#have i done anything that's not just three pages of journaling every morning yet?

[petraforgedyke]

so therapist kept raving about the artist's way for like... helping with feeling ✨creatively blocked✨ and while the whole thing is incredibly culturally christian despite the author going "nooooo no it's not religious or spiritual except if you like that" i do gotta admit that those morning pages got me confronting shit.

[fraddit]

Okay, here we go. January’s not over yet, so I can squeeze my 2023 review post in just under the wire. I know it’s not technically necessary to do stuff like this, but it’s something I’ve done at least the last several years, and I do think I get some benefit from the ritual and also perhaps some benefit from forcing myself to type it all out and post it where others can see it (although nobody needs to actually read it. It’s probably gonna get long.)

Last year was the first year of me doing this, I think, where I pulled up all my original posts for the year, and had posted no original works of artistic merit. No photoshop edits, no architectural models of sets, no whatever else I sometimes do. Normally that would make me feel pretty shitty about myself, but I sat with it all for a while, and, yeah, I didn’t post any “stuff of merit”. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do anything. And as someone recovering from a nasty addiction to horrible self-criticism, I think it’s important to stop and take purposeful notice of accomplishments, even neutrally, although positively is the goal.

And now I know why I put off making this post all month, because I’m already starting to get emotional, just thinking about what the bulk of this post is going to be about.

In a lot of ways 2023 was a really good year for me. I did a lot of behind the scenes stuff that’s been really great. I made an awesome new friend. I started therapy again. I started morning pages journaling. I started bullet journaling. I’m in a really good place right now. Which feels like such a fucking jinx to even think, let alone type out. But at least for the moment, it’s true.

But the thing from 2023 that feels too big to me to even look at really is this:

I don’t remember making that post now, I just found it in my regular review process and it knocked me on my ass. But apparently I made that post at 9:30 pm on December 31, 2022. So, basically the first post I made of 2023. Or at least close enough.

And that little post feels like a big deal to me, because two or three years before that, I’d sworn off writing. I’d decided my relationship to it was just too complicated and fraught and difficult, so I should just give up and put my efforts elsewhere, toward interests and hobbies that weren’t so complicated or fraught or difficult. I had decided that it was time to just be realistic and accept that writing was just not something I was cut out to do and move on with my life.

But here’s the context for that decision, or at least a high level overview that is hopefully succinct and also steers mostly clear of being too trauma dumpy. And it probably reads like a cliched former-gifted-kid humble brag, but it's how my life went so, it's what I've got to work with:

I’ve always been naturally gifted at stringing together words and sentences in a way that’s coherent and organized and readable. Every teacher I’ve ever had, all the way back to elementary school has told me so. All the standardized tests told me I was in the 99th percentile in most subjects, but especially the one’s related to reading and writing. My AP English teacher senior year of high school told me I was the best writer she’d had in any of her classes in her decades long teaching career.

I flunked freshman English and had to retake it over summer in order to move onto the next grade. I got Ds in English for basically all the rest of high school. I know in my heart of hearts that my teacher junior year fudged the math to give me that D, so I didn’t fail. I graduated high school a semester late.

Because, while I may have been good at writing, I’ve never been good at writing. Any natural talent I may have had was utterly paralyzed by my executive function issues (thank you adhd and autism) that generally made it impossible for me to actually put words on the page when it mattered.

Despite all that, I apparently thought it was a good idea to go to college and get a degree in English Creative Writing. I was going write best selling novels. All my professors told me my work was great. When I managed to turn work in that is.

I’ve dropped out of college like two or three times. Last time was idk, 2019 apparently (had to go look it up). I was almost done. Just another semester left or so. But instead I got burned out, had a breakdown in the parking garage before finals because I hadn’t written any of my term papers, and then just drove away and never went back.

And it’s not like I wasn’t trying. Which is probably the most painful part, honestly. I tried meds multiple times. I read self help and how to books. I got an electric typewriter because surely that would fix everything. In my 20s, I did use it to bang out the world’s roughest rough draft for the first "book" (I use that term very loosely here) in a trilogy I concocted. I tried handwriting. I tried voice to text. And there was a beautiful period where I was working on co-writing a much too ambitious fic with a friend where I manage to write several thousand words.

But I have never in my life been able to write On Purpose, with any sort of consistency or longevity or confidence or ease. I had folders of wips and snipets of ideas that all amounted to nothing. I had what all my teachers always told me I had: tons of wasted potential. My only tried and true method that had gotten me most of my results in school was to procrastinate until the night before and use the pressure and adrenaline to puke out a paper just in the nick of time. But even that method eventually failed me (hence the dropping out). And even if it hadn’t, that’s not a sustainable system. That’s not a way to actually get shit done on a regular basis. That’s not a way to enjoy a craft.

So I quit.

I decided, this is too hard. And it makes me feel too horrible every time I fail. It’s too easy to hate myself every day that I don’t write when I think I should. I decided I just wasn’t built for this and gave the fuck up.

That was like three years ago.

So for two years, if I had an idea for a story or a fic, no I didn’t. I’d just ignore it. I did other things. But the ideas were still there. I’d still think about them. Sometimes I even wrote little snippets down. But it was just to get it down. It wasn’t real. I gave up writing. I wasn’t doing that anymore.

And honestly? Maybe that’s what I needed? I have no idea if things could have worked out differently had I made different choices. That’s life after all. But maybe the total lack of pressure from genuinely quitting was good for me? I’ll never know.

But what I do know is that me from a year ago made this post:

And then this post:

And then this post:

And then this:

Then this:

And this is what this past month has looked like for me:

It not part of my system to write on the weekends, so that’s 18 out of 23 days, I managed to show up at my desk and reliably put some effort in. I’ll fucking take it.

And what’s crazy is, it’s felt easy. It’s felt good. I like the process.

I don’t exactly love everything I’ve written. Any natural talent I may or may not have doesn’t make up for lack of practice. But If I can keep this up, I’ll have the practice too. Eventually.

It’s a learning process. I’m having to relearn a lot of skills I’d forgotten or learn new skills for the first time. For example, I’ve basically never seriously edited anything in my life, and with my new approach, I really put the rough in rough draft, so the editing is extremely necessary. But it feels good to be trying. To be gaining ground little by little.

Since I dusted off my ancient install of scrivener back in idk? June?, I’ve written over twenty-five-thousand words, which is A Lot for me. And yeah, it’s across multiple fics. And yeah, I haven’t actually finished any one fic yet and posted it. But I’ll get there. It feels crazy to know that if just keep doing what I’m doing, I’ll get there. And it feels crazy to know that I can keep doing what I’m doing. It feels like I can keep doing it indefinitely, and I’ve never felt like that before. Not in my entire life. At least not about writing.

So yeah, 2023 was a great year for me.

[featherless-falling]

Extinction

1

There was a day no more missing posters were pinned to the old cork board and the morning commute was quiet. The purr of my car’s engine and the rushing wind dissipated as I slowed to a crawl and rolled the window down. What had happened? There had been no signs of struggle. The news had been normal. No wars or sickness. The ground didn’t just open up and swallow everyone and the sky was a beautiful shade of blue.

The time clock at work was the same as always and for the hell of it, I got my times perfect. Not a minute early or late like it usually was when other people were around. We had been behind. We were still behind, aside from the cleaning and all those little unpleasant tasks no one really wanted to do. There was nothing left but patience, watching clouds pass by at lunchtime. Over there, that sweet little restaurant everyone had always taken their lunch at was just visible. I’d always been to shy to stop in before, unsure of what my times would have been at the back of the line. What would I have ordered? I never bothered to find out.

There was no stopping me now, but for what? The cans and dry bags weren’t of interest to me yet and cooking and eating alone in an unfamiliar kitchen wasn’t enticing. So, I sat in my car eating cold rice and beans. Would the power fail? Would I see the gas run out and food become scarce? I was no farmer. I wasn’t much of anything anymore.

Harder to be anything on your own.

Mama had always said I’d been too eager to please. Maybe she was right. When I clocked out, I whispered to myself, “Good job today kid.” before driving home, just faster than a walking pace. Hoping day after day to find some fragile, disoriented soul on the road before I made the turn into my apartment. I collapsed on the floor most days now, laying there for what felt like hours before getting up into a crawl, never doing much of anything except desperately surviving.

Books laid unread and pens began drying. I had kept a journal for a bit before I began having nightmares and made a fire inside a large can in the parking lot, tearing the pages and covers to fit. The mark of it was still there. Fresh as the day I’d made it. I couldn’t remember how what had passed since then. Seasons? Moons? Mere hours?

My hours shortened. Work was letting up.

I went on vacation!

I stopped going. . . .

I never would have been able to eat all the food in the grocery stores. It was so vile, walking past the mountains of mold in the stale air and crumbling walls trying to get a few more cans. A box. Another bag. Maybe someone would come to dinner tonight.

I realized I hadn’t heard the birds in ages. Hadn’t seen a fly in years.

I went home. Home! Home! I went home. To my home. To the home I had grown up in. None of it mattered. There was nothing there. Not even the ghosts. I shot my plans of burning every memory away, it had already been done. We had a photo album, been in the family for generations. My own face was blurry in every picture and I didn’t recognize anyone else.

I passed a mirror the next day.

Decades later.

I knew what I had to do, the vision coming in the midday sun one Summer. Dead leaves and branches rustled overhead. I needed a quiet spot and I knew just the place, walking along in a dream. . . .

2

A young girl in a sundress of delicate, faded colors and bare feet drifted by in a shopping cart. Her knees held to her chest and a curve to her face like in those last moments, she’d been happy. Like someone she loved had pushed her down the hill to the edge of town. Cars had been abandoned, buildings broken into and food raided. There were bodies everywhere. A number were like roadkill, but many were found slumped over counters, machinery, and desks. Some were hiding. The trees were quickly labeled as a hazard as rotting bodies were prone to slide from their precarious perches. By the brook, in one of the deepest ditches, was a pile of bodies taller than three of our best men. They had held hands and curled against one another. It was strangely organized in this clearing where the sun dipped away from the world and the brook ran a muddy brown that wasn’t present a little farther upstream.

The journals and newspaper clippings didn’t give any answers. Disorientation cutting everything off entirely.

We set up wire fences and wrote out a shaky sign- I’d never been much good at penmanship- on a piece of plywood before leaving the area, calling for help on all channels. One of the men hadn’t signed his report and asked for the date. Usually I wasn’t one for tattling over slight misses in protocol. We were a tight-knit crew who worked well enough without that sort of garbage, but I thanked the man profusely this time. They understood why. This was serious. We didn’t know what happened.

We all attended a funeral before the month’s end.

Life was cruel and none of the men cried. Why was no one crying?

I looked around and let out a cough.

[onceandfuturewarlqck]

merlin looks in the mirror and smiles.

he counts the years, the centuries, one after the one, he keeps track of them, like prisoners in a suffocating cell making tally marks on a wall.

he looks in the mirror every morning, his personal routine, between waking up and staring at the ceiling of his small apartment and getting ready for breakfast.

(there is a single moment in which he asks himself where he is. which country, which age? which house is his new home? none, a traitorous voice whispers in his ear, none, because his home is gone, forever, not a trace of it left. history has deleted everything but him.)

merlin looks in the mirror and he hates his eyes the most, but he smiles.

(there is nothing left but smiling)

("I haven't seen you smile these past three days")

lately, he walks around a lot.

this century is not made for walking and leisure, for moving around slowly and letting the mind ebb and flow like the tide. fast cars flashes on concrete streets, the noise of motors and the dirty smell of smoke drifting through the air. 

merlin has lived too many years to remember how it was, when the sky was full of stars, and the city full of the chatter of people instead of the noise of business, when the woods sank into magic. now the woods are disappearing, and even magic comes more slowly than honey to him. 

there’s a phantom of how it was, so feeble it often slips away through his fingers.

(merlin is terrified, because he is forgetting. he is forgetting and there is nothing he can do. he reads his journals, thousands of them, filled in a tiny cursive with memories, but that’s not enough. he reads, camelot was coated in dark red and sweet gold, and, gwen and i once got drunk together on mead and spent our days weaving crowns, and, arthur’s prattishness was forgiven the day he gifted me my first cloak. he reads everything he wrote but those events are further and further away.)

(merlin wonders how much is memory and how much he is just imagining. he doesn’t remember the color of the cloak arthur gave him. he wrote that it was blue, but he isn’t sure. he has to believe the words, because his mind comes out blank, and oh, how scary, to have to rely on pages of paper, weak to the elements of life, destined to turn to dust. all his life, contained in a few journals. all his life, one he can’t remember.)

every morning, merlin looks in the mirror, and his eyes stare back at him, and he hates them, because they always were a shade away from arthur’s. they are so similar to his king’s, and yet different enough. 

it is an awful thing, being deprived of arthur’s gaze as well as his life. 

(some days, merlin is not able to look at the color red without his chest aching.

some days, merlin thinks about arthur, about gwaine, about gaius, and he doesn’t feel anything. his heart doesn’t hurt and his stomach doesn’t twist in pain.)

(he doesn’t know what’s worse: his blind, useless grief, or this dull indifference.)

merlin is not sure what would become of him if he forgets about camelot, but he knows that everything that keeps his life together is the love he feels for those he left behind, all those centuries ago.

without his love, he is nothing. 

the day he’ll stop missing them, will be the day merlin would die as well.

but for him, death is not the end of life. 

he can’t see his friends anymore if not in his memories and dreams, after all.

there will never be relief for him.

(will he ever be ready to stop clinging to them? he doesn’t want to know. he doesn’t know if he wants to move on.)

(a part of him knows that he doesn’t deserve to move on, and oh, isn’t that so sweet?)

merlin counts the years and writes his journals and wakes up every few decades in a different place. his roots have rotten, and there’s no ground for him to grow into. 

his roots are in a past no longer tangible. 

merlin is tired, as he walks and writes. 

(have i done enough, arthur? when will have i done enough? when can i rest?)

merlin tells arthur’s story, but no one will tell his. 

his love is but a forgotten shore, dry and overflowing in all the wrong directions.

the future is behind him now. 

he looks in the mirror in the evening and smiles. 

he doesn’t remember how arthur’s voice sounded.

these days, he is forgetting his own as well. 

when he goes to sleep, there’s a body in his desperate arms, and the sound of wings leaving him, dooming him to eternity. 

in a sea of sweet, flowery moments, shining and warm, the one to remain with him is rusted blood and the taste of salt on his lips.

("I haven't seen you smile these past three days")

[9tzuyu]

dissolve (rewrite)

natasha x reader

note: this was just a huge vent fic idk. these type of fics seem to be the only thing im okay at writing. mistakes are mine as always. but i did proofread, yay!

if you want to read the original (as awful as it is) you can read it here!

wanrings: this heavily revolves around eating disorders.

i’m not tagging anyone because the content isn’t really the lightest to read.

words are used everyday, everywhere – whether to describe something or someone. there’s thousands upon thousands of them.

so you were having a hard time figuring out why you were struggling so much to justify your feelings through the basis of words. it was unnerving, draining and very annoying. your emotions should be simple, right? you were either sad or happy, angry or scared. but there was something more, something unexplainable. saying you felt alone only scratched the surface of the wave of emotion that took over. it was excruciatingly painful, far worse than any physical pain you ever had to endure. and for some reason it seemed to come crashing down at night while natasha slept peacefully. you weren't exactly sure how to express your emotions to the extent you felt them. how else was anyone supposed to understand your pain? they couldn't, not unless they could somehow shift into your body and feel your emotions themselves. but that was merely impossible as such powers do not exist. so you were inevitably stuck with words foreign to your lips. over the years you were deemed unsafe, a hazard, "an accident waiting to happen" you recall one doctor say. everyone’s eyes were on you at all times, monitoring every little movement you made. it was suffocating and at times doing more damage than good.

as an adult now you learned how freeing it could be without the fear of gaining weight or eating a bowl full of rainbow marshmallow cereal. your worth was not defined by your weight.

(at least that's what you believed prior to any relapses.) everything was going well in your life. you were a college graduate working as a psychiatric nurse and you had found love, something your teenage self could only dream of. natasha was by your side through everything. and really, the only downfall in the relationship was that she had to travel a lot for her job. but you were secure enough in your relationship not to worry or decide to call things off. in the end natasha always made up for it when she came back, so you couldn't complain too much. things were going well for you, really, they were. until they weren't. (and you didn't know why.) it happened out of nowhere. work was a little more stressful than usual, but it was nothing you couldn't handle. natasha had been away for three months, only stopping by a few times to check in on you. but again, your wife being away for so long wasn't anything new or worrisome. the two of you had followed the routine of her leaving and coming back more than a thousand times; yet somewhere along the way you lost yourself. food became less of a priority, your hunger decreased drastically, and within the first month you'd lost thirteen pounds. it truly was an accident, slipping into a full blown relapse was never part of the plan. but thirteen pounds lighter you wanted more, to feel small again. you didn't have an answer as to why you became so attached to your eating disorder, but it didn't seem like it would be letting go any time soon. the rate at which you were going natasha would most definitely be able to see a difference; not only on your weight, but in the person you once were. she'd ask what happened and why it happened, poking and prodding for an answer, but you didn't have one. so here you stood in the kitchen of your shared home, a cup of sliced fruit in one hand and your cell phone in the other. you poured the fruit into the bottom of a blender along with a spoonful of yogurt and half a cup of soy milk. another half cup of ice followed suit. while the fruit blended, you shamelessly scrolled through your instagram. there was nothing interesting going on in other people's lives, you didn't even know why you had social media in the first place. it was dumb, and quite frankly you didn't give a shit whether or not sharon went to the beach. the sound of your blender coming to a halt brought your attention back to the real world. you poured your smoothie into your water bottle. the green liquid would be your breakfast and lunch for the day - dinner was still up for debate. a soft sigh left your lips. work was beginning to feel more like a chore and less of something you enjoyed. you were quickly growing tired of it. nonetheless, you grabbed your keys and rushed out of the door.

you thought about the irony of working as a psychiatric nurse with an undealt eating disorder telling teenagers how to deal with their own issues. you felt hypocritical to say the least, especially given that all the nasty side effects were starting to make themselves known.

your hair was beginning to thin, small clumps of it already starting to fall out when you tugged a little too hard. bruises could be seen scattered left and right on your body, and you were cold. god you were cold. your fingernails were tinted blue, warmth seemingly too far out of reach. you looked ill, and it didn't go unnoticed by your coworkers.

a few hours into your shift you found yourself sitting behind the nurses station filling out paperwork. lunch had passed and when your coworker, steve, asked if you were going to eat something you lied straight through your teeth, telling him you'd grab something when the patients were eating dinner.

but steve rogers could read you like an open book. he knew you were lying because he already knew what was going on. the signs of an eating disorder were quite obvious when you were a licensed therapist. and despite your futile attempts at hiding it, everyone could tell something wasn't right.

steve played it by ear for weeks until he contacted natasha, but by then you'd already lost a considerable amount of weight. as soon as she heard the news, natasha booked the next flight home. unfortunately for her though, there was only one flight and she would have to wait two and a half weeks before being able to leave.

you didn't know it, but those were the longest two and a half weeks natasha ever had to wait.

– patients were having group therapy, so you could tune them out - not that you should, but it was hard to focus when the only two things you could think about were food and your weight.

the need to lose weight sounded so stereotypical for someone with an eating disorder, but honestly it wasn't about that. it was never about wanting to be thin. you genuinely didn't know why this was happening. the only thing you noticed was how rewarding it felt seeing the number go down, as if for you were good for becoming less. it was addictive. and it didn't help that you based your entire worth on how much you could lose.

the next time you stood up from behind the nurses station steve met you in the the cafeteria. while the patients ate you took occasional sips from your smoothie. the bottle was still full of its contents from the morning. you had completely forgotten to drink it during the day, but you didn't seem to mind it that much.

the surprise touch of steve's hand on your shoulder startled you.

i am gross, you thought. do not do that.

steve caught onto the slight flinch your body produced as a reflex, but he didn't say anything about it.

"you can leave early, boss said so."

he laughed as he saw confusion plaster your face.

"what? no!"

"go home, seriously. we have this handled. you know tony doesn't like being told no."

you bit your lip, puzzled by the sudden request. most people wouldn't mind being sent home early, but all it did for you was give you a level of anxiety reserved for food.

what you didn't know was that natasha was home waiting for your arrival. she came back just short of an hour after you left for work.

while you were gone natasha made a few thorough rounds in the house looking for key signs of your eating disorder. there was bound to be evidence given that you didn't know she was home.

unsurprisingly, natasha found a glass scale beside the counter of the bathroom floor along with empty bottles of laxatives in the trashcan. the food in the fridge had been expired a few days past their date, giving her the indication that you weren't eating as much as you should be. her concern grew even more when she found your food journal on your nightstand. flipping the pages, natasha could see that throughout the moths she'd been gone your calorie intake had decreased significantly.

guilt began to gnaw at the back of her throat.

during the few days natasha stopped by, she hadn't noticed anything wrong with you. but then again she knew most people with eating disorders were very good at hiding them up until the point they were discovered. three days wasn't near enough time for her to catch onto your tricks, not when her mind was still focused on her job.

natasha always listened intently whenever you would talk about your eating disorder, the first time being six months into the relationship on a date you felt like you had ruined.

but talking about it was much different than experiencing it with you, natasha had never done that before up until now. she read nearly every article there was about anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder and ednos. sometimes when you were asleep she would watch documentaries on the disorder, always making sure to keep her volume at a low level.

the videos that hurt her the most were the ones teenagers struggling with the simple task of eating food.

(although natasha knew it wasn't that simple.)

it hurt because she knew that was you at some point in time.

upon your arrival, natasha cooked dinner. she wanted to hold onto the one sliver of hope that steve was wrong - that he was just overreacting - but she knew in her heart he was right about his assumption. however, dinner would only confirm what natasha so desperately wanted to deny.

when you walked through the door you were greeted with the overwhelming scent of food. you cringed at the thought of having to eat, but as soon as you looked up to see the redhead who'd been gone for so long your frown was washed away. a wide smile overtook your face and you rushed to jump into natasha's arms.

"i missed you so much," you whispered. "i thought you'd be gone for another few weeks?"

natasha's arms found their way around your waist as your legs wrapped around hers. "what? i can't come home early to surprise my wife?" you giggled in the crook of her neck. she smiled feeling the vibrations against her skin, happy to know that you'd missed her just as much as she missed you.

she sat you down, back facing you, she tended to the food. "you've lost weight," she commented, not missing the sharp inhale of your breath.

"how was work, nat?"

she nodded to herself. yeah, she didn't expect you to be so open on the first try.

"it was fine. dinner's ready, i made your favorite!" natasha threw a smile in your direction as she carried the plates over to the table. she had hoped to see your face light up the way it used to, but seeing the panicked look in your eyes further confirmed your relapse.

if nothing else, natasha wanted you to have a meal before she brought up the conversation.

"great... i love it, thank you nat!" your attempt at being enthusiastic failed miserably and you knew by the look she gave you, she already knew what was going on.

but throughout the meal, and despite the shakiness of your hand as it gripped the metal fork, natasha didn't say anything.

you weren't really sure which was worse; being confronted or knowing the both of you knew what the other was thinking and still not addressing it.

natasha's meal was good, you couldn't lie about that, but each bite you chewed caused the tightening in your chest to constrict further.

now you couldn't be good. or worthy. or deserving.

nat took away your plate when you were halfway through. she knew your limits, and she didn't want to push you too much out of your comfort zone.

"go change, i'll wash our dishes. meet you on the couch?"

you did as you were told, taking as long as you could to do so. except this time was different. you didn't glance in the mirror like you usually did, you chose to fully take in your figure.

what you saw was not what you expected to see. for the first time in months you saw a version of yourself that wasn't twisted and turned to be something you didn't know was real or not.

your skin was dry, hair thinned out beyond your belief, eyes sunken and dark underneath. the revelation gave you an odd feeling – was once again something unexplainable, unjustifiable by words.

good.

that was how you were supposed to feel, right? after all of this time, after the many pounds of protection and warmth lost, you were supposed to feel good.

but you didn't. and you never would.

there was something so surreal about the realization of your own destruction. you were aware now, which meant you had to either take responsibility or choose to lose everything you worked so hard for.

"y/n?"

your wife's voice snapped you out of your gaze and you scrambled to pile your dirty clothes and rush out of the bedroom.

as you made your way into the living room you could feel the intensity of natasha's gaze. any other time you would not mind her green eyes looking at you, but this time around you felt like you were in trouble.

she patted the empty spot next to her, to which you reluctantly joined. but even after everything you still tried to play it cool.

"what's up? is everything okay?"

she gave a low chuckle, "you tell me."

"what do you mean?"

"oh i think you know what i mean."

natasha’s reply was met with the loudest silence you ever had to sit through.

she bit her lip, "you know i got a call from steve a few weeks ago. he's concerned about you, and from what he's told me so am i."

you were quick to respond, automatically knowing what steve’s phone call was about. "i'm fine. so what if i've lost a couple of pounds? that doesn't automatically mean that im relapsing, natasha."

your quick snap reminded natasha that this kind of confrontation was like walking on eggshells.

she tilted her head, licking her lips. "i'm here with you, always." nat put a hand to the side of your face, gently rubbing her thumb at the top of your cheekbone. "i'm here."

it seemed pointless now to try and say anything because your secret was already out.

your mind began racing back and forth.

you wanted to keep what you knew best and natasha understood that. even by reading your body language she knew what you were debating.

"you know, to keep it you have to give it away." your eyes darted to meet hers. "mhm. you can still have that piece of you. mourn it, grieve it, do whatever you need to do to move onto a stage where it doesn't hurt you. and from there you can help other people, share your experience, let yourself heal by helping others."

she paused, “we all have choices. some of those choices are taken from you while others leave you with only one option.”

although what she said seemed to resonate with you, there was one thing still holding you back.

"i just want to be good."

natasha hummed. you had explained it to her in the past, though your words were jumbled together as you tried to describe it.

"you can be good in other ways. you're allowed to live a life outside of the barriers your eating disorder puts in the way."

you swallowed the lump in the back of your throat. "i don't even know how it got to this point. in january i enjoyed ihop and dennys. in february i could have oatmeal and bananas, sometimes half of a sandwhich if i was feeling brave. now it’s march and i only eat one or two things a day. the idea of having a full meal makes me want to cry. and i just- i don't know how to stop."

natasha wouldn't show it, but your words cut through her heart like a knife. her mind wandered briefly to all the teenagers in the documentaries she'd watched, hoping you weren't too far gone into your eating disorder to ever come back. those cases scared her the most.

"you've got my complete support. you've tackled this before, maybe this time you can beat it? i know its easier to abuse your body instead of growing comfortable in it, but i think you’ve got this. i know you do."

"what about your work?" your question caused natasha to frown. "you think i wouldn't set my job aside for you?" you shrugged, it's not like you felt like you were worth being taken care of anyway.

natasha grew hesitant to tell you her news, but did it anyway because she’d rather you hate her than see you dead. "i've already made some appointments for you. the first one is tomorrow morning."

"i figured you would natasha. it's okay."

you spaced yourself out the rest of the day. each time you made the executive decision to recover, whether that be a genuine recovery or not, the process never failed to remind you that even trying to recover from an eating disorder felt like mourning the loss of a friend who was never good for you in the first place.

[nastybuckybarnes]

Monsters  -  Three

Pairing: Dark!Bucky X Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes is a man who just wants to do better. But he can’t stop the monster from coming out every now and then. As a last and hopeless attempt at calming The Winter Soldier, SHIELD finds him something they figured would help. An innocent young woman with not a lot going for her. Or, The Winter Soldiers newest victim.

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Language, Injuries, INTENSE SMUT (NONCON), GUNPLAY, HUMILIATION, DEGRADATION, NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART, Major MENTAL HEALTH TRIGGER, 

Word Count: 3.5K

A/n: Oof sorry. This is dark as fuck. it’s really triggering. If you complain I will block you because I have many warnings in place. This is a very triggering chapter that involves very sensitive and triggering topics so read at your own damn risk!

THIS IS A DARK FIC WITH SEXUAL AND TRIGGERING CONTENT!!!

~

MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER!! READ AT OWN RISK!!

~*~

He doesn’t look at you the next morning.

You’re thankful for that because you don’t think you’d be able to withstand seeing him without crying.

Your neck is dark and covered in bruises, and your wrists look no better, the skin discoloured to a near-black colour. It hurts to breathe, to walk. Your lower regions burning with each step you take. You’re part glad he doesn’t look at you, but you’re also frustrated.

He said he wasn’t a monster and yet look what he’s done to you. Your body is broken and bruised and beat badly, and he doesn’t even have the stomach to look at the damage he’s caused.

You stay in your room for most of the day anyway, in far too much pain to venture anywhere except the kitchen for a glass of water which does little to soothe the burn in your throat.

As you sit there, alone on the mattress that holds disgusting memories, you ponder what Fury said yesterday about the fine print in the email. Surely you would have seen any more writing. You wouldn’t have just accepted the position without being properly informed of everything that you were going to have to do.

But it seems to be too late. If last night was any indication of your fate, you almost understand why they gave you little to no warning.

He was barbaric. Brutally taking advantage of your body, and thwarting your attempts to get him to be gentler.

A knock on your door startles you from your thoughts. It opens quietly and the man who’s been occupying your thoughts walks in with his head down.

“I uh... I brought you some soup. You haven’t eaten all day.” You stare at the steaming bowl held in his metal hand. The same hand that crushed your wrists.

“I’m not hungry,” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper. He looks up at you and swallows hard, eyes zeroing in on the dark marks on your neck. He lets out a shuddering breath and nods.

He opens his mouth to speak but snaps it closed again, setting the bowl down on the dresser then leaving the room.

The soldier doesn’t come to you that night.

Or the night after.

On the fourth day, three nights of him not coming to you, you finally venture out of your room. You nearly run right into his chest as he opens the door to talk to you. He grabs your waist to stop you from toppling over then pulls back as if you’ve scalded him.

“I’ve got a mission briefing to go to. I’ll be gone for most of the day,” he informs you, voice hard and emotionless. You simply nod and watch as he leaves the house in a hurry. When you’re sure he’s gone, you creep down the stairs and into the kitchen, stomach cramping for food.

You find a few pieces of bread and some crackers on the counter, along with a note that says ‘Dinner will be ready shortly after I get home.” You take the crackers and shovel them into your mouth, not caring about how much they dry your throat. They go down like sandpaper, and you wash them down with a glass of water, finally silencing your growling stomach.

With the house to yourself, you explore, your feet taking you to another bedroom upstairs.

It must be his, you realize, eyes finding a small, leather-bound notebook. You look around the room quickly then snatch the book up and sit down on his bed, eyes devouring the words scrawled carelessly on the pages.

Horror fills you as you read, each page giving detailed descriptions of the horrible things this man has done.

You find yourself terrified for your life once more as you realize just how quickly he could end it. It would simply be another life to him, nothing he cares about considering how many he’s taken already.

You put the book back and leave the room, running to the front door and banging on it mercilessly, hoping to catch the attention of someone passing by.

~*~

“Tincan!” Bucky groans and looks up as Tony walks to him. “Relax. I’ve got a gift for you.” He hands over a tablet and Bucky furrows his brows in confusion.

“So you can watch your little pet. I hooked it up to all the cameras in your house, so you can keep tabs on her. Before you ask, Fury’s not all that good at keeping secrets.” Bucky makes a mental note to talk to Fury about keeping this off the radar, but for now, he’s curious to see what you’re doing.

He accepts the tablet with a soft ‘thank you’ then quickly turns it on, flipping through the different camera feeds until he finds you.

You’re banging a lamp from your bedside table against a window in your room, tears on your cheeks. You look hopeless.

He toys around with the tablet for a while until he finds a rewind button, wanting to know what has you so desperately wanting to escape.

He stops it from rewinding when he sees you sitting on his bed, his journal in your lap.

The pieces click into place and he shakes his head, angry that you would invade his privacy like that and pissed at himself for not putting it away.

“Listen Stark, I’ll come back later to be briefed. I’ve gotta go... deal with something.” Tony nods and watches as Bucky walks away, his heart aching for you but he knows that there’s nothing he can do to help you.

Bucky pulls up to the house and throws the front door open, the ride over giving him plenty of time to stew in his anger.

He slams the door shut behind himself and stomps up the stairs to your room, kicking the door open and staring at you. You hold the lamp tightly in your grasp and turn to him slowly, terrified at the dark look in his eyes.

“You need to learn some respect!” He spits the word and marches over to you, grabbing the lamp with his left hand when you swing it at him. He throws it to the ground and grabs you by the jaw, tossing you onto the bed. You crawl backwards, shaking your head at him desperately.

He grabs your ankle and yanks you down the bed, then flips you onto your stomach. He tears your pants and panties down your legs and starts slapping your ass. Hard.

You scream in pain as he punishes you, slapping again and again and again, each one being harder than the last.

By the time he finally lets up, your ass is on fire, skin bruised and burning. He grabs you by the hair and tugs, forcing you up onto your hands and knees.

You’re trembling on the bed, terrified of what he’s going to do to you.

“You’ve been bad,” he whispers, dragging something cool across the skin of your ass. You subconsciously lean into the soothing touch and he chuckles.

“You read something you weren’t supposed to. You went snooping into my business.” He rips you up by your hair so that you’re right beside him, head leaning back on his shoulder. “Don't you ever fucking touch my stuff again.” The words are whispered but the threat is shouted, and you find yourself nodding quickly. He shoves you back down onto the bed but keeps your hips raised.

Something cool and blunt is pressing against your entrance and you jolt away, yelping when he smacks your ass again.

“You’re gonna fuck yourself on my gun, or I’m gonna make you wish you were dead, understood?” You feel absolutely humiliated, blood running cold as he presses the gun into your cunt, your warm walls clinging to the metal as he slowly pumps it in and out of you. He stops for a moment and you hear the weapon click.

“Safety’s off. Now fuck yourself on it. And then maybe I won’t hurt you.” You jump on the opportunity of not getting hurt anymore and start slowly thrusting your hips backwards. You hate it. You hate how good it feels. You hate how he’s humiliating you and you’re enjoying it. Your body betrays you with each thrust of your hips. Slick gathers between your thighs and drips down onto the mattress while you fuck yourself on his gun.

“Such a fucking whore. Fucking yourself of my Glock. Gettin’ all messy and wet. So fucking desperate for something to fill that cunt of yours that you’ll fuck anything.” His words crack your pride, tears stinging your eyes as you continue to rock your hips.

“Fuck yourself faster, slut. I wanna watch you cum.” That’s what makes you start to sob. The fact that not only is he watching you fuck yourself on his weapon of choice, but he’s going to force you to make yourself cum while doing so.

You rock your hips faster, squeezing your eyes shut as broken sobs leave your lips, the mortification nearly too much to bear. You just want to cum and have this all be over with.

Your clit brushes against the trigger guard and you jolt away from it before repeating the action. “Look at that. Such a stupid mindless slut, fucking yourself on a gun. You’re such a pathetic whore.” You hate it. You hate the names, the fact that he’s saying it out loud, bringing light to what you’re doing.

You risk a glance over your shoulder and feel the blood leave your face. If you weren’t appalled before, you certainly are now. He’s got his phone camera pointing at your most intimate area, filming you fucking yourself on his gun.

You hiccup a sob and press your face into the pillow, rocking your hips faster, hoping to get this over with.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, his hand already covered in your slick. You ignore him, rubbing your clit on the metal hard, toes curling as your orgasm approaches fast.

With a sound that’s half a moan and half a sob, you cum, cunt clenching hard on the metal.

He groans, watching as you lose your dignity on camera.

When your cunt stops pulsing, he pulls the gun out and slaps your ass.

“Face me,” he orders. You comply, eyes red and puffy, snot dripping from your nose and tears falling down your cheeks.

“You’re gonna suck this gun clean. If you leave one drop on here I’ll make you regret it.” You open your mouth and suck on it, licking off the taste of metal and your essence, trying not to cringe at how embarrassing it is.

Bucky holds the camera up to your face, and what little dignity you had left is crushed.

“Look at how worthless you are. Such a pathetic slut.” You suck harder, wanting to get the gun clean so you can end this torture. You’d rather have him physically hurt you. This... this mental abuse? It’s far worse.

He pulls the gun out of your mouth and nods, shedding himself of his pants and boxers then sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard. He motions with the gun to his cock and you sniffle, climbing onto his lap. You slowly lower yourself onto him and he moans, aiming the camera at where your abused pussy is taking every inch of him.

“You’re gonna fuck yourself on my cock just like you did on my gun. Understand?” he presses the barrel of the gun to your temple and your bottom lip wobbles.

“Cry all you want, skank. As long as you make me cum.” You squeeze your eyes shut tightly and raise yourself off of his cock, only to drop down on him again. He groans and watches through hooded eyes as you ride him, darkness filling his eyes as he presses the gun harder into your head, finger hovering over the trigger.

“Faster!” He shouts, grinning at the way you flinch. You start bouncing up and down on his lap, the squelching sound of his cock in your soaked pussy making you burn with shame.

Your legs ache, your injured thigh on fire as you continue to use it in a way that you really shouldn't. You fuck him hard and fast, praying to any and every god available that this ends soon.

He moans loudly, thrusting up to meet you, and you cry out in pain. The tears won't stop, they drip down your face and splatter onto his chest, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, it spurs him on. He brings the camera up and focuses on your face, watching the way you sob and cry, humiliation clear as day on your face.

“Oh fuck!” His thrusts stutter before he stills, and you follow, staying seated on his cock as loud sobs tear out of your chest.

“Get off and lay on your stomach, ass up. I wanna see how wrecked you look.” You do as he says, nearly choking on your own snot as you press your face into the bed again.

“Look at that,” he whispers, the camera zooming in to capture the way he’s abused you. Your cunt is swollen, all puffy and red, and cum oozes out and over your engorged clit. He tosses the gun aside and smacks you hard, right on your centre.

You jump away from the pain, but he doesn't stop. He slaps your pussy over and over again, catching your clit and sending you spiralling in pain. He doesn’t stop until your shrieking and your cunt looks as abused as your ass.

“Have you learned your lesson?” He asks, the camera staying on your pussy as it flutters and clenches, clit throbbing almost visibly.

“Yes,” you whisper. He slaps your cunt again and you scream.

“Yes what?” He demands. This is new. You’re not quite sure what to call him, but another harsh slap against your clit has you screaming the first thing that comes to mind.

“Yes sir!” He seems to like that.

“Good. Now fucking clean yourself before I make you dirtier.” You don’t wanna know what he means by that, and he doesn't give you a chance to think too hard on it before he’s leaving the room, stopping the gun off the ground and flicking the safety back on.

You hear him stomp out of the house, the door slamming hard enough to shake the whole house. Your heart races and your tears don’t stop. The humiliation and mental abuse that he just put you through has you trembling, anxiety skyrocketing.

You haul yourself off of the bed and stumble to the shower, turning the water on as hot as you can handle, then hotter still, determined to burn the feeling of his hands off of your skin.

You stand sobbing under the spray for a long time, long enough for his seed to drip down your leg and get washed down the drain. The thought of having any part of him in your body makes you feel sick, and you grab the showerhead. You switch the setting to a more powerful one then press it to your core, determined to wash him out of you.

The heat of the water scalds you, and it burns like a bitch, but you don’t care. You’ll endure any pain to get the feeling of him out of you.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes of washing yourself out, you switch the setting back to normal and stand under the spray, shivering despite the hot water.

You feel hopeless. And absolutely terrified. He hurt you. Mentally and physically. There’s no escape. Nothing for you to do. You’re stuck here. Trapped. Just like Fury said. THere’s no way they’ll let you out now, not with the way he’s treated you. You’re sure of it.

An idea pops into your head and you slowly open your eyes.

Maybe you’re not as trapped as you thought.

You hobble out of the shower and into your bedroom, grabbing the glass of water off of your bedside table.

When you’re back in the bathroom, you smash the glass against the counter, tears continuing to fall silently, although you feel less overwhelmed now that you have a plan.

You grab a large shard of glass then get into the shower, sitting down in the corner under the warm spray of water.

With two deep breaths, you press the glass to the inside of your wrist, wincing as you push down against your bruises. You drag the sharp shard up towards your elbow, closing your eyes for a moment as blood spills out quickly. You slice another, cleaner line, up from your wrist to your elbow, then repeat the process on your other arm.

You lean your head back against the tiled wall and let out a few shuddering breaths, basking in the warm water as your body slowly starts to get colder.

~

Bucky sits in the briefing room, feeling guilty about what he did to you. He had a point to prove, but he thinks he took it a tad too far.

If the dead look in your eyes is anything to go by, then he absolutely took it too far.

On the drive to the compound, he found it nearly impossible to keep his eyes off of the tablet, hungry to see what you would do and how you would react. He’s disappointed but not surprised at the fact that you tried to wash your body clean of him, inside and out.

But now in the briefing room, Steve drones on and on about a potential threat and yada yada ya. Bucky just wants to check on you, make sure you’re not hurt too bad. See how you’re reacting to his... extreme punishment.

With a glance down, he pulls the tablet out of his jacket and holds it under the table, eyes looking up to see if anyone’s noticed. They’re all focused on their captain, the same way he should be. But he’s not. He can’t help the gnawing feeling in his gut that he needs to check on you. He flicks through the cameras, stopping when he gets to the one in the shower.

He tries to be inconspicuous about it, but he struggles when he sees you sitting in the corner, not moving. After a closer look, he sees the puddle of red that’s slowly seeping down the drain.

Blood. And lot’s of it.

He stands up abruptly and all eyes turn to him.

“I’ve gotta go,” he mumbles, shoving the tablet back into his jacket then running out of the room. He drives fast. Fast and reckless, but he’s afraid. Why? Because if you die, it’s his fault.

He doesn’t know where the blood is coming from, but he hopes to god it’s not anything he physically inflicted.

He takes the stairs three at a time, shoving open the bathroom door in your room and ripping open the shower door. You’re sitting there, skin dull and eyes closed while red pumps from your arms.

“Fuck,” he whispers, grabbing your arms and pulling you out of the shower. You whimper, eyes moving slowly beneath closed lids.  

He grabs a towel and presses it to your arms, then digs through the cabinets in search of a first aid kit.

His hands shake just the slightest bit as he wraps your arms tightly in gauze, slowing the blood flow. His heart clenches as he sees the bruises on your wrists, the ones he gave you.

Maybe he is a monster.

“Hmm... no...” you whisper, pushing against him weakly. He looks down and finds your eyes staring up at him, slightly glazed over.

“No,” you whisper again, this time stronger.

“No!” You shout, struggling out of his lap.

“How could you?! Why?! Why couldn't you just let me die?! Haven't you hurt me enough?!” He swallows hard and holds your arms tightly, stopping you from hurting yourself more.

“Calm down. Please. I’m gonna dry you off and put you to bed. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” You shake your head then instantly regret it, feeling dizzy and weak.

He scoops you up in his arms and carries you into your bedroom, stopping when he sees the wrecked sheets. He glances at you and your trembling body then brings you into his bedroom. He sets you down on the bed then runs and gets a towel, drying you off quickly. Your teeth continue to chatter even after he’s dressed you in a sweatshirt of his and a pair of sweatpants.

He tucks you under the blankets then scoots in bed next to you, hoping the high temperature of his body does something to warm you up.

You fall asleep rather quickly, body and mind exhausted from the traumatic events of the day, and Bucky feels himself being quickly overcome with guilt.

He did this to you. He let himself go, far too much. The monster within clawed it’s way out. He took out his aggression and anger on you when he should’ve just punished you lightly. He broke you, right down to your soul. And he’s not sure how or if he can fix you.

~*~

[jtsfavslut]

Falling [G.D]

Description: Just when Y/N thought she was over Grayson, he pops back into her life, making her wonder if you could fall for the same person twice. Inspired by ‘Falling’ - Harry Styles. 

Warnings: None, Just sad stuff lmao!!!

Word Count: 4K+

Also a special thanks to cole [ @blazedgraysons​] for keeping up with my annoying ass questions while I wrote this, and for helping me and giving me advice I love you <333

   Her small feet carried her body down the familiar street, cars zooming past her as her body softly bumped into the others around her. The loud sounds from the environment being blocked away by the soft, yet loud music that was coming out of an old pair of Airpods she had gotten for Christmas back in High School.

This was Y/N's daily routine. Get up early in the morning, do her business in the bathroom, get dressed, and walk over to her favorite cafe. The Beachwood cafe had become Y/N's second home ever since she moved to L.A, spending most of her time there, before and after class.

A smile lit up her face as the familiar blue door came into her view, a content sigh falling past her lips as she got closer to the door.

The strong smell of coffee hit her nostrils as she walked inside, music being paused as she walked fully inside, giving her attention to the cashier that greeted her every morning, "Hi Y/N, your stuff is on your table," she smiled up at Y/N before pointing towards her usual table.

It was the one by the window in the corner of the shop, the bright yellow and blue floor illuminated her small journey to the table, where her coffee and breakfast sandwich happily waited for her to approach. She sat down, hand reaching into her Yellow Kanken backpack, another Christmas gift from high school that she dearly took care of, she pulled out a brown journal and a pen.

A journal filled with memories and random thoughts that popped in her head. Y/N thought writing things down was good for the mind and body. She believed that writing things down would help you keep your thoughts safely, and lock memories into place without overworking your mind. A pen that has been through many journeys on the same yet different page.

All pages were the same until the pen went over it, recording things until the end of time. They were all the same until she wrote down her thoughts for the day.

Her small hand gripped onto the pen as she wrote down her thoughts from the previous night, coffee cup in the other hand as she slowly sipped the liquid.

Last night I thought of him again, just until I drifted off. I don't know why. It hasn't happened in months. Nothing bad, just a memoir of all of our memories together. Like the time we broke into the school's pool one night. Where he pushed me in with all my clothes on, then he jumped in and we made out by the stairs. Funny how we never got caught since cameras were around us. Or when we had our senior trips to the mountains in Colorado, and how he kept sneaking into the girls' room just to be with me. We were lucky we didn't get caught again. I tried to not keep thinking about him. I know it's time to finally drop it and move on, but how? How do I erase all those memories from my brain? How am I supposed to just drop it and move along? Just how? I don't need or want to know why just how.

She softly slammed the notebook closed, right before she could feel a slight burning in her eyes and a rock starting to form in her throat. The subject of her and a past lover that she was still holding onto, still being a deep wound to her.

She thought about and remembered Grayson every day. After all, he was her everything during her entire High School life, and he still was…...sort of.  Grayson and Y/N started dating in the 9th grade, right about in the middle of the year. He asked her out behind the school's bleachers during lunchtime, a mixture of flowers from his mom's garden that she shyly accepted from him after she said yes. That was followed by their date to the movie theater, where he held her close to him every time she faked being a little scared, not that he could tell, and three dates after he officially asked her out where she said yes again, and that was followed by an accidental kiss, he was leaning towards her cheek when she accidentally moved her head to the side, causing his lips to land on hers. Neither of them complained, just smiled at each other and carried on.

They went on for 6 years, all of high school and two college years, where he decided to break it off because of distance. He went off on how being across the country from one another was hard, and the fact that the time difference from New York to California was 3 and 4. She didn't complain. Didn't give a reason as to why not, even if she had trillions of them. She didn't try to change his mind. She simply said okay, and wished him the best. She still loved him though.

The words that her grandpa had spoken replayed in her brain every time she questioned why she still thought about him; "You never stop loving anyone sugar, you just kinda love someone stronger. If you stop loving them, then you never loved them to begin with" She thought about that, and that made her feel better. Maybe there was someone out there who she would love more than she loved Grayson.

With a quiet sigh, she put her journal away, switching it with a book she picked up at the library a few days prior, yet read a million times.

To Kill A Mockingbird is a book she read many times in school, mostly everyone has. It's the one book from school she actually enjoyed, so she picked it up from the book shop down the street from her apartment before work one day, and didn't get to read it until now.

She opened the book with a small smile, the sensation of the book against her finger bringing nothing but happiness to her, and took her mind off whatever was bothering her. She lost herself in the book, almost done with half of the book before her alarm rang, signaling it was time for work. She left a 20 on the table after putting all her stuff away in her backpack and walking out of the shop and towards her job which was a paid internship at a local hospital downtown, all she did was watch and help out with minor cases like cuts, sprains, X Ray's and the occasional stuff like questioning. She entered the hospital, sanitizing herself and changing into her uniform, walking over to her area, that being the Pediatrics Emergency room where her boss, mentor, whatever you might want to call him, Dr. Reyez, and the rest of the team were waiting for her.

"Morning everyone," she chirped at the tired yet awake health care workers, who all had smiles on their faces. "Morning Y/N, you're going to be practicing by yourself today, can you handle it?" Dr. Reyez asked her, which she just nodded her head with a smile. There wasn't a single ounce of doubt in her brain.

"I'm pretty sure yes! And I can just reach out to you guys if anything, right?"

"Yeah, just page us if anything. Your first patient should be here soon, just go wait by the desk," Reyez instructed her and that's exactly what she did. She sat on the desk for over 20 minutes until someone came in with a toddler covered in rashes.

"Hi baby, I just need to ask you and mommy a few questions, yeah?" She sweetly and patiently asked the 5 year old as his mom was filling out some papers, to which he just nodded his head.

"Okay, Xavion, did you eat something new today? Maybe something you've never eaten?" She asked and both the mom and son nodded their heads.

"Do you think he was allergic to something?" The mom asked, causing Y/N to shrug.

"Well, it depends. We need to get an allergy test for him. It doesn't hurt or anything, we just scratch and pour a drop of the allergen over it and see how they react. Mom, do you happen to remember what he ate today for the first time?" She replied by recording some notes down on her clipboard before telling a nurse to get an Allergy Antibody Test ready.

"He ate everything that he usually does except for some broccoli I gave him," the mom replied and Y/N nodded her head before writing it down on her clipboard and walking them to the testing room.

Once the results came back around half an hour later, Xavion was, in fact, allergic to broccoli, and other things that Y/N had to explain to the mother. She got about 15 minutes of break time before Reyez called her another minor emergency.

"It's an 11 year old, possible breakage or sprain to the leg, you can handle this one right?" He asked and she nodded her head, "Good, they're in room 217, good luck," he added before sending her off to the room.

She quickly made her way over to it, grabbing her clipboard on the way, "Hi, I'm Dr.Y/LN, I'm going to be taking care of you guys today! May I have the child's name and date of birth please?" She nicely asked as she walked inside the room, quickly walking over to the desk area that was in the corner and placing her stuff down.

"Uhhh, Caleb Dolan, August 17, 2008," a deep voice that she could recognize from anywhere spoke as she turned around. Her heart dropped at the sight of Grayson in front of her. She tried to reassemble herself, after all, she couldn't make any mistakes right now, Reyez was trusting her and she couldn't afford to mess the opportunity up.

"Caleb, August 17, 2008," she mumbled as she wrote it down on her piece of paper, "Caleb, do you mind telling me what happened, babe?" She asked with a smile on her face. Her smile turned into a small frown as she looked up at the boy who happened to be in pain.

"Me and uncle Gray were practicing for the soccer game that's next and I fell on the mud and hit my leg really hard," he explained as she walked towards him nodding her head.

"On a scale of 1 to 10, One being okay while 10 being the worst, how would you rate the pain?" She asked, walking over to the walk to grab a pair of gloves, putting them on, and walking back towards him.

"Uhh a seven," he replied and she nodded her head.

"Okay Caleb, just know this might hurt a little okay? It's just protocol to check if it's dislocated, broken, or sprained okay?" She asked and he nodded his head, a few tears falling down his face from fear. Grayson quickly leaned down to wipe off his face whispering a quiet 'you'll be okay' as Caleb grabbed his hand.

"Can you try and move your ankle for me? Just try and move it," she explained and he muttered at quiet yes before moving his foot in a slow circle, she nodded her head before placing both hands over his ankle checking for any bumps, which there were none to find, "Luckily for you Caleb, it's just sprained! There are no bumps meaning it's not dislocated, and you can move it meaning it's not fractured! Just to make sure, we're going to need an X Ray' just to make sure there are no hidden surprises yeah? Dr. Lindsey will do those with you, and I'll be right here when you come back," she smiled up at the boy before Dr. Lindey moved him to a wheelchair and took him to the X Ray room, leaving Y/N and Grayson alone in painful silence.

"So this is what you do? This is where you work?" Grayson was the first to speak after a couple of quiet seconds,

She cleared her throat and nodded her head, placing her hands inside her white jacket, "Yeah. It's a paid internship so it's basically a job, what about you? What are you doing here?" She asked to make direct eye contact with him.

"Moved here after me and E graduated, looking for some roles and an agent," he spoke, his voice not as deep yet shakier than when he first spoke.

"Any luck with that?"

"Yeah. We've landed a few small roles here and there," he answered and she just nodded her head.

"That's good! I'm glad everything's working out for you," She gave him a genuine smile before continuing to fill out Caleb's paperwork.

"Listen, I know it's been 2 years but-," Grayson began to speak before Y/N cut him off. "-Grayson just don't. I'm at work right now, and it's enough seeing you after 2 years, but I don't really need this right now. I'm sorry," She apologized before leaving the room to get some papers before walking back in, thankfully Caleb was already in the room when she walked in.

"I'm going to wrap your ankle up with this and then you're good to go, buddy. Make sure you don't apply pressure on it for two weeks. And carefully when you're playing any sport, I don't want you back here," she said while wrapping his ankle up carefully. She gave Grayson the discharge papers, their hands touching each other for a split second before she pulled away waving them off before walking to where her team was.

"That guy was looking at you intensely," Reyez pointed out, earning a glare from her.

"Don't even start," she rolled her eyes before taking a sip from her water bottle that was on her desk.

"Wait is that the?" Jacob, one of the nurses, asked and she nodded her head.

"Yeah, that's him," she sighed, shaking her head.

"Holly shit Y/N, I knew you said he was hot, but girl? That man is hotter than-,"

"Mackenzie, don't you dare," Y/N joked towards her other co-worker, "God why do you do this to me? I was almost over him and then you put him on my path again? The universe hates me,"

"I'd go for it again if I were you," Mackenzie encouraged earning a glare from her.

"Alright, leave her alone before she starts to crumble, Mackenzie go fill out reports, Y/N go take a breather," Reyez ordered them around and they all nodded their heads, going on their way to do what they were told.

. . .

Soft snores began to quietly run past her lips as she drifted off to sleep, all before a feeling of suddenly falling down an empty whole woke her up. She shook her head letting out a quiet 'fuck' before turning to look towards the clocks on her nightstand, 3:30 AM being brightly displayed on it. Y/N let out a loud sigh, knowing she wouldn't be going back to sleep anytime soon.

Her mind suddenly clouded with knotted thoughts and notions, too many of them just to focus on a single one. She pushed her body up, just enough for her to reach over and grab the small yellow backpack that she lazily threw on the floor, pulling her journal and pen out before throwing it back on the floor.

She clicked the pen and opened the journal, blank pages waiting to be filled up, her hand delicately moved along the paper as she scribbled letters and words on the empty pages, thoughts clearing out of her head, one by one.

I saw him today. He looked different. He's grown. After it all, it has been two years. His voice is deeper too. He wanted to talk, but I said no. Maybe if I did, I would fall for him again, or something. I'm doing just fine, so why did he have to move here. Anyway, Reyez finally allowed me to take care of patients by myself today. It was fun, I liked it, I guess. Luckily I'm free tomorrow because I can't sleep at all now. Maybe it's the repeating thoughts of him running through my mind, or just simply the lack of melatonin in my body right now. I'll probably go to the park tomorrow, stop at the cafe first then make my way there, but anyway, I'm going to try and sleep now.

It was a quick entry, nothing special, just her major thoughts being written down, just enough for her to feel better. She got up from the bed walking over to the kitchen grabbing a water bottle before leaning against the counter and sipping it. She crossed her bare legs over each other, looking out of the big window in her living room. Her favorite part about the apartment? It was the window that looked down on bright LA city. Y/N could sit there for hours and not notice the time pass by, she knows this because it happened before. She left the kitchen and walked towards the window, propping her body down on the small couch she had in front of the window. She laid her head on her hand, watching the few cars that sped down the street, the small yet bright red lights disappearing into the distance as her eyes followed them until they could.

Her eyes softly closed as she laid down on the couch, drifting off into another universe. The next morning she woke up at around 8 AM, doing her daily routine, except she stopped at the Cafe, picked her things up, and made her way to the park. It was an old park, there was an old playground that seemed like it hadn't been used in years. She sat down on an old bench drinking her coffee as she watched the scenery.

She didn't take her notebook out, her mind not having any thoughts, or at least no thoughts relevant enough for her to write down. She just took her time to take her surroundings in. She admired how the wind moved the trees, yet they were so strong they didn't crack. The way the birds lifted off whatever surface they were, and drifted off into the sky. She admired the rare butterflies that randomly appeared just to disappear once again. She simply admired the earth, something that she didn't do quite often; Always being too deep in her thoughts to actually study the things around her.

"They're beautiful aren't they?" Grayson's voice spoke out of nowhere, making Y/N do a slight jump in her seat as her heart raced.

She brought her hand up to her chest, a sigh falling past her lips as she glared at Grayson who was chuckling, "You fucking scared me,"

"Sorry," he sighed, sitting down next to her.

They both let out sighs. Both knowing that there was no escaping the conversation that was about to happen, a conversation that was long due.

"You could, hmm, you could go first," she spoke after a few moments of silence, throat dried making her clear it in the middle of some of her words.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. You were working, and Ummm, it wasn't the right place or time to talk about things. I'm also sorry because I never gave you an explanation as to why we should've broken up. After all, you didn't ask anyway," He softly spoke. He thought every word through, studied each meaning before letting them run past his lips.

"I didn't ask because it's what you wanted. Your decision was clearly made. I mean, I don't think breaking up with someone is a spontaneous thought is it? Your decision was made, and if you felt like I was holding you back, then I had to let you go, if I loved you, then I think I did the right thing." Her words were careful too. And quiet, so quiet feeling that if she spoke too loud the things around her would break.

"I didn't want to break up. I felt like it was the right thing to do, you know? We were always so busy, and we made time for each other, but it was exhausting. And when you were out with friends, I felt like I was annoying you or something," he sighed and she shook her head, the thought of her ever getting annoyed at Grayson's presence being absurd.

"Oh God absolutely not," she chuckled, "I thought I was annoying you. Like I wondered if you talked about me, or not. I wanted to know if I annoyed you because I felt like I did,"

It was true. In her journal, multiple pages were filled out with her question herself on whether Grayson talked about her or not. Even after the breakup, she wondered if he'll ever need her. Most pages were about him, all of her thoughts revolved around him, always.

"I did. All the time, to the point where I said your name subconsciously," he smiled, remembering the conversations he had with his friends about her, and how great she was.

"I did too, well not say but write," she sighed, leaning her back on the bench.

"You wrote about me?"

"Grayson you know I did, that's a dumb question," She shook her head, taking a sip of the coffee that was somehow still warm.

"Do you still write about me?" He asked and she stayed quiet, not knowing whether she should answer truthfully or not.

"Honestly speaking, I do. I write about everything that comes to mind, so sometimes? Yeah," she sighed, knowing that it would be easier if they just told the truth.

Maybe this was the closure that they both needed, yet never got. Maybe this was going to help her fully move on from him, and have thoughts that don't include her.

Or maybe not. Maybe this would help them reconnect. Y/N left it all up to the universe. She was a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, and that you can't change your future since it's already written about. When she got home after a couple of hours she took a shower, lit on her favorite candles, and did the expected. She took out her notebook and wrote.

We spoke today. He told me the reason why we broke up. It wasn't an intentional meeting though, I was just admiring nature. I was looking at the butterflies I think. He randomly spoke. And I know it was long due and needed so I just told him to say it. It's better to just get it over with than to just keep pushing it back, I think. He told me why he wanted to break up, which right now, sounds like a valid reason. I just wonder why he didn't just say it back then. It would've saved me a lot of nights, don't you think? He now knows I write about him, and where I go to write about him. Maybe I shouldn't go there anymore. It sounds out of this world I know. But maybe, just maybe, I should just close that chapter in my life.

There are just too many memories of him at Beachwood. That's where he surprised me the first time he came to visit. And it's where I write about him the most. I could find another cafe near here, there's plenty.

I just wonder if we're ever going to see each other again. If I'll ever fall for him again, if that is even possible. Because I don't think you could fall for the same person twice, right?

That was the last page in her journal. All the pages filled with her delicate letters, her writing being eternal. Filled with on-going words until the end, where an unanswered question laid. The weight that was once on her shoulders began to fade, and for once in her life, the thought of her future no longer made her afraid.

 This is the first time I’m proud of a something I wrote, so if this flops, I will deactivate! Just kidding, sort of. Anyways, yeah, I feel like my writing has improved, and as always, if you have any tips, and/or constructive critism, please, please, please drop them in my inbox, and don’t worry, I won’t say your hurting my feelings lmfao!! 

Tag List:   @guiltydols @evergreendolan @ydolanssss @rhyrhy462 @resilientdolan @simplyxdolxstyles @simplyxdolxstyles​ {If you wanna be added to my Tag List, just let me know :) lol}

[melzula]

The Throne

part three

pairing: Zuko x Princess!reader

summary: Koa greatly underestimates the Princess, but he’s not giving up just yet...

~ part of the fire lilies series ~

The air of dawn is frigid and cold, yet the subtle trembling of your body is not from the chilly climate. The sun has yet to rise and your people are still asleep, the mutiny is just a few hours away, and you find that after hours of tossing and turning it’s better to begin your preparation for the battle ahead than worry yourself to death any longer. Your regular dress has been exchanged for an outfit much more suitable for fighting, your crown replaced by a water tribe emblem pin secured neatly in your hair, and though you normally choose to wear gloves to keep your scars hidden you opt out of using them today. Your wounds are a reminder of your resilience and your strength, and those two attributes are things you’ll desperately need today if you hope to defeat Koa once and for all.

“Princess,” Sokka’s voice whispers from outside your door accompanied by a gentle knock, “my dad and his warriors are here. I kept them out of sight like you asked.”

“I’ll be right out,” comes your quiet reply, and without a moment to waste you follow the boy out of the palace and into the courtyard towards the one blind spot from the watch tower where two of Koa’s guards wait on duty. Just as Sokka said, Hakoda and his men stand waiting and at the ready for the chaos that is to ensue when Koa attempts to over throw you and your mother. The small village Chief bows respectfully in your presence but you wave off the action with a smile.

“There’s no need for formality,” you assure him. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for agreeing to help me.”

“There’s no end in sight to the struggles our village faces with Koa in charge. You have your father’s spirit, Princess, and I know for a fact that there is no one more capable than you to rule our tribe. We will do everything in our power to put an end to his reign one and for all,” Hakoda vows earnestly. “Just say the word and we’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” you utter softly, eyes watering at the mention of your father— would it be terrible of you to admit that you struggle placing his face in your head? You could really use some of Iroh’s famous advice right now...

“You should get back inside,” Sokka says, “if anyone spots you out here this early in the morning they might get suspicious.”

“You’re probably right,” you nod, and without another word the water tribe boy escorts you back into the palace and into your room.

“You have everything you need?” Sokka asks, peering around the room before resting his gaze upon the small pile of unopened letters on your dresser. The red of the Fire Nation insignia is a stark contrast to the soft hues of blue that line your bedroom.

“I have all the evidence together, Kai agreed to speak out against his father, and Hakoda can tell everyone about the neglect the smaller tribes have been facing thanks to Hakoda. Katara is in charge of keeping my mother safe and I’m ready to fight if I have to. Everything is ready.”

“You know, it’s still not too late to make a last minute call to Zuko,” Sokka notes casually only for you to give him a pointed look.

“Sokka...

“I’m just saying, if I were your boyfriend I’d want to know about the fact that there’s someone out there threatening the girl I love.”

“Why bring him into it now when it’s almost over? No calling Zuko,” you reiterate firmly. “And afterward if he wants to be mad at me for keeping it a secret from him then he can; I’ll be able to sleep soundly at night knowing I did it for his own good.”

“I doubt Zuko’s sleeping soundly,” Sokka mutters to himself, his eyes never leaving the stack of scrolls.

For a water bender, you’re very stubborn.

~~~

The steady beat of the soldier’s drums draws the people of your village towards the palace grounds and brings their attention to Koa who stands before the palace door. Mother’s hold their children to their chests and the merchants quickly begin to pack up their goods at the sight of the army of guards that stand before the man. He is confident and sure, heart pounding with anticipation and giddiness as he prepares to take his “rightful” place on the throne. Your father is gone, your mother is weak, and he’s turned your own guards against you; there’s no way for you to save yourself now.

“Princess!” Koa bellows. “Show yourself!”

Everyone watches with baited breath as you emerge from the palace with Sokka right behind you, face stoic and head held high with dignity and grace as you confront your opposers. His eyes glance briefly at your scars before returning back to you, his grin never falters, and neither of you break from each other’s gaze.

“What is the meaning of this?” You ask with feigned obliviousness.

“On behalf of the Southern Water Tribe, I am relieving you and your mother of your duty. No longer will you be leader of a tribe you do not deserve and no longer will you continue to fail your people,” Koa announces for all to hear.

“Do you really speak for everyone?” You retort with a raised brow, and Koa falters slightly at your surprisingly calm demeanor. He expected more of a reaction from someone who was mere seconds away from losing their throne. “Chief Hakoda, please step forward.”

Koa’s eyes widen at the sight of the man who appears from the shadows and joins you on the steps, small gasps and uneasy glances exchanged between those part of the royal tribe as well as Koa’s own guards.

“My name is Hakoda, and I am from one of the smaller outer villages. For years our village has suffered from dwindling numbers and resources as a result of the war. Koa promised us aid, he promised us food and assistance in rebuilding our village, yet we have not received one single thing he has promised us. We were cut off from the rest of the southern water tribe as were the rest of the outer villages the moment he took on the title of chieftain. Everything he has promised you is a lie. Koa is not fit to rule our tribe.”

Quiet murmurs and hushed whispers sound throughout the crowd, and you hold back a smug smile at the anger that flashes across Koa’s face. He wasn’t the only one willing to fight dirty, and he was a fool for believing you’d give up the throne that easily. One thing was certain: Koa had no idea just who he was dealing with.

“Please, I’ve done everything I can to help your people. It’s not my fault you don’t know how to properly use your resources,” Koa spits, but he can sense the tension arising from his men, some who come from the same village as Hakoda.

“I knew of your plan to stage this mutiny against me, and I know of your plan to invade the north,” you retaliate with a stern glare. The faces of his soldiers as well as Koa’s own face pales at your words, and gasps sound throughout the crowd.

“You can’t prove that!”

“I can,” Sokka says firmly. “I went to that secret meeting and heard all about your plans to invade our sister tribe. You don’t care about anything unless it has to do with power.”

“Are you really going to believe these children over me? The man who served as advisor all these years and took care of your needs?!”

“You said every man was expendable.”

“You have no proof!”

“Actually, she does,” a voice pipes up from the crowd, and Koa watches on in horror as his own son joins your side and hands over his journal. “My father keeps all his thoughts and plans in this book, and you can find everything you need to know about him in those pages.”

“Kai?! What are you doing?!” Koa demands only for his son to look away guiltily.

“What you’re doing isn’t right dad, it has to stop.”

“You little water rat,” Koa seethes, “you’ve turned my own son against me! Attack her!”

At the sound of those words Sokka, Hakoda, and his warriors create a wall around you, weapons at the ready to defend you. However, with a small shake of your head their defenses are lowered.

“You don’t want to fight each other. We’re brothers and sisters, this isn’t the way. There can be no era of rebuilding if there is no peace. Koa promised you great things, but he doesn’t care about you the way a leader should. I know you don’t think I’m ready to lead, but I promise you I will do everything in my power to rebuild the Southern Water Tribe and bring it back to its rightful glory. All you have to do is trust me.”

The air is thick with tense silence as your people exchange quiet glances with one another, both you and Koa watching on with baited breath, but then one of the men slowly removes his helmet before tossing it to the ground and lowering onto one knee. His eyes meet your own in quiet remorse and you smile faintly in appreciation, eyes beginning to water at the meaningful gesture. To Koa’s dismay many of the other men follow suit until only a handful of his followers remain.

“No... no! You fools! Get up! Don’t let her trick you!”

“Your reign is over Koa,” you announce for all to hear. “You will be removed from the palace and tried for your acts of treason against the water tribes. It’s over.”

“Not yet,” Koa vows, eyes narrowing at your figure with rage and hatred. You have too much of your father’s spirit in you, something that he loathes more than anything.

A sudden blast of snow is shot in all directions, blocking your view and prompting Sokka to quickly pull you close and shield you with his body. Disoriented and startled, no one is able to detect Koa’s quick exit, and when the smoke clears the man is gone.

“Should we go after him?” One of Hakoda’s men asks, but you simply shake your head.

“He has nowhere to run,” you say, your gaze far off and distant as you look towards the horizon. “He’ll be back...”

~~~

Things are slowly but surely starting to get back on track and you can’t complain. After Koa’s disappearance you were left with his remaining men, and despite the fact that they’d been so willing to betray you you were able to forgive them with ease. They were desperate, lost, and looked to someone they thought they could trust to help them; how could you fault them for wanting better? You felt it would be too cruel to throw them in jail or punish them, so instead you came up with the agreement that they would help rebuild and deliver supplies to the outer villages in desperate need of care. Your mother was back on the throne and in change, and you both had agreed that Hakoda would serve as your new advisor. Yes, everything was shaping up nicely for your tribe and you couldn’t be happier.

You’re late for dinner, this much you know, but you’re too engrossed in the new plans Hakoda has sent you in regards to new structures for the outer tribes that will strengthen their defenses to get up now. Katara and Sokka are probably waiting for you, enjoying their time home before they must return and resume their work on the Restoration Movement, but you doubt they’ll mind if you’re a little late— well, Sokka won’t mind as long as he can still eat in your absence.

With your back to the door, you hear a gentle knock and call out a quiet “come in,” as you assume it must be Katara or Sokka calling you to dinner, but the harsh slam of the door immediately has you on your feet. A shadowy figure stands before you, and you waste no time pulling the water from the air and shooting sharp blasts of ice towards the intruder with your fists. They are fast, agilely dogging your attacks and barrel rolling out of the way before tossing sharp darts in your direction. The wall of ice you form manages to block most of them, but one needle strays and nicks your arm. You cry out in pain, and when you attempt to raise your arms to bend you find that you can’t move at all. It’s as if your body slowly begins to shut down before finally your knees give out and you collapse to the floor.

“N-No,” you gasp out, trying to move but to no avail.

“Shishu spit darts. Hard to come by in the water tribe, but I have my ways,” the sinister voices says, and your heart immediately drops to your stomach at the familiar tone.

“Koa...”

“Did you miss me, Princess?” He smirks, slowly removing his hood before towering over you. “I told you it wasn’t over yet. I’d never let myself lose to the likes of you.”

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper in a trembling voice, adrenaline and fear coursing through your veins at the sight of the sharp dagger in his hand.

“When your father died in battle it removed a great weight from my shoulders. I wouldn’t have to worry about him any longer, and I knew your mother would be too feeble minded to fight my suggestions of temporary placement on the throne. But you... my, you were just too stubborn for your own good. I had hoped you’d stay in the Fire Nation with Prince Zuko, but when you returned it made things much more complicated. You see, I underestimated you the first time. But now, with you helpless at my feet, I’m going to take care of you once and for all.”

The dagger raises and you shut your eyes tight in preparation for your death, but the blade never comes. Instead, the weapon is knocked out from Koa’s grasp by a very familiar boomerang.

“Get away from her!” Sokka cries fiercely. He attempts to charge at the man, but Koa is quick and manages to evade Sokka’s grasp before running out into the hallway. “Guards, stop him!”

You watch from the corner of your eye as a group of men rush past your doorway in pursuit of Koa, oblivious to Sokka’s movements as he scoops you up off the ground and rushes you to his sister in hopes that she can somehow heal you of the poison.

“How did you know he was here?” You manage to ask him.

“I didn’t. Katara sent me to come get you for dinner because she knew if I didn’t you’d spend all night looking over those plans my dad sent you,” Sokka says seriously. “Y/n, you we’re almost killed!”

“I’m sorry...”

Sokka, realizing the harshness of his tone, lets out a small sigh. “It’s not your fault, but I have to put my foot down here. We obviously can’t fight Koa on our own anymore, we have to get help.”

“Sokka, what are you saying?” You utter uneasily, reluctant to hear the answer you know is coming.

“We have to tell Zuko about Koa.”

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[fishmongeringstudies]

eleven: before the first day of the world

i always thought the quote 'we contain multitudes' was a john green quote because of the way its use had, over time, evolved from unironic to deeply ironic to some weird squeamish mix of the two that meant half of the audience would cringe when it was deployed while the other half would nod very seriously and lean back in their seats, thinking fondly about the summer of '97. for the record, i've always been part of the former. except for this one time in my anthropology class this spring where we were talking about the complexities of human behavior in different environments and i, seeing a glowing opportunity to inject some 2012 tumblr-era humor into the room, typed into the zoom chat: we contain multitudes.

unfortunately, we do. but not in the john green sense, which would mean we smoke cigarettes and want to contribute to world peace, or we crochet blankets and simultaneously want to destroy the small backwater town we grew up in with an electric chainsaw. i'm talking about something less looking for alaska and more i will rip all your hair out with a screwdriver. something that cuts at the fabric of your relationship with the people around you, something that makes it hard to figure out which path to take back to your dorm.

have you ever been ruined by someone who, after ruining you, skipped off happily to lunch with jessica who lives down the hallway and whom you would trust with your bank account number, and found yourself unable to do anything but give half of the lunch parade your blessings?

let's make it simpler: sometimes people are more fucked up than they're worth.

and yet i believe that there is no such thing as a bad person. the adjective-noun combination assumes that the noun always possesses the quality of the adjective, while the people who elbow you down the stairs and into the yawning mouth of hell and then wander off singing cheerily into the woods are the same ones who bring friends care packages when they're sick, who entertain long, thoughtful conversations about philosophy and the flaws of the world, who make great lab partners in group projects. the girl whose definition of love is a chain around the neck is a wonderful orator. the boy who only knows how to understand other people by cutting them up and putting them back together wants to design buildings that will save lives. people are inconsistent. we contradict ourselves and then, upon noticing the contradictions, panic, knock over a vase of flowers, and burn the whole house down.

it always comes back to fire when i write about the last fourteen weeks of spring. we're incredibly flammable, you and i. we're instant fire-starters. we're chemically insane.

at the start of the semester when i allowed someone to tell me in an awkward, prepubescent voice that i was broken i wanted to hate them. then i wanted to forgive them; then i wanted to be their friend. three months later i discovered how hard it is to stay on good terms with someone who knifed you without even realizing they were holding something in their hand to begin with, and yet he's still here. talking to the person who lives at the other end of the hallway. walking to the dining hall with the alligator stairwell, his hands shoved in his pockets. trying to graduate. trying to stay alive.

dear friend: i don't want to be your friend anymore. but don't die on me.

that's the sentiment i leave spring with. a bittersweet note that's more bitter than sweet, like ninety-seven percent cacao chocolate, the really awful shit, the stuff i like to think only white american yoga moms with fat apple-faced babies tied to their hips are willing to eat, and even then, only for the instagram sponsorship. when i think of spring i think of the aftertaste, because everything was sweet in the moment, in the immediacy of the screaming sun and the shifting sky above your head. everything looked like it was made of stars. it was only after i'd chewed up the burnt thing you picked off the ground and gave me, swallowed, and walked the long way back to my dorm, that i realized you'd handed me a pile of dirt.

it was pretty good dirt though, and you know the other day someone asked me, after scrolling through this blog with an eye on their watch and the other on the words flying across the screen, if i hated it here after all. if i wish i'd stayed in singapore, among the palm fronds and the pale, moon-white butterflies. no, i said incredulously, my spoon jammed in my kool-aid jello cup. this is the happiest i've been in ten years.

lately i've been trying to articulate the sense of hopelessness i experienced while growing up. how does one even begin to describe the endless staircase of the days, how each week yawned before me like an abyss with an immortal, unbreakable heart? how do you give a voice to despair?

this morning i went to target with my friend. we didn't find a rectangular frying pan so i bought a bag of mandarins instead, and it was sunny on the way there but on the way back a smear of white cloud dashed across the sky and wrapped its soft fingers around the sun's mouth, by which i mean it got colder, by which i mean that for a while, it felt like spring again. when we got back to our dorm i put the mandarins in the fridge and wandered back into my room and then put on the podcast i've been listening to all week, listened to them talk about monsters and knights and the intricacies of war, love, forgiveness. today i didn't sleep through lunch like i did the day before. today i sat in the garden and read a book.

i think the thing about growing up the way i did is that by the time i was fourteen it felt like it was all over. like i'd ruined everything before it'd ever really begun, and even knowing what steps i might take to mend the god-sized crater i'd dug in my backyard, i couldn't bring myself to take them. so things ended. and because life is a bitch and forgiveness never comes from those you most desire it from, you just kind of laugh and drag yourself through the debris.

i think this is why, in spite of the shouting and the cherry-flavored regrets and the hallways full of footsteps like thunderstorms, and the girls and the boys with their teeth like claws, their claws like daggers, their words careless enough to kill, i feel like a person here. because i came here with nothing. two suitcases, one weighing twenty kilograms and the other weighing nothing at all. i repeat: this is nothing at all. do you understand what i am saying? i was no one when i got here. and now i am no one with some prepubescent mistakes scratched into my forearm and a few ideas about self-preservation. but the pages of this book are still blank. they are inviting me to fill them with the illegible dancing chicken scrawl that is my specialty and the bane of every english professor's existence.

i look over my shoulder and my old bookshelf full of journals, red journals, journals packed with the misery of the last nineteen years shrugs its shoulders. it says they gave you bad books and you wrote half-decent stories; what else could you have done? you did the best that you could in the circumstances you were given. you're still doing that now. then, satisfied with its little speech, it burns itself down.

and that's all i need, really, to keep going.

05.31.21

[seraph-novak]

In honour of Dean Winchester’s 42nd birthday.

Dean wakes with a start, drenched in sweat and shaking all over, a strangled whimper lodged in the back of his throat. The utter darkness of the room throws him off for a second, makes him wonder where the hell he is. He has to blink a few times to let his eyes adjust, the narrow strip of light from the hallway casting a faint glow beneath the door. If he squints hard enough, the shadows begin to separate, illuminating the shape of his feet at the end of the bed. He wiggles his toes, sees the covers shift ever-so-slightly, and allows himself to breathe.

He’s awake. He’s alive. Which means he’s made it to another birthday.

The mattress shifts beside him, a familiar hand pawing at his chest. He clears his throat, hates the way it breaks, and reaches for it blindly, his shoulders slumping at the sleepy squeeze of fingers around his wrist.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, voice hoarse.

Cas wordlessly switches on the bedside light, his bleary eyes and pillow-smushed hair the first thing Dean sees at the ripe old age of forty-two. It’s a whole lot better than waking up to the sight of his dad’s angry face when he was five years old, the dream-induced memories of his mom sleeping soundly beneath him as he burned on the ceiling reflected in the fire of John Winchester’s eyes. He can still picture him now: large hands taking him roughly by the shoulders and shaking him awake, the barked order to “snap out of it, boy!”  ringing in his ears.

The nightmares have only gotten worse since then: premonitions of his own death, some more believable than others, plaguing his dreams on every single one of his birthdays. This one was different though. This one felt... real. As if he was skirting past an actual possibility, a narrowly avoided moment in time. It twists him up inside, makes him want to crumple forward and forget everything.  

He turns to Cas with a weak smile and whispers, “Hey.”

Cas tries to smile back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He hasn’t quite mastered the art of human deception yet. It’s only been a few months since he traded his celestial status for his freedom from The Empty, the remainder of his grace used to seal the cracks left behind by Jack’s self-implosion, blocking out the noise and allowing The Empty to go back to its eternal slumber.

As far as deals with ancient beings go, it was pretty sound. But Dean still feels responsible for everything that happened, even though Cas has done nothing but thank him for venturing into The Empty and bringing him home. He doesn’t deserve Cas’s praise, but he knows a graceless Cas is a whole lot better than a comatose Cas. He’s just glad to have him back at the bunker, where he belongs. With him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas asks, clearly not fazed by the soaked sheets tangled between them.

Dean screws his eyes shut, shakes his head. He isn’t saying no, just... trying to organise his thoughts. They’re a mess, as always. He doesn’t want to freak Cas out by spewing his emotional guts all over the place.

“It was a vamp’s nest,” he says, eyes still closed. “Me and Sammy were following a lead in dad’s journal. Haven’t done that in years. It was weird. Like... going back in time or something. And you weren’t there.” He looks up now, Cas’s face a blur. “I got pushed against a fricking nail, and you weren’t there. I just... bled out. Sam didn’t even try to help me. I died. And it felt real, man. Like a page straight outta one of Billie’s books, you know?”

Cas wraps his arms around him, one looping around his stomach, drawing Dean against his chest, and the other guiding his head to rest on his shoulder. His lips find Dean’s hairline, kissing the gray hairs sprinkled around his temple. Dean relaxes into the touch, lets the tears fall silently down his cheeks.

“It wasn’t real,” Cas murmurs softly. “Do you really believe Sam would let you bleed to death instead of simply calling an ambulance? Not to mention you could clear out a vamp’s nest with your eyes closed.”

Dean laughs, a wet sound muffled against the worn fabric of Cas’s oversized t-shirt.

“And I would be by your side, of course. Even if you hadn’t saved me from The Empty, I would’ve clawed my way out to be with you. I would never let you suffer alone. Especially over something as trivial as an ill-positioned nail. Surely you know me better than that?”

“I guess you do have a weird crush on me,” Dean says, playing along. “Kinda stalkerish. Always watching over me and shit.”

“This is true.”

“You’re a dork, you know that?”

“And you, Dean Winchester, are a highly capable hunter with a family that loves you very deeply. The chances of you dying by an easily avoidable and rectifiable mistake on a hunt are close to non-existent.” He draws back, just enough to capture Dean’s face in his hands and dry his tears with a sweep of his thumbs. “You are going to live to see another half-a-century’s worth of birthdays, if I have anything to do with it. And I will be there for each and every one of them. As long as you’ll have me.”

Dean nods in a daze, his skin burning all over. “Of course I will, you idiot.”

“Good.” Cas kisses his forehead and smiles, this one bright-eyed and genuine, the kind that makes Dean’s heart trip over itself. “Now... Do you think you’ll be able to get back to sleep?”

“I seriously doubt it, man.”

“That’s alright. I believe they play reruns of Dr. Sexy, M.D. between three and six. I’ll go make us some coffee.”

As he rolls out of bed, Dean grabs his arm and pulls him back. Cas lands against him with a soft thud, a curious brow raised. His eyes are still weighed down with dark bags, the corners crusted with sleep, and his hair is matted on one side and sticking out every which way on the other. He looks like a complete mess, and Dean is so in love with him it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t know how he got to the point where a fallen angel with a major case of bedhead is getting up before dawn to make him coffee on his birthday, but who even cares? He’s pretty sure he’s living his best life, and he’s not about to question it. Not today.

“I love you,” he says, melting internally at the look of stunned delight on Cas’s face. It’s the fifth time he’s said it (yeah, he’s counting) and Cas still can’t believe it. Maybe he should start saying it every day, like Cas does, just to drive the point home. But that’s not him, and Cas knows it. Respects it. Doesn’t ask anything more of him.

Plus, catching him off guard is fun. And kissing away the surprise is even better.

Cas makes a sweet humming noise against his lips, hands fluttering by Dean’s waist. His eyes are twinkling by the time Dean pulls away, his pinkened mouth pulled into a crooked grin.

“And I you,” he whispers in response.  

Cas pauses on his way out the bedroom, hand resting on the handle and back pressed up against the frame. With a piece of his shirt tucked into his boxers, and his bare legs pale and hairy in the lamplight, he looks more at ease than he ever has before. Humanity really does suit him.

“Happy birthday, Dean.”

He watches Cas disappear down the hallway, his heart full. He could definitely get used to mornings like this. Maybe, if he’s lucky, there will come a year when he doesn’t wake in a cold sweat on his birthday, all the nightmares and waiting to die finally a thing of the past.

One thing’s for sure: he has plenty of time and a kickass support system to help him get there.

[bowsie22]

Pingxie Week 2021 Day 4

Summary: Lu Ci never understood the box in the otherwise empty room. Until he did.

Written for day 4 of Pingxie week – Prompt: We now have a teenage son AU

Wushanju was crowded. Lu Ci was certain that Wu Xie could sell half the stuff in it and still barely have room to move. But there was one room that made no sense to the young boy at all. It was an empty room, except for one item.

A box.

Not fancy, tricky, or ornate. Just a plain cardboard box. That seemingly deserved a while room to itself. Li Cu never understood and whenever he asked Wu Xie, the older man would just mile sadly and say that he’d understand one day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time it happened, Li Cu was twelve. Sure, he’d been warned. But it was one thing to hear about it. It was another to live through one of your fathers forgetting everything and everyone he ever knew. He could still remember it perfectly.

“Good morn-“

Li Cu froze at the door. Normally at this time Xiaoge would be cooking breakfast while Wu Xie made the tea and set the table. But this morning, Xiaoge sat at the kitchen table, staring at his tea like it held the answers to all world mysteries. Wu Xie stood at the sink, glaring at the floor. He had clearly been crying, if the red eyes were any indication.

“What, what’s going on? Is everything ok?”

“This is him?”

“Yes, this is our son.”

Oh. Even knowing that this would happen one day, it still hurt.

“A-Cu, wait here for a minute. I need to show your father something. Have some tea while you wait.”

Numbly Li Cu moved to the table, pouring himself a small cup of tea. It was odd to see his parents with that much distance between them. Normally, Xiaoge would have an arm around Wu Xie’s waist or vice versa. They were kind of disgusting.

Wu Xie walked back into the kitchen, taking the seat beside his son. He wrapped his arm around Li Cu’s shoulders, pulling the young boy into a half hug, trying to offer what little comfort he could.

“Where did you take him?”

“To the room with the box. It has journals. I’ve written some, Xiaoge has written some, Pangzi wrote a few, even Heiye had some transcribed. They’re about our lives together, the tombs, our relationships, adopting you. When you get a bit older, we’ll ask you to write some if you want.”

Li Cu wiped away his tears, turning into his father’s hug, wrapping his own arms around the older man.

“He will remember, won’t he?”

Wu Xie sighed, hugging his son tight.

“Of course he will sweetheart.”

It happened like clockwork. Every ten or fifteen years, his father would completely forget his family and friends. Li Cu started adding to the journals in the box, adding photos, stories about holidays and trips, family time they spent together. Eventually, the room started filling up, more boxes taking up the empty space. It had been difficult to explain it to his wife, that the young man next to him was adoptive father. When they started having children, she added the ultrasounds and pictures to Li Cu’s journals. Their children added their school reports and drawings. Li Cu hadn’t expected it to become a family tradition, adding anything important that happened to them to journals that would ne day ring back his amnesia father’s memories, yet here they were.

The hardest entry to write had been after Wu Xie died. Wu Xie had written a final message to his husband that no one else was allowed to read. Li Cu decided not to write about his father’s final days spent in a hospital bed, but instead he wrote about the stories his parents shared with him, the times they spent as a family in those last days.

Over time, his parent’s generation all passed. Pangzi quickly followed Wu Xie, then Xie Yuchen, then the others until finally only Xiaoge and Heiye were left. The two became closer, travelling the world Li cu saw his father two or three times and that was it. At one stage, his oldest son brought up the idea of the two men being in a relationship but Li Cu knew better. Xiaoge and Heiye were hopelessly in love with their husbands, dead or alive. It was too hard for them to be surrounded by memories of their husbands.

As the years passed, Li Cu began introducing his father as his nephew, a family friend, his grandson. It was odd, being in his seventies and calling a man who looked in his twenties his father. But that’s what he was. Xiaoge was who he went to when he was struggling, when he needed support. And Xiaoge was always there for him, travelling across the world to be at son’s side at a moment’s notice.

Li Cu would admit to being worried about his father. What would happen to Xiaoge when Li Cu passed on? Would he still be drawn to Wushanju when he lost his memories? Would he still trust his family? Li Cu knew there was nothing else he could do. He kept up to date with the journals, made sure to add information about weddings and births. Everyone who married into and was born into the family were told about the journals and introduced to Xiaoge. Sixty years after Li Cu was first told about the journals, they now took up multiple rooms in Wushanju and took Xiaoge months to get through.

Li Cu had done what he could for his father. He had followed in Wu Xie’s footsteps in making sure that Xiaoge would always have a home, a safe place to return to. He made sure that the journals were kept up to date ad passed that duty onto his eldest son as he grew too old. He had loved his father, supported him in everything he had done. Li Cu had tried to be a good son.

“You are a wonderful son. Wu Xie would be so proud of you. I’m proud of you,”

Li Cu never expected to be lying on his death bed with his father holding his hand, definitely not with has father looking the same age as Li Cu’s great grandchildren, yet here he was.

“Li Cu, you’ve done so much for me. You’ve worked so hard. It’s time for you to rest.”

“I’ll tell them you said hello.”

“Do that. I love you son.”

“I love you too dad.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wushanju was one of, if not the oldest shops on the street. Multiple people have tried to buy it, but were always politely tuned down. According to local legend, there was a curse on Wushanju and only the Wu family and its descendants could contain it. That’s who the odd young man was. He showed up every year or so. Sometimes he stayed for a week or two, other times he stayed for almost the whole year. No one knew who he was. Over the years he became known as the Hooded Man to them. He was a mystery that people were desperate to solve.

Inside the Wushanju, the Hooded Man was another story. Here, he was family. Pictures of him lined the walls, he joined in on family celebrations, he even had a bedroom. One that remained unchanged over the years, still the same as when he and Wu Xie shared it. He didn’t speak much, spending his time watching the family interact, looking at photos of his husband and son. Sometimes, he’d share stories of his time with Wu Xie and Pangzi, sometimes his times with Wu Xie and Li Cu.

He was the reason that Wushanju was never sold. It was home for Xiaoge. More importantly, it held his memories. All children born into the family were shown the Rooms. Here, boxes of journals were kept, detailing the immortal’s life. Each member of the family added their own pages, photos, memories. As the years went on, more and more journals were added. Xiaoge tended to skim through most of them, putting faces to names. Everyone knew that the most important boxes were the original ones. The ones written by Wu Xie, Pangzi, Heiye and Li Cu. It was considered a great honour in the family to be chosen to transcribe the writings into new journals. Every generation knew that these journals were the most important artefact in Wushanju and must never be lost or damaged.

When Xiaoge first met Wu Xie, he had no way knowing how important the other man would become to him. Wu Xie gave him a home, a family, he gave Xiaoge’s life meaning. And sitting in Wushanju, surrounded by their family and memories of Wu Xie, knowing that when he lost his memories, something would lead him back here, to family and safety and the journals that Wu Xie kept for him, Xiaoge was happy. Xiaoge was home.

[talkfastromance4]

The Click-- Calum Hood (soulmate!au)

It’s here! I’ve never written soulmate stuff before so this is probably really different from what you’ve normally read, and it’s different from what I normally write but this really has a part of my heart in it.  Inspired by Lang Leav’s wonderful works (the poems up above) and some weird instances I’ve been having.

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: none, no smut whatsoever (I know who am I?)

Son inspiration: Then I saw You by Tatiana Manois and Surrender by Natalie Taylor

donate to my ko-fi here :)

Masterlist

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. *copyright is listed at bottom*

• • • •

Two strangers both alike in mind have a book propped open with words inked in of love and heartbreak and other musings. They are alike because they mark their favorite poems by dog ears and highlights with little scrawls of their own thoughts scratched into the margins.

Late night for her, early morning for him as they’re on two different sides of the country, it’s not just miles that separate them, but the day and night. The moon comforts her and is her light as she reads of a love shared between two poets. The sun is his friend and a warm embrace as he delves deeper and deeper into the pages of the same love but tinged with an air of sophisticated provocativeness.

While on their Spotify playlists, the same artists and songs are shared between the two. Music and lyrics, words, and prose, two hearts longing for the same thing. 

A love to be written about, a love to be shared, an adventurous love that is unique because it is their own. In both their minds, that kind of love doesn’t seem tangible. To be added to their likeness, they’re both the only single ones amongst their friends and have been for a while. 

Calum showered his friends in love, giving his friends small gifts and helping in any way that he could. He was always down for a good time, sharing laughs and making memories. Rose was the same, she enjoyed being with her friends and family. 

In the daylight they appeared fine and well put together but going home to an empty house in a lonely bed is where they felt the weight of their ache. Sometimes it kept them both up, reading their poetry books or writing their own. His were songs while hers were just words but the premise was the same, dreaming of love. 

She received an opportunity of a lifetime to go to school for her writing. A quiet dream she’d held safe in the privacy of her own mind. It was thrilling yet terrifying moving to a whole new city, the city of angels. Her best friend stayed with her for a week helping her adjust in her new albeit small studio apartment.

It was a steal that was right above a coffee bookshop, a place where she’d also received a job. When she wouldn’t be in school, she’d be working to help pay for rent. While she unpacked and decorated her place, she kept pinching herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. 

When her classes started, she was up by 4 a.m. because of her nerves and her excitement, it bundled up inside her. She ran through her schedule three times, checked her bag that she had the right textbooks and her small laptop.

She read her favorite poems until it was time for her first class. The owner of the shop already had her coffee made to her liking with a cranberry orange muffin already in a bag. 

“Thanks Teresa,” she smiles, taking the goodies.

“Have a great first day! Do you want a picture with your bag?” Teresa is a kind, thirty-something year old woman. She’s living her dream owning a coffee bookshop and has the kindest smile. 

“I’m okay, don’t need a reminder I’m starting with kids fresh outta high school.”

“You’re not that much older, twenty-five is still young, Rose,” Teresa smiles. “Enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” she smiles then waves with her pinky. 

Her first day of classes is just how she thought they’d be, the awkward introductions that she rehearsed in her head before speaking, going through the itinerary for the semester and then reading a few chapters and taking some notes. Rose loved every minute of it. 

During lunch and her breaks, she reread through each itinerary again and bookmarks the pages in her textbook she’ll be needing. In between that, she reads her poetry book and jots down a few of her own thoughts. 

Then, the day is done and she starts her four hour shift at the bookshop that would last until closing time at 9:30. Rose quickly discovered that this would be a very easy job because it didn’t get a rush of people for dinner. 

Some other students she passed on campus would stop in with a friend and share a cup of coffee or tea. By 7:30 there were only a couple of people scattered about the shop, books, or tablets in front of them as the soft indie music played throughout. 

Rose gathers her books into her bag behind the counter before she moves to the bookshelf wall to restock the books left on the small wooden tables. She finds herself humming along to a song she knows when there’s a commotion outside.

The other guests inside turn to look as well through the windows framed in the purple and blue twilight shade to see a couple. They’re the source of the noise as both their voices rise over the other and when he throws his arms in the air that’s when Rose turns back to her task.

Clearly whatever was happening outside was a private moment and Rose couldn’t help but smile at the irony of the saying ‘outside looking in’ while she’s inside but was just looking into their outside debacle. Her mind always thinks of outlandish things like that, she calls it her circle thinking because she can run with the same thought over and over. 

It doesn’t make sense to others, but it does to her.

After a few moments, she glanced outside, and the couple was gone. The streetlights had flickered on and she could see stars poking through the darkened sky. She hopes she’ll see the moon upstairs. 

After the last guest leaves, she locks the door and sweeps up the shop, wipes down tables and locks the cash drawer in the small vault in the back. She checks that the back door is locked after tossing the garbage out quickly and runs upstairs to her studio apartment. She makes a cup of hot cocoa before bed and reads and writes into her favorite poetry book, her journal next to her. 

The hot cocoa made her sleepy and she fell fast asleep with her book atop her chest. She dreamed of someone that held a powerful connection with her, he understood her and made her smile. By morning, the dream slipped away with the stars and she started her new routine over again. 

***

Calum’s fingers tap impatiently on the laminate surface of the table as he sat through this meeting. It was mundane but necessary that he be here because the band had decided to take a year off. The world is still in recovery from the pandemic and they agreed collectively to hold off on anything until there was some decent footing again. 

He’s been in a bit of a mood since he and Zoe fought a few weeks ago after having dinner. They weren’t exclusive, only seeing each other on occasion and that night she brought up soulmates. She was almost nagging at him that he wasn’t hers and that they were wasting their time when he reminded her, she was the one to call him. 

He hasn’t heard from her since. 

His mind wandered throughout, thinking of ways he can occupy the next 365 days when he wasn’t writing music. Music is his life; it’s always been a constant and has pulled him through some tough situations and has uplifted him in joyous ones. On the TV stuck to the wall there was a news report scanning at the bottom that the university not too far from his home has the highest enrollment rate.

That piques his interest. He reads the closed caption below the broadcaster as it says open enrollment has become the new norm, welcoming students from all ages to attend. This information strikes a chord within Calum and he’s found what he wants to do with his year off. 

When the meeting had finally finished, Calum decided to head over to the university and see if he could still enroll. The semester started only a few weeks ago but with this new window of free time, he’s sure he could catch up. 

Enrolling turned out to be easy. He had a meeting with a counselor to discuss what his intentions were and if there was any specific study he wanted to get into. He selected creative writing and psychology, bought his books, got his schedule and he was officially a college student. 

The night before his first class, Calum is restless. He tosses. He turns. He stares out the window of his room, the moon winking at him through the small opening of the curtain. Duke is snoring softly to his left and Calum’s mind is racing. 

Thoughts tumble over one another, scenarios flash across his mind and then he hears a random melody in his head that sounds too familiar and it helps him drift off to sleep. 

***

Calum is racing to get to his first class, he didn’t wake up to his alarm until thirty minutes after the intended time and he blamed it all on a dream. A dream that felt so real he thought the woman in his subconscious was still speaking to him in his ear. 

He threw on the first article of clothing his fingers touched, gargled with mouthwash, and shoved a beanie on his head. Regrettably, he didn’t have time to stop for coffee and he hoped there would be some sold on campus somewhere. 

Calum just got settled into his seat at the back of the lecture when the Professor stood at the front and began to speak. Thankfully, Calum retrieved notes from the three weeks he missed and read them all weekend, so he picked up easily with what the Professor is talking about. 

He smiles to himself, maybe he is cut out for school. 

Calum is surprised how drained he feels after his first day. His head is swimming with new knowledge and he’s anxious to get home and get to work. On his walk back to the parking structure where his car is parked, he sees the coffee bookshop he and Zoe fought in front of almost a month ago. 

The sign above the bay window reads ‘CBS’ and in smaller print below that it reads ‘coffee bookshop’ and he smiles at the simple cleverness. He remembers Ashton has gone in there a few times and said the coffee is great. Calum makes a promise to himself that he’ll stop there tomorrow morning before class to grab a cup.

His night is spent reading over the homework and answering a few of the discussion questions while Duke sat in his lap. Calum tried writing down the lyrics of the song he heard this morning, but he couldn’t distinguish what they were. To wind down, he had his favorite Michael Faudet book propped on his stomach as he read through each page.

He reads through his own writing; his words transport him to that point in time when the words flowed out of him effortlessly. One poem resonates in his mind as he reads about love being compared to that of a rose and the lilting melody from this morning trickled into his ears again and he instantly relaxed. His mind quieted and his eyelids felt heavy as he replayed the same simple notes over and over. 

A beautiful melody without any words.

The loud vibration of his phone woke him up before the actual song did, but he leapt out of bed immediately. The promise of a hot cup of coffee egged him on to take a shower and dress in something nicer than a wrinkled band shirt he had on yesterday. 

Traffic wasn’t that bad, and he parked his car on the first level of the structure and he still had forty-five minutes until his first class. Today is shaping up to be the start of a good one and just as he locks his phone so he can open the door of the CBS, he collides with a body. 

Books go flying. His phone clutters to the ground and he panics at the fatality that could be evident in the million cracks of his screen. Rushed ‘sorry’s’ are exchanged between him and the stranger as they scramble to gather their things. Their bodies twist away from each other as he shoves his books and pens back into his bag. 

When he stands to apologize again, she’s already bustling away, her red scarf blowing behind her in the morning breeze. He sighs then heads inside to examine his phone, but he looks back again to try and get a glimpse of her face. She’s already gone. While they were scrambling to get their belongings, he noted how the smell of coconuts, vanilla, and something else he couldn’t put his finger on, invaded his nostrils. It made him think of the ocean.

He examines his phone to find there isn’t a scratch on it and when he unlocks it there’s a picture of the poem he read last night. Roses. The girl he bumped into smelled of roses. 

***

Rose is having an off day. Her alarm didn’t even go off and she put in a generous amount of dry shampoo in her hair but resulted in putting on a hat. She didn’t even have time to get her coffee and muffin from Teresa for she rushed out the front door and collided with some guy. 

Without her coffee it was hard for her to focus and when she got called on in class, she had to ask the professor to repeat the question because she didn’t hear it. Then her laptop crashed, and she couldn’t work on an assignment that’s due by Friday. 

By the time she made it to CBS, she didn’t want to work her shift. Customers were being needy and rude and all she wanted to do was take a hot shower and read. After eating a quick microwave dinner, Rose took a hot shower then turned on her favorite playlist titled ‘Blue’ for moments like this. 

She opens her bag to grab her poetry book, ‘The Universe of Us’ but finds its exact counterpart of Lang Leav; Michael Faudet’s book ‘Cult of Two’ lays on her table. 

Did she put that in her bag by mistake? 

It was a rough morning so it is possible, but she could have sworn she grabbed the book from her bedside table. Sighing, Rose takes the book to place it back on her shelf then becomes more confused when she sees the same book in her hands, perched snugly on the shelf with her other poetry books. 

Rose knows she only has one copy, so where did this one come from and where is her book? She tosses the white paperback onto her bed and empties her whole bag, checking each book twice. How could she have lost it? It’s always buried safely in the bottom of her bag and she didn’t take it out all day except--

Rose gasps. This morning when she was leaving the shop she bumped into a guy and all their belongings went flying. She must have grabbed his book by mistake, and he grabbed hers. Panic sets in, she’s written down some of her innermost thoughts in that book, personal things.

Now this random stranger has her soul in his hands, and she might never see him again. With angry tears in her eyes she crawls into bed while Lewis Capaldi’s voice thrums around her walls. Needing comfort, she opens the strangers’ book then snaps it shut just as fast because there’s handwriting on the pages. 

Just like hers.

***

Calum is reading about the red string of fate. After that run in with the girl outside CBS a month ago, he read through her book and became transfixed with those words she wrote down. He knows he shouldn’t have read her thoughts, but once he started, he couldn’t stop. Clearly the poetry captivated her, but her words captivated him.

The red string of fate is a Japanese legend meant to tie soulmates together by their pinkies. No matter the circumstance, the time or place, the two will always find each other. It may stretch and it may tangle but it will never break. He’s never heard of it before now, but he’s become obsessed with the idea of it. 

Every morning he’s stopped by CBS to see if he’ll run into her again so he can return her book, but he’s never seen her. His classes are going well and he’s learning so much, his creativity is overflowing. Much of that is because of this girl’s book. 

Its spine is overly creased from endless love of reading, some words are highlighted and circled. Pages are dog eared on what he assumes are her favorite poems. Calum smiled the first time he paged through it all because he’s written in his book as well. He wonders if she’s read any of his musings yet. 

“Bro, I haven’t seen you without that book. Where’s yours?” Ashton asks while they’re out for lunch. 

“Um, I lost it actually. I bumped into this girl outside the CBS and our things scattered everywhere. We switched books,” Calum explains flipping the pages. “She writes it in like I do.”

“You read it? Mate,” Ashton sighs exasperatedly, “that’s an invasion of privacy.”

“I know, I know! But I can’t get enough of it. She’s smart and passionate in what she writes. I wish I got a better look at her when I bumped into her so I could return it.”

“There’s no name inside?”

“Nope. She could be in one of my classes for all I know,” Calum sighs then picks away at the corner of the cover. “What was it like when you and Ruby found each other?”

Ruby is Ashton’s soulmate and they’ve been together for almost two years now. Calum remembers the change in Ashton when she came into his life, he was lighter. 

“I heard her voice in my head.”

“What did she say?”

Ashton smiles, “My name.”

“Then how did you find her?”

“I don’t know, it’s hard to explain,” Ashton’s brows crease. “It was only a few days after I heard her voice that I knew her name. It came to me out of the blue. Do you remember anything about her?”

“She had on this red scarf and smelled like a rose.” Calum suddenly felt a wave of dizziness swim in his head and he held onto his temples.

“You okay?” Ashton reaches over as if to help but he’s not sure what’s happening to his friend. 

“Woah, that was weird, I got super dizzy,” Calum says blinking a few times until he can see straight again. He removes his fingers from his temples and Ashton is giving him a funny look. “What?”

“What did she smell like again?” he leans forward.

“A rose, why--fuck!” the wave of dizziness crashes into him again and it’s like his brain is spinning in his head. When his vision returns Ashton is smiling gleefully. “Glad to see you enjoy my pain.”

“Don’t you see?! You got vertigo as soon as you said rose. That must be her name.”

“Really? Is that what happened when you said Ruby’s name?”

“Yeah basically, but it wasn’t this strong. She must be close,” Ashton looks around him as if she’ll appear out of thin air. “I suggest going to CBS morning and night, she’s gotta be there at some point.”

***

Rose is flicking through the pages of the new poetry book she acquired. Curiosity killed the cat and she just had to dig her claws between the pages because she’s sure he’s already done the same or will soon enough. 

Some of his thoughts left her breathless and with an odd familiar feeling at the way it’s structured. Some of his sentences seem more like lyrics that she’s heard before but can never find the tune that goes with it.

She hadn’t been feeling well this morning, nausea and dizziness made her skip her classes and she laid in bed all day. It would come and go throughout the day and right before bed she drew herself a bubble bath with some candles. The flickering light created the perfect ambience while she read Faudet’s words and the mysterious stranger. 

Where her notes are written in paragraphs or stanzas, his are scattered about the page. Sometimes she has to turn the book to read it upside down. The curse words make her laugh and sometimes there’s a fun little drawing. 

It isn’t until she reaches the last few pages and she’s reading about a blue angel and knocking back a shot when she stumbles on a name that is not the author. It’s a name she’s heard before, a name she’s known of and has seen floating around her social media.

“Calum Hood,” she mumbles, and she instantly becomes dizzy again. It happens so fast it startles her, and she nearly drops the book into the bubbles. Somehow in her bewilderment she managed to let it flop onto the bathroom floor. 

The bathwater and bubbles slosh over the sides as she reaches for the book again. Did she read that right? Her fingers leave dark, pudgy circles on the pages as she goes to that page again. 

“Calum,” she breathes, and the room spins again causing her to drop the book once more. “Okay, okay, okay, okay. . .”

Rose gets out of the bath quickly, letting the water drain noisily as she dries off and puts on her pajamas. The spinning has stopped, and she sits cross legged in the middle of her bed, the poetry book open to the poem and her phone opened to Instagram and Twitter.

She’s been an avid fan for quite a few years now and to think if he was the one, she bumped into? With her thumbs hovering over the keyboard she closes her eyes trying to remember anything about him from that morning. 

All she can remember is the rush to gather her things and his soft husky voice as he said sorry. She didn’t look at him once and it’s very possible she bumped into Calum Hood. Her mind racing, she texts every one of her friends that have already found their soulmates asking what and how it happened. 

She needs answers because how odd is it that she’s felt dizzy and nauseous all day then sees his name, says it, and gets dizzy all over again? Is that what’s supposed to happen? Does this mean he’s been saying her name all this time as well? 

Her friends' responses were pretty much the same. In each instance they heard his or her voice in their head say their name. Why hadn’t she heard his voice? Could he hear hers? Rose unlocks her phone and searches his name, turns out he’s gone back to school. The same school she’s attending but it doesn’t say what he’s studying, which is good because it must be annoying having everyone know what’s going on in your life. 

Rose falls back onto her pillows burrowing under the covers and shuts off the light. 

“Please let me go to school tomorrow, Calum,” she huffs then turns over to hug her pillow. 

She swears she hears a ghostly laugh in her ear before sleep consumes her. 

***

“I bite back.”

Calum still hears the soft voice from his dream, he can still feel the soft brush of her lips against his ear as she said those words. He’s staring up at the ceiling replaying the dream of sitting next to a girl. In his subconscious it felt like he already knew her, and they carried a conversation well. He doesn’t remember exactly what he was saying but he can hear those three words as if she were laying right next to him. 

He greets Duke with quick kisses before letting him outside and Calum washes his face, brushes his teeth, and gets dressed. After he brings Duke in, Calum gathers his bags making sure The Universe of Us is right at the top. 

He’s been going to CBS early each morning so he can sit and try to watch for the girl he bumped into. He has one cup of coffee and reads through her pages until it’s time to go for class. A few times he thought he recognized her, but the girl in question always turned out to be just a fan and wanted a quick chat and photo. 

They never smelled like roses, so he knew it wasn’t her.

After his final sip of coffee, he flips to a page with the title ‘The One’ and he immediately goes to the girl’s handwritten words. 

‘And I want you to be the one for me. The one who brings out my storm but also calms the waves. I want you to be my perfect counterpart. Is my red string frayed?’

Calum smiles at the last sentence. He wishes he could tell her that no, it isn’t frayed and he’s trying his damndest to find her. He gathers his things and heads out the door because his first class is starting in fifteen minutes.

Just as he walked out the door, if he would have waited one more minute, Rose came by his table and cleaned up his dishes to help Teresa out before she went on her way to class. 

“How are you feeling today Rose?” Teresa asks, taking the dirty dishes from her. 

“A little better,” Rose shrugs, “I can’t miss two days. Are you sure it’s alright I can switch my shift from tonight to tomorrow?”

“Of course. You need to catch up on what you missed, Colbie will cover for you. Take it easy, you still look a little pale,” Teresa frowns. 

“I’ll be fine, but thank you,” Rose smiles then waves. “I’ll see you later.”

***

The day runs as normal for them both. Calum has felt this growing energy within him as if something is about to happen, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. He’s been looking at every woman he passes waiting to see if there’s a connection or a siren that will go off as if to say “that’s her! That’s her!” but he comes up short. 

Rose still feels a little queasy throughout the day and she’s distracted because all she wants to do is read Calum’s poetry book to try and find another connection. 

When the school day is over, she sets up her workspace at her favorite table by the bookshelf in a large, plush chair. Her own latte sits next to her while she quickly does her homework and opens the book. From the corner of her eye a tall figure sits in the chair on the other side of the table. She pays it no mind until there’s a loud crash.

The stranger knocked her cup to the floor, and it shattered, white foam and coffee filling up the grooves in the tile. 

“Shit, I’m sorry--”

“It’s okay,” she says automatically. 

They both reach for the largest fragment of broken cup; their pinkies touch and Rose feels something click inside her. Her skin is hot where he touches her, and with her heart pounding like a thousand horses running, she looks up. 

He knew who she was before he looked into her eyes, when they came in such proximity, he smelled the roses and the coconut and the vanilla. When their pinkies touched, he felt a spark shoot up his veins, that’s the siren he’s been waiting for and when he looked into her eyes? Everything clicked into place.

“Rose?”

“Calum?”

They both laugh nervously, their pinkies still touching. Rose feels her cheeks warm and Calum can’t stop smiling at her. After their small moment, they clean up the mess of the broken cup and sit back in their respective chairs. 

“I think this is yours,” she holds out his book that she was currently reading. 

“And I believe--” he pulls out her book from his bag holding it up “--this is yours.”

Having it in her possession again makes it feel like a lost limb has been returned home. Calum flips through his own book noticing the wrinkled pages. He knows she read it and he’s so glad she’s the one who did. He watches her rifle through the pages, soft fingers tracing over words that have been printed and words she’s inked in herself. 

“You’re a wonderful writer,” he comments, and her eyes flash up to him.

“You are too, but you’re a musician so that’s no surprise,” she giggles, and Calum loves the sound. 

Talking comes easily between Calum and Rose, but how could it not when they’re soulmates? As the night gets longer and the shop is about to close, Rose invites him up for some tea and he gladly accepts. 

While she’s setting up the kettle, he examines her bookshelf, some books he’s read, and others grab his attention that he wants to ask her about. Soft music fills the room and he smiles because this is on one of his playlists as well.

“How do you like your tea?” she asks, and Calum moves back to the kitchen area. 

“Little bit of milk and honey and some sugar,” he smiles, watching her add the ingredients.

Their fingers brush again when he accepts the cup from her, another spark ignites but it starts a different type of warmth. Calum becomes very aware of both their actions. He’s aware of how close she sits next to him on the couch, he’s aware of the way she licks her lips and how badly he wants to kiss them. 

“So, this is . . . a little crazy, right?” she laughs awkwardly, her finger circling the rim of the mug. “How did you find me? Did you hear my voice? Because I didn’t hear yours.”

“What did you experience then?” he asks, setting his mug on the small table in front of them. 

“I was home for a whole day because I just felt really dizzy and nauseous, then when I was taking a bath and reading your book, I saw your name, said it out loud and had another dizzy spell. I think I dreamed of you, too. . .” her brows furrowed in confusion.

Calum tries not to let her small tidbit of information that she was in the bath when she said his name get to him, but he knows exactly what she’s talking about. He was at home playing with Duke when he felt another wave of dizziness hit, it came upon him so fast that he practically fell onto the couch. It felt different then when he said her name, it was stronger. 

“I’m sorry, when I discovered your name, I kept saying it,” he admits fiddling with one of his rings. 

“How’d you find out my name?” 

“I was talking with my friend, Ashton and I told him about the day we collided and how you smelled like a rose. You know what’s funny? When we said each other’s name downstairs I didn’t feel dizzy, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” she shakes her head then looks at him, “what does that mean?”

“I--” he stops short when the song shifts, and he gasps. “I’ve had this melody stuck in my head for weeks, is this you singing?”

“Absolutely not,” Rose laughs and rises from the couch to turn it up on her phone. “It calms me down, so I play it a lot. What was--oh!”

She spun around and Calum was standing right in front of her. She didn’t realize how tall he is until right now and the scent of his cologne and laundry detergent reminds her of a home she’s come back to. 

“I have an idea as to why we didn’t hear each other’s voices,” he says, stepping even closer. 

“What’s that?” Rose licks her lips.

“We feel things, and instead of vocalizing them, we write them down or listen to it in music,” he tucks her hair behind her ear. “Even the books we read the authors are in love.”

Rose chuckles at that. “Yeah, what are the odds they’re our favorites?”

“Pretty high, since we were made for each other,” he smiles. His fingers tickle her cheek as he tilts her head up, her eyes are shining, and the smell of roses invades his senses. He inches his mouth closer to hers, “I’m ready to surrender to this, Rose.”

She nods and closes the small space between their lips and it’s as if everything stops. The only thing she can feel are his soft, warm lips on hers, the calluses of his fingers on her cheek and the way his other hand wraps around her waist. He pulls her close and she grabs hold of his shirt, kissing him is like a breath of fresh air. 

He pulls her even closer, chest against chest and she gasps at the movement but welcomes his tongue excitedly. They kiss feverishly, as if this is the only time they have. But they have many more days and many more moments to make memories of. 

They’re breathing heavily when they break the kiss, she feels him smile against her lips and gives her two soft pecks. 

“Calum?”

“Hmm?” his thumb strokes her cheek affectionately.

“You made my world stop spinning.”

• • • •

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[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part five Word count: ±4250 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part five summary: Sam tries to find out more about Zoë’s past, but when he meets up with his brother again, he never thought he would have to reveal his own. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​ and @deanwanddamons​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     Paragould, Arkansas      June 16th, 2005 - Five months ago

     A shrill whistle reverberates over the training fields. Children stop in their tracks and run back to the teacher, bursting with energy.      “Alright! Good job, everyone! Red team wins!”            A woman, probably around her thirties, smiles as she is surrounded by her class. Like they always do after practice, they sit down on the grass in a circle, looking up at their teacher, waiting for her to give the cue to head off to the dressing rooms. The sun shines brightly and stands high in the blue sky, shining down on them. Birds chirp, hopping from branch to branch in the trees surrounding the fields, while the American flag flutters from the frontage of a school building.

     “Looking forward to summer break?” the teacher asks, laughing when her question is answered with loud enthusiastic cheer.      “Aren’t you even going to miss me?” she pouts.      “We’ll miss you, Mrs. Dawlson,” one of the little boys speaks up.      More kids agree with him, causing their supervisor to smile, humbled.      “I’m sure you will do fine at Oak Grove, Roy. You’re all going to middle school! Fifth graders already, my boys and girls are all grown up.” She observes her class, pride in her kind eyes. “I tell you what. Next Friday we are going to play lots of fun games, alright?”      The faces of the children light up and they happily beam at each other, already excited for next practice.      Their teacher lets them off the hook. “Be safe, off you go!”

     All get up and bolt for the dressing rooms, challenging each other to get there first. Some squeal and laugh as they play tag along the way. All but one. The joy disappears from Mrs. Dawlson’s face as she watches one of the girls, who slowly strolls back to school. Despite the warm weather, she’s wearing a long sleeved shirt and blue sweatpants.      Mrs. Dawlson sighs, clearly caring too much about her children to let this slip. “Laura?”      The little girl looks over her shoulder, her expression blank. She carries her long, chestnut hair in two braids, her bangs cover her eyes.      “Could you come here for a second?” Mrs. Dawlson asks, gently.

      Laura drags her feet with her head hanging down, like a dog who has done something wrong and is now called back to get punished. The teacher sits down on her heels to level with the little girl, making sure not to talk down to her. But Laura doesn’t look her in the eye and keeps staring at her feet.      “How are you doing, Laura?” she wonders, her voice friendly and calm.      “I’m fine, Mrs. Dawlson,” she replies, politely.      The coach hesitates for a moment, figuring out the best way to approach her pupil.      “Well, alright. But if there is anything you want to talk about, let me know, okay?”

      The young girl looks up and Mrs. Dawlson startles at what she sees. She can detect a dark bruise through her bangs, right above her left eyebrow. With her fingers, she carefully sweeps away Laura’s hair and reveals the injury underneath. Scared, the student backs out and turns her head away. Quickly, but without hurting her, Mrs. Dawlson grabs Laura’s wrist and pulls up her sleeve. What she sees then, would make everyone’s stomach turn; her entire arm is bruised.          “How did you get these?” Laura’s teacher questions, a bit firmer than before.      “I fell,” she lies.      “Tell the truth, Laura. Who did this to you? It’s alright,” Mrs. Dawlson tries to convince her.      “No one! Please don’t tell anyone!” The little ten year old begs as she pulls herself loose.      “It’s safe with me. I promise,” her teacher assures.      “No, I - I can’t,” Laura stammers.

     By now she’s crying. Big tears stream down her porcelain cheeks. It seems like she is going to cave in, but suddenly she turns around and makes a run for it. Mrs. Dawlson lets her go and straightens her back. With a sigh, the teacher places her hands on her waist and watches the girl leave the field.      Disapproving, she shakes her head and closes her eyes, swallowing thickly. “Poor girl…” she whispers to herself.

     Paragould, Arkansas      November 26th, 2005 - Present day

     It’s still early morning when Sam pulls over at 2310 West Kings highway and enters the parking lot of the Ramada Inn. He left Zoë still asleep; apparently she really needed her rest. Last night, he wondered what was going on in her head and what she’s been through, as he went over the database she developed during her years of hunting. He could tell from the file properties that she didn’t just accidentally stumble on a ghost and got curious. He doesn't know the entire story behind her possession, but something happened. Something bad.

     The first file was added over four years ago, containing information on a Diligo Vesco. ‘Diligo’ can be translated to ‘love’ in Latin, ‘Vesco’ meaning ‘eater’ in that same ancient language. A demon who served directly under the devil himself in the early years, one of Lucifer’s creations, if you believe the lore. Not your ‘casual’ black eyed rat from hell, like the ones Dad dealt with every so often. No, this one was much worse.

     The name fits, because that’s exactly what it does; it literally feeds on love, by possessing someone and slaughtering the host’s loved ones. The demon doesn’t just kill them, though. A Diligo Vesco is one of the most vicious and sadistic of its kind. It’s been reported to take its sweet time torturing the victims, before actually killing them. Sam found case reports in Zoë’s database that described the gory details. Limbs severed, organs ripped from bodies, missing parts of the brain. Arson, waterboarding, skinning, mutilation. Ways of torture he had never seen before. One of them was called Blood Eagle, where the demon would cut open its victim’s back, break all the ribs and twist them upwards, giving the poor soul ‘wings’.

     Since the beginning of time, these creatures are responsible for unexplainable and brutal murders within families and close circles. The Ade family murders in 1874, where the children were cut up and set on fire. The Green Family massacre in 1994, in which the mother of three slaughtered her children with an axe. These smart monsters play the game well, framing the vessel for the blood that the demon sheds.

     The Diligo Vesco is only able to show its true face when the host is physically close to someone he or she loves. Until that time it holds on like a leech. An exorcism would be the only way to spare the life of the possessed, but this is where it gets tricky; the demon can only be exorcised when it manifests. By the time a hunter picks up its scent, it is usually too late. Most of the time the damage is done and the thing is long gone. When it does come to driving out the demon, the host nor the exorcist rarely survive. Killing these demons is close to impossible without harming the person it's controlling. Yet this is what his father and Dean must have accomplished, since Zoë is still walking amongst them.

     Curiously, Sam had compared Zoë’s online database with his father’s journal, but the case happened to take place in a period of time from which a couple of pages of the book are missing. Zoë does not elaborate on the details of her own case either, but whatever happened, it triggered her to become one of the best hunters in the country. The list of creatures that she slayed after her possession is impressive. Zoë ended more supernatural spawn from Hell in the past four years than some hunters manage to kill in a lifetime.

     Still pondering over this newfound information, Sam gets out of his brother’s car. On his way over to Paragould, he and Dean talked about this new Sullivan girl. The youngest Winchester couldn't help but to be curious about her motives, her past. Dean doesn’t get why Sam even gives a damn. He said it’s none of their business and if Zoë doesn’t wanna share, why dig further and risk getting your eyes scratched out?

     While rummaging in his pocket, he enters the motel lobby and makes a left turn to the main corridor. The red carpet underneath his feet is stained and the wallpaper has come off at the corners, a sheer contrast to the Hampton Inn, where Zoë is staying. Here, the coffee machine in the hall spits out the most horrendous brew, they need a flashlight in the bathroom because the light is broken and the air conditioning sounds like a generator, but doesn’t actually do jack shit. But then again, he has a feeling that not even a freezer could have cooled down the rabbits inside of room 106.

     Just as he takes out his room key, he sees that he won’t need them; Dean is already at the door with the blonde he picked up the night before.

     “Call me,” she tells him, as she saves her number in his phone.      “I sure will,” Dean smirks.      They kiss once more. Both can barely keep their eyes off each other as the young lady parades away in last night’s clothes with a flustered grin on her face. 

     Sam passes her in the hallway and looks over his shoulder. He can see where Dean’s coming from; she’s beautiful. Dean has spotted the look upon his brother’s face, though.      “Forget it, tiger. She’s mine.”      “Had a good night?” Sam chuckles, hoping he will skip the details.      Dean yawns and saunters back into the room. “Did I have a good night? I barely got a chance to sleep.”      “Okay, already more than I wanted to know,” Sam cuts off, before Dean spills the goods.

     He follows his older sibling into the room, finding one bed untouched and the other a complete mess. An empty bottle of Sauvignon lays on the ground, while a dirty glass still stands on the cabinet next to a half a bottle of Jack Daniels. The window is wide open, the heavy curtains wave in the wind slightly, but despite the fresh air, the room still smells like sex. Seems like they had one hell of a party.

     “Let’s get going,” Sam announces.      Dean looks aside at his little brother, frowning. Since when is Sam the one who gives the orders?      “Already?” he replies, bummed, clearly hoping for a rendezvous.      “Yeah, I found our stuff,” Sam informs.      “Ah, so you found Sullivan,” Dean chuckless, raising his eyebrows.

     Sam huffs and rolls his eyes, but his older brother doesn’t pay attention to it, tipping over an empty bag which once contained potato crisps. Apparently he’s hungry.      “Yeah. It didn’t take me long to find her. Her bike was parked outside a hotel. She’s working a case,” Sam explains, acting casual, but Dean can’t help himself.      “If it didn’t take you long to find our shit, then where were you all night?”      Reluctantly, Sam sighs before he answers. No way in hell his brother is going to respond maturely to what he is about to say.  “I spent the night at her place.”      Dean laughs out loud, throwing his head back. “I knew it! You cheeky bastard!”      “Nothing happened, Dean,” Sam states with a tone.      “Oh, come on. Not even a little smooch?” he teases, but Sam denies.      “A look then? You know, one of those cheesy Notebook moments.”      But again, Dean’s brother shakes his head, although he can’t resist to comment on that. “You saw The Notebook?”      “Well... no. So I’ve heard,” the oldest corrects uncomfortably, quick to turn the conversation back around. “But let me get this straight; absolutely nothing happened?”      “That’s what I said,” Sam confirms.

     After opening a pizza box that - to Dean’s disappointment - is empty, he stops searching for food. Then he turns to Sam, who is clearly annoyed with the interrogation.      “Are your eyes fucked up?” Dean wonders in disbelief. “Honestly, I'm a little disappointed. I thought I taught you better than that. How can you spend the night with a woman like that without making a move?”      “That’s it. I’ve had it.”      Sam squares his shoulders and stares at Dean, furiously. His brother pissed him off, but Dean can hide his victorious grin. For weeks he has tried to push Sam over the edge, to trigger him to let it out. To yell, cry, take a swing at him if that was what his little brother needed to do to feel better. Anything to get him out of the dark hole in which he’s currently hiding up.

     “Did it ever occur to you that I might feel terribly guilty if I would just head off with some girl for a one night stand like you always do?!” the youngest of the siblings exclaims.      “I have no idea, Sam. You never talk to me about it, so how the fuck am I supposed to know how you feel?” Dean bounces back.

     “And you think it’s strange that I don't talk about what happened?! My girlfriend was murdered, Dean! I was going to ask her to marry me, for fuck’s sake!” He pauses, growing even more furious. “I had everything planned out! Law school, Jess, everything!”      By now Sam paces from one side of the room to the other, restless and upset.

     “You were gonna marry her, really? Sam, with your background the chances of the American dream coming true was close to zero. You should’ve known that,” his brother reminds him.      “I was just trying to move on, I was trying to be happy! And you know what? I actually was!” Sam halts in front of Dean and raises his voice even more. “I loved her, Dean! I still do and I can’t get her out of my fucking mind! She died because of me!”      Dean looks at his younger sibling, sympathetically. “Don’t do that to yourself, man. It’s not your fault she’s dead.”      “It is. I didn’t warn her about the danger out there!I lied to her--”

      Sam intends to ramble on, but Dean intervenes.      “- What makes you think that telling her the truth would have made a difference? Whatever killed Jessica, wasn’t just some ghost, Sam. Hey, listen to me.” The older brother grabs Sam’s shoulder and forces him to look down into his eyes. “That same thing killed Mom, and probably a whole bunch of other people. It’s powerful, and if Dad has trouble stopping it, no offence, but you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

     “I’m not talking about stopping him at that moment, Dean!” Sam pulls himself loose and turns away.      An unpleasant silence fills the room as Dean waits for a follow up, but his brother doesn’t continue.      “What then, Sam? Talk to me,” he pleads.

     Again that silence. The younger Winchester doesn’t move and stares at the wall with his hands placed on his waist. He swallows apprehensively, his jaw tensed. Then Sam sighs and turns around for Dean to see his eyes glister.      “I could have prevented it,” Sam claims, his voice soft and broken now.      Dean observes him, thinking through his next question first before he shoots. He has a feeling there’s more to this than just guilt.      “How?”      Sam bites his lip and averts his gaze. Then, after a month of silence, Sam finally opens up to his brother.      “I dreamed of Jessica’s death, days before it happened.”

     Complete silence. While the air grows even thicker with tension, Dean stares at his brother, his eyes confused and stunned. Taken aback, he opens his mouth in order to respond, but can’t find the words he’s looking for.      “Y-you mean, as in… a vision or something?” he returns disbelieving, chuckling nervously.      Sam scoffs as he moves away, ready to leave this conversation already; he knew Dean would respond like this. “Never mind.”      But Dean doesn’t let it go. “You’re telling me that you actually saw Jess die, like she did, in a dream?”      His younger brother halts, turns back slightly and eventually nods his head. “I didn't think anything of it at first. I figured it was just a bad dream. Until…”

     He doesn't need to finish his sentence. Dean says nothing, instead he just stares at Sam. Several thoughts rage through his head. What the hell is going on with him? What the hell could this mean? Why the fuck didn’t he tell me this before? The sheer thought that something might be terribly wrong with his little brother, has his stomach in knots. This isn’t ordinary. In fact, this is as far from ordinary as a human can get. He is stunned and overwhelmed by the idea, but his own brother might actually be something a hunter would keep a close eye on.

     Sam swallows thickly, feeling exposed and embarrassed. “You’re looking at me as if you’re about to empty a bottle of holy water over my head.”      For a moment Dean glares at the flask on the table.      “Dude, you’re seriously considering?!” Sam shouts, frustrated.      “You wanna tell me that this is normal, Sam?!” Dean counters, raising his voice.      Sam shakes his head and turns around, already regretting that he brought it up.      “Why didn’t you tell me before?” the older brother questions.      “I don’t know,” Sam mutters, staring at the ground.      “You don’t know? You’re psychic, right?” Dean scoffs.

     The youngest of the Winchester boys grinds his teeth, but doesn’t say a word. The tension between the two of them is heavy and familiar; it feels the same as when they had the argument before Sam took off for college.

      “Anything else I should know, Sam?” Dean pressures, clearly worked up over this. “I don’t know, maybe you can stop bullets or run super fast.”      Dean steps to the other side of the room with his arms folded in front of his chest, making fun of the situation because he has no idea how else to deal with it.      Sam eyes him, following his movements. “Funny,” he snaps. “Mature, too.”      “It would explain a lot of things. The ‘S’ stands for ‘Sam’ and there’s your love for tights,” Dean provokes.      “Stop it,” Sam hisses, but Dean isn’t done.      “Can you fly? ‘Cause that would be fucking awesome.”      “Dean!” Sam warns mad.      “What?! Either I joke about it or I lose my fucking cool! Take your pick,” Dean returns.      “One way or the other, it doesn’t help!” the youngest exclaims. “You see? This is exactly why I didn’t tell you, Dean! I knew you would give me this kind of shit!”      “What did you expect? You kept this from me for over a month!” Dean brings to mind, hurt seeping past the words.      “I don’t have to tell you everything I go through. I don’t owe you that,” Sam makes clear, venom in his tone.      “And that’s where you’re wrong,” Dean turns to him, pointing his finger as he approaches his brother. “I am your fucking brother, Sam! So yes, you do owe me that!”

     Dean stares straight into Sam’s eyes, his head tilted slightly backwards to look at his younger yet taller brother. Sam can see his words struck a nerve.      “We used to tell each other everything. What happened to that?” Dean wonders.      “It left, along with me.”

     Sam breaks eye contact and walks past him. As Sam bumps his shoulder against his, Dean shuts his eyes and clenches his jaw.      “I know you’re pretty damn good at it, but don’t you walk away from me,” he threatens, not brave enough to turn around to watch Sam leave.      “Why wouldn’t I?” Sam tests, not impressed by Dean’s stern words.      “Because this is not something you can walk away from! When will that finally come to you? When you’re in, you’re in. There’s no way back when you know about the things in the shadows, especially not when you have fucking visions about it!”       Now Dean does turn to face Sam, who scoffs at the message. “So what then, huh?! You’re planning to hunt until you’re in a wheelchair?”       “No, I’m planning to hunt until I finish the job Dad left for us to do and along the way, I will kill as many sons of bitches as I possibly can. Saving people, hunting things, the family business.” He pauses, staring at his brother with fiery eyes. “I intend to prevent people from going through the same shit we’ve had to endure, and if I don’t succeed, I’ll die trying.”

     This time, Sam doesn’t have a counter ready. No stubborn remark, no smart answer, just silence. He’s not sure what to say to that. He has to admit, he respects Dean for his morals, his honor. It gets him thinking, too. About his own future, his own life. Because deep down he knows Dean is right. He can run from the supernatural all he wants, but it will continue to follow him, always and everywhere.

     “Why should we be the one to sacrifice everything?” Sam questions, less hostile than before.      “I don’t know,” Dean sighs. “It’s just the way it is. So we either feel sorry for ourselves, or we suck it up.”

     Sam nods, admitting, but not at all okay with the inevitable. He can never have the life he wishes for. There will always be more to hunt, more to kill; this is a never ending story. And even if he does turn his back on the business for good, will he be able to forget about Jessica’s death? Can he move on without scanning every street, expecting something out of the ordinary around every corner? Right now, actually getting his law degree seems impossible, but then again, maybe he was being naïve when he went to Stanford in the first place.

     “Shall we go?” Sam suggests.      Dean looks up at the defeated man. The peace has returned, but brought a sense of devastation along as well. Accepting his fate is hard on Sam, he understands that. So Dean decides they had enough arguments for one morning and lets it go. He got Sam to talk to him; one step at a time.      “Can’t we stay one more night?” Dean tries, carefully.      Sam frowns, but then understands his reason for hesitation.      “Denise”, he chuckles. “Or Demi? I’m not sure. Her name started with a ‘D’.”      Dean’s typical grin appears on his face again, his eyes still soft, though.

     “Listen, man. I’m not pushing you to hook up with some chick just to mess you up, okay? At some point it’s gonna be time to move on, and I just figured a girl might help with that,” Dean lets him know, somewhat apologetic.      Sam eyes at his brother for a little while with an expression saying something in the line of ‘yeah right’. After a moment of who-gives-up-glaring-first, Dean caves.      “Alright, I wanted to piss you off so that you would get it out of your system,” he admits.

     The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches upward; he knew it. He’s not mad at Dean for playing that card, though. His older brother means well and he actually feels a little better now that he told him what is going on.      “Seriously, man. Talk to me when something’s up,” Dean underlines.      Sam responds with a nod of the head, then he gathers his stuff, apparently intending to leave.      “Ah, come on. One night,” Dean begs.      “There’s something ripping out hearts down in Texas, described by locals as ‘possibly coyotes’,” Sam offers.      Dean rubs his unshaven chin and thinks it over.      “Awesome werewolf hunt or awesome sex? Tough one,” he ponders.      Sam can’t help but smile and waits for the final call.      “Alright, let’s hunt some wolf,” Dean gives in. “Do you need to change in a phone booth before we go?”      Sam gives him a death-stare once again, but his brother keeps a straight face.      “No?” he checks, teasing.

     Dean can’t wipe the comical smirk off his face and so Sam shoves his brother towards the door, triggering him to let out a laugh. Before he follows, the younger Winchester feels his pockets for his phone and freezes. Unpleasantly surprised he looks around.      “Lost something?” Dean wonders.      “I think I left my Blackberry at Zo’s,” Sam realizes.      “Naturally,” Dean chuckles, failing to believe he didn’t leave it there on purpose.      “Would you quit it already?!” Sam returns, feisty.      “Okay, I’ll stop,” Dean promises. “We need to score some food anyway, I’m hungry.”      “There’s a In-N-Out a block from Zoë’s hotel,” Sam mentions.      Dean’s eyes light up, imagining the food in front of him already. “A Double-Double it is.”

     Sam grins as Dean picks up a small duffel containing only the few things they carry around at the moment. He follows Sam outside, who locks the door behind them. A quick bite before they leave another town and move on to the next. They never stay long, but the last two stops have been extremely short. Dean likes Denise, or whatever her name is, yet he has never been the guy who sticks around long enough to get serious with a girl. To be honest, a wolf hunt already sounds more fun than doing the girl he already did last night. After that shapeshifter drama, and now this newfound information about Sammy, he’s up for something equally exciting and distracting. Dean is sure of it; Texas, here they come.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read chapter six here

[bnhavibes]

sorry. Todoroki x Reader ANGST(trigger warnings apply)

TW: mentions of depressive episodes, suicidal ideation, self harm, and an attempt.

a/n: PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU WILL BE PUSHED OVER A LIMIT OF COMFORTABILITY PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I LOVE YOU AND I AM HERE IF YOU NEED TO TALK.

“SOMEONE, PLEASE!! CALL AN AMBULANCE, THE FIREMEN OR POLICE” A shriek in the doemitory common room made Todoroki’s head snap up from the book he was studying.

Another typical day had passed, where Shoto had missed classes while he was healing from his injuries at the Hosu City incident. He huffed as he stood up, thinking it was a prank another student was pulling on the rest of them.

“You extras know we’re heroes in training, right?” Bakugou laughed, but stopped when he saw the student frantically grabbing the pay phone and quickly dialing.

“HELLO!? YES, THERES A STUDENT ON THE EDGE OF A WINDOW OF THE UA DORMITORIES!! I—I THINK SHES GOING TO JUMP—” The words ignited a click in Todoroki’s head. Immediately he started running to the staircase, ignoring the calls of the Dekusquad to wait for them.

“Who’s the student on the roof? Why hasn’t anybody gone up there!?” He could hear Tenya ask. But Shoto was already three flights up before he could hear the answer.

“It’s Y/N.”

————————————————————

Depression is a funny thing.

One day you’re aceing all the practice exams and cramming in four hour long study sessions, the next you’re.... on the floor of the girls lockerroom. Letting the blood that was oozing out of your tender thighs dilute in the hot shower. Your throat dry and scratchy from the stifled cries and heaving sobs now causing extreme discomfort. On days like today, nothing could go right.

You missed your morning alarm, and the three missed calls from Deku. He even texted Shoto that you weren’t in class, resulting in a visit from the injured boy. He was very concerned, but he kept saying he didn’t want to pester you if you were busy. And you couldn’t help but think you must have done something to him, hurt him in some way to make him feel like he was a pest.

‘You’re such a piece of shit friend. You can’t even tell your crush that he didn’t do this, YOU did’ You thought to yourself, edging the tears that were barely wobbling over the crevice of your eyelids. You let another ribbon of pain glide over your scarred, hidden skin, this time going over your ribcage.

It didn’t help that your quirk was Cell Manipulation. You would have been the perfect surgeon.

“If you weren’t such a fucking idiot.” You whispered to yourself, ripping another slice into your ribcage. After the water ran clear, you shut it off; Your mind was a fuzzy collision of seratonin fighting to break the barrier cells, and the depression fighting off your meds. You sniffled, wrapping your towel around your body and heading to your room. Fortunately for you, being on the fifth floor meant you got a whole floor of showers just for you today. There were only two other girls on this floor, Yaoyarozu and Asui, and they were in class. So were the boys, so you could be alone in the truest sense. The entire building was empty, save for Todoroki. He was probably in the lounge, you assumed so because his door was shut and there was no lights on when you passed by on your way to your own. The weight on your shoulders began to increase your symptoms, your feet getting heavier and heavier with each step.

As you entered your room you didn’t bother to turn the lights on; Your impending gloom liked to sulk in the darkness, letting it envelop you in a wicked, yet soft embrace. You let the towel fall off your body and tossed your bathing items on the ground, not caring how they made a mess. ‘Maybe some music will make me feel better.’ You think before chuckling a bit as the most depressing playlist you have started playing rather loudly through your speakers. You didn’t care though, you liked your kusic loud, and besides, there was two whole hours until training was over. Reluctantly, you slipped into a pair of boyshorts and your favorite camisole. It was teal, your favorite boy’s right eye color, and it helped you ease out of a full on panic attack for all but a moment when you realized you had forgotten there was a 300 point practice exam you had to turn in today as you tore through your backpack for your writing journal.

It was the last straw.

Frantically, you tore apart anything you could find. Notes, drawings, your pathetic drawings of your classmates, nothing was safe from the hyperventilating girl growling at her own procrastination. Once you saw your journal, you stopped, only to read the first page and begin to rip them all out. Tears streamed down your face as confessions to Shoto had begun to fill the pages. A few hit the pages, making you angrier. You kick and scream at your journal, throwing it as hard as you could at the back wall. But, with your luck, it smashed through the windowsill, glass shattering all over your carpeted floor.

“UUUUUUUUGRRRRRR!!! WHY DO I RUIN EVERYTHING I TOUCH!?” You scream out the window, at no one but yourself. You kick the rest of the glass off the frame, and tear the screen off before chucking it to the ground below. Your eyes fail to see the group of students arriving over the horizon on your left, focused on the space between you and the dirt the screen landed upon. Your heartbeat was loud, your ears ringing as you focused your attention on the edge of the windowsill, grabbing on the frame and slowly lifting a foot up on it. You were trembling, you could hear it in your breath, the music behind you setting you off.

Take me to the roof top.

I wanna see, the world when I stop...

breathing..... turning blue.

The saddening lyrics hit home, making you squeeze your eyes shut as you lifted yourself onto the ledge carefully. Your hands gripped the frame so tightly your knuckles turned white, your own body fighting for life more than your brain. You focused yourself on the words, singing lightly as you debated letting go, not hearing the panicked screams and cries from your classmates below.

Tell me love is endless.

Don’t be so pretentious.

They were panicking, collecting the torn pages of your journal and attempting to call you to your senses. You didn’t blame them, but they couldn’t help but plead and shout their own apologies for hurting you in any way.

They begged.

“Sorry cant save me now,” You sing, swaying forward, but jolting back a bit each time you got a little too close. “Sorry... I don’t know how—”

You were so sure, but your body refused to let you be so hasty.

————————————————

Taste me, the salty tears on my cheek

That’s what a year long headache

does to you....

The music echoed off the walls of hallway of your floor, the acoustics reverberated in the stairwell, and Todoroki pushed himself harder. He knew that playlist. He knew every time you played it, you were always crying in your room, refusing his help until he would bring you a very late dinner, which you would take silently, avoiding his gaze as he watched your tear stained face.

I’m not okay, I feel so scattered.

Don’t say I’m all that matters.

Leave... me.

Deja vu.

‘Please don’t be stupid.’ He thought to himself, yanking the door open, leaving Deku but a flight behind. (Iida and Uraraka decided to keep an eye on your from the outside.) He stormed down the hall, skidding as he got to your door before knocking.

“Hey, it’s Sh-Shoto.” He said, trying to talk over the music. “Open up, please.” You couldn’t hear him though, you had started screaming the lyrics with your entire chest.

Sorry can’t save me now

Sorry there’s no way out

but doooooown

Knocking became pounding, “(Y/N)! Open up, please!” He begged, beginning to overwork his emotions. He couldn’t handle losing you, not when he was just now recognizing his true feelings for you. His pounding turned into kicking, and attempts at knocking your door down with his body.

“Calllll my friends and tell them that I love them!” You screamed, now noticing the worried Ochako, “AND ILL MISS THEM.” Her protests were drowned out by approaching sirens. ‘Fuck,’ you thought. ‘I’ve only got a few seconds. It’s now or—’

Call my friends and tell them that I

love them.

“DETROIT SMAAAAAASHHH!” Izuku’s wail from the otherside of your door, and the loud CRASH! had you do a 180 on the ledge, gripping tightly as the impact made your entire door frame blow off, resulting in a gust of wind pushing you back. You blinked slowly as the dust settled and there he was.

“Sh-Shoto...” You whisper, the song reaching it’s last seconds.

And I’ll miss them. Sorry.

“(Y/N)...” He says.

Sorry...

“Don’t.” He warns as your fingers begin to lift off the edge.

“Sorry.” You sang the last note.

——————————————————————————

SUAOSHAOISHZHS I HAD TO DO IT IM SORRY I WAS LISTENING TO BILLIE EILISH WHILE I WAS ON MY FEELINGS AND I WAS LIKE OH WAIT THIS WOULD BE A GOOD ANGST💀💀💀💀💀

Let me know what you think, I’m sorry ahead of time if I made you cry.

[botwstoriesandsuch]

Where Time Takes Us

Destination - Part 2

- - - - - - - - - - 

The public opinion of the Royal Family had dwindled compared to previous years, though that wasn’t to say everyone was against them. In fact, the establishment of divine right and intervention was very much intact in the years prior, and most folk were supportive of the projects and developments that would supposedly protect the kingdom. However, there was a stemming internal conflict between the “solemn” princess and her would-be associates and advisors. Understand, for this time period, that faith towards leaders and figureheads was a combination of their apparent strength and confidence in their duty and labour, coupled with a bit of humanity and relatability. From first hand diary documents, we can already piece together that first half of that story. As for the latter, well...

They say the Princess hadn’t even once visited the Queen’s grave.

I think that’s when they started to lose hope.

— Excerpt from Clocks and Passages, Gerudo historian, Kemisie Patel, 14 years Pre-Awakening 

- - - - - - - - - - 

Her mother used to do her hair, before special ceremonies like these. 

Her father, well, he would always remind her of the importance of appearances, for royalty should always look dignified and strong. Even before she could walk, he would commission thousands of dresses. Tailors would customize the cloth to her every measure, with stitches etched with gold that only a king like him could afford. Then, when it was done, he would kiss her forehead and tell her she looked stunning. Stunning. The same word for every occasion. A stunning white dress. A stunning pair of boots. A stunning blue coat. For a party. A meeting. A ball. Every time, it was stunning, stunning, stunning. 

Yet her mother, she would always choose her words carefully. She would take her hand and sit her down on the bed. No matter what her dress or coat, or whatever pre-prepared style she was already in, her mother would smooth out the cloth on her back, and part the hair behind her neck. She would brush and brush and brush, then braid and braid and braid. The queen would talk of simple fairy tales, or of intriguing conversations she had that day, or of interesting new facts, or of new embarrassing anecdotes that would never cease to make her daughter laugh. The princess’ hair would transform from an elaborate mess of self-inflicted ribbons and tangles to a simple, yet elegant, crown braid.  

Then her mother would ask, “Do you like it?” and every time she would say yes. Of course she liked it, because her dear mother had done it, and no one else could do it better. No bun, or tie, or ribbon, or crown would compare to the touch of her mother’s fingers, weaving together her golden hair. The two of them would get up and look in the mirror. The princess’ outfit might change, but she was never surprised by her hair. Her mother would squeeze her shoulders, and rest her chin upon her head, her only concerning being the smile on her daughter’s face. Her mother would sing more words. Lovely, charming, enchanting, beguiling. Perhaps beautiful, magnificent, exquisite, or cute.

She wasn’t talking about the dress or the hair. Her words were meant for her daughter alone.

The queen would take her daughter’s hand and they would walk towards the door. Before the princess could take a step outside the room, her mother would squeeze her hand. Her sentence would start the same. “My little bird,” she would begin, her voice as sweet as honey. The queen would hold her daughter’s hand, and whisper to her little bird. Perhaps a joke to calm the nerves, or one last assurance before a ceremony. Sometimes the words were simple, and sometimes they were complex. Nonetheless, the princess would listen to her voice and smile, before finally stepping out the door. 

Her mother, she would do her hair, and sing, and speak, and whisper one last thing to her little bird, before watching the princess leave. Her mother, the Queen of Hyrule, would always speak of little things. 

And then she died.

And Zelda had long forgotten all the words. 

The princess stood in front of the mirror, watching the woman tend to her dress. Zelda didn’t bother to look at her reflection, it would be the same as any other time. A royal blue dress, atop a snow white blouse, and all lined with gold trim, so as to match her own golden hair. She had gotten over the initial beauty of the dress a long time ago. 

So instead, she looked out the window. The day had risen, its light passing through glass panes, dousing the princess’ room with its warm, yellow light. The outline of the window’s frame and design cast shadows onto the floor, capturing Zelda’s shadow in a web of thin lines. 

Outside, the view was as it was yesterday: the aged grey walls of the castle exterior, pressed against a beautiful horizon of grassy fields and weathered silver peaks. From where she stood, the window was less of a view, and more of a small painting, a tiny portal of the world affixed to a sorry stack of stone bricks. With the way the sunlight hit the glass pane, the shapes of Hyrule faded into simple colors, blurred by the walls of the bedroom and her own reflection staring back at her. 

There was the Princess of Hyrule, right where she belonged.

Her emerald eyes gazed back at her. They were tired.

Suddenly, the woman finished working on something at the hem of Zelda’s dress. She stood and patted her shoulder with a smile. 

“All done, Your Highness. You look stunning!”

Zelda turned to look at her through the mirror. She put on a smile and said, “Thank you, Evelyn.” The princess stepped away, walking around the room. 

The woman gave a little curtsy. “Can I do anything else for you while I’m here, miss?”

Zelda started to sit on her bed, resting her legs after an hour or so of standing. She shook her head.

“It’s alright, thank you. You may go.” She gave one last soft smile, for assurances. The tailor, Evelyn, gave a curtsey, and started to pack up her sewing kit, humming to herself. 

Zelda turned to the nightstand beside her bed. It was a clutter of papers, notes, and ink, although it was nothing compared to her desk on the other end of the room. Brushing them into a neat pile, the princess opened the drawer under it. 

It held two things. One was a soft, velvet pillow, holding a golden diadem, woven like vines. The detailed indentations in the metal were crafted with care and precision, and the perfectly symmetrical gold bands wove towards the front, where it cradled three ruby gemstones. The diadem was meant to be an elegant headpiece, displaying the grace and power of the Hyrulean Family.

The second thing in the drawer was a stuffed horse. 

Mr. Roberts was flopped on his side, his crudely made glasses askew on his snout. The horse was fluffy, a solid tan brown, with white socks and a pink nose. The yarn that made his flowing, blond mane was splayed out against the plain oak wood of the drawer. 

Zelda propped him up, fixing his glasses, before patting him on his head. Mr. Roberts, afterall, was a respected keeper of the quills, who was paid with nightly cuddles. He had been in his position for nearly 16 years, a life-time partner with the princess herself. This was why he had the honor of being kept by the nightstand whenever visitors came, instead of shoved hurriedly under the bed, like all her other stuffed animals.

Her smile came and went like a breeze. Zelda sighed. She patted Mr. Roberts once more, then pushed him a bit further to the back of the drawer. The princess then took out the diadem, placing it snuggly on her head to push back her golden locks. 

No braids today, as was father’s request.

At the thought of this, Zelda got to her feet. 

He only said 20 minutes, right?

Let’s see… the guardian is just in the courtyard downstairs. Later, I could probably use the Champions as an excuse… they’ve been here a few hours, maybe? The ceremony is just a bit past noon… and if I use the stairs unconventionally...

Zelda’s eyes lit up for the first time all morning. Still standing by her bed, she cleared her throat and spoke swifty. 

“Actually, Evelyn? Sorry, but there is one more thing.” As she spoke, she started to walk across the room towards her desk, about to begin a daring search amongst the avalanche of papers, books, fancy pens, and quills.

The woman had just about finished up packing her needles, fabric, and other tools into her small kit. She held it in one hand as she tilted her head curiously at the princess. 

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“If you see my father, or anyone else due to the Champion Ceremony, just pass along a reminder that I’m not coming to the rehearsal beforehand.”

“Of course.” Evelyn observed the princess continue to hopelessly tumble through the mess of papers and books on her desk. “A busy day for you, miss?”

“Of sorts...”

Finally, she found it. Feeling the familiar brush of old leather at her fingertips, Zelda pulled out one of her journals from the wreckage of notes and ink. She really needed to find a better way to organize these things. Flipping through the pages, she found that this was indeed research journal number 27, with half of the pages still blank and ripe for the writing. 

She turned to the tailor once more, clutching the journal to her chest. “If my father asks anymore questions about my whereabouts, just tell him I was delivering the Champion’s gifts myself. Otherwise, you can be sure I’ll still be at the sanctum at least 20 minutes early, just as he asked!” 

The tailor hesitantly started the motion of a nod in agreement, but the princess didn’t stick around to see it finish. Zelda gave Evelyn an honest smile, before rushing out the door. The woman was left there, scratching the back of her head in concern. 

Pushing open the double doors, the princess started to run through the hallway. Well, it was more of a half run, half walk. A jog if you will. It was difficult enough to walk around in heels, much less sprint across the carpet floor. 

Curses, I should have brought a change of boots. 

Zelda continued her journey through the corridors, hastily passing by the guards who wore slightly confused expressions under their thick helms. 

Even though Zelda had left her room in a rush, as soon as she saw the drifting shadows of other Hylians at the end of the hallway, she slowed her pace. Guards were one thing, but other influential people, who might not know how to hold their tongue, was another. Turning the corner, she allowed the voice of her father and other nobility from her life to amplify.

Keep your head high. Don’t slouch. Look straight ahead. Don’t adjust your hair. Don’t attend to an itch. Don’t run. Hands folded, not crossed. Stride and be dignified. Look straight ahead. Look straight ahead. 

She looked at their faces, walking through the hallway, she couldn’t help but notice the sudden quieting volume as people turned to look at her. Zelda didn’t know exactly who they were. Sons, daughters, brothers, or mothers of some nobles serving her father? It didn’t matter, she could already feel the pit in her stomach telling her that they saw right through her. 

This specific corridor was basked in light, with open archways allowing the sunlight to drip through, and cast soft shadows onto the opposing wall. It was a small group of people, their clothing varying from large, simple gowns to sleek, suave coats. From the looks of it, they were just chatting amongst themselves as they enjoyed the morning breeze. 

At least, they had been chatting, but now those conversations were reduced to faint whispers amongst a fragile silence. 

Look straight ahead. Focus. Look straight ahead. Focus. Just...move forward.

Zelda began to walk calmly through the corridor, the noblemen and women giving curt bows and curtseys before turning back to their companions. Some continued to stare at her with blank, neutral faces, their expressions giving no indication of their emotions or opinions, which only fed Zelda’s growing anxiety. 

Look straight ahead. Pay no mind. Look ahead.

The princess continued to walk. Her destination was so close, but the muttering and whispers seemed to tangle and trip her thoughts, making the journey towards the end of the hall seem like an eternity. It was as if the moment Zelda passed by them, these people took it as their cue to continue their not-so-silent conversations.

“...yeah, that’s the…...too young for…...but sixteen is a long time…”

“...spends all day with those…...His Majesty doesn’t like that…...no powers….”

“...can’t even do…..her duty…..a shame...”

Zelda took a deep breath, trying to drown out the whispers. Look ahead. Focus. Look ahead. Focus.

She snuck a quick glance at a man with curly brown hair, he seemed to tower above her when she passed him by. He cocked an eyebrow, before turning back to his partner.

Ahead. Focus. Ahead. Posture. Dignified. Strong...

“...expects us to…...and respect…...what throne will she even…”

“...inherits…...downfall…...nothing…” 

“..…..she doesn’t even….so spoiled…”

“...running away…...even from simple things…”

They were just words. Simple words. Little words. Forget it forget it forget it.

Zelda finally reached the end and turned the corner, practically sprinting towards the staircase once she was alone. She didn’t even care if they could hear her echoing footsteps, she just didn’t want to be close enough to hear any laughter.

The princess pushed open a wooden door, leading her to the stairwell. Hearing it close behind her, Zelda finally allowed herself to breathe. Her shaky breaths slowly returning to normal with each passing moment. 

Alone at the top of a stairwell, the princess’ short breaths echoed, and over time, they finally melded into a final, deep sigh. 

“And…” Zelda clasped her hands together taking in the room, “...we’re good.”

Regaining her composure, Zelda looked down through the spiral staircase. The carefully chiseled stone walls housed intricate designs, but the railing of the stairwell was thick and smooth.

It was perfect for… “being punctual.”

An unconscious smile made its way onto Zelda’s lips, as she propped herself up onto the railing. Then, clutching the excess of her dress in her fist, the princess allowed her momentum to fall to the side, as she slid down the spiral staircase. 

The faintest sound of a laugh escaped her, even though she tried to hold her tongue. The last time she did this, a guard had heard her and berated the princess for doing something so reckless. Her father would later agree, bringing up the fact that doing such an act had caused dust and grime to accumulate on the “not so pleasant area” of her dress.

Holy Hylia, just say “butt,” Father. 

Yet by that point, she had become too addicted to the childlike amusement and wonder that filled her. So here she was, a few years later after that incident, doing one of the few disobedient things in her life. It was thrilling in some sense, yet on the other hand… a bit pathetic. However in those precious, precious few moments, the princess didn’t really care. 

A couple dozen steps later, Zelda’s feet landed in front of the door of paradise. It was her paradise, anyhow. The wooden door had a glass pane window, housing three golden triangles that cast splashes of color onto the stone floor as the sunlight drizzled through. 

Quickly attempting to brush off any dust on her dress, Zelda took another breath and walked out into her world. 

It was noisy, and chaotic, and bustling, and wonderful. The playful breeze seemed to be tugging her towards the scene.

She finally let her smile show.  

The bright blue sky was pierced with metal and wood, the thin brown lines of scaffolding, ladders, and ropes held Guardians and other Sheikah technology in the air. There were glows of orange and blue, blurs of grey and silver, and of course the dazzle of a familiar Sheikah red eye, painted on some of the hanging banners and on the clothing of various Sheikah. 

Someone must have been burning coal again, the scent of smoke whirling  towards Zelda. As the princess started walking around, she looked around, admiring the progress that the workers were making.

There was a strange charge in the air, something that mixed the feelings of lightning and excitement, and the feeling wasn’t just from her. Bustling by her, men and women alike rushed passed with beaming faces, arms full of paper and ink. 

No one was whispering or standing still—serenity and silence were in the realm of myth. The air echoed with the whirr of machinery, and the occasional shouts of conversation between Sheikah kneeling under Guardians and atop the tallest scaffolding. Zelda saw how nonchalantly one man lay next to a Guardian head, seemingly ignorant to the fact that it could vaporize him at any second. She would have judged him for his recklessness, before the thought came to her that she had probably done the exact same thing several times. She snorted to herself. 

Suddenly, a girl with white hair bumped into the princess’ shoulder, causing her to drop her journal. The Sheikah girl and Zelda started to exchange apologies, but not before the girl hastily grabbed onto her box of screws and metal scrapes, the contents a few half-seconds away from spilling onto the grass. Luckily, her reflexes avoided such a fate, and the girl let out a sigh of relief. 

“Apologies, Princess.” The Sheikah girl attempted to give a little curtsey, but was more concerned with the well being of her materials than the quality of her manners. 

“It’s alright, I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have stood in the middle of the path, should I?” Zelda gestured to the other scurrying Sheikah around them, before moving off to the side.

“Well, nonetheless, Your Highness, it didn’t help on my end to have my vision be impaired.” The girl used a free hand to readjust her grip on the stack of supplies that piled up past her nose. 

Zelda let out an easy smile. Picking up her journal from the ground, Zelda took this opportunity to get some info without bothering any of the other busy researchers. 

“Do you happen to know where they relocated that Skywatcher Guardian? The one Robbie was working on?”

“Ah right, Dr. Robbie’s latest monstrosity... The one that collapsed last night, correct? It’s by the Southeast—no wait, Southwest Waterfall. For safety reasons, I believe.” With one free hand, she made an explosion gesture with her fingers

“Kaboom!”

Zelda shook her head with a chuckle. “It’s not gonna blow up. We haven’t even installed the propellor motors, much less the power core.”

The girl raised an eyebrow, before turning back around to continue to her destination. “Oh? Well tell that to the guards.”

“What? Did someone work on it?”

The Sheikah shrugged. “I don’t know, I was working my other job in Castle Town. All I know is that the workload for the Skywatcher thing has been greatly lifted. Supposedly someone was able to give it a new surge of power. So the typical guards have been assigned, you know, to keep the potential fires in check and all that…”

Another heave of her box of supplies, and the girl started back on her path.

“Be seeing ya, Princess!” said the Sheikah girl. As she walked, she started humming some faintly familiar tavern tune. 

Zelda thought to herself, gears turning in her head, as she truly started getting into a ‘researcher’s mindset,’ as her father had called it.

What did she say? Southwest Waterfall? Well, no better place to prevent fires and explosions.

With new vigor, Princess Zelda walked deeper into the realm of ancient metal.

A blur of gold and blue made its way through the courtyards. Occasionally, a wandering Sheikah would turn and greet the princess, but for the most part, they would leave the girl to her devices, literally and figuratively, as they were used to Her Highness tinkering away at the various machinery. It wasn’t like any of them cared, so long as nothing got in the way of their own work. 

In a sense, it was this very mindset that truly made Zelda feel at ease. There was no beating around a sacred bush, no dance or choreography to learn, no rules to conversation, or guidelines for the way to blink. The Sheikah here just...were. They did their jobs, worked towards their task, and would generally just act like normal people. 

Of course, on occasion when Zelda stopped to ask a question, their tones would change from casual to professional. A simple question like, “Is everything running smoothly?” would get responses that typically ended with, “But of course, Your Highness,” accompanied by a deep and humble bow. However, the exhausting formalities were more an issue of Sheikah attempting not to embarrass themselves, rather than something along the lines of them sucking up, or wearing a polite mask just to whisper behind her back. It was this breath of fresh air that would make the princess forever grateful for their company. 

Eventually, Zelda made her way to the Skywatcher Guardian. It was easy enough to identify, given that it was a lot more...intact than usual. 

Above, a sparkling waterfall rushed against stone walls, before it crashed into a large lake, where the water stilled, shimmering quietly. Surrounding the waterfall, the courtyard's green grass melded with a brick path, atop which different types of Guardians stood. Large, rotating Sentries; clambering, scurrying Stalkers; and, most notable, a single Skywatcher, laid out on its side beside the pond. 

These types were still new. Robbie supposedly only got it to fly for an hour before its power began to dwindle. Yet now, the Skywatcher was humming with life. Even laid on its side, with the propellers detached, the Guardian’s head swiveled in search of an absent enemy. 

It was incredible really. Just last night, it was a heap of metal and screws. Compared to then, the Guardian was not only repaired, but its functionality was restored beyond that of which Zelda and Robbie had left it. 

That’s funny...that nobleman wouldn’t stop talking my ears off about how his son got a bruise when the Guardian collapsed into bits and pieces.

She shook her head, cringing at the memory of having to apologize to someone after their kid broke one of the machines essential to the protection of Hyrule. 

But, at least you’re all good now. Zelda thought to herself, moving to pat the Skywatcher’s hull with a smile. Oh, you’re a beautiful one, huh? Look at all your glowing lights and chiseled design! And is that a new lens I see? Oooo and your propellers here are all polished! Wouldn’t want grime and gunk in the gears, would you? No, no you wouldn’t... You sure are a fancy little guy aren’t y—

“...Your Highness?”

Zelda jumped, her mind snapping back to reality. Whipping around, she turned to face a Hylian guard, her helm tucked under one arm. She was stoically holding a spear, but the look on her face was of thinly veiled confusion. 

The princess cleared her throat, slightly sheepish. “Yes? What is it?” 

The guard shifted her weight, her blonde braid falling to the side. “Well…I’ve been ordered to keep unauthorized people from touching the Guardians. We haven’t had an explosion yet, here in the Activation Zone, and I’m sure we would all like to keep it that way—”

The princess quickly held up a hand, irritation starting to form in place of the embarrassment she felt moments ago. “Wait, are you saying I’m an unauthorized person?”

“Your father said....especially and specifically for today…”

Ah. Right… Of course he would say that.

Zelda finally sighed, compliant. “Alright, I understand. Thank you. But could you tell me why exactly this one was moved here to Activation?” She took out her journal, beginning to jot down observations and notes on the Skywatcher. “Just last night, I had people complain to me for hours about its collapse, and now all of the sudden it's already being actively tested? What happened to the ‘only authorized people’ rule?”

The guard suddenly looked away, not that Zelda noticed. “Uhhh...it was worked on sometime last night and super early morning.” She played with her blonde braid, brushing it against her metal gauntlet. “That Dr. Kimura? Sh—HE was one of the head scientist guys, so it was under jurisdiction.” 

Zelda nodded her head in understanding, still jotting away at the paper. Then, the princess suddenly closed her journal with a snap, clutching it to her chest. She moved a bit closer to the Guardian, angling herself to be just in front of the opening at its top, where all the mechanism and components lie.

Then, she bent her legs and started jumping up and down.

The guard’s face was full of concern and confusion. “Um...Princess…?” 

“I’m not touching it! I’m just—” her eyes started to widened, as she got a better peak inside, “Ooo, that’s a new feature, what kind of properties does—” But the guard couldn’t quite hear the rest of her sentence, given that it was continuously cut off with each hop she took.

Zelda finally finished jumping, although it was from her curiosity being satisfied, and not from the guard’s efforts to stop her. The princess started again to write down notes in her journal. 

“A giant ancient core! I didn’t know we had unearthed more of those. It does transfer the needed energy to the propellers faster than a standard core.” She continued hurriedly scratching away at the pages of her journal. “Smart! I honestly should have thought of it sooner. I’ll have to thank Robbie later.”

“Right…”

For the better part of an hour, Zelda continued to sit by the lake and continue her research. As irritating as it was to not be allowed to touch things, Zelda was content with the opportunity to focus on writing down her theories and thoughts. Personally, she’d have preferred some music, but, well...he wasn’t here right now. Probably off trying to keep Robbie and Purah from wreaking too much havoc. 

Music aside, the princess was still much at comfort, here beside the looming Skywatcher. The rushing of the waterfall, the ambience of distant conversation, and the patter of Sheikah metal, it all culminated in a setting that made her feel right at home. Despite the entirety of the castle technically being hers, the feeling was actually something that couldn’t come often enough…

But, like seemingly every enjoyable thing in her life, it ended far too soon. 

Behind her, the guard suddenly moved closer to lean down. “Your Highness.”

“Mmm?” Zelda didn’t bother to look up at her, still flipping through her pages. 

“You...have a guest.”

Zelda scoffed to herself, already forming a prediction of who it might be as she got on her feet. 

Father said twenty minutes early. The ceremony doesn’t start for another 38, I’m fine. If I could just show him my progress here so far, then he’ll have to—

As the princess turned to face the person in question, the words she was about to let out of her mouth suddenly caught in her throat. 

Oh.

He wasn’t actually looking at her at that moment. His eyes were distant, caught up with the view of the Sanctum at the apex of the castle. His blue eyes were bright and cold, while his stupidly perfect blond hair flowed with the New Year's wind. Winter hadn’t hadn’t yet fully surrendered to the Spring, but the air was still crisp enough to warrant her to wear the long sleeve dress. Yet, the boy stood with nothing but his leather boots, pants, and a beige and grey tunic. The fact that he never shivered was just another infuriatingly perfect thing about him.

That, and the fact that he seemed to take every waking moment to show off that sword, an imposing reminder that he was better than her in every way. 

Zelda cleared her throat, getting his attention. “What can I do for you, knight?” She said the last word with a tone equal to that of how one might talk to the squished remains of a spider. 

The boy turned to face her, the tips of his ears slightly pink. He put up his hands in front of his chest, the sword on his back shifting with the movement. The boy gave a look towards the princess, as if asking for permission.

Ah, right. No words…

The princess couldn’t quite understand it. Five years ago, when a twelve year old Link had first found the sword, he spoke with ease. No oath of silence had stopped him from chatting it up with her and her father. He was awfully loud, especially when exclaiming to his father, Captain Leon of the royal guard, his excitement about the “cool sword” he found. In those days, Link would pester her, about the epic battle they were fated to, about the legends and Beasts and prophecy. And it was his excitement and determination that had earned her the reputation. 

The lazy one. The distracted one. The powerless one, doomed to a throne of nothing. The perfect knight, and the failing heir. The gleeful boy and the silent princess.

Well, at least she wasn’t the silent one anymore.

So now those five years had passed, they had barely spoken since those days. Of course, that boy, the wielder of the Sword That Seals The Darkness, of course he would find a way to ruin her day even without opening his mouth. Finally, Zelda let out a huff, acknowledging Link. 

“Hylian Sign… yes, well. I’m a bit rusty, but so long as you don’t start telling me your entire life story I should be fine. Go on.” 

He nodded, his expression painfully neutral. The knight began to move his hands, bending his fingers in different motions.

‘Your father asked me to look after you, before the ceremony began. Then I could escort you there. Practice for next week when I actually…’ he paused, thinking of his next gesture, ‘when I actually start accompanying you.”’

The princess couldn’t hide her scoff. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way to the Sanctum, thank you very much.” She crossed her arms. “You can head there on your own, and tell the king that I’m fine. Frankly, I’m trying to enjoy my last few days of personal space.” 

Zelda started the motion of spinning around and sitting back on the ground, but out of the corner of her eye she caught Link moving his hands once again. 

‘I can wait here, until you’re finished, if you wish.’

She sighed, shaking her head. The princess gave a sort of halfhearted nod, as if to say “Fine, do whatever you want.” Although her distaste for the situation was made clear, given she sat back on the ground in a loud and stern demeanour. 

Zelda started flipping through her journal again, trying to find where she left off. Yet, she hadn’t been writing for a full minute before she could feel it. She could feel him looking at her.

The guard was one thing, she was doing her job, and if they had something to say they would speak their mind at the princess’ command. Link, on the other hand, his stare was different. It was more similar to something like the stare she had felt in the corridor that day, although ten times worse given his eyes were guaranteed to be stoic and neutral.

Zelda wouldn’t stare him back, instead, she looked at the reflection of the lake. The water rippled slightly, the waterfall crashing in the distance. She could see the reflection of Link standing tall, and looking in the direction she was sitting. In the water, she could see his eyes. His gaze didn’t see her in the water, but the look was enough to get Zelda’s mind turning. 

He thinks I’m pathetic. 

Granted, he wouldn’t be the first. 

Link had taken off his sword, propping it on the ground, sheath and all, as a sort of armrest. He set his elbows on the handle and continued to wait and watch. It was like some parent watching their toddler, making sure they didn’t hurt themselves. He probably thinks I’m a brat, how rich...

Although, Zelda was slightly hesitant at this theory, given that the way he was looking at her direction was so… soft. More warm than his typically glassy gaze.

Ah...

Pity. 

Zelda laughed to herself. He pities the poor princess, the stupid girl who can’t figure out her destiny. The pathetic heir wasting her time with Guardians. 

It all came so easy for him, it took him no time at all. What am I to him, some strange anomaly? An injured calf in the field? His destiny is held back by my struggles, and now he pities me for it. I’d like to see how he would act if he felt as useless as I.

Zelda continued to furiously scribble in her journal, but her thoughts continued to flow, one after another.  

He doesn’t just pity me.

He hates me.

But on the bright side, the feelings he has for me are mutual. 

Barely a minute passed, before the anxiety in Zelda’s head grew too much to bear. Was this really going to happen everyday now?

Finally, she let out a groan. In one swift motion she got to her feet, snapped her journal shut, and started marching towards the nearest entrance. Passing Link, she mumbled under her breath something slightly graphic concerning Guardians, skewers, and eyes. 

Her mutters continued as she trudged towards the castle interior. She was about halfway there when she realized the only footsteps she heard were her own. Zelda turned around, finding that Link was still where he was moments ago, standing timidly, his stance hesitant to move. 

“Well, are you coming?”

Link scratched the back of his head, then blinked. He picked up his sword, slung it back around him, and started to jog towards her. He was like a puppy, bounding up to their owner, only the analogy truly merged with reality given that Link seemed to be the type to only move when following orders. Spirits above, this was gonna be annoying. Zelda let out another sigh. 

The two of them made their way back inside the castle. Weaving through the hallways, Zelda led the two of them up closer and closer to their destination. However, Link seemed to prefer walking five steps behind her. She tried to busy her hands, smoothing out her hair and her dress, but she couldn’t shake the swarm of thoughts in her head every time she saw the edge of Link’s shadow behind her. 

Suddenly, Zelda stopped in the middle of the hall, speaking bluntly. 

“If you’re really trying to live up to the knightly protection schtick, at the very least walk next to me so I don’t feel as creeped out.”  

The knight blinked, then gave a nod. Once again, no reaction whatsoever. He awkwardly shuffled beside her, still with some distance between then, so that they stood at opposite ends of the width of the hall. 

Zelda slumped her shoulders, but was ultimately satisfied with the situation. She continued down the hallways.

Minutes passed, then moments, then eternities. The end of each corridor couldn’t come fast enough. Although she had purposely chosen the route that ran into as little people as possible, there was a weird charge in the air given the dense silence between them.

Occasionally, she would mention something out of politeness, the typical dance of conversation. “How was your day?” and “The weather’s been weird,” and all that garbage. It didn’t help that he wasn’t much for conversation. The most he contributed to the conversation was asking why they were taking this route, as it wasn’t the quickest way to the Sanctum. Zelda gave him a blunt answer, as if to give him his own medicine, “I have an errand beforehand.”

More minutes passed, then moments, then centuries. Zelda continued to fidget with the edge of her sleeve, while Link continued his perfect silence. 

The princess snuck a glance in his direction. He walked with purpose, matching her speed, but not daring to lead the way. He was watching the cycle of his steps on the floor. His face… his eyes.... It wasn't boredom. It wasn’t tiredness. He was just, blank.

She could still remember that young boy, excitedly asking her about the powers of Hylia, and glowing swords. Had he really grown out of that so quickly? Had he already managed to push down his childish ways for the sake of his duty?

Next to him, Zelda was an utter failure.

“Let me ask you something, hero. What are they going to remember you by?”

The words escaped her before she could register the noise, and the sudden sound made the boy’s posture stiffen in an instant. Link tilted his head askew in a quizzical nature.

“Me, I’ve worked my entire life to try to be something worthwhile. Today alone, I’ve worked to make my research impactful and worthwhile. I’ve had my speech for the Champion’s ceremony handcrafted to portray a desired image. My father had my dress tailor-made to something he approved of, and I work every damn day to live up to the role as the wielder of the Sealing power.”

She let out a sad sigh. “Even if it isn’t exactly the positive legacy I wanted, there is still something that people know me for.

“The solemn heir. The tired princess. Don’t you agree?”

Zelda looked at his face, trying to see some sort of reaction in his eyes.

Nothing.

She pushed further. 

“Would you like another example? Well, everyone knows this tale. A young knight wanders into the woods, woods that sap your spirit and carry corpses into creeks. But instead of a fate of death, the boy found his fate in a sword, ‘for his heart was too pure to yield to the forces of evil.’ Sound about right?”

He didn’t react. The rate in which they walked slowed just barely. 

“But that is just the start. The fairytale, if you will. Now, the knight becomes a truly talented and masterful swordsman. The image he gives off is of perfection and grace.”  She waved her hand in an exaggerated manner. “Supposedly, that would be the end of it. That’s all we need to know.”

Then, Zelda stopped in the corridor, looking out one of the stained glass windows. 

“Yet once—” she chuckled, although the laugh didn’t meet her eyes, “Once upon a time, I met a boy. He liked swords and chocolate, horses and fruit. He liked the woods, and talking, and dogs, and stories. I know because one day he and I talked, just the two of us. It was nice, but he told me something strange.”

She turned to face Link directly. “He told me he was confused. He told me he didn’t understand some of the new changes in his life. He told me he was...something along the lines of nervous.

“I told him I felt the same, for you see, the person in my life who was supposed to guide me, they were gone. This boy and I, we were in the same boat, which didn’t often happen in my life.”

She stepped closer to him, her shadows growing along the opposite wall. “I told him that if I ever found out how to stop being confused, how to figure out everything, I would tell him. And he told me the same.

“But then that boy vanished, and instead I met a knight. The perfect, dashing knight from the fairy tales…”

Zelda was less than a foot away from him now, looking at his eyes. 

“...and I never spoke to that boy again. Although in a sense, I’m glad. I never found the answer he was looking for.” As she said this, she looked away, breaking her gaze.

The princess looked out the window again, while the hero continued to stare at her, unmoving. After a moment, she spoke again. 

“So I ask, how should I remember you then? Who are you going to be, the knight, or the boy? I’d like to at least know that before you once again start shoving your way into my life.”

A pause, a tension in the air that could form storms, but for now it was as still as the surface of a pond. Both of them waited for an answer to appear. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head. 

Finally, he raised his arms, meeting her eyes with a strange new light. 

‘I plan to be whatever is needed of me.’

Another silence, but more fragile than the last. Finally, the thoughts in her head crashed together like the end of a waterfall. Zelda let out a deep sigh, before storming off down the rest of the hallway. 

Perfect answer from the perfect hero. What else did I expect?

Still storming off, Zelda’s thoughts fluttered through her head. No, not just thoughts. Words. They echoed and bounced around in her head. Her words, her father’s, Link’s...words? Expressions? What do you even call them—

In her haste, Zelda nearly bumped into a large, basil green Zora. He looked down at her, puzzled, while she mumbled out apologies. 

Moving past him, Zelda took in the room around her.

They had reached the main hall. 

It was draped with velvet and gold, along with bright blue banners, and stained glass ceilings. More decorated that usual given today’s events. Unlike in times past, different races other than Hylians bustled across the floor. Sheikah, Rito, Zora, Gorons, Gerudo, they moved with purpose, and intent. They all knew where they were going, and where everyone else was going, up, up to the Sanctum. 

Behind her, Link finally caught up. Zelda slumped her shoulders, but was ultimately glad she wouldn’t have to chase him down later. She eyed one of the ornate doors beside one of the windows, before gesturing to Link with a hand. “Well, come on then. Let’s go meet the others.”

The Sanctum is just upstairs, I’ve got 30 minutes, so 10 minutes to talk with the rest of the Champions. We’re good, we’re good...I don’t need to pay the people here any mind...

The figure of Link out of the corner of her eye pierced through her thoughts. Seeing the raised eyebrow on Link’s face as they walked, Zelda spoke in a lowly tone. 

“Whatever your stance on knights and stories are, the rest of the world prefers the fairytales. They want links between the storybooks and reality, some symbol of perfection to ease their minds, to tell them that it won’t all end in failure. So come.”

Zelda paused, turning to face him directly. She looked up and down at Link’s outfit, a typical beige and grey knight’s tunic, with dark pants and boots. Then, she continued towards her destination with new vigor.

“There is something I need to give you all.”

[missmentelle]

Tips for following and managing deadlines in college and as an adult? I didn’t realize adulthood requires so much paperwork

Adulthood does require a lot of paperwork (as does my specific job), and I have also sometimes struggled to keep up with it at times! I have ADHD that I manage without medication, and that has required me to come up with a lot of creative strategies for managing deadlines and responsibilities. If you’re struggling, I recommend:

Use the technology that’s available. There are a lot of apps and programs out there to help you keep track of things, and many of them are free. Ideally, look for apps that you can sync across multiple devices. I personally relied on Google Calendar to get me through graduate school - you can enter deadlines and tasks, and set up reminders for yourself to jog your memory. It also gives you a visual look at your schedule, so you can see where you have space to slot extra tasks into your day. In addition to Google Calendar, I recommend checking out Any.Do, Habitica, Bear, EverNote, and 24Me. You can also use the built-in reminder app on your phone, and if remembering to jot things down is a struggle for you, iPhone users can verbally tell Siri to set a reminder for them - I use this function of Siri several times per day. There is no shame in being dependent on technology to manage your life; there are great programs out there, and it’s okay to use the tools that are available. It doesn’t matter which app you choose, or how many apps you choose - it’s about finding a system that works for you.

Try bullet journalling or using an organizer. If technology just doesn’t work for you, you can also try using pen-and-paper methods to keep your life on track. You can find pre-made organizers and agendas at any bookstore, complete with calendars, to-do lists and daily agendas. If you want more control over format, you can also look into starting a bullet journal. It may take a while to set up your bullet journal and get the hang of using it, but when you’re done, you have a fully customized organizational system that can help you track whatever needs tracking in your life. I personally use a bullet journal, and I find it immensely helpful. 

Invest in a filing cabinet. Shoving important documents into random drawers and cupboards is an excellent way to not be able to find those documents when you need them. Invest in a small filing cabinet, and take an afternoon to sort and label your important papers. All your essential ID documents, school paperwork, financial paperwork, etc, should be properly sorted and labelled so that you know exactly what documents are where. The time that you spend creating and setting up this system will save you a lot of panicked hours digging through random piles of paperwork you shoved into a drawer in the future. 

Automate whatever tasks you can. If your bill payments can be automated, do it. If you have products that you regularly use, set up an automatic order of them on Amazon. If you’re going on vacation and don’t want to waste hours emailing everyone to let them know, set up an automatic reply that lets people know when you’ll be back. If it can be automated, automate it. The best way to keep track of deadlines is to minimize the number of deadlines you need to keep track of. You’ll save yourself a lot of time and stress.

Write everything down. The easiest way to miss a deadline is to forget to write it down. Never assume that you are going to remember something just because you promised yourself you would. If you have something you need to remember, jot it down, enter it into whatever organizational tool you are using, and make sure you set a reminder. Seeing all your tasks written out can help you figure out which deadlines are coming up first, and plan your time accordingly.

Do chores on a schedule. Trying to wing your deadlines and household chores is a really awesome way to find yourself frantically doing laundry at 2 in the morning because you have a big presentation in the morning and you’re totally out of clean clothes. Figure out a regular weekly schedule for your chores, and enter them into your calendar. Not only will this help you visualize how much time your chores take up every week, but doing chores regularly saves you a lot of time and energy - it’s much better to spend 10 minutes per week wiping down the shower stall, rather than spending 3 hours trying sandblast a month’s worth of soap scum off the tub.

Break large projects down into small, manageable chunks. Let’s say you have a huge term paper due three months from now at the end of the semester. Your grades and sanity both depend on you not waiting until the last minute to write that paper. But when you think about how much work needs to be done to write that paper - thinking of a topic, researching, outlining, writing, proofreading, citing, formatting, etc - it’s easy to get completely overwhelmed, and procrastinate working on the paper until the 11th hour. Instead of having an all-out, last-minute panic, start by breaking large projects down into tasks that don’t seem so daunting. If you need to write a 20-page paper with at least 10 cited sources, start by giving yourself 2 weeks to find 5 good sources to cite. Then in the next two weeks, find 5 more sources to cite. Then in the two weeks after that, write the outline. You get the picture. When tasks are broken down, it becomes a lot less overwhelming to do them, and you make much better progress. 

Learn to prioritize. There are two things you need to think about when you’re trying to prioritize a task - how urgent it is, and how important it is. An urgent task is one that has to be done soon; an important task is one that has a very important outcome for you. All the tasks in your life fall somewhere on the urgent-important spectrum. If tax deadline is in three days and you haven’t filed yet, filing your taxes is both urgent and important. Taking the garbage out when the can is full is urgent, but not important - nothing in your life will go terribly wrong if you don’t do it. If you want to be a writer someday, working on your writing is important, but not urgent - there’s no deadline, but your life will be hugely negatively impacted if you don’t do it. In general, when you’re prioritizing, tasks should be done in the following order: important + urgent > urgent but not important > important but not urgent > neither important nor urgent. Sometimes, prioritizing means letting things slide if they aren’t worth the time and effort to do them. When you’re a student, this often means taking a hard look at how important something is. If you have a pop quiz tomorrow that’s worth 2% of your grade, and a midterm in two days worth 25% that you are completely unprepared for, your best bet is to take a quick skim of your pop quiz notes and spend the bulk of your time studying for the midterm, even if it means getting a mediocre grade on the quiz.

Overestimate how much time you’ll need to complete a project. How much time do you think it’s going to take you to finish that homework assignment that’s due next week? Think about all the contingencies - assume that you get stuck a couple times and have to scour the internet for answers, or call up your friend who took the class last semester. Maybe you estimate that the assignment should take 4 hours total to complete. Perfect - now schedule yourself 6-8 hours to actually get it done. People tend to dramatically overestimate their own efficiency, and underestimate the time it takes them to actually finish important tasks. If you don’t want to be scrambling all the time, the best thing you can do is intentionally overestimate how much time you need. 

Do a regular “life audit”. Every 1-2 weeks, block out some time to sit down and take stock of everything that’s going on in your life. How did the previous week go? Did you get everything done that you needed to? Is there anything you need to catch up on? What are the things that are coming up in your life? What needs to get done this week?  Are you making progress toward your goals? How’s the household chore situation? What do you need to prioritize for the week ahead? Is there anything that you’re wasting too much time on? Are there any papers or files that you need to put away in your filing cabinet before they get lost? Checking in with yourself regularly gives you a chance to catch small issues before they can snowball into enormous problems. 

Staying on top of deadlines is a skill, and it’s easy to mess up every now and then. We all do it. The key is to keep trying, and to keep striving for improvement. 

Best of luck to you!