back over and over, and I am completely sickened that I didn't think much of it. Some of the girls I knew when we were kids would kiss and stuff, and they tried to get me involved, and I had walked away. I had related it to my situation. While my situation had been weird for me growing up, it had not been violent, and nothing had been forced. It had not been vicious.

His situation had not been like mine. This same sociopathic boy was a boy who later killed animals in the town, was obsessed with joining the military so he could be sent to the middle east to rape and pillage. He moved to Spokane eventually, and I imagine be may well have gone on to do just what he had planned to. He beat his own pet dog to death for fun one day. I hated that boy. And poor David. That poor freckled sensitive little boy walking home in such an enormous amount of shame. And he was all alone. No wonder he became ill. Who knows what kind of psychological impact that had on him at such a young age. It breaks my heart and to a degree it is beyond my comprehension. The incident scarred him. He hasn't been fond of people as a whole ever since. And I don't know that I blame him. You really just can't trust most people to do the right thing.

So, Roxanne – my older sister, and her family were homeless for awhile and had to move in with my mom which added even more to the stress. Mind you, this is a very small one bedroom. There was eleven of us all crammed in a tiny one bedroom. This ordeal definitely caused me to go back and stay back to my dad's  at some point that winter. It seemed that the chaos of each place I went caused me to never really have a home. I was always on the move. I never felt safe. My home was whatever book I happened to be carrying around with me, and that was it. I was even short of clothing I could call my own, mostly being stuck with pajama pants and a oversized t-shirt. Other than my collection of drawings and writings, my art supplies, my slowly growing book collection, and a few knick knacks, I had nothing. I was a nobody.

Roxanne had all sorts of issues. She was waiting on a list for people who were looking to get in low income housing, and that can sometimes take several years for one of these places to open up. Jeremy, her fiance, had taken over every aspect of her life. I cannot stress this enough, or how abusive he was to them all psychologically. He is probably one of the most annoying and disturbing individuals I have ever met and I dare say, I think he was a sociopath. Roxanne and her kids lived in fear of Jeremy, doting on his every whim else he explode. He was a drug dealer, addicted to meth, very manipulative and friendly in a frenzied sort of way if he wasn't in a rage. He rarely if ever took on a job and usually landed in jail at least one month of the year.  If he did take a job, then he demanded everyone behave perfectly. Sometimes he would abuse the kids or Roxanne for fun. We all saw it happening. But in a way, we couldn't almost believe it. Roxanne was brainwashed by this guy and if you said anything bad about Jeremy, she reported it to him, and he would claim you were a witch and a Satan worshiper and they wouldn't talk to us anymore.

He had come to Roxanne's aid when she had been eighteen and had spent all of the money she got from her father's death. He had hung out when she had money for awhile, but had been thrown in prison for a year. Her boys wouldn't listen to her at this time, she was addicted to pills and would hide in her bedroom. She slept all the time. Jeremy imposed himself on her, and decided to leach onto her vulnerable situation and become some kind of overlord for the family. Roxanne saw it at the time like he booted her into shape. He forced her to get out of bed and make food and engage. He forced her to take care of herself. He instilled discipline to her sons. In her mind, he transformed their household and recreated her purpose in life. He treated Roxanne's children like it was bootcamp 24-7. He was so fucking phony, pretending he was some kind of sergeant and child rearing expert. He loved nothing more than to brag about himself with Roxanne massaging his feet. It was too much. Meanwhile, He left bruises and marks on the kids, and CPS was called on more than one occasion. The kids were of course trained to lie to the authorities. I know one of his disturbing games was to take one of the kids arms or legs and bend it just so it was on the brink of breaking.  They would scream and cry and Roxanne looked shaken and upset about these incidences, but she would sort of mentally shut down, and go deeper into her obsession with him. Almost doubling down on her brainwashing.

Roxanne talked about him like he was almost a biblical figure. He was, or rather, he saw himself a fundamentalist Christian (at least the creepy parts that he liked). He believed Catholics were serving the antichrist and he talked about this all the time. He convinced Roxanne she deserved the punishment because of Eve's original sin, so whenever I tried to passively let Roxanne know that she didn't deserve something, she would go onto say that Eve had brought the suffering down upon her head. She gave up any control she had over to him including her children. He controlled her drugs in order to have more power over her – keeping her at an amount where he felt she was somewhat functional, in order to maintain her level of sobriety enough to where she could still  cook and clean for him.

Jeremy was also a very sick pervert. He cheated on Roxanne occasionally, had this really disturbing collection of fake snuff and hardcore rape porn pictures he kept in a box in the closet. Roxanne showed me years later. If you got off on this stuff, honestly, you were a sick person. And nobody knew about this till way later, but when he had been eighteen he had tied up a thirteen year old neighbor girl and raped her. No charges were pressed for whatever reason. He had done time for stabbing his ex girlfriend with a pencil. He would get these moments of blind rage and his eyes would go black. He claimed to blackout when he became violent. He was a horrid and gross person – it's hard to describe having to swallow that much disgust for someone and smile for the sake of the situation. When he moved to our mother's he took over the house like it was his. He convinced Roxanne eventually to stop talking to all of us later on when they moved out.

You couldn't tell Roxanne any of this though. It's like somewhere deep down she already knew, but wouldn't accept it. If you started talking poorly about Jeremy Frye, even if she had a moment of clarity about her situation, she would soon turn on you and 'turn' you in to him like he was some kind of headmaster to you as well. I felt that in order to help her and her family, I had to be nice to this disgusting creep. And I found ways to do it. It's not how I like to be. I don't like sucking up to bad people. Inside, though I would never partake in doing anything, I would like to kill people like Jeremy. Not out of emotional hatred, but a sort of pleasure of ridding the world of something that bad. But given how fickle my living situation was, given that I was succeeding as an emotional statue, I was afraid to react to anything naturally. Perhaps I was afraid that my most natural reaction would be to kill him. That realization in and of itself caused me to find other means of coping at any cost.

When he moved in, he talked to me about Christianity a lot. I used this subject as a way to tinker with his ego. He randomly would believe that my mother was being possessed by Satan. I went along with it. I started doing this weird mental game where I would train myself in these horrendous situations to agree with people. I did it with Jeremy, my fathe and my mother. I learned how to do it with anyone, and I don't feel bad about it. For one, I didn't have the option of freaking out, at least I didn't feel I did. And life is like that. If you are desperate, or poor you do not have the option of opting out or ruining your opportunities by reacting naturally. So you have to learn to lie when you need to. Plus, it was a challenge for me. To a degree I find that I can empathize with anyone to such an extent, that I can for a short time, take on their perspective. That wasn't why I was friendly with Jeremy though. It was practice for the future, but at the time I felt Jeremy's presence in and of itself was an extreme threat to my being. I was afraid of causing a riff. I didn't want Jeremy to kill someone in my family. And Roxanne didn't have anyone in her life anymore. She was alone. Her friends had deserted her, if not when she ran out of money, than when Jeremy decided she couldn't have friends anymore that wasn't him or his own haggish mother.

What little time she had with me was all the time she really got to spend with anyone. I didn't want to ruin that – as I felt like when she was truly ready to leave him, she was going to need someone to talk to. With that said, I hated Jeremy Frye with every fiber of my being. But in this hatred, and in this situation, I was able to analyze power and what power really meant in the exchanges between people. Breaking human beings and their behaviors down, you really see an intricate web of power struggles. It's something that effects nations as well as families. It plays into every facet of our lives. It's something that is demonstrated in the very architecture of our system of thought. We are designed for this power struggle in some very basic way, and we get integrated into the power struggle as individuals based on our positions in society. This on a side note is why sociology interests me, why I believe racism is far from over, and it gives me a greater understanding of religion, cults, jobs, foreign relations, and dictators. I had so much time to compare these micro-power-plays in my everyday life in these ugly years. There was so much ugly content in my life, that I couldn't escape. I gained insight of myself that was far from pleasant. Being relatively weak in some areas of my life,  I have had to learn how to analyze the game and how it is played – I try to see deeply into people. I study their values, their motives, their feelings, insecurities and mannerisms. Maybe I was compensating for not being really able to personally play these games myself since I was so extremely and totally isolated. Psychoanalyzing people can give you a closeness with people on the whole.

I would pretend to agree with Jeremy wholeheartedly, and I found my ability to do so very fascinating. I liked to study my own psychology while I did so. I found ways to lie and tell the truth at the same time. I found ways to flatter and convince people in subtle ways, to give them weird power to see what they would do with it, but at the same time using my own naturally honest nature to be unseemly about it. I learned how to deep sea dive in the concepts that were put out there and I learned to entertain ideas without accepting them. I said things that made inner me disgusted to the very fiber of my being, but I trained myself to temporarily entertain the notion that I was telling the truth and therefore strengthen that lie. Obviously, aside from preventing conflict, I wasn't getting much out of this directly. It wasn't really fun for me. I was very lonely. I was surrounded by people I couldn't trust. In fact, I was probably being self destructive in how far I could push myself to gain trust. I was learning.

By psychoanalyzed how Jeremy thought, I was able to take what I had learned about his functioning and apply it to other things. This is of course not to say that I had never in any way tried this before. But I had never treated it like a science project. Of course, not everyone is some lesser or greater version of Jeremy. Most people aren't quite mentally built like him obviously. This was just one type of person – a narcissist essentially. But most of us are capable of some level of narcissism or power corruption given the right set of circumstances. I have found those traits in my own personality at times. It's something universal about the human ego. But Jeremy was a monster and I don't think that should be ignored. Most people are better than him. There is an enormous and vast wealth of mystery about human beings, and kindness. I do not want to give the false impression that I think at the core we are all bad.

For the record too, this is also not the way I typically do business. I hated having to become someone who studies people. It is fine now that I am older. I can sort of shut it off and have fun once in awhile. I have enough grace to not let myself analyze strangers. But being in the situation where I had to learn these traits of power dominance and deceiving the enemy hurt something innocent about myself. I became to a degree, morally ambiguous. But I would not call myself a corrupt person these days. I like to try to believe in the spirit of ideas, regardless of how I see the world as a sea of power plays and chaos overlapping a great nothingness that we all are running from. I am in part, blindly hopeful about human beings and what we are capable of. But at the same time, I am also bleak about life's great purpose ultimately and I wish I was not. I cannot shake myself from that part of my thinking ever. But I do find a sort of beauty to living at a different frequency than all that – and most days I am able to escape it all. I really, if anything, like to use my inquisitiveness to get to know people in a way that is more meaningful. I rarely get the opportunity to get to know a person. I like getting to know people, but I don't like them getting to know me. Even my writing this extremely open tale of my life, I am hiding behind my words.

Being really psychoanalytical is my way of compensating for the fact that I am quiet, terrible at small talk, often times daydreaming or zoning out, slightly anxious, and most people don't understand me very well. I don't think I am pretty enough or smart enough. I feel like a loser a great deal of the time. I feel broken. I want to reach out to people and experience friendship, but after my preteen years when my personality underwent considerable development, I lost the unique gift of simply exist among other people. It's hard to explain. Secondly, it's my way of mapping out danger. I want to know people's weaknesses, not to exploit them, but to know what I must do to either help them, or escape them. If you have corrupt leaders in your life who control you, or control someone you care about, then it's highly important that combat that. It's also important to be able to see that behavior in yourself. When I fight someone I hate, I only have two approaches. Physically attack and murder them, or undermine them. Since murder is illegal in today's society for good reason, I cannot just get to killing people no matter what they do or don't deserve. I don't believe in it. I don't believe in killing animals even. I am not for the death penalty.  Creating death is not what I am about. So my only real weapon is to quietly slip into enemy lines and do damage that way, gaining trust- undermine the enemy that way. Talking and getting along with Jeremy was my way of practicing.

I wish I could explain happier times. To me, I see this chapter of my story as one of my most negatives to date. I realize that it would only be fair to add a trigger warning on it. I feel like I talked about murder and rape and brokenness and negative aspects of the human ego more than I would want to, and more than people should probably have to hear. I feel gross having to explore that. I haven't thought about Jeremy for years, and I can feel his negative vibes in the room with me. But it had to be explained. It was a part of life. I don't think I could just lightly graze the seriousness of these topics, and move on.

I do have to say though that certain books and music kept me sane during these times. Painting, even though it created that great mysterious anxiety kept me sane. Kurt Vonnegut, and Robert Pirsig, who wrote the Zen and Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Lila; an Inquiry into Morals gave me this strong groundwork to my belief systems. They gave me perspective on living. I remember the day I read that book. I had a fever for two days. Finally, I was sweating the fever away, and I picked up that book. Something about the intensity of having a fever while I read Zen and Art of Motorcycle Maintenance burned that book into the motherboard of my reality. I became an even wiser person. I became more aware of my own contradictions as a person. While the people around me simply seemed to respond to life in this mindless way, I felt like I had taken a step back and was truly in some way seeing the world for what it was for the first time. It was liberating, and it felt horrible. Out there in the world, I should have been getting my first job, meeting new friends, finding a boyfriend. I should have had my health issues dealt with, both physically and mentally. I should have gone to school. But instead I did not. All I had were these books, and my own thoughts. I had secret moments where I would let myself come out and be myself sometimes, alone while I was walking in the graveyard near my mother's apartment. Sometimes, I would fast for a few days to reset my brain. I still kept Zack tucked away in my heart. I don't know what use those memories did me in those years, but I suppose remembering times where you really felt something real in the past have value when you mostly let yourself feel almost nothing. Zack was genuinely beginning to sink away in my thoughts. I tried to revive him. But by this time, I was a different person than I had been. I didn't know if I even agreed with a single thing Zack had said. He started losing his profound attributes, he started seeming a little bit silly. I still remembered when he told me that everyone in the world deserved love, and I thought about that a lot. But as for who I was now, and who Zack had become, I had no information. I wasn't so sure he would even like me now.

I listened to a lot of Bob Dylan. I sort of deceived myself into believing that Bob Dylan was a friend of mine. He became my best friend in my innermost thoughts. When I listened to Bob Dylan I felt like he was talking to me through the music. Obviously, I didn't literally believe that he was, but the music itself and a piece of who he was had sort of become a piece of the timeless cosmos, individual from Bob Dylan's literal existence. His music was my best friend. This is not to say that Sarah was not still a friend. I just didn't feel her. Her life was in Texas now. She had no idea what it was like going through what I had been going through. I wasn't mad about that. I did try to explain my life, and for what it's worth, she did empathize. Sarah's life hadn't gone exactly as she had hoped in Texas. When she moved there, her and Alex tried to write one song together, which quickly fell apart and they ended up living in a part of the his parent's house sleeping and eating all day. Eventually, they got summer jobs as bus washers at this water park in Texas called The Schlitterbahn. They only got five dollars an hour. Sometimes they would just not go to work and nobody would notice. But Sarah's life lost direction. She missed me terribly, and if I had allowed myself to feel, I missed her terribly as well. We wrote one another all the time. In a way, I think our friendship became more balanced and meaningful after she left. I started reading the Stephen King books that had been my grandma's. I read The Stand, and several others. Aside from Stephen King, and Sarah-Mae, I had MySpace. People seemed to like me quite well there. Nobody knew I was living in a bathtub. Which felt kind of nice.

PART 62 - https://tinyurl.com/ybjrvccn

PART 61 - https://tinyurl.com/ybm99k8o

My Life Story in Chapters, PARTS 1-60 (this link below will lead you to a list of all the chapters i have written thus far). 

http://aleatoryalarmalligator.tumblr.com/post/168782771574/okay-so-i-am-posting-another-part-of-my-life

[ruleandruinrpg]

DARYA VORONOV

TWENTY-THREE ❈ HUMAN LADY IN WAITING

She was a dreamer, a philosopher, a woman who thought before she spoke and spoke only when she felt it absolutely necessary. Darya Voronov came from a long line of authors, poets, and artists—those who loved creating beautiful things far more than they enjoyed possessing them, and it showed in the way she carried herself; something of a pauper surrounded by men and women who wore greed like their armor, she possessed the sort of grace that no amount of wealth could instill in a person, the kind that—like fine wine—only grew sweeter with age. She was born to humble parents in a humbler home on the Ravkan countryside, just close enough to Os Alta to glimpse the tips of the Palace’s spires and just far enough from it to coax her young imagination into action, and she grew up knowing little of what went on behind the gates that separated the affluent from the hopeless, a decision some might argue would be her saving grace. But she had her ideas—about the city and about nearly everything she stumbled across that offered no immediate explanation, and though it made her parents proud to know it, it set her apart from the other village children in ways insurmountable to most. While the others aspired to be practical things, like farmers and merchants and soldiers, Darya dreamed of the abstract, of happiness and beauty and love, and if it pained her to know she was something of an oddity in their young minds, she never showed it. She was a firm believer in things they thought impossible, and such faith left no room for doubt.

Yet for all that she thought the world a wilderness, a place abound with infinite knowledge and adventure, it remained to her as small as the village she grew up in for years, widened only by glimpses of what lay beyond: letters from neighboring towns, a weathered map of the known world, a withered rose her father had picked for her mother on his way into the city. She was thirteen the first time she accompanied him to the palace, wide-eyed and curious and wishing, when she laid eyes on the noble children in their finery, that she’d had the coin to wear something a bit more extravagant than her very best dress, and she begged him to bring her along nearly every time after, having fallen in love with a life she was reluctant to acknowledge she herself could never live. There was something entrancing about life at court, a sort of intrigue that lay deeper than the layers of silk and chiffon the nobles hid behind, but it had little to do with the books they read or the things they did and said, and everything to do with what they didn’t. The Grand Palace, with its towering spires and sweeping staircases, was as grueling a battlefield as any their soldiers went to war on; every move was calculated, every word weighted. One could scarcely breathe without fearing the repercussions, and this fear—this obsession with propriety and respectability and honor—ruled them more than any king. She’d been raised far enough away from it all to see it for what it was with fresh eyes, and what she saw was an opportunity, a chance to make something of the dreams she’d had as a child: Ravkan court was a mind game, and she wanted nothing more than to play.

She was given such an opportunity when she was asked to be the Lantsov princess’s lady in waiting, an honor she readily accepted despite her parent’s worries that a life spent at court would corrupt their daughter in the way it had so many others. They were proud of her, to be sure, but they’d never been the sort to be blinded by the glitter of fool’s gold, and had they made the decision for her, they certainly would’ve chosen a different life for her, one where she would be more than a pawn in a rich man’s game; but she’d been given free rein of her own future, a bird bid to fly wherever and in whichever way she liked, and she chose a gilded cage, if only for the sake of learning what it was to break free of it. She grew into herself at court, surprised nearly everyone around her with her poise and wit; it wasn’t often they met a commoner who spoke like a scholar, and as such, their fascination with her was often tainted with the sickly sweetness of condescension. But she’d expected nothing less from men and women who had been raised to believe that the silver spoon that had once graced their tongues had instilled in them the sort of sense no amount of living could dare, and she was unbothered, continuously humbled even as she humbled them. Her parents had been wrong to fear Ravkan court might make their daughter hollow; it filled her with the knowledge she’d always craved, and for that, she was made whole.

But she wasn’t immune to the intoxicating hope that seemed to permeate the walls, a fickle thing that presented itself in shallow ways in the hearts of many and cut deeper into the hearts of very few. She fell in love with the shallowness of it all, the papier-mâché people and their papier-mâché dreams, but she also fell in love with a man, and like most love stories worth telling, it would be her undoing. She was a fool to believe she could’ve had it all, and maybe that makes two of them, but she can’t bring herself to regret it, to curse her fickle fantasies for preying on her hope. She loved a man, and she lost him; she loved a man, but loving him was not enough. Perhaps she should’ve kept to simplicity—to the safety of her countryside home, where nothing could harm her. Perhaps a wiser girl would’ve thrown her heart away, lest duty and all its friends take it too, but she bears it as an offering, reparation for daring to want what she should’ve known she could never have. May it serve her country in ways she never could.

CONNECTIONS

ANASTASIA LANTSOV:  She valued her as her friend long before she served her as her sovereign, and she’s certain that’s why her position feels less like a duty than a privilege. They think alike, the princess and the pauper, something Darya hadn’t imagined possible when she’d first laid eyes on the Lantsov girl, and Anastasia, with her proper etiquette and improper opinions, has taught the Voronov girl more than she can put into words. There is kindness to be found even in the midst of war and prejudice; there is depth to be found even in a world of skin-deep beauty. Love, she now knows, doesn’t always have to break; sometimes, it’s what remains behind to pick up the pieces.

ANTON LANTSOV: It wasn’t supposed to end like this, but she had the foresight to know, deep down, that it would. Some might say it’s a testament to her kind heart that she doesn’t blame him, doesn’t gracefully take her leave of court so that she might not have to watch him eventually wed another, and in some ways, perhaps they’re right. Darya Voronov, for all her wit and competitive spirit, has always been a good, gentle girl. But perhaps it’s her stubbornness—the same stubbornness he’d always loved, for it matched his own—that keeps her here, intent on watching him grow into the man she always knew he could be. As much as it pains her, she knows he can only become that man without her.

ARISHA KOVROV: She comes from humble beginnings, and it’s due in part to these roots that she’s yet to become blind to the manipulation of court, accustomed to the maneuverings of the pieces on the board. There’s something off about the royal adviser, something far less wholesome and devoted than the woman lets on, and loyal to the Lantsovs as she is, Darya is loath to pretend it’s beneath her notice. She’ll see to it that the woman’s intentions see the light one day, should they prove to be as sinister as she suspects, but until then, she waits—patiently, expectantly, and desperately hoping she’s wrong. 

DARYA IS PORTRAYED BY BYUN JUNGHA & IS OPEN.

[themoneybuff-blog]

Your financial family tree: What our parents teach us about money

Last weekend, Kim and I flew to Utah for a reunion with friends from the 2016 chautauqua in Ecuador. While in Salt Lake City, we met up with Jesse Mecham (the founder of You Need a Budget), visited Utah Olympic Park, and attended a Sunday morning performance of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Our group also spent an entire afternoon at the Mormon Family History Library, where we explored our genealogy. Not everyone was enthused about researching their family tree at first, but eventually even those who thought the exercise would be lame found themselves wrapped in it. It's fun and enlightening to unravel the threads of time and discover who your ancestors were and where they came from.

Flying home from Salt Lake City, I got to thinking about how our family trees don't just influence our genetics. We inherit more than physical features from those who came before us. We also inherit culture and psychology and values. And yes, we inherit financial habits from our parents and grandparents. Each of us has a financial family tree. My Financial Family Tree I write often about our money blueprints, the set of subconscious scripts that define our behaviors and attitudes toward money. Society at large our friends, co-workers, the mass media plays a role in writing these scripts, but most of our money blueprints are inherited from our family especially our parents. In a way, it's as if our money blueprints are a product of our financial family trees. Our grandparents passed their feelings about money to their children, and these children instilled their habits and attitudes into us. When I look at my own relationship with money, it's easy to see how my present actions and attitudes even at nearly fifty years old! were inherited from my parents. Here are a few examples: My parents raised three boys in an 800-square-foot trailer house. My parents had 800 square feet for the entire family. The Portland condo that Kim and I sold last year was 1600 square feet. She and I had 800 square feet per person. But I don't need a big, fancy house. I'd be happy might be happier, in fact hunkered down in a single-wide trailer somewhere on a couple of acres.Likewise, I don't need fancy cars. Growing up, I don't think my parents ever had a new car. We had old beaters that went by names like Dirty Red and Dirty White. Now, as an adult, I'm perfectly content to drive a 15-year-old Mini Cooper. I rarely feel the urge to own a new vehicle.I inherited a similar attitude toward clothing. My father dressed like a farmer. My mother did her best to look nice, but on a budget. She bought clothes for us boys off close-out racks and at thrift stores. Although I do put some thought into quality and style nowadays, for most of my life I've been more interested in function not fashion. Because of my meager origins, I'm willing to tolerate and accept certain things that others won't. I'm never frightened that I might end up poor because I've already been poor and have survived the experience. In some ways, my financial family tree set me up for success. That said, my financial family tree also set me up for failure. I inherited some destructive habits. My father was a master of compulsive spending especially on big-ticket items that he couldn't truly afford. He bought computers. He bought sailboats. He bought airplanes. He bought stereo equipment. Some of my fondest memories are hanging out with dad for hours while he shopped for something he shouldn't buy. Unsurprisingly, I've struggled with compulsive spending most of my adult life.My mother wasn't a compulsive spender in the same way my father was. Instead, she was something of a hoarder. She tended to buy more than we actually needed: more food, more clothes, more household supplies. This tendency became especially pronounced after dad died. When we moved mom to assisted living in 2011, her house house was packed with excess groceries and supplies. From mom, I've inherited a tendency to accumulate too much Stuff.My parents never saved. They were always living on their last five dollars. If they had money, they spend it. If they'd had credit cards, they would have maxed them out. When I left home, I too lived paycheck to paycheck, no matter how good my salary was. (And I did get into trouble with credit cards.) Not all of my money habits came from my parents. Many did, it's true, but I've developed new habits of my own. I've also inherited habits from my long-term relationships with Kris and Kim. (Kris and Kim have remarkably similar money habits, by the way.)

Your Financial Family Tree When I returned from Utah, I emailed family members to ask them what sorts of habits they'd inherited from their parents. My cousin Duane replied: My dad had a huge impact on my relationship with money. He drilled holes through nickels rather than pay six cents for stainless steel washers. This was extreme and he did it more to be funny, but really illustrates how cheap he was. He strongly influenced my views of money. That's why I'm a cheap bastard. My dad didn't feel he deserved money. Perhaps because he didn't like it. I have also felt I don't deserve money. I always give things away or sell them too cheaply. I also asked members of the Get Rich Slowly group on Facebook about their financial family trees.

The answers both in the group and via private message were fascinating. For instance, Angela wrote: Both of my parents worked as bankers when they were younger, so they talked openly about money when I was growing up and checked in with each other regularly regarding finances. I didn't realize how unusual that was until I was married and that was not the case with my husband and his family. My dad was also self-employed, so they had to pay for many things out of pocket, like doctor's visits and dental. So my dad would barter for services. I grew up knowing that bartering is a possibility I really value the transparent attitude regarding money that they passed down to me. Luke, too, learned the value of talking about money openly but as a reaction to what his parents did not do: My parents never talked openly about money, their situation, their goals. They both tried their hand at managing the house and both succeeded and failed in different ways, but it lead to a lot of fighting because they were never on the same page. My wife and I are completely open and honest about how we spend, what are goals are, and how we will get there together. If I die tomorrow, she will know how to manage our money when Im gone. Rebecca's parents weren't transparent about money when she was younger. Now, though, they regret that. I was raised that talking about money was in very poor taste. You never asked what people made, etc. That came from my dad's side of the family. My mom didn't have much growing up and was very frugal (washing and reusing all the plastic wrap kind of thing). But my mom loves to splurge on things, so money was used to treat yourself, a definite reward system. I definitely fall into that trap, an engrained emotional response to treat myself. My dad now says his biggest parenting mistake was to not to talk to us and educate us about money, saving and investing. Some people come from families that had money and knew how to handle it. For example, Stephen's grandparents retired early back before the FIRE movement was a even a thing: I only recently put two and two together and realized that my grandparents on my dad's side saved aggressively invested the savings and retired early the early version of FIRE They influenced me greatly with their wisdom. I was advised by my grandmother that when it came to my diet, I should consider everything in moderation including moderation. My grandfather advised me to never carry debt, and if I had any to pay it off as soon as possible which I tried to follow, and my grandfather would often have BBC current affair programs on which I would watch with him. But you don't have to be raised with money to learn good habits. Laronda's parents were poor but still set a good example. My mom grew up dirt-poor as the twelfth of thirteen children in Appalachia. I learned to be resourceful from her. She can up-cycle, mend, and re-purpose with the best of them. She's a wonderful from-scratch cook and is able to turn inexpensive ingredients into tasty dinners. (I'm feeding my own family her stewed beans and cornbread this evening.) My dad grew up slightly better off but I don't get the impression his family discussed finances much. He taught my brothers and I how to do basic home and auto repairs and gave me an outfitted tool box when I left home. Growing up, we never discussed money or how to manage it. My brothers and I knew money was a tense, to-be-generally-avoided topic, and we knew not to ask for things. I've graduated to the middle class and use many of my parents' frugal methods like scratch-cooking, mending and DIY home repairs, but I consciously choose to talk about money frequently with my own spouse and with my three children. I'm hoping my kids are better equipped with money management knowledge and skills when they strike out on their own than I was, but I also hope they benefit from their grandparents' gifts of resourcefulness and general competence in the face of any household challenge. Finally, here's a story from a reader named Frank: Neither of my parents had any real financial literacy. My grandmother was my real parent, and she taught me everything I know about money. As a child, she escaped a war-torn country. She got married. She and her husband had a farm, but he killed himself after all of their chickens died. My grandmother was left to raise two kids alone. Somehow, she scraped together enough to buy a hotel. She sold it and built a bigger hotel. She sold that and split the money with with my mother. But mom spent it all because she didn't appreciate the work and investment that had gone into building the fortune. Meanwhile, my grandmother quadrupled her half of the wealth. I'm terrified to be my parents. I've tried to learn from my grandmother. The best thing she taught me was to live well below my means. I'm doing that and busting my ass to make my money grow. Other members of the Get Rich Slowly FB group pointed me to longer articles they've written about this subject. At Choose FI, Chad shared what his parents taught him about financial independence. Fritz Gilbert from Retirement Manifesto has written about 18 lessons he learned from his dad. And Frogdancer Jones' parents taught her to approach retirement from a position of strength. Finally, Tom Drake from Maple Money (my new collaborator here at GRS) told me: My parents were always spenders, which led me to be a spender. However, seeing how that affected them in retirement has helped me realize the importance of reducing my spending to be able to save for the future. Final Thoughts Although I can't recall having read any academic studies on the subject, I'm convinced that we do inherit money blueprints from our financial family tree. Your basic money habits are a product of what you learned from your parents and grandparents. In some cases, these blueprints are a reaction against how your family behaved. Most of the time, however, you mimic what you saw when you were young. The good news is that you're not doomed follow in your family's footsteps. Although these money scripts are deeply-ingrained and will always linger in the back of your mind, you have the knowledge and ability to create better habits, to draw a new, improved money blueprint. From experience, I can tell you that the transformation takes time. It won't happen overnight. But with enough patience and effort, you can change your frame of mind. You can become a money boss and produce a new branch on your financial family tree. Related reading: If, like me, you're fascinated by the idea of money blueprints and financial family trees, you might like this article on writing your financial autobiography.

Author: J.D. Roth In 2006, J.D. founded Get Rich Slowly to document his quest to get out of debt. Over time, he learned how to save and how to invest. Today, he's managed to reach early retirement! He wants to help you master your money and your life. No scams. No gimmicks. Just smart money advice to help you reach your goals. https://www.getrichslowly.org/financial-family-tree/

[brillsfaniverse]

Coping Mechanisms

Cas had been brought back, Sam never had any doubt in his mind that this would happen. The angel had died before, he always returned. He'd been returned human, but he'd been a human before, and this time Dean wasn't going to kick him out of the bunker. If anything, Dean was going to keep him in the bunker as long as he possibly could, for his safety. Sam smiled at his brother as he helped Cas out of the Impala and into the bunker. He looked at Jack sitting in the back seat, his eyes wide, worried, confused. He didn't have a mother, a father. The angel who had been looking after him was suddenly human; and the two guys who had wanted to take away his grace were now protecting him. It was going to be a long year. He could feel it in his bones. They were going to have to raise this child, who was already a man, and they were going to have to do it the Winchester way. If they could instill in him their values, then maybe, just maybe, Jack could be good. Sam shivered when their eyes met. There was some part of him that reminded the younger Winchester of Lucifer. He supposed it was the eyes. Sam walked to Jack's door and opened it, leaning down, he adopted a calm and pleasant face, hoping it was soothing. "Hey, uh, Buddy," The word sounded foreign on his tongue, he wondered why Dean used it for Cas so often, "Come on in, we can set you up with a room. You should get some rest." Jack nodded and got out of the car, his hand was clasped around a flash drive that he'd clearly found in his room. Sam didn't want to pry, so they walked in silence through the bunker. There were many things that seemed to catch the newborn's attention, most of them were shiny, and Sam had to suppress his laugh. He was sort of like Dean. They stopped at Mary's room, and Sam felt bad, but it was the only other made up room in the bunker. He couldn't put Jack in a room without blankets or a sense of warmth. It would only serve to push the Nephilim toward a path of darkness. No, he needed the feeling of home, and right, and acceptance. Mary had done a good job of making her room feel just like that. "Watch?" He asked, suddenly holding out the flash drive. Sam nodded. "One second, I'll go get my computer for you, just have a seat." He led Jack to the bed and gave him a robe. The clothes they'd given him hadn't fit properly, and he seemed to enjoy the soft fabric of the robe. He held it to his face, rubbing his cheek along it. Sam quickly left the room and grabbed his laptop out of his own, he passed by Castiel's room to find it empty. They must have gone to Dean's. Sam smiled slightly at the realization, but brushed it off, heading back to where Jack was staring at the flash drive, and it looked like he was crying. His eyes flashed yellow when Sam reentered and Sam held his hands up in surrender, the laptop was housed in one and Jack seemed to relax. "Just gonna set this here," He said, walking to the bed, he opened the computer, scoffing at the porn, he quickly closed it and muttered a sorry and forgive his brother. Jack didn't reply and Sam pointed to the USB slot, "Just put it in here." Jack slid the drive in and a video popped up, it was Kelly, she was smiling. "Mom." Jack said, a small smile on his face. Sam sighed and backed out of the room, Jack nodded at him in thanks and Sam shut the door behind him. He leaned against it for a moment. Reviewing the events of the day. Kelly was dead, Crowley was dead, Cas had died and come back. His mother was stuck in an alternate apocalypse universe with Lucifer. So many people had died over the past few weeks. Mick was dead, and they hadn't had a clue. He died because they'd changed his ideologies. It was a sobering thought, how many people had died because of their connection to the Winchesters? Sam walked along the corridors to Dean's room and found his brother sitting at his own bedside, staring at a sleeping Cas like he might disappear any moment. He knocked softly and Dean looked up, Sam beckoned him. Dean nodded and looked back to Cas, though it seemed like a personal moment, Sam couldn't look away as Dean ran a hand through Castiel's hair and then brushed his fingers down the sleeping man's cheek. Dean smiled and sighed, scrubbing away a tear that betrayed him; he stood and glared at Sam before walking straight past his younger brother and out into the situation room. He had somehow managed to quickly grab a bottle of whisky along the way and was taking a swig straight from the bottle when Sam joined him. Sam sighed at his brother. Though he had Cas back, he still had to watch him die. Sam could still see the white flash of light when he closed his eyes. It made him flinch, it made his heart rate increase, and his stomach twist in an awful sort of way. He could only imagine how it made Dean feel. "We lost him." Dean's voice was broken, only slightly, only as much as he would let it be. But broken as it was, it was also filled with some sense of hope, "He was gone, Sam. Cold, lifeless, his wings were burned into the ground at my feet. And there was nothing I could do." "Dean-" "I know, I know we have him back. But Sam, he still, right there-" Sam reached out and squeezed his brothers shoulder. Dean covered his hand and seemed to appreciate the touch, the sentiment. "Did you tell him?" Sam wasted no time getting to the point. He wasn't going to sugar coat it anymore, and if he had any say in the matter, he wasn't going to let his brother hide it anymore. "Tell him what?" The hand was gone, the brokenness was gone. His voice was back to its stoic, closed off normality, and Sam wasn't having any of it "Cut the shit, Dean," Sam said, dropping into the seat across from his brother, trying to get him to look him in the eyes, "Look, not to bring down the mood, but I have a pretty good idea what it feels like to lose someone you care about before you get to tell them that you care about them. The only difference is, you're getting a second chance to do it." Dean's eyes went wide as he looked at his brother. It was obvious that Eileen hadn't been on his mind, it was obvious that he hadn't even considered the fact that Sam had a connection with her, had feelings that he'd never been able to act on. The timing had been off, she hadn't been around, he didn't want to push it. He wasn't sure if she'd felt the same. "Dammit, Sammy. I'm sorry, Eileen, I didn't even-" "No, you didn't. But you were sort of busy losing the man you love, so I get that. But seriously, take it from me. I'd give anything to have Eileen walk through that door right now. And you know what I would do? What's the first thing I would do if she did?" Dean shrugged and took another swig. "I'd walk straight up to her and take her face in my hands, I'd look her in the eyes, and I'd tell her that I think she's incredible, one of a kind. And then I'd kiss her, I'd ask her to stay, and then I would never let her go." "You sappy son of a bitch." Dean huffed a small laugh around the mouth of the bottle and took a longer drink than normal. "You might be saying that, but you're thinking about it now. And if you want my advice, if I were you, I'd go into that room, wake Cas up, and tell him that I love him." "What if it's not what he wants?" Dean sighed as he set the bottle down, his fingers played with the label, picking at it. "Bullshit, last time he was dying, he told you that he loved you." "He told all of us-" "Shut up, he said 'I love you' while looking directly at you. At you, Dean. Not me, not Mom. His eyes never left you as he said it. He specified you, and then said it to all of us. If you don't think that Cas loves the hell out of you, then you're dumber than I ever imagined. You're not stupid Dean, stop acting like an insecure teenage girl." "I'm an insecure adult male, there's a difference." "The difference is, you will get up, you will take this chance, and you'll do it before it's too late. Again." Dean nodded and stood abruptly, he picked up the bottle and took too long of a drink before slamming it down and running the back of his hand across his mouth. He turned to walk away before he stopped and looked back at Sam. "I'm sorry about Eileen." "I'm used to it. Hey, maybe Chuck will take pity on me and bring her back, he did it for you with Cas so many times." "That's the spirit, Sammy." Dean half smiled a sad thing before he turned again and walked away with a renewed sense of purpose. Sam smiled, he reached across the table and grabbed the bottle Dean relied on so much and brought it to his lips. The brown liquid was bitter and it burned as it traveled down his throat. The warmth in his chest almost eased the ache and emptiness he felt there. He got up and followed Dean. He knew he shouldn't listen in to such an important conversation, but honestly he just wanted to make sure Dean would actually do it. "Dean?" He heard Castiel say through the crack in the door, "Is everything alright?" The man's voice was heavy with sleep, he was groggy and obviously confused. "Everything's awesome, Cas. I just," Dean stopped short and Sam could imagine that he was reaching you to take Castiel's face in his hands. "Dean?" His voice was slightly muffled, Sam suppressed a laugh at the idea that Dean had squeezed Cas's cheeks too much. "Sorry, I know this is probably weird, but I just, I wanted you to know how amazing you are. How much I appreciate you, and need you." Dean sighed as Sam did the same. He hoped his brother would be able to get the words out. "Thank you, Dean." There was a small crack in Castiel's voice and Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, "I think that you-" He was cut off, there were no words for a while; until there were. "I love you, Cas. And not like a brother, not in the same way I love Sam, or mom. Hell, I don't think I've ever loved anyone the way I love you. And I've been an idiot, and I've been scared, and angry, and I don't even know what else. But I just need you to know-" Dean was cut off this time and Sam smiled in the silence. His brother had finally been able to tell Castiel everything, and Sam liked to think that it was his words that finally pushed him over that threshold. "I love you, Dean." Castiel's voice was quiet and Sam nodded, taking another swig to calm his swirling thoughts of Eileen, all the what if's that we're beginning to plague him. How he had wished that one day he could have said those words to her, how he had been brushing up on his sign language so that they might one day have been able to communicate without words, without reading lips. Without Dean understanding what they were saying. He'd wanted everything with her in a way he'd never imagined. And now that hope, that dream was shattered. He found his way back to his room and picked up his tablet, the least he could do was research a way to find Mary. Or maybe he'd find a case. Yeah, a case to keep his mind off of things. He took another drink, and let the burn wash away his broken heart.

[allurehq-blog]

blood status: pureblood clubs: charms club, hufflepuff prefect pronouns: she/her sexuality: bisexual

BIOGRAPHY

If there were two things the Selwyns impressed in their daughter it was these: the necessity of fitting in, and the value of beauty.

The former was not so blatantly suggested, but in the way they chose to reject their Filipino roots in favor of a more “normal” lifestyle, it was evident that assimilation was their main priority. The latter, however, was stated in plain English to Pandora from a young age. Her mother took it upon herself to style her hair in intricate braids or curls until Pandora could do it herself. Her outfits for school were staunchly prepared for her and laid carefully on her bed every morning. She was gifted make up as soon as her parents deemed it socially acceptable to do so.

Aside from these choice lessons, they offered very little else in the way of active parenting– though they painted a pretty picture. Primarily, what they could give Pandora was purely monetary, and she got anything she could ask for and more. They did everything they could to keep their only child happy, but there was always something more that she wanted: some romantic, unattainable daydream that couldn’t be bought with her parents old money. The pure-blooded Selwyns had much to offer in the way of magic and money, but very little in the way of attention. She always did her best to impress them, acting the part of the perfect child from the very beginning. She did well in school, she was always polite and tidy, she excelled in dance classes and piano lessons. They simply didn’t have the time to give her the attention she so desperately desired, so she looked to another source: her grandmother. Her grandma was her favorite person, and perhaps the most influential figure in her young life. She adored the little girl endlessly and offered, in addition to gifts, the praise and affection she felt so starved from with her parents.

Getting off the bus from school, she ran in her little pinafore and pigtails directly to her grandmother’s house, which was closer to the bus stop than her own. Here she would spend hours immersed in what felt like a separate world, cooking Filipino food, listening to old family stories and folklore, and watching all of her grandmother’s favorite soaps. She listened to her grandmother and her friends as they gossiped in the room adjoining the living room. They spoke of people they knew and didn’t know, of the characters on their soaps, and celebrities, and instilled in Pandora the desire to be the person doing the talking; to know everyone’s secrets and have all eyes glued to her as she spilled every horrendous little detail.

Far more lenient with muggle culture than most families, she was exposed to all the TV and movies and celebrity gossip she could get her hands on. Her favorites were always the romantic comedies and dramas and it was this exposure which originally fostered an insatiable romanticism and idealism. All she knew of romance, however, were the drama-filled, tear jerking relationships in the movies that were always tied up in a neat little bow by the end.

In her future, she could see only a perfect life, with a perfect husband and perfect children to complete it, a cotton candy dream world where she had everything she wanted and more. In her world, she was the center of everything, she was charismatic and loved by all, with all the beauty and glamour of her favorite movie stars, and the ability of their characters to get any man to fall in love with them instantly.

Magic was merely the icing on the cake. What her money couldn’t get her, magic could. She reveled in her parents’ pride upon first receiving a letter from Hogwarts, and tried hard not to disappoint them in school. She was a talented witch, quickly learning the usefulness of charms and what they could add to her beauty and allure. Magic, to her, is a way of enhancing oneself and their life, and to fulfill her fantasy to its most dreamy extent.

At Hogwarts, Pandora continues to be an exclamation of a person. Outgoing and bubbly, she’ll talk to anyone who’ll listen, and even some who don’t. Being sorted into Hufflepuff was everything she could have wanted, with their priority for loyalty and forming deep and lasting friendships. Nothing is better than to love and be loved. She puts her best face forward, never being seen without make up and always dressed in carefully assembled outfits. She can’t really put her finger on why she spends so much time alone, as she knows she’s been kind to everyone she’s met, even when they didn’t deserve her kindness. Perhaps its her continued penchant for gossip, or– well, she doesn’t like to think about it. No one could really have a bad thing to say about her, could they?

CONNECTIONS

barty crouch jr; the affairs of the heart. if there’s one thing that pandora loves more than the idea of love, it’s being loved. as a girl, she remembered sitting on her grandmother’s couch, the woman telling her that muggles weren’t good for very much - but they did have a way with creating romantic movies. and so pandora would sit alongside the older woman on the days that she was baby-sat, watching different leading ladies and men go through trials and tribulations just so that they could have their own happy ending. it was a feeling that she’d never experienced before, the awe that seemed to bubble up in her chest and the hearts in her eyes as she’d stare up at the screen. the women were glamorous and had a grace about them that could just get the men to wrap themselves around their fingers, and the sights of love were enough to leave them breathless. for pandora, she had visions of how her life could be once she found a love like that one - and so she set out on a journey to find it. it definitely wasn’t as easy as it looked in the movies, but just as she’d found herself growing frustrated with how difficult it could’ve been, it seemed like a turn of events - perhaps the point in the movie where the couple meets and starts on their long road to love. her mother had mentioned to her one afternoon that she was going to try and set her up on a date with barty crouch jr, something that was mentioned between both of their mothers - and from that moment on, it was like pandora’s feet never hit the ground again. this was perfect. she may never have spoken to barty before, but she could only imagine that they were also perfect. pandora tried to set up the date, even tried to talk to them - but continually found herself turned down time after time. barty wasn’t holding back in what they said or the expressions on their face at just the mention of a date was enough to spell out how they truly felt. pandora knows this is just part of their love story, though - just like in the movies… and she’s not going to give up any time soon. 

greta catchlove; the best friend. pandora has always lived in her own little world - one where she is the center of attention and the most important person around. whether or not it’s fantasy or truth is something that still remains to be seen, but it’s true that she definitely visualizes the way that things should be happening to her. she pictures a world in which she’s surrounded by tons of friends who adore her and on the arm of someone who loves her and has not a single qualm in the world. it’s strange, though - how reality and expectations seem to clash over and over again. for someone who is consistently trying to be outgoing and friendly, pandora has consistently found herself alone most of the time, the word ‘wannabe’ whispered behind her as if she wasn’t capable of hearing it. it’s something that she’s tried to let roll off her back and not let effect her, because she’s been told from the time that she was a little girl that she was special. that she was better. and if the people around her couldn’t see that and appreciate it, then it was their loss. greta came into her life by some stroke of fate, though - that’s what she tells herself. she’d seen greta time and time again - always on her own, always with a scowl on her face. but the strangest thing was that this was a time that pandora didn’t have to be the first one to approach, rather greta was the one who made the jump and chose to approach pandora. they’ve been friends for quite some time now, and pandora couldn’t be happier of course - but from time to time she wonders if greta is as happy as she is. many times during their time spent together, she’ll be speaking and look over at the other girl, only to find her staring off into space. pandora can’t help but wondering what’s on her mind.

gilderoy lockhart; the confidante. she grew up in a pureblood household, but one that had a respect and appreciation of the muggle culture. she was exposed to things like technology and pop culture and social media - all things that she greatly appreciates. she’s widely regarded and well known in school as someone who knows the latest of celebrity gossip - both muggle and wizard - as well as pop culture references. it’s a language spoken that not many others understand, but very few can get excited about. for pandora, she sees the way that rita skeeter uses her words of gossip to mark her power within the student body - and it’s something that pandora dreams of. to be so widely regarded and respected in the way that the other girl has. it’s a quality she’s wanted since she entered school and had this vision of herself as someone adored and popular - but has yet to understand how to achieve something of this nature. until now, though - as this seems to be the easiest way for her to be able to go about and capture this wealth of love that she’s looking for. but it’s big shoes to fill, and oddly enough, no one takes pandora seriously enough for her to be able to make her move up the social ladder. they met through a muttered comment that the other one heard and responded to, and from that point on, pandora knew that she had someone that she had found someone to express these thoughts to without having to worry about judgment. instead, now she’s simply the one who stands in the corners of the corridors with gilderoy, the two of them chatting in barely hushed voices about who needs a makeover or whether or not it’s true that this ravenclaw is having an affair with a professor. it’s nice - to have someone that she not only shares similar interests with, but also the mutual respect that they have for one another.

sybill trelawney; the extended olive branch. it’s impossible to go through school and not know who sybill trelawney is. she’s the object of many stories and many rumors - and ironically, the girl somehow manages to be on her own most of the time, wandering through the corridors with a blank expression on her face. considering pandora is someone who feels everything in full vibrancy, her emotions coming in bursts of every color of the rainbow, to see something that could potentially be upsetting and not feel if in her own way and right. some might call it a hindrance – but for pandora, she sees it as the greatest gift in the world. because what better thing in the world could she be given than the chance to truly empathize and understand the feelings of those around her. it gives her a chance to be a step ahead and thinking twice as fast about what she can do to help them, and with sybill, she’s been trying so hard to do just that. the only thing that seems to be stopping it from helping is that sybill refuses to comply in any form. pandora has tried time and time again to approach the other girl, often going out of her way to strike up a conversation with her or take the seat next to her in classes. but every single time that happens, pandora finds herself with an unrequited smile - nothing given back in return to her. she’s tried to not take anything personally, chalking it up to the circumstance or perhaps that the other girl is having a bad day. however, pandora knows that there can’t be an excuse for every single time that she’s trying to reach out to sybill, so it doesn’t make sense as to why she’s refused every time. people love having friends, and that’s what pandora is trying to do - so why in the world is sybill trying so hard to stand against that?

PANDORA SELWYN IS PORTRAYED BY LIZA SOBERANO, AND SHE IS TAKEN BY MIRI.