#might have made myself sweat while drawing this

[myfandomincolor]

I know we're loving putting Astarion in Neil Newbon's flawless McQueen fit from the BAFTA Games Awards

But can I offer you Halsin in a tuxedo with the bear paw cufflinks à la Dave Jones' black tie ensemble?

tap/click and get that good quality!

[buckysegan]

With all my gratitude, hope and returned adoration - Part Two

Summary: John writes back to his friend from home and we hear from our friend across the way. John x She. Word Count: 1.2k. A/N: we are def rolling with some historical inaccuracies in regards to letters here but sue me. he deserves it. pstttt also should we name her? do you all want to send me random john prompts. my baby isn't ok and i'm not ok. Part one linked here. Part three linked here.

John was sure he wasn't sweating a normal amount as he looked down at the piece of paper that Buck had offered him. It had taken two whole days of questions from the man for Bucky to even decide that he was going to reply. He’d been offered the hope, what more could he ask of her. Could he ask more? There had been a return address on the letter which Buck had insisted was there for a reason and she had opened herself out for a reply from him but the Major couldn’t help but be unsure.

It was an odd feeling for him, before the war he hadn't been unsure of anything and since he’d been here? Well he hadn’t been sober enough to doubt anything that he had done. These days though Bucky felt like he doubted every single thing. The thing was, he wasn't sure that he could afford to doubt this, to look past the life line that had been offered to him. Not when each day he could feel his mind draw a little further toward the edge no matter how much he or Buck tried to keep it in check.

With a sigh he pulled the pen into his hand, eyes locked on the page for a moment before he began to scrawl.

Dear Friend From Home 

You’re gunna have to forgive me because I ain’t going to be as good as this as you are. I’ve written so many letters this war you would think that I’d have gotten a handle on it by now but I find myself at a loss when it comes to what to say to you. 

I think the first thing I got to say is thank you. I don’t know if the words I can put on paper are ever going to really tell you how much your letter meant to me. See I was a certain type of man that didn’t think much to pen pals. I figured that I’d be ok, you know, that with my boys I’d have what I needed to make it through the hard days but watching the letters for everyone else roll in has been harder than I thought it might. 

There are things that I can’t tell you cause I don’t know who might read these letters, and where I am I can’t get you no picture but I can tell you that my favorite dish is a meat and potato pie, simple I know but really I’m a simple hearty kind of guy. What makes me laugh, you asked? That’s kind of simple for me too, just good company, myself sometimes, Buck, he’s my best friend, he makes me laugh a lot. What makes you laugh? I’d like to know that. 

May I know where you are? I know that might be a big ask but you said I could ask anything I know and if I get out of here…we get some leave, I’d like to know where I need to ask for me leave to be. Then I can show you what I sound and look like and know that in return. 

If this letter doesn’t reach you for a while, know you’ve been with me the whole time. 

With all my gratitude, hope and returned adoration

Major John Egan 

“What if she doesn’t get it?” He found himself questioning quietly to Buck as he handed over the letter to make it out of camp. His best friend settled him with a soft look, one that always made Bucky feel like he had some worldly knowledge the rest of them had missed out on, that assured him everything was going to be alright. “You just gotta have hope she will John, she’ll get it.” 

With a huff Bucky nodded, pulling his hat on as he watched his letter vanish from his view all together. “Alright well I can’t sit here and wonder, I’m off to play baseball or something.”

The letter that Bucky had so carefully handed over changed hands many more times, some fingers as rough as the pilots, some dirtier, some softer, but the last set of fingers to slide the letter from her post box had perfectly manicured fingers. Her flicking of her post was greedy as she looked for the same thing that she had every day since she’d posted her own letter.

At first, her hopes of finding what she was looking for had been unrealistic; she knew that, it hadn’t even been long enough for her letter to be received, let alone for him to get one back to her, then the other girls at the centre, they’d gotten letters back, notes, anything. That was when she had allowed her hope to return, for a moment at least. Days without anything had turned into weeks and then weeks had turned into months. Anything could have happened, that was what she tried to tell herself, he might not have gotten her letter, he might have thought it was weird and had chosen not to reply. That thought was enough to miff her, he could have at least said thank you. When she had decided no one could be that mean, her diminishing hope had turned to worry, what if he hadn't been able to receive her letter.

Flicking through each white envelope today, she almost missed it, how she didn't know because it was clearly different from the rest of them, maybe she hadn't wanted to look. "Not…" Trailing off she flicked back to the second to last letter, her eyes taking in the scrawling of her address, her eyes checking the postage before she was taring inside. "It's here, he wrote it's here." She called through the halls to the other girls that she lived with, all of which had been holding their breath with her. "Oh god I can't read it, what if he's telling me I was weird!" She cried, thrusting the unopened letter into the hands of her eager friend.

"Don't be dramatic, he's going to be throwing down his gratitude at you being a doll, you should have attached a picture with it I told you!" Meg beamed easily back at her, the same sense of reservation missing from her actions as she tore into the letter so that it could be read to the group. "Dear Friend From Home. You’re gunna have to forgive me because I ain’t going to be as good as this as you are. I’ve written so many letters this war you would think that I’d have gotten a handle on it by now but I find myself at a loss when it comes to what to say to you." That was enough, pulling the letter from Megs hands she was quick to scramble away from the group once more, locking herself into her room as re-read the opening line herself, the tears in her eyes only welling even further as she continued.

An ache in her chest formed as she read the words once more, taking in each strike of his pen where he had corrected himself or smudge from whatever he'd had on his fingers. The state of the letter was enough to make her wonder, but at least for now, she knew her friend was ok. He was alive, and he wanted to hear more from her. It couldn't have been normal, to feel this level of emotion for a man that she had never met, but she had found herself here regardless and in the middle of so much uncertainty, she wasn't going to question the pull she felt across the way to England.

Pushing from her bed she moved to her desk, paper pulled from her stationary pot, the quicker she could post this the quicker it could get to him.

"Dear Major Egan,

I'm delighted to hear I'm with you. I hope you know, that you've been with me too…"

[hawkeyetrained]

Run. Get to Stiles.

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x Hale sister!reader

Other characters: Noah Stilinski, Derek Hale

Warnings: Hunters?, blood, gun shot wounds, fear, let me know if I missed something

Summary: Hunters catch her off guard and she has to run for her life

Word Count: 1,955

Run. That was the only thing screaming out in my mind. Run or you’re going to die. Run or they are going to chain you up and torture you for information on your pack. Run or others might die.

Get to Stiles. Get to Derek. Get to Scott. Those were the next statements playing as I pushed myself as fast as I could through the woods. Get to Chris, or anyone.

Blood trickled from a wound on my shoulder, coating my jacket and soaking into the cotton of my shirt. Thank god the bullet that tore through my skin was normal, a simple hollow point that had hit and expanded into my skin, making sure my healing wouldn’t start with the offensive metal still lodged in my body.

The sky was pitch black, the moon shrouded out by dense clouds that blocked any possible light. If I didn’t have my heightened senses, I surely would have been running in circles and tripping on roots. Branches from trees were barely blocked by my hands as I ran, keeping any from scratching my face so I could focus on getting away.

“This way!” I heard a voice shout, probably looking at the messy footprints and blood drops from where I had just been a moment ago.

BANG

A scream ripped it’s way through my lungs as another bullet lodged itself into my leg, this one searing more than the last. My steps fumbled and I crashed down a drop off in the woods, tumbling my way through fallen leaves and over huge stones that sliced into my jacket, hands, and head. The bottom came all too quickly, stopping me in my place almost instantly and knocking the breath from my lungs.

I pushed back my messy hair from my face and pulled myself back onto my feet, eyes flashing as I tried to figure out what way town was. Lights flickered at the top of the hill I had just fallen down, and without thinking I just headed off in the direction that would take me away from them.

Dawn had to be approaching. My legs ached and my lungs burned from running for hours. My head swirling with everything I was telling myself. Run. Don’t stop, run. Get to Stiles, get to Derek, get to someone.

Street. You’re running on a paved road. You’re back in the city and the sun is coming up. Go, run, Stiles isn’t too far away. Get to him and call Derek. That’s his house. There’s his car, and his dads. Scream. Wake him up. Draw attention.

“Stiles!” My voice was no where near as loud as I wanted it to be. Exhaustion and the burning in my lungs from running taking its toll. My skin had to be pale in color by now. My jeans and shoes clinging to my body from the blood that never seemed to stop pouring from my wounds, hair sticking to my head from my sweat dripping down. “Stiles!” Again, I called out for the boy who was always at my side.

His front door opened and out came the sheriff followed closely by his son. “Y/N?” Stiles voice called from the front step. “Oh my god.” His dad had made it to the bottom of the driveway, stood with his hand on his hip, his gun, as he watched the road and woods behind me as I slammed into the chest of his son. My arms wrapped around Stiles, clinging to the boy as tightly as I could while trying to calm my racing heart.

“I can’t-I can’t run anymore.” One of his arms held my waist to him while the other rested on the back of my head, helping me realize I was finally safe.

Soft golden rays of sunlight began to strike through the dark sky, giving light to just how bad a condition I was actually in to the two Stilinski men.

“Honey, what were you running from?” Noah turned from the woods to look at me

“Hunters.” My voice shook as exhaustion began to seep into my body. “So many. Never seen them before.”

“I got you now.” Stiles hugged me tighter, brushing his fingers through my hair.

“You’re hurt.” Noah noticed the blood soaking nearly everything I wore. “Bad.”

I shook my head. “Jus’ need the bullets removed. I’ll be fine.” My arms wrapped tighter to Stiles, eyes dropping closed as I finally got my breathing under control. “Need help.”

“I got you now. We’re gonna help you. You’re safe sweetheart.” Stiles pressed a kiss to the side of my head before unwrapping one of his arms and helping me into his room upstairs. “Umm, ok. I’m gonna go grab the first aid kit, and some clothes you can change into. Give me a sec, ok?”

I nodded at him before he took off for the things he needed. I took this time to start pulling my blood soaked clothes off to make pulling the metal from my skin easier. My shoes and jeans were the first things to go, being tossed into the corner of his room that held an empty laundry basket. The jacket was a bit harder to pull off with how badly my shoulder burned as I pulled the fabric away.

“Woah woah.” Stiles threw his supplies down on the bed and helped pull the jacket off my arms when he saw the pain in my eyes. “Let me help.” His hands were gentle to trail up my sides and bring the cotton over my head, leaving me in my bra and underwear, both slightly red stained in a few spots. “You wanna lay down for me? So I can get the bullets out?”

A hum escaped my lips as I crawled into his bed and rested my head on his soft pillows. I could feel his hands shake and hear his breathing pick up when he caught sight of my wounds and all the blood that covered my skin. “Hey, I’ll be ok. Wanna grab your dad to get the bullets out?”

“No.” He denied, fingers of one hand resting gently on the inner side of my thigh to turn my leg towards him. “I can do this.”

“I know you can.” I reassured him. “Take a deep breath.” He did, then moved the tweezers into the small hole in my leg. I gasped in pain as he moved the metal around a little, apologies falling from his mouth as he worked. As quickly as the pain started, it was over and the bullet was pulled from my leg.

“Ok. I got one.” He pressed a handful of gauze to my wound to stop some of the blood from running down my skin. “Got one more to go. You’re doing great.”

“So are you.” A small smile crossed my lips as I caught a glimpse of his shoulders relaxing and his hands staying steady. “This one’ll be a little harder. I could feel it trying to heal around the bullet so it might need more force.”

“I-yeah, ok.” Stiles took another deep breath as he slid up the side of his bed to get a better look at the wound on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath sweetheart.” He was the one telling me to calm my heart rate now.

Just like the last wound, it burned just as much if not more. My hands fisted into his sheets as he dug for the bullet, my mind pleading with my claws to stay away and my eyes to not glow from the pain.

Stiles fingers slipped on the tweezers and pressed into my skin, a growl rumbling in my chest from the pain and remaining fear from running all night. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.” Finally he pulled the bullet out and pressed another mass of gauze to my skin, a sigh leaving my lungs as the healing finally started pulling my skin back together. “I got it. You’re gonna be ok.”

“Thank you.” I smiled tiredly to him. “Can you call Derek? I gotta warn him and I’m sure he’s worried sick.”

“Yeah. I’ll call him. You wanna take a shower?” He pulled his phone from his pants pocket. “You’re kinda covered in blood.”

I took a quick shower, blood running down the drain and being replaced with the smell is Stiles from his few products now coating my skin. His hoodie and sweatpants were sat on the counter when I stepped out, allowing me to change and bush my hair before I joined the Stilinskis in their living room.

Just as I sat down, the front door slammed open. Both Stilinski men jumped from their seats and turned towards the door looking ready to fight off any possible hunters, only for my brother Derek to be stood in the threshold.

“Oh my god.” He mumbled, rushing towards me and pulling me into his arms. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” His hands pulled my face to look at his, his bright blue wolf eyes staring into my golden ones. “What happened?”

“Hunters.” I stated, pulling away and sitting back beside Stiles, his hand coming to rest on my thigh as I pulled my legs up and into my chest, practically curling into his side. “Found me as I was leaving work. Pretty much ran through the woods all night.”

“Are you hurt?” He questioned, sitting to Noah’s side.

“Not anymore. Stiles pulled the bullets from me. Saved my life.” I smiled up at the boy I was hopelessly in love with.

“I can’t thank you enough Stiles.” It was one of the few times I had seen my brother look a little helpless. Knowing Stiles was able to save my life lifted a weight even he didn’t know was on his shoulders.

“I’d do anything for her. You all know that.”

“We need to warn the others, about these hunters in the woods. I don’t know how they are doing it, but I didn’t hear them come up behind me or even smell them before the bullet hit my shoulder. I thought they did something at first, put something in the air, but they managed to completely surprise me.” My hands wrapped around the one Stiles had on my leg, my head resting against his shoulder. “I can’t take anyone else dying. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

Losing each member of the packs ripped at my heart until it was a shredded mess in my chest. That is until Stiles came to my side and mended the tears. Sure, he had been there from the start, just like I had, but we only just realized how in love with each other we were when he was possessed last year.

“I’ll get the word out to the pack, let everyone know to not be alone and to keep an eye out for absolutely anything.” Derek had his phone in his hand already. “No one goes anywhere without someone else with them.”

“They need to know about the surprise part. Can’t be cautious if they don’t know I couldn’t hear the hunters attack.” Stiles gripped me a little tighter. “Can I stay here for a little while? I really don’t wanna be too far from you at the moment.” My eyes glanced up at Stiles.

“Of course.” He looked to his dad and then Derek. “You can stay as long as you want.” I cuddled into his side tighter. “We’ll protect you.”

It may not be easy, this fight against the people who know of us and are scared of us. But I knew one thing, as long as I had the pack, my bother, and Stiles, we’d be able to handle anything.

@thetallassgirl @hallecarey1 @bellabadacadabra

[mqsi]

hey i love your writing and was wondering if you could do one where reader is besties with balde and he brings reader with him to training almost every time they train but reader is bored so they draw while barca train and they cant help but draw more and more portraits of pedri, analyse him and stuff (like gradually catching feelings for him - crush) and one day they leave their sketchbook somehwere and balde and pedri find it and then everything is up to you :) thank you for letting me rant

Hi love, thank you! As an artist myself I’m happy for this request💙

——————————————————————————

You were close friends with Balde so It was expected from him to go and drag you on his practice or anything that included football. You were happy to attend his games but training grounds were something else.

You met a lot of his teammates but watching them train gradually became boring yet you didn’t want to disappoint your friend by not tagging along whenever he calls. You found escape in bringing a sketchbook, at first just sketching Balde in various poses.

You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander on a certain brunette, analysing his form. You respected Pedri as a player and he was also nice in person. But his good looks were a nice bonus as well. You got lost in thought as you pulled the lines on the paper, sketching Pedri’s face. A slight blush crept up your cheeks.

Next time, you let yourself draw his full body. His arms exposed with sweat decorating the skin. You caught yourself analysing his features, the way his nose curved and the stubble on his chin. The way his hair flew in the wind and his eyes turned to honey in the sun.

How he rolls the shorts up and the way he smiles. How he playfully pushes Gavi or teases Ferran. From practice to practice, your sketchbook became full of Pedri in different situations. That’s when you realized that you might have developed a crush for the midfielder.

Just as you placed down the sketchbook on the bench next to you, Balde came running to you, seemingly running away from someone.

“HELP ME” he yelled, pulling you off the bench. You started laughing and played along with the tag game they started on the field. So much that you forgot about the sketchbook on the bench, leaving without it.

On his way back to the locker room, Pedri noticed your little treasure. He immidiately knew it was yours, as he noticed you always holding a pen and 9/10 times looking at him. So the drawings were no surprise when he flipped trough the pages.

Being honest, he did always find you quite cute. The way you scrunched your face in concetration while drawing and how you taught that he didn’t catch your stares.

That’s when he got an idea. Since you already left with Balde, he pulled out his phone and called him.

“We were together 15 minutes ago?”

“Yeah I am not calling for you, are you still with y/n? Can you give her the phone?”

Balde made a face but handed you the phone anyway.

“Hey?” You asked, still completely unaware that your sketchbook was forgotten, let alone in Pedri’s hands.

“Hey hermosa, don’t you think you left something?”

Your eyes widened at the realization. Suddenly, your face was hot and breathing was harder.

“Um, can you leave it where you found it, I’ll come back for it now”

“Uh oh, I’m worried that It’s already in my bag and I’m already in my car so if you want it, you can come over and I’ll give it to you” Pedri said, which was obviously a lie since he was standing in the middle of the field still.

“What?” You nervously asked.

“You heard me, and I don’t see the problem really, it seems that you enjoy looking at me”

You felt your face heat up even more and you tried to compose yourself to speak.

“Fine, I’ll ask Balde to drop me off at your place later today, is that okay?”

“More than okay”

——————————————————————————

a/n: I HAD TO USE Y/N HERE CAUSE THERE WAS NO OTHER WAY FOR HIM TO ASK AND I HATE IT

[cherr-22]

TNGDH 32

“Gasp…… Ugh. I’m dying…….”

After leaving the study, I ran like crazy. I ran like I’ve never ran before.

Thankfully, it wasn’t too far from my room. If I weren’t fast enough, the ‘Summon’ duration would end and I would’ve disappeared in the middle of the hallway, leaving behind nothing but my clothes.

After running at full speed, I went into the bed, covered myself with the blanket, and canceled the ‘Summon’. With that, I was summoned back to where I designated in advance, under the sawdust.

―Squeak. (Whew.)

At this rate, I might end up passing away young…….

I stumbled towards the middle of the hamster house and laid on my back with my arms and legs stretched out. The sky is yellow. So yellow.

“Did you exercise? You look tired.”

Kyle appeared suddenly and picked me up while I was still panting. He began to kiss all over me. With no strength to even lift up a paw, I helplessly received all his affectionate gestures.

―Squeak……. (Are you content now…….)

“I understand, I understand. I also like you a lot.”

―Squeak……. (This clueless bastard…….)

“Today, I will make you a present.”

Kyle, who put me down, put a handful of duck feathers into the handkerchief he laid out for me last night. Then, he carefully began to quilt it.

Although it looked a little awkward and had threads sticking out, it came out better than the dish scrub he made before. Have you been practicing these days?

I peered at his face with my barely open eyes. There was a warm smile that contrasted with the endless winter out the window.

What are you so happy about.

It’s just a demonic beast.

As I felt the handkerchief being carefully placed on my back, I slowly closed my eyes..

―Squeak……. (This diligent, tactless, warm-hearted bastard…….)

One day, this moment would become a memory to think back about after I return back to my world.

It would be a happy memory to remember.

*

―…….

“…….”

“…….”

It was a suffocating silence..

I looked back and forth at Kyle and the magician, who were both watching me put up a guard.

It had been thirty minutes since the magician entered the study. They constantly observed me as if I were a lab rat. Stop staring please. It’s really burdensome.

Gulp.

A swallow was heard throughout the room.

The culprit was the nervous magician next to Kyle.

“T-then, I will start now.”

As if he had finally made up his mind, the magician, who looked to be middle-aged, lifted me up carefully.

The lift was uncomfortable. The palm I was sitting on was shaking hard as if an earthquake occurred.

―Squeak……. (Excuse me, sir…….)

Are you trying to play with me or what?

I sat on the shaking palms and gave him a wary look.

You must be nervous with Kyle glaring at you as if he were going to rip you to pieces, but it’s not like Kyle would actually shred you. He’s just worried. He’s just an ordinary demonic beast lover.

After wiping his sweat with the back of his hand, the magician began to inject blue mana into my body. I closed my eyes and hugged tight onto the cashew nut in my hands.

I didn’t know how my body would react to this and neither did the system, but I had no choice but to take a gamble. Kyle would’ve used all possible methods he could find to make me grow.

Right. It’s better to get this done and over with.

―……?

Bam.

My body was pushed slightly to the side along with the sound of something blunt hitting each other.

I held tighter onto the cashew nut I almost dropped and stretched out my neck to look around like a meerkat. Wh-what was that? Something just flew by?

“……Did you do it?”

“I did, however…….”

There was a crushing silence. The magician swallowed again nervously before placing his hand on my body once more.

“This…… this time I’ll try injecting harder.”

Despite saying that, he was still shaking incredibly.

Your life must also be a rough ride. I pat the magician’s hand with my front paw and took a short, deep breath. Come, I am ready.

“……Hmph!”

The magician made a weird grunting sound before drawing up a palm full of blue mana energy. Then, the moment the powerful mana shot out and made contact with my body…

Ting.

Ting.

Bam.

My body rolled back twice before colliding with the wall. I was buried in Kyle’s knitted yarns.

“Cashew!”

Kyle quickly picked me up. I shook my head and felt some static electricity penetrating my whole body.

‘Just what exactly is happened?’

What happened? Is mana supposed to feel this shocking?

[The in□able power □s d□sp□.]

I blankly stared at the system window that appeared in front of my eyes. The letters were broken into pixels and were difficult to read, but I felt I knew what it was saying.

‘Is it saying that the mana of my body and this world are colliding? Is it the same for the unexpected appearance of the beast during the reconnaissance?’

As I was lost in my thoughts, Kyle checked my entire body for any wounds.

“……Your Highness. This, I don’t think this is your typical demonic beast.”

The magician said in a hushed voice as he formed a puddle below his feet from his sweat.

“If this little one isn’t a demonic beast, what could it possibly be!”

Kyle covered me with his palm as he shouted at the magician who stood far away from him and flinched.

Hey, hey. Don’t be like that. It isn’t his fault.

“H-however, it’s not only not accepting the mana, it’s even reflecting it back…….”

While the magician rambled, I picked up the cashew nut that had flown away. The end was slightly cracked from the impact earlier. It also looked like there was a bit of dust on it.

―…….

I threw the cashew nut in frustration. Forget it. I’m not eating this dirty thing. I should use ‘Summon’ and eat something nicer.

I sat back down and watched two people arguing- no, one person suffering from the rage of the other. It’s not like I could stop the fight with this body of mine. I would have to wait for them to finish on their own.

Thinking like that, I revisited the system window with the pixel letters.

“Your Highness!”

I turned my head at the sudden voice and the study door flinging open.

It was a face I knew. He was one of Kyle’s knights in the scouting party.

“What’s the matter. A guest is here, so quickly state your matter.”

“M-my apologies! However, a letter arrived saying that Prince Belial had been attacked……!”

“……attacked?”

……What? Attacked?

I jumped up.

Kyle chased off the magician and put me back into the hamster house. After closing the house, he approached the knight at the door.

Hey. Talk inside the room! Let me hear it too!

I pressed my ears against the transparent wall. Fortunately, the study door was not completely closed, so I was able to vaguely hear the conversation.

In summary, Belial, who was returning back to the imperial palace, was ambushed by an unknown group. It was a serious incident that caused the carriage to overturn, but because the location was closer to the imperial palace, it took time for the news to reach the Blake estate……

I crossed my arms and paced back and forth in the hamster house.

The early part of <The Winter’s Heart>. The only attack I knew at this point of the novel was the ambush on Kyle that resulted in him getting wounded on his right arm.

But that incident didn’t occur on Kyle due to my interference. So instead, Belial was attacked?

‘……Something’s not right.’

Does that mean the unknown force behind the ambush on Kyle in the original story wasn’t from Belial? I thought deeply while rocking on the swing.

The controlling power within the imperial palace was definitely the second prince, Belial. I’d hate to admit, but he had exceptional leadership skills and a captivating smile, making him popular among the people.

Then was it different within the palace? As far as I knew, some subjects already openly considered Belial to be the future emperor even though the 1st prince was still alive.

‘But, what was his name again?’

Suddenly, a system window appeared.

[Lorenz Serena Meinhardt was weak-minded and cowardly. He couldn’t compete with Kyle in force, nor could he beat Belial in intellect. All he had left was the pride of being the 1st prince.

‘Right. It was Lorenz.’

I disliked him so much I even forgot his name.

I recalled the description of him from the story. With a hair color lighter than Belial’s, he was said to have a sharp appearance that resembled his mother, Serena. His thick eyebrows and clear facial features were said to resemble the emperor.

[눈_눈]

### ‘눈’ means ‘eye’. The emote resembles a frowning face.

Yeah. Like that.

However, the imperial family valued tradition and legitimacy. No matter how much power Belial held, he would not be able to become the emperor.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Prince Lorenz had no support at all, and the emperor probably would want to entrust the country to his eldest son.

That was why I thought Lorenz wouldn’t interfere with Belial’s matters. He could become the emperor even if he stood still, so there was no need to make a mess.

―Squeak. (This is all so confusing.)

While I spun the hamster wheel with my hands habitually, Kyle returned to the study with a slightly depressed look on his face.

It seemed everything has settled down. How kind of you to worry about your enemy like that.

With a short sigh, I used ‘Summon’. He didn’t seem to have the spirit to look after the hamster, so this would be the perfect time to become Shu.

Above all, the small hamster body wouldn’t be able to give Kyle the comfort he needed. For now, I want to be be his side as a human being.

--------------------------------------------------------

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

[hyerinrose]

Lovesick

《Onesided! M Yandere X Yandere! GN Reader》

A/N : its been a while since i last wrote a long fic. Might be crusty but hope you like it! Also i gave reader's obsession name, darling based on an utau.

T/W : Obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour, stalking, implied murder, implied harm done towards reader's darling, blood, threats (made towards reader's darling and yan)

•┈••✦ 🖤✦••┈•🖤•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•

[Name] were perched ontop of a tree, dressed in all black outfit with a camera in hand. The absence of a street light causes them to blend into the night. They are what a text book definition of a stalker, in which they are.

Despite it being late at midnight, [Name] were not once exhausted and kept their eye trailed onto the figure across them. The person was sleeping soundly in their bed, blissfully unaware of a stalker watching them.

This obsession they have with Darling had been going on for a few month. They were the longest one so far out of the many obsession [Name] have. What is it the way the look, act or their personality? They don't know what gravitate them towards Darling so much.

Click. Clack. Click.

"That's another one for the collection of Darling sleeping, perfection as always" [Name] sighed lovingly while caressing the polaroid picture they just took.

"[Name] is that you?" Their head snapped so fast towards the sound of their name, it could give them whiplash.

Their previous alertness fades away and replaced with annoyance once they saw who it was. The male who called out to them grinned as he saw [Name].

"What do you want, Vance. I told you to piss off and leave me alone before didn't I?" The [H/C] coloured person scoffed and turned their attention back to Darling's slumbering form.

They're so perfect. I love them so much-

"Dude what the hell?!" They whispered yelled as Vance suddenly took a seat beside them on the tree. It sound less romantic considering the animosity [Name] had towards the other.

Vance shrugged them off and proceed to snuggled up beside them, causing [Name]'s fight or flight mode to be activated and pushes him off the tree. They really don't like to be touched.

"You're cruel as always, love" Vance laughed breathily, pain coursing through his body from the fall.

As he stared up at [Name] he was reminded of how he fell in love with them. The day he met the love of his life.

•┈••✦ 🖤✦••┈•🖤•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•

"Oi, what are you doing there, huh?"

Vance were slacking off his class again, he rather had an earful lecture from his parents than rot in that class. He'd usually would laze around at the back of the school but today he saw someone following another in a rather suspicious way.

The person tensed up at Vance's voice. They stopped in their track and the ginger eventually caught up to them.

"Hey I asked you-"

Suddenly the [H/C]-nette pinned him onto the wall, catching him off guard. Then, he felt the sharp tip of a blade pointed at his neck, ready to slit his throat with a swift move.

The two were in an isolated area of the school, no one goes here unless they wanted to do shady business. Vance felt sweat rolled down his body from fear but along with that something else was brewing up.

"Never heard of a saying to not stick your nose in people's business?" They spoke with an icy tone, their [E/C] glinted menacingly.

"N-no.." he weakly muttered, his legs feels like jello with how much it shook.

"No? Well let this be a lesson for you.. that is if you're still alive after this" The person smiled, pressing the knife on his skin and drawing bits of blood.

Mustering up whatever foolish courage he had, he spoke.

"P-please spare me" Vance gasped in between his words, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

The [H/C]-nette hums, considering his words in their thoughts before finally releasing him. Vance fell on the floor immediately, his legs giving up.

"Very well then, I'll spare you this once since I don't want to get myself dirty, I have a meeting with my beloved later on. Under one condition, never speak of this to anyone" they tucked their knife back into their pocket, fixing themselves up.

Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, the person faced him with the same murderous look. It sent shivers down his spine.

"Or I'll finish you off myself" with that they left him shaken on the ground, his heart thundering in his chest.

It was not out of fear, It was of excitement.

"I think.. I'm in love with them"

•┈••✦ 🖤✦••┈•🖤•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•

"Vance? I didn't kill you did I? I hope I did" [Name]'s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

Picking himself up, he brushes the leaves off of him and proceed to climb the tree again as if he hadn't been pushed off the first time.

"Fucking hell.. you're still alive. I should've killed you before" They uttered out exhasperately, stunned to see the ginger beside them again.

"Told you ya can't get rid of me that easy, love" He said with a shit eating grin on his face.

[Name] sighed and focuses their attention on Darling again. They're not going to let this bastard stopped them from their nightly routine of observing Darling.

Darling, their darling and only theirs. Their sweet ol' Darling.

Those that dared to get close to [Name]'s beloved had been dealed accordingly. "I don't get what you see in them honestly. They're plain, average and boring. Undeservingly of your love and attention-" the grating voice of Vance reminded them of the company they have.

"One more word, Vance. I swear one more fucking word and I'll kill you for real this time"

There it was the side of them he had been trying to coax out. He meant those words though, every single one of them. Oh how Vance long to be the center of their attention, the root of their obsession.

Instead it was wasted on this thing. What did they do to captivate [Name] like they did him?! With each day his patience with them grows thinner as his desire to be theirs and make them his consumed his mind.

"I don't care. I don't care anymore! When will you look at me like you did with that bitch? I love you so much when they don't even know you existed, I'm willing to kill for you, die for you and yet you're still in love with them!" Vance yelled, his feelings for them bleeding out on the open.

"What do I need to do- to make you love me? Do I need to kill them for you to see how devoted I am to you?" At this point, Vance had jumped off the tree before [Name] had the chance to attack him. His blue irises were manic as a smile curled upon his lips.

I guess it's time for him to get rid of the one who's in his way of getting [Name]. He'll pay them a visit after school tomorrow when he knew that [Name] couldn't be there.

One way or another, he will make [Name] his.

"You will learn how to love me [Name]"

•┈••✦ 🖤✦••┈•🖤•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•

Reblogs and notes are appreciated!

[catwalkvivi]

well hey, since hardly anyone's looking at this corner of the website anyway I might as well take the opportunity to vent (it's annoying to do it on twitter with the character cap)

Man, social media is hard.

I see so many people posting regular content consistently for years and years without even seemingly breaking a sweat, while it's always been so difficult for me... Calculating engagement, deciding the best times to post, or, hell, even just sharing what they think/feel/made/fucking ate that day just seems, like, so easy and second nature for pretty much everyone around me. It's genuinely incredible to me that somebody can share what they've learned about idk shitty impractical tanks made in WW1 on this website and make it such an interesting read that hundreds of people engage with it!

But I've tried keeping social media accounts for art and stuff so many times now, on here, on Instagram, on Artstation, on Xitter, and eventually it just- kinda- fades away, it just feels so exhausting to keep track of all the things necessary to Chase the Algorhythm™ if you wanna have any relevancy. Is it a charisma thing??? Where do I grind to get a stat boost on my Cha???

I'd love to say it doesn't matter to me, since I've been drawing shit for myself for years now, but unfortunately artists do need social media presence if they wanna get work. Not to mention, well, I wanna reach people with the stuff I do! I want people to react to what I made, to say what they liked about it, or how it made them feel, and then when I post something I worked on for hours only to get, like, almost zero visibility? idk, man, it just kinda hurts. It's probably selfish and immature for me to say it, I know that it takes time and effort to build an audience and all that, but damn I get happy when people show me that something I've made has affected them positively. I like the connection, I like the conversations, I like meeting people who enjoy the same nerdy trash that I do!

(I was very fortunate to have an art post of mine reach a lot of notes here years ago, which was amazing, but it's such a rare thing)

God, and, like, there's all these weird unspoken rules about interacting on social media too.

The other day a friend of mine came up to our friend group and was like "oh my god this girl liked my stories on instagram it means something does she like me" and I was SO confused and then they were like "well, when somebody not on your friends list likes your stories, it means they're interested in you"

Then some time later another friend was telling me that somebody stopped liking her posts and unfriended her and how that is a horrible offense and my fucking brain hurt, like- okay I get the unfriend part kinda but there could be a hundred reasons for it??? it's not like you have a deep personal connection to all 300 friends you have on your account???

Then I see so many people out there simply sharing something they think or did only to have some rando twist what they said and come at them like they're the shittiest person on the planet that deserves everything bad in life actually (except the ones that are willingly spouting/promoting hateful shit to begin with. Those can rot in hell and I shall not mourn their demise)

Like??? It might be the Power of Autism™ in me but it always feels like I'm one step away from either making a fool of myself or offending twenty different people or both. It's both the fear of having hundreds of thousands of eyes on me and the fear of having none at all. And that makes it really difficult to share anything on the internet for me. I already have to deal with my entire existence as a trans woman making some cunts around the world mad, it sucks that I have to risk it in places where I just wanna post dumb drawings and talk about dumb things that make me happy with others.

I dunno. Word vomit I guess. Social media is hard. Interacting with humans is hard. Sharing stuff is hard. I prefer Pokémon

[antihero-writings]

Waving Through the Veil (Ch 1)

Fandom: Dear Evan Hansen (Book and Musical)

Summary: Evan is haunted by Connor. No, literally haunted. His ghost shows up after hearing Evan's lie about the Orchard, and Evan can actually see him. But, as weird as this situation is, maybe this is how they can become real friends after all.

Note: The one thing I’ve always wanted to see from this franchise, ever since first watching the musical, but even more so after reading the book, is the ghost of Connor being able to have a relationship with Evan. So...I decided to write it! This is written in the style of the book, and will probably mostly follow the book, (I even include some passages from it), but I will probably draw from the musical at times too, depending on what portrayal of something I like best. For those of you who have read the book, the fic begins in the middle of the first scene of chapter 9. I hope you enjoy!! If you do, please don't hesitate to leave a comment to let me know!! It's your comments that fics like this going <3

Chapter 1: All we See Are Ghosts

I didn't bother turning the light on as I flopped down on the couch with the signature groan of a man who’s hit rock bottom. Well maybe not rockbottom, but sediment bottom at least. I think we learned about that in science class; it’s where the fossils are get stuck…That’s pretty much how I feel at the moment. 

I'm not sure why I keep reporting back to Jared after every new disaster. I never feel better after our chats. Jared has a way of highlighting my errors so they seem even worse than I first realized.

But I'm so lost right now, sitting alone on the couch in my dark living room. Jared is the only person in the entire world who has even the slightest appreciation for where I am.

I bring Jared up to speed with what happened at the Murphys. We end up texting for a while, and, at this point, my stomach is still churning from the conversation, especially the prospect of making fake emails. Fake emails...to continue the lie I didn't intend to start. 

What is wrong with me? Seriously. Why do I keep fooling myself into thinking that the worst that could happen has already happened? Things always get worse. It's guaranteed. That's how life works. You're born and you keep getting older and grayer and sicker, and no matter what effort you make to reverse the process, you die. Every single time To repeat: worse, worse, worse, and then death. I have a long way to go before the worst. This is only the beginning.

And these emails...I'd be giving them what they want—what they need. I'd be helping them.

It's tempting. It really is. But it's also...sick? I can't keep doing this, deceiving these poor people. I'm not cut out for it.

At one point tonight it felt like I was sweating from my eyes—that's how anxious I was. Had I perspired another drop, I might have mummified. I can't go on like this. I'm all drained out.

I turn my phone over so it's facedown. The light from the screen waves over my cast. The memory of the story I conjured up for the Murphys hits me anew. They were talking about the orchard, and I guess the way they were talking about it made me think of Ellison Park. And I can no longer think of Ellison Park without thinking of the tree, and my fall. Connor wasn’t there that day, of course. But I guess...he could've been. when I was telling the story…it was almost like he was. Suddenly thinking of him being there to come get me…everything felt okay. Or at least not not okay. And 'not okay' is how I usually feel. 

I’m considering going up to my room when I hear a voice speak:

“So you took my advice after all. It was a nice story, I’ll give you that. No racist-punching, but better than the truth at least.”

I fall off the couch and let out a scream that I’ll admit isn’t very manly. 

 I realize I probably should have turned on said light, because if I had, I might have noticed someone in the room. And that would have been scary, yes, but probably less scary than simply hearing a disembodied voice suddenly talking to me. 

 I’ve prepared—well, not so much prepared as worried, which masquerades remarkably well as preparation—for people breaking into my house longer than I’ve worried about the Murphys. Though, to be fair, I expected them to come with knives and/or guns and threats...not talking about advice and punching racists. (The people breaking in, not the Murphys).

The living room isn’t that far from the kitchen, I probably should be going for a knife. Instead I just try to scramble away on the couch and don’t make much distance.

“Who-Who are you?!” I demand, (or, at least, I try to demand, but it sounds more like a squeal), “Why are you in my house?!”

The perp makes a noise like a scoff. “So you can hear me. I thought you might have seen me the other day but I—“ He stops himself. 

I stop in my scrambling too, because it’s starting to hit me, like spice that takes a second to set your mouth on fire.

I know that voice. It isn’t the voice of a strange burglar or serial killer—or at least, I don’t think he is but I guess I can’t rule it out, because it’s— 

It’s a voice that can’t be speaking to me right now. Literally can't.

“Still,” He’s not disembodied after all, because his shadow walks over to the shelf. Despite the realization, or maybe because of it, I resume my scrambling, finally making it off the couch and onto my feet, (not without falling over first). “That’s some psychotic bullshit you barfed up. One moment you’re writing some creepy note about my sister, trying to make everyone to think I’m crazy, next thing I know you have dinner with my family, talking shit about how we were friends, telling stories about how we went to the orchard together. I’ve never been very good at math, tell me,” I can’t really see him but something tells me he’s turning to me with those blue death rays, “how does that add up?”

Somehow in my scrambling I’ve made it to the light switch, and my fingers clutch it like its a lifesaver thrown out to my pitifully struggling body at sea. 

I’m not quite sure I wouldn’t rather drown. 

I flick my finger, turning on the light.

I already knew I’d regret it before I turned it on, and, when I did, the regret hit me instantly and intensely, like the spice finally kicking in. 

Standing there in his thick boots, and ripped jeans, and long, messy hair, and eyes that analyze my soul is Connor Murphy. 

I cover my mouth, breath gaining about ten pounds, heart gaining a hundred, but still running anyways.

“Holy—Holy shit.” I say into my hand. “Holy fuck.”

Connor smirks. “At least someone has the decency to react.”

“You’re—but you—You’re alive?! You’ve been alive this whole time?!”

His eyes darken, dart away. “Not alive, no.”

“Well w-what else could you be?!” I stutter, reaching my tremoring hand into my pocket for my meds, my Ativen—maybe I’ll find my sanity in there if I dig far enough. He’s walking towards me and my heartbeat has gone past the hundred mile-per-hour mark to the speed of light. “I mean, dead people don’t just show up in people’s houses—!”

He leans forward and swipes his hand at me, and I tense, thinking he’s going to knock the pills out of my hand, but instead his fingers go right through me. 

I let myself look up at him, finally understanding. 

Up at the kid who I always tried to avoid. The kid whose sister I have a crush on. The kid who pushed me at lunch the other day. At the kid who took my letter in the computer lab. The kid I was terrified would ruin my life with that letter (well, more ruined than it already is). The kid who I'm pretending was my best friend. The kid who killed himself. 

At Connor Murphy’s ghost. 

“Excuse me for a moment.” 

The pills scatter on the couch before I have a chance to attempt to get even one down, and I scramble to the bathroom to empty what little of Cynthia’s dinner I actually ate into the toilet.

In between heaves I try to think, to wrap my brain around this, to just have a second to breathe, not really able to do or have any of the above. 

Step one: Connor Murphy steals my letter. The letter I wrote to myself. One that was more honest than it strictly should have been. 

Step two: Connor Murphy kills himself. 

Step three: Connor Murphy’s parents think my letter is his suicide note. 

Step four: I can’t bring myself to tell the truth, so I end up going to the wake, and going to dinner at the Murphys’ house, and fabricating some crazy story about us having a picturesque friendship, and planning on making secret emails—

Step five: Connor Murphy’s ghost appears to me in my room. 

Like an actual ghost. Yesterday I didn’t believe those existed. I think my mom does, and I always liked watching documentaries about haunted houses. But what I like about the documentaries is they often include a scientific explanation.

And aren’t ghosts supposed to be like…scary? I mean, don’t get me wrong this is scary, Connor is scary—he was scary before he died. But I always thought ghosts were supposed to be like something out of a horror movie, covered in rotting flesh, unable to do anything but moan and scream. Not the kid you happen to be pretending you were best friends with showing up in your room. 

No, no, actually, I think I know what’s going on here. Yeah. There’s no ghost. This isn’t happening. The stuff with the letter didn’t even happen either. There was actually a step zero in there: 

Step zero is I went insane. 

When I manage to get the courage to come back into the room. He’s disappeared. I’ll admit, I was kinda hoping for that. I’m half relieved—more like fifteen sixteenths. Perhaps he was a hallucination after all. All those skipped dinners getting to me, when I actually ate something my body couldn’t handle it. I do my best to clean up the scattered pills on the couch, and the scattered thoughts in my brain.

But then I walk upstairs to my room I find I was wrong.

“I’ve gotten a lot reactions over the years,” he remarks when I get back. “Can’t say I’ve ever had that one.”

“Sorry, I—It’s just—I just—you’re…you’re here.”

“Not because I want to be, believe me. I’d rather be practically anywhere else.” His hand passes through my shelf. 

“And you’re dead.”

“Come on.” He feigns offense. “A little respect for your dearly departed. I mean we were best friends, after all.”

“Oh god.” That’s right, the dinner. I'd tried to block out the fact that he mentioned my story earlier. “You really heard all that?!” 

“Didn’t intend to go back to my house. Died to be rid of it, after all. But I did, and I saw you there, and I couldn’t fathom why. And here you were spouting the most incredible fucking bullshit about how we were friends.”

“Yeah-Um-So-Well—“ I breathe out, trying to get my lungs to work properly. I thought the Murphy’s house felt hot earlier. This is a couple degrees hotter than the Sahara. 

I just want this day to end. What demon (if ghosts exist, those probably exist, after all) marked their calendar for Torment-Evan-Day? I mean, that’s kinda every day, but this is a specially-crafted brand of torture. 

“The-” I swallow. “The-The letter? You know, the one that you took from me?" Then, realizing that sounds accusatory, I add, "I-I’m sure you didn’t mean to.” I shake my head. I’m trying my best to tell the truth without making him upset. It feels like a futile endeavor. “Your parents think youwrote it. T-To me, I mean. They think it was your”—I don’t know how or why, but I manage to look him in the eye—“suicide note.”

His eyes widen, but they narrow quickly afterwards. “So you just sat there and fed them bullshit about how we were friends instead of correcting them?” 

“Well, no-They—they—” No, not the Sahara, I’m ninety percent sure I’m standing right in the sun. “I tried to tell them—” I swallow. “I promise I really did!” I wipe my sweaty hands on my shirt. “I mean technically I actually did tell them you didn’t write it—they were just…they didn’t understand. They wanted me—They were looking to me for help, for answers. I couldn’t—!“ 

Once again, I don’t know how I manage to look into those soul-sucking eyes. But once I do, I realize something. 

An hour ago, I thought of him as the dead kid. The kid who killed himself. He was a concept, a symbol, more than a person I knew. But before that, as little as we talked, I did know him. He was Connor Murphy. He was real.

And in the second it takes to realize that, I’m replaying our conversations, and I’m realizing that’s wrong too. This isn’t Connor Murphy, and this isn’t the kid who killed himself. This is Connor Murphy…who killed himself. That is to say, the symbol, and the real Connor I knew, coalesce into one. 

And I realize that those eyes aren’t analyzing my soul, or trying to suck it out, or hating me, or anything like that…they are so vastly, so perfectly—

“You...You didn’t give them anything else.” I don’t know how, where, I got this random shot of bravery. “I didn’t want to take away all they had of you, even if it was—“ I laugh a little, not because it’s funny, but because I can’t figure out what else to do. “Even if it was just some stupid letter I wrote to myself.”

His eyes widen. I think it’s because he’s surprised at, angered by, my boldness. I get ready to apologize, but he says: 

“You wrote that to yourself?” 

My eyes widen. 

That’s right…I didn’t exactly let that on last time. Didn't have the chance. He thought I was messing with him.

“Y-Yeah. It…” I sigh. There’s no use denying it, and, well, it's not like he can tell anyone, right? Dead men tell no tales, after all...Except for the fact that one is talking to me. Right now. “It was an assignment from my therapist.”

Besides, if anyone’s going to understand…it’s him.

And...that's when it hits me.

Along with the realization that this is Connor Murphy, who killed himself, I realize I’ve been focused on the wrong thing. 

I was worried—certain, really—that Connor would something terrible with it. All this time I was focused on covering my ass, I was focused on the fact that the letter was mine, not Connor’s.

This whole time, even after he was gone, it didn’t compute. I didn’t realize. The reason he took it. He didn’t take it because he wanted to use it against me. 

Was it possible he took it...because he felt the same way? 

“I bet he always brings things back to some shit that happened with your father.”

“Yeah…Yeah he does do that.” I laugh a little. 

“Mine liked to equate my drug use with suppressed sexual frustrations. I told him I didn’t think they were very suppressed.”

I laugh, but quickly stop myself, remembering what happened last time I laughed at something he said, but when I turn to him he’s actually smiling. A little, at least. 

“Into the Wild.” As far as abrupt subject changes go, that one might take the cake. He turns to my shelf. 

“I’m—I’m sorry?”

He runs his finger along the spine of a book...or maybe just tries to. Or pretends to.

“O-Oh! You’re talking about the book!”

“I have a copy of it too—had," he scoffs, then mutters, seemingly more to himself than to me: "It feels weird to talk about myself in the past tense."

I'm sure it does feel weird. 

I feel weird. 

This whole thing is weird. 

Even without the whole ghost thing, it feels weird to be in my room, talking about books with Connor Murphy. Like, to actually talk to him, as opposed to nervously and pitifully trying to defend myself, fearing I'll have a black eye in the morning.

“What were you and Zoe talking about?” He asks, changing the subject yet again, like that one hadn’t satisfied him enough.

“W-Oh, you saw us talking in the car. She—“ I grimace. “She wanted to know if we, uh, if we did drugs together.” 

He snorts. “Always a charmer, that Zoe. My biggest fan you could say. You said we were friends and her first assumption was that we did drugs together. Can’t say her suspicion is unfounded. At least on my end. Though something tells me you’re not the type.”

“No—No I’ve never—“ I swallow. "No."

"So." Yet another subject change, it sounds like. "I had a secret email account, huh? I used it to talk to you all the time?

I freeze.

Yup. Just when I think the worst has already happened, I'm reminded hell has nine circles, and I haven't even arrived at the lobby.

When he was dead, he was a symbol. And, really—as terrible as it sounds—I could say anything about a symbol. I mean he wasn’t going to hear me. But now that I know he’s not dead—well, he is dead, just…undead, as insane as that is to think—and real (as far as I can tell), and he very much canhear me, I remember, despite the sadness in his eyes, this is still Connor Murphy, the kid who thew a printer at Mrs. G in second grade. 

What the hell was I thinking? 

His eyes darken. “Like, what? Secret lovers?" He shook his head. "Why the fuck would you say that?”

“Oh god, yeah I….I did say that.” Somebody just end it. “It was the only thing that made sense.”

“What kind of fucking sense does that make?!” There's a curl to his fingers. 

Even though I know he can’t hurt me, my body doesn’t; it’s been trained to run away, and can’t help but stumble backwards like there’s a corporeal person in my room. 

“Well they wanted to know how we could be friends without them knowing it.”

He scoffs. “I took you for some kind of loser. But now I see.” He leans forward so his eyes are level with mine. "You’re a diabolical mastermind, Evan Hansen.”

“I’m really—really—not. I just—” I hit the wardrobe in my backing up. I can’t believe he really thinks I intended any of this. My head falls into my hands. “Everything’s so messed up.” 

“You saying I messed everything up?!” There’s a snarl in his voice.

“No—No!” I stand, waving my hands. “I didn’t say that! That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying I messed everything up!”

I expect him to keep advancing, to try his best to punch me, but instead he stares at me, then sorta…falls onto bed (I’m both surprised he does this, and surprised he can) laying back, sighing. He puts his arm over his face and, to my even greater surprise, he begins to laugh. Not an actual happy laugh. I know this laugh: it’s the kind of laugh I laugh when my body doesn’t know what else to do. 

“Sure, people always ignoring me, always treating me like shit, like I had some disease, that was your fault.” 

“Well, I—“

“Me pushing you, that was your fault." 

“Well that’s—That’s not exactly what I meant.” 

"Me killing myself, leaving nothing but a letter you wrote to yourself…that’s totally your fault.”

I freeze again. I think hell might have frozen over.

He sighs. “You’re right about one thing: everything is truly fucked up.” 

I sit on the bed next to him and look at my hands. I’d like to say something. To do something. To offer some words of comfort. But I’m well acquainted with the fact that 'comforting' words (like 'Chin up! It'll get better!' or ‘It’s not the end of the world.’) really aren’t comforting at all. 

I’d like to at least say ‘It’ll be okay’ but…how can I say that? Maybe, for me, everything will work out in the end (…I think this is the first time that thought has ever crossed my mind) but he’s already dead. There’s nowhere for him to go. Except the afterlife. …If that even exists. 

The world’s already ended for him. 

I’d like to comfort him. To argue against him. To show him at least one nugget that has been unharmed in the fuckage that I could present to him. But I can’t disagree with him. Like…at all. 

Like I said. Things get worse and worse.

And then...you die.

I realize something.

It's not truly comforting, but it's a positive, at least.

I jerk my head up to look at him.

“Hey, maybe-maybe you could help me!”

“Help you?” He lifts his arm a little so he can raise an eyebrow at me. 

“Help me set things right! Help me tell your parents we weren’t really best friends! I’ve been wanting to tell them the truth this whole time I just—I can’t seem to get it out. You could help me figure out how to tell them!”

He sits up, studying me. “I could do that. I could help you set things right. Put an end to this charade.”

I nod profusely. 

“Help you tell my parents that the only thing they have of me is a letter you wrote to yourself. Dash all their hopes and dreams, make them miserable, you know, all that shit.”

It sounds bad when he puts it like that. Maybe the truth won't set you free after all. 

“Or.” His mouth curves into a smirk, and I smile back—not because I’m happy, not because it’s an actual happy smirk, rather because it’s the kind of smirk that makes me nervous as all hell, and when that happens my body picks from a wheel of stupid reactions. “I could watch you continue your little farce, watch you suffer as you invent more and more ridiculous ways to cover your ass.”

No, no, that sounds equally bad. Let’s not do that either. “Is there an option C?” My voice cracks. 

He considers it a moment, sits back on his hands. “I suppose we could compromise. In your little stories about me, it might be nice if you actually portrayed me accurately. I could help with that. Right now your impersonation is laughable. I don’t know how it fooled my parents.”

“I vote for option C.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I mean…What do you want?” 

“Ohh you might just regret that.” He smirks again. 

“Wait, I wasn't agreeing to giving you anything you want! I was just asking—!“

“Too late.” He puts his finger to his lips. “The deal is sealed.”

I keep digging myself into a bigger ditch without even saying anything. Let alone when I open my mouth.

“So what’s the next step of our little game?”

“Well…” I swallow. “Jared told me he could write fake emails. You know because your parents will...probably want to see them.”

“Jared, huh? Kleinman?" (I’m guessing he hasn’t forgotten about the incident from the other day.) “Good thing I’m here. If I’d left you to your own devices I’d end sounding like a—”

“Did you eat already?” 

I nearly scream—well no, not nearly, I do let out a sort of strangled cry—at my mom’s voice. I had been so focused on all of…this craziness that I forgot she was heading home. 

“I didn’t think I was that scary.” She laughs to herself a little, then she looks around the room, brow furrowed. “Were you talking to someone?”

She can’t see him. Good. I don’t have to explain why a dead kid is sitting in my room. 

“N-Nope! Just uhh—Practicing.”

“Practicing? For what?” 

“Uhh, for a play,” I say because what else could I be practicing? I can hear Connor stifling a laugh behind me. 

She blinks in surprise. “Oh, Honey, you’re in the school play?” 

She’s going to say it’s a bad idea. Because it is a bad idea. Because it’s not true. 

“That’s fantastic!”

I blink. What?

“I always thought you hated public speaking. You know, from that time you fainted?”

“I do. That’s, uhh, that’s why I signed up!” I feel my face burning, I make a thumbs up with my casted arm. I know Connor can’t exactly use this against me, but him hearing me stumble through my lies to my mom in my own home isn’t something I signed up for today. Though, I didn’t sign up for any of this. Can I unsubscribe? “Yeah, I wanna get over that fear.”

“I’m so proud of you!” She clasps her hands together. “If you haven’t eaten yet, why don’t we have a celebratory meal?”

I’m shocked. Usually she’s the police on making sure I’ve eaten. 

“Oh…Darn,” I say a little over-emphatically. “I already ate.”

“Darn.” She repeats. 

“That was fun the other day, right?” She says. “Going out for breakfast?”

So much has happened since our breakfast it already feels like ages ago. “Yeah. Definitely. It was.”

“I was thinking, how about I bag one of my shifts this week. When’s the last time we did a taco night?”

I can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure those tortillas in the freezer have turned by now. “Oh. You don’t have to.”

“No, I want to. Maybe we could even start brainstorming those essay questions together.”

The essays. Of course. Her face waits expectantly. “Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”

“Oh. That’s exciting,” she says looking victorious. “I’m excited now. Something to look forward to.”

“Yeah.”

“‘Practicing’?” Connor snorts after she leaves. “‘For a play’? You? You really need some coaching on this whole lying business. I thought you were a terrible liar with my parents but this is fucking priceless.” 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I bite.

Something dark enters his eyes. “I think hell will wait for me.”

"Well that's not what I—Oh never mind."

[ahedderick]

Painting bridges

Chugging along. I finished (I think) the shirt I was working on for my daughter yesterday afternoon. It might need a little tweak, but it's - basically there. I can't wait for her to try it on!

This morning I psyched myself up to draw the basic outlines for a commissioned painting, then took it down to Home Farm to do the underpainting in tones of brown. I set my paints up in a room at my late father's house to see if I could work a bit better there than in my own house where there are so MANY distractions.

I felt a bit 'off' as I often do when trying to paint again after a long break. Times like that, though, the years of training sort of take over and I paint with plain-ol' technique until inspiration comes back to visit again. The only difficulty was that the room I was in kept getting hotter. I ended up literally dripping sweat. I finished, cleaned up, and left the brown-toned painting there. I'll look forward to going in in about two days and seeing it fresh. That's a good way to spot mistakes while it's still early enough to correct them.

After sweating so hard working outside on the farm yesterday, I hoped to have a quieter and cooler day mostly inside today. The second story of a creaky old farmhouse with no ac, though; I guess I should have gone down earlier in the day.

The client gave me a really good reference photo, with clear directions about additions he wanted (horse and carriage, fall color). He then said one thing that made me kind of concerned. He wants me to ship it via UPS, and insure for double the price we agreed upon. That seems . . odd. However. I got my brushes back in my hands and that is a positive step. Just need to keep moving forward.

[goldeneyedgirl]

Ficmas22: Day 11: Hybrid-verse Babyfic

I cannot believe I'm posting this.

Let my bad judgment be a gift for you all.

This is one of the baby-verse concepts that I considered for Hybrid verse. This is the most coherent one, I think. Ask flowerslut, she is the champion of these takes.

ANYWAY, I might have to do a follow-up for more baby-Jasper interaction but this is definitely something that establishes the universe.

This fic is very much entrenched in the characters, world-building and mythology of Hybrid, so I would hit the tags to catch up if you haven't. Or play it fast and loose and go in blind; I support you.

I hope you enjoy it and I don't lose all credibility <3

Graduating from high school eight months pregnant wasn’t exactly something I planned for. 

But then, getting pregnant in high school wasn’t on my to-do list either. I’d felt ridiculous taking the pregnancy test in the first place, when Mom had told me that I was infertile my entire life. All of my plans had been based on the fact that I’d never be a mother, and that had always been my normal. I’d known it so long it wasn’t a tragedy, it was just a fact. 

To be faced with two extremely positive pregnancy tests was impossible. It had taken me over a week to believe it. That despite everything I knew about myself, about how my mother had raised me, I was pregnant. 

And I somehow had to tell my parents, and find a way to contact the Cullens. 

It went exactly how I expected - both my father and Simon were incredulous and there was a very emotional lecture when I confessed. About how this would change my life, how young I was, how they had wanted more for me. That I had a choice to make. 

That made me feel sick. Because my first instinct was abortion. I wasn’t even eighteen, my boyfriend and his family had disappeared without any contact details, and the combination of the baby’s biology was… messy at best. There was no guarantee my baby would make it full-term, let alone be able to function in human society. And maybe I was panicking, maybe I felt alone and very young and small and lost, especially with both my father and Simon looking at me with such exasperation. Maybe I wanted to fix this mistake, undo it, so they would stop looking at me like that. So that maybe they’d give me a hug and tell me that it was going to be okay.

But the practical side of my brain told me that it was incredibly dangerous to opt for an abortion now. That I risked drawing too much attention if I went in for any medical procedure - I had no idea what my bloodwork would look like in comparison to a humans. That any sort of official medical records outside of broken bones and a concussion were dangerous - especially without Jasper around to hack the hospital database to fudge anything abnormal. 

And the idea of a baby. Jasper’s baby. We’d never talked about children because they had never been an option. I had no idea whether he’d wanted children when he was human, whether if we had known it was possible. This decision felt too huge for me to make alone, but I had no way of calling him. And I really hated him for that; that Bella and Edward’s awkward drama was the reason that I was watching my father pour his second shot, and Simon just kept pacing. 

And what if… what if this was my only chance? What if I never saw Jasper again, and I got the abortion, and regretted losing my chance? If this wasn’t just the result of Mom lying to me about my body, but an actual one-in-a-million-chance? 

It was too much.

//

I tried so hard to conceal my pregnancy, which wasn’t easy when I weight 95 pounds soaking wet. For a while, my saving grace was layers of winter clothing, hiding the bump under sweaters and swing dresses. 

But nothing good lasts forever. The charming Lauren Mallory cornered me in the bathrooms towards the end of winter; the school had the heat so high I’d been sweating under all my layers and had slipped into the bathroom to peel off my jacket and sweater for a moment. And wearing only a t-shirt and jeans, there was no denying I was knocked up. Lauren had been delighted and scandalised by her discovery and the prospect of drama; she found out at the beginning of fourth period and by lunch the entire school knew. 

In a town as small as Forks, gossip is practically currency and I was a prime target from classmates, admin staff and teachers - everyone had an opinion, a though, a back-handed insult or joke to make. Lauren and some of her cronies had thought it was hilarious to make jokes and whispered behind my back, just loud enough so I could hear it. The other students treated me like a parasite, or a punchline. Several nasty jokes - and a betting chart on who the father was - were scrawled across the back of a toilet door. Some asshole broke into my locker and filled it with condoms.

It was tough. 

Bella treated me with more contempt than usual when she found out, obviously assuming that I’d hooked up with someone human after Jasper. She took to avoiding me, blatantly moving cafeteria tables when I tried to sit with her and talk. I wanted to shake her, to point out that the Cullens had left us and this loyalty to them was admirable but unhelpful, especially when the kid was Jasper’s. But Edward had somehow convinced her that I was an anomaly, a singular impossibility, or maybe a liar, and that vampires could not father children and that whatever Jasper and I had was less than her and Edward because of some imaginary hook-up I’d had with one of our classmates. 

Maybe I was a little bitter. 

But despite Bella’s very best efforts, everyone at school had correctly guessed that Jasper was the father. More than once, I heard people call me names under their breath, or people yelling things out at me, about being the reason the Cullens had left. 

I had a hard time caring, truly. My decision to keep my baby was not one I was regretting, but it wasn’t exactly how I imagined it when I had gone over my new reality. I was exhausted, sick, sore, and miserable. Carrying a half-vampire baby was hard work - angry bruises bloomed all over my stomach every time he kicked. I was eating twice as much as I had before, and yet I was losing weight. More than once, Simon had hooked me up to a drip to rehydrate me. Morning sickness was a joy that hung around long after my first – and second – trimester. Seizures, fainting, and dizzy spells were all common occurrences.

Dad was terrified for me, I could tell. Simon was handling the medical side of things as best he could, and Cynthia had become my champion - the one who was always reminding me how wonderful a baby would be, how everything would be better once he was born and I wasn’t so sick anymore. But Dad… he was the one that checked on me through the night when I was exhausted but the aches in my body prevented me from getting a wink of sleep; he was the one that made me snacks at one in the morning when I was starving. He was the one that was with me through every seizure, every fainting spell. 

“You’re going to be okay, Alice.” He would kiss my head and say that reassuringly, and I know he was trying to convince himself but he convinced me. I would be okay. 

//

By the time the summer arrived, I was as ready as I could be. My bedroom now sported a crib that Cynthia and I had painted blue, pushed against the wall next to my bed. I had learned to knit, and managed to make a wonky blanket, a hat, and a pair of lopsided socks. I’d bought most of the baby’s clothing and toys from thrift shops and online, to try and get my pitiful savings and my allowance to stretch far enough. Dad had bought the crib and a pram for me at a garage sale. Simon had bought the baby a fancy plush bear; a sign that things weren’t perfect but I was forgiven, at least.

The only good thing about losing so much weight was that I didn’t need to buy any maternity clothing. Almost everything still fit me fine. 

//

My baby boy, Oliver Brandon-Whitlock, was born at 3:11 am, five pounds even. He had slightly curly black hair, and big green eyes. And there was no mistaking who his father was - he looked just like Jasper. 

Simon had insist that I risk a hospital birth, terrified that something would go badly wrong if I opted for a home birth and, honestly, after all the pain I had been in over the last eight months, he didn't have to argue with me for long. I wanted all the drugs they could give me. And even my dreams didn’t warn me of the result - an emergency c-section three weeks early in the middle of the night. 

And he was beautiful. The second that they laid him on my chest, I knew him. He was mine and Jasper’s. Even though I had never gotten a clear view of him in my dreams and visions, I recognised his face. 

He seemed more alert than a typical newborn, his eyes meeting mine as he watched me carefully until they whisked him off to be tested and bathed, as the doctors stitched me back together. 

I’d like to say Ollie and I bonded in the first few hours of his life, that I held him and promised him the world and sang to him, but that would be a damn lie. I bullied the first nurse who walked into my room into helping me take a shower, and then I slept for fourteen hours without disturbance. My family, my doctors, the nurses… they all just let me sleep, assuming it was the emergency surgery that knocked me out. But I was just… so sad. Sad that I was alone. Sad that Jasper didn’t even know about Ollie. Sad that I’d brought a baby into such a messy, unplanned life. 

It wasn’t until Ollie was nearly a whole day old that I finally held him. 

// 

The plan that Dad and Simon had helped me make was that I would defer college for a year. And I would spend that year preparing to move out, just me and Ollie. Dad and Simon would pay me my allowance, plus a little extra for housekeeping whilst they were at work and Cynthia was at school. The logistics of how I would afford to live and study and raise Ollie were still fuzzy, but it was the start of a plan. A future. A life. 

//

Ollie wasn’t a big fan of sleep, unfortunately, and I blamed his father’s genes for that particular joy. It was a good night when I managed five hours of broken sleep, but it was hard to be mad when his little face lit up every time I appeared. His favourite place to sleep was on my chest, or if I dragged his crib in front of my bedroom window when the sun was shining. He liked it when I sang to him, cooing at me happily. 

Having Ollie in the house changed the mood, and I quickly became determined that I could do this alone. I had survived the pregnancy by myself, I could raise my baby by myself as well. I was the fuck-up, the one that had made this choice, so it was all on me. No one in my family would be woken in the middle of the night by Oliver’s cries. No one would have to deal with his laundry, with feeding or bathing or calming him. They could cuddle him and play with him, but everything else was up to me. 

I began mainlining sugar and black coffee like a crack fiend, and took to sleeping the rare times when Ollie did. Days blurred together a lot with exhaustion, but I had a routine. Not once did I miss doing the laundry or picking up the groceries or vacuuming. I didn’t want to give anyone the chance to tell me I was a shitty, terrible mother. That I was out of my depth and I was taking an innocent child down with me. 

I knew my Dad was worried, and Cynthia too. I overheard Simon tell my dad a few times that I was just trying to get into the rhythm of having a newborn, that he was watching me for depression. That I’d come to them if I was struggling. But it sounded like Simon was trying to convince himself, too.

And I really did fucking love my son. I loved how he gurgled at me when he woke from a nap; I loved the way he rubbed his face against his bear, how he giggled and squealed and just was - such a happy baby. I had taken hundreds of photographs of him, capturing very little grin, every giggle. 

//

At the end of July, Simon dropped the bomb. 

I’d had a long day - Ollie had decided to run a fever overnight, and spent most of the day grizzling and insisting on being held, not even allowing me to put him in the sling. I’d finally gotten him settled before dinner, and the exhaustion was weighing me down - it had been tempting to go to bed as soon as he’d fallen asleep. But I’d managed to make it to dinner, and was pushing my food around - I was both ravenous and too tired to eat. 

And then Simon carefully set down his fork and looked meaningfully at my father before he spoke. 

“The Cullens are back.”

My fork scraped against my plate when he said that, but I didn’t look up. I hadn’t been prepared for that - I simply wasn’t getting enough sleep to have a full vision, and hadn’t for months. They were there, just beyond my reach, but with Ollie waking up so many times at night… well, they’d just have to wait until he was sleeping through the night. 

“Apparently Esme Cullen didn’t like the city,” Simon continued, his voice gentle. 

“Or rather, Edward got over himself,” I murmured, taking a minuscule bite of rice and fish. It was easy to blame Edward and Carlisle for this; Edward’s word was family law and Carlisle gave in to Edward far too easily. Jasper’s choice to go with his family instead of staying with me was a raw spot that I avoided at all costs. I wasn’t… I wasn't angry but I was hurt and heartbroken and lost. Just thinking about Jasper made me feel like a wounded animal, cornered and trying to last out to protect itself from hurting more. 

And now they were back. I had somehow survived with a healthy baby without them, and they’d finally come back to Forks. After months of being so goddamn sick that I’d had to cut my hair off because it was so brittle it was snapping; after being on I.Vs to rehydrate me; fistfuls of vitamins every single day because my absorption was so low; Simon forcing fortified protein smoothies on me at every opportunity - he was still trying to do that, honestly. All the bad and ugly was done, so the Cullens had deemed it time to return. 

Maybe I was angrier than I realised. 

“What are you going to do?” Cynthia asked quietly, watching me. She’d been a rock during all of this - several of her friends had ditched her on their parents’ orders because of me, and she had said she didn’t care and didn’t want to be friends with judgemental assholes, but I still felt terrible. 

“Cynthia,” Dad said firmly, as I took another mouthful to avoid answering that question. I chewed slowly before I looked up. 

“I’m going to finish dinner, and have a shower, and go to bed,” I said calmly. “I am going to get some sleep. Tomorrow, Ollie and I are going to Port Angeles to pick up some stuff. On Saturday, I’ll go and talk to them.”

“Alone?” Cynthia was looking worried now. 

“Alone,” I said firmly. “I don’t want Oliver near them until we’ve had a talk.”

“No, I meant… do you want me or Dad or Pa to go with you? As back-up? You don’t have to do this alone.”

I looked at my younger sister, who was looking at me so kindly. Who hadn’t said a single negative thing to me since I got pregnant. I needed to tell her how much that meant to me. How I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of love and loyalty, but I treasured it. 

“No. Not this time,” I said, sounding more certain than I felt. “Maybe the next one, when they know about Ollie.”

“Do you think…” Dad began before stopping. 

“What?” I asked, looking at him, and Dad sighed. 

“Do you think the Cullens will go for primary custody?” Dad asked. “Is Jasper likely to…”

“No,” I said with certainty. “Jasper won’t try to take Ollie away.” I was far more worried that the discovery we had a child would make him disappear again.

//

My so beautifully planned out visit to the Cullens did not transpire as I envisaged it. Which was mostly go over there looking gorgeous, being distant and perfectly articulate and giving them a piece of my mind. 

Instead, Simon was called in to cover a shift at the hospital at the last minute, and Dad had taken Cynthia to Port Angeles to see a movie. He’d offered to take Ollie with them, but I hadn’t wanted to spoil Cynthia’s plans - and Ollie had started crying when I went to leave - so I decided to bring Ollie with me. 

So instead of a blow-out and the insanely cute purple lace sundress I had planned on, I found myself walking up to the Cullens’ front door in a t-shirt and cut-offs with my son in the sling across my front, cooing away. 

I felt like I was sealing my doom when I knocked on the front door. Like everything had suddenly become much, much more real. 

“Alice?” Esme looked delighted when she opened the door - perfectly unchanged from when I had last seen her, except she was wearing a hideous yellow plaid dress that had to be destroyed at all costs - but then looked utterly perplexed as Ollie’s presence registered when he squealed. “Alice, Jasper’s going to be so pleased to see you, come in.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” I said, adrenaline running through me, as Esme escorted me through the house. 

“What’s that smell?” I could hear Emmett in the sitting room as we walked through. I wondered what Ollie would smell like to them - to me, he just smelt like baby, with a hint of the shampoo I used on him. Sweet and familiar. 

“Alice!” The whole family - and Bella - were gathered in the living room, turning to greet me as I walked in. 

“Hi,” I said awkwardly, with a smile that was more of a grimace as their smiles faded into confusion and shock, Ollie letting out a coo of delight at the prospect of eight brand new people who would, in his limited life experience, want to cuddle and fuss over him. 

“What…” Emmett said softly, as Bella shook her head at me when we made eye contact; judgemental pain in my ass.

“Oh my,” Carlisle managed, looking like he’d really like to be pouring himself a drink. 

But Rosalie was in my orbit in a split-second, her hands practically twitching. “What’s his name?” she asked, watching as Ollie looked around the room in curiosity.

“Oliver,” I said, my hand falling protectively to his head. 

“Can… can I hold him?” Rosalie looked at me, her eyes oddly hopeful. 

Oliver let out a sound of enthusiasm at the sound of Rose’s voice, one little hand reaching towards her. 

“Sure,” I said, slightly surprised. I knew Rose’s complicated history with children, but I also assumed she’d be much, much crueler to me. That she’d be one of the worst of the Cullens to deal with. I carefully lifted Ollie out of the sling and passed him over into Rose’s waiting arms. As she cradled him, the most beautiful smile lit her face. 

“Aren’t you handsome?” she said, and Ollie beamed at her, his chubby hands reaching out for her hair. “He’s perfect, Alice. Aren’t you, little man?”

Suddenly, there was a gentle hand on my shoulder, and Jasper was standing next to me. I forced myself to meet his gaze and resist the urge to fling my arms around him, slap him, or burst into tears.

His expression was peaceful, utterly calm. But the look in his eyes was complete heartbreak and misery. 

“Congratulations,” he murmured. “I’m happy for you.” I could see it so clearly, that whatever he was assuming - that I had moved on - was the end for us. That the situation was utterly hopeless for him. 

And the righteous indignation rose its ugly head. He couldn’t look at me like that, as if he had lost something.

I scowled, crossing my arms over my chest. “You and I need to have a talk,” I said flatly, as Rosalie and Esme absconded with Ollie to perch on the couch together. Ollie was the center of attention, and loving every moment. Carlisle and Emmett were crowded around the couch, too, watching as Ollie examined the world around him, occasionally squealing or cooing.

“We don’t have to. I understand,” he said, and the unhappiness was practically seeping from him. It made sense, honestly. The sight of his mate with an infant that - in his eyes - was someone else’s child. The human side of him might have academically understood that I could move on, but the instinctual part… 

I was actually surprised that Jasper hadn’t recognised Ollie yet. Vampire instincts were so sharp and almost animalistic - I had assumed Jasper would recognise Ollie by scent. Or the fact he was a tiny clone. I was practically a damn Xerox machine. 

“You missed all the really fun parts – like telling my parents. They were not happy. And finishing high school looking like I had a watermelon under my dress. All the judgement and gossip. Oh, and labour. Sixteen hours, and then they had to take me to surgery because I was too small,” I said. “Next time, a phone number or an email address would be super helpful.”

“What?” Edward hissed, but I was too busy watching emotions flicker across Jasper’s face – confusion, hope, fear, relief, and sheer bewilderment. 

I marched over to the couch and plucked Ollie from Rosalie, before handing him to a suddenly wide-eyed Jasper, who held him away from his body. Luckily, Ollie was cheerful and just blew a spit-bubble at him, before sucking on his hand.

“Happy father’s day,” I said, and if Jasper could have, I think he would have fainted. 

“W-what?” he managed, looking down at Ollie, who stared back. 

“What?” Edward said, jumping up in shock.

“He’s Jasper’s?” Esme gasped. 

“Did any of you actually look at him? Of course he’s Jasper’s,” Rosalie sniffed. “That’s not how you hold a baby, Jasper.” She was at his side, trying to resist taking Ollie back, but I could see it was a losing battle. 

Everyone just stared at Ollie, who was done with all the strangers looking at him, whilst being held so awkwardly, and let out a wail that had both Esme and Rosalie cooing at him, and all the men looking alarmed, as I scooped him back up and let him rest his head on my shoulder.

“He was born three months ago, but he’s definitely advanced,” I said, quietly, pulling a pacifier out of my pocket when he began to whine. “It’s been hard to hide that.”

Jasper was clearly not yet processing anything beyond the word, ‘father’, so Carlisle came to the rescue. 

“It was a normal pregnancy?” he asked, as Ollie whined, snuggling against me. 

I let out a bark of laughter. “There was nothing normal about it. It lasted the longest eight months of my life,” I said frankly. “It was hard. I… I didn’t think we’d both make it at times.” I could feel Jasper moving closer to me, a protective gesture. 

“But you and Oliver are both healthy now?” Carlisle looked fascinated by the concept, and I didn’t want my baby to become an experiment. 

“For the most part,” I replied. No one could deny that I was at least ten pounds underweight, and Simon still hadn’t ruled out postpartum depression. He had me at the Baby Clinic every Wednesday to chat with the nurses, just to make sure. And Ollie had just recovered from what I was assuming was a mild allergy to our fabric softener. 

“And he’s human?” Esme asked, her eyes soft and her hands clasped in front of her. 

“He’s advanced,” I said, rocking him as he grizzled at me. “He’s already laughing and grabbing things.” Dad and Simon hadn’t commented on that aspect, and I was grateful for it. “The nurse said he looked closer to four or five months when she saw him last.”

“He’s beautiful - just like his mother.” Jasper’s voice was low, for my ears only, and I turned to smile at him. He was looking at me with this devoted look, one that he usually only wore when we were alone. 

“Sit down Alice,” Esme said, motioning for me to move to the couch. “Why don’t you tell us everything?” 

I moved carefully, Rosalie half orbiting me, but Ollie was dozing now. 

“How is this even possible?” Edward finally blurted out, loud enough that Ollie let out a whine around his pacifier, and I rubbed his back to soothe him. 

“When a man and woman love each other very much,” I intoned sarcastically and Edward scowled at me. “Edward, Jasper and I had sex and I got pregnant. I know you’ve convinced yourself and Bella that I’m some kind of miracle or impossible occurrence or a liar, but…”

“He’s not even a little bit like us?” Edward shot back. 

Jasper let out a rumble of displeasure and Bella moved closer to Edward. 

“He hasn’t been a big fan of sleep,” I admitted. “He doesn’t seem to need much.”

Jasper was sitting beside me now, one hand oh so carefully reaching out to brush a curl from Ollie’s face with a look of wonder. 

“I want to say I’m still mad at you all. I’m furious, I’m hurt and I don’t trust you not to pull a stunt like this again,” I said flatly, making eye-contact with Carlisle. “I’m here because Ollie deserves both of his parents.” And I still love his idiot father. 

“Of course. If we had known…” Carlisle began apologetically. 

“No. It doesn’t matter if I was pregnant or not. You should have respected me - and Bella - enough to talk to us. To communicate like adults. Left us a way to contact you if we needed help or just closure. It was cruel,” I shot back. “Edward shouldn’t get to dictate your entire family’s lifestyle based on whatever pang of guilt or nihilism he gets. I won’t let him do that to me or to Oliver.”

“Edward truly thought it was the best…” Esme began.

“No. He thought about himself. He didn’t think about us at all. About Bella sitting in a room for months, so depressed she was practically catatonic. He didn’t think about me being taken to the E.R. six months pregnant because I was having back to back seizures,” I said calmly. “He didn’t think about the fact that Victoria and Laurent are still out there, and we both have a target on our backs. Edward decide to run away rather than face his feelings and problem solve. We were an inconvenience to a life dedicated to self-indulgent misery, so it was easier to run.”

Silence. 

“I mean…” Emmett began, and everyone glared at him. 

“Catatonic?” Edward turned to Bella, horror on his face, and Bella averted her gaze.

“Yup. All through winter. I did my best to be a good friend, I understood how bad it hurt to be left behind,” I said sweetly. “Supportive, understanding, the works. Thanks so much for having my back during the pregnancy, Bella.” My tone was poisonous and Emmett whistled. 

“Some unresolved issues?” He offered, and Rosalie scowled at him. 

“Thanks to Bella’s constant protests about who knocked me up, there was a betting schedule on the back of the girl’s bathroom door right up until graduation,” I said. “Really made me feel supported.” Like I would have for her, if Edward had ever deigned to touch her. 

“You were alone?” Jasper asked me, and I could almost feel his irritation. 

“Cynthia had my back from day one, without question,” I said. “Dad was onboard before Simon was, but I think Simon … I think he was so worried about the medical side of things that it came across as anger. I was pretty sick.”

“But at school?” Ollie was limp against my shoulder now, completely asleep. I could hear him sucking on his pacifier as we spoke; a comforting sound to me. 

“When the estranged daughter of one of Forks’ most out gay couples gets pregnant in senior year and the family of the baby’s father leaves town with less than two days notice, the gossip is pretty intense. Everyone has an opinion, and most of them aren’t good,” I shrugged. “It’s over now. I graduated, Ollie’s healthy, I’m alive.”

“We can help with the medical bills,” Esme blurted out, and it was a sweet gesture. I knew - even before I came over - that Esme would want to fix things, to heal hurts. But some of them would take time to fade; there was still a lingering urge to start screaming at them. 

“Of course,” Carlisle said. “I will arrange to have that taken care of on Monday. Your parents shouldn’t have to deal with the entire financial burden of a newborn shared by both our families.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I wanted to refuse because of my pride but honestly, Dad and Simon’s savings had taken a hit from my pregnancy - especially with them so carefully putting aside money for when I did move to college. It wasn’t like I could live in the dorms with a baby. Not to mention that Cynthia would be headed to college in three years, and I didn’t want her college fund to take a hit on my account. The Cullens had gross amounts of money - my hospital bills would be loose change to them. 

“Anything you need, Alice. At all,” Jasper looked up at me. 

“Thank you,” I said finally, wondering exactly how the conversation would look when I asked Jasper for some kind of goddamn allowance to keep Ollie in diapers and pacifiers. God, my life was ridiculous. 

//

Standing out by the car, I carefully put Ollie into the carrier in the backseat before I turned to Jasper. 

“I’m sorry for being so dramatic and coming over …” I began but he shook his head. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out to cradle my face so gently, and I absently leaned into his touch. “For everything.”

“It’s going to take time,” I said honestly. “If you want to try again, if you want to be in Oliver’s life as his father… it’s going to be take time for me to trust that you’ll be there when I turn around every single time.”

“Alice…”

“You need to make that choice; I made mine a year ago. Whether you’re up for raising him with all the human needs that goes with that, all the late nights and puking and diapers and crying. The bad and the good. You can’t just disappear without communicating. We would have to be a team,” I said in a rush.

“And if you and I are going to be together again, we need to take it slow. We need to build up that trust again, we need to figure out how to balance us and him, I need to figure out how to be a mom, if you want to be involved, you need to figure out how to be a father…”

“Alice.” Jasper took both my hands. “I don’t need time to decide. I want you both. Without question. All the bad and sad and ugly pieces. You are my family.”

I couldn’t resist it then; I leant forward to wrap my arms around him. “I missed you, you dumbass,” I mumbled into his shirt. Maybe I got a little teary, but when I pulled back I wasn’t sniffling. 

“You should come over tomorrow, and we’ll have a talk alone. Work out how this is going to look,” I said. “Let you hold Ollie without Rosalie looming over your shoulder.”

Jasper let out a chuckle. “I think Esme was over the other shoulder,” he said. 

“You should see my family with him, it’s ridiculous,” I sighed, and then checked my phone. “I need to go, or his routine is going to be out and I will pay the price tonight.” 

His gaze wandered to Ollie, sleeping comfortably in his carseat. “What’s the W stand for?”

“Hmm?” I turned around; Ollie’s blanket was tucked over his legs, the wonky monogram that Cynthia had carefully stitched into the fabric visible. “Oliver Whitlock Brandon.”

Jasper’s immediately looked up at me, surprise written all over his face.

“We can change it. I didn’t want to hyphenate incase you wanted to opt out,” I said quickly. “And I didn’t want to give him family names because I wanted him to be his own person. But we can get his birth certificate reissued.”

“Whitlock,” Jasper said. “Not Hale. Not Cullen.”

I tilted my head to the side. “Because he’s not a Hale or a Cullen. He’s a Whitlock,” I said. “We can make it Brandon-Whitlock if you want. You can pick out a middle name or-”

Jasper leant down and kissed me suddenly, lifting me til I was on my tiptoes. 

“You are perfect,” he said as he broke the kiss, my head spinning. 

//

Jasper looked pained as Ollie vomited his entire breakfast down Jasper’s shirt. I laughed, reaching out for him. 

“Welcome to fatherhood,” I said cheerfully, wiping Ollie’s mouth. He was still spotless, thankfully. “A lot more puke than you’d ever expect. Throw your shirt in the hamper, and I’ll take the laundry down.”

Jasper stripped off and honestly, it made me rethink how slow I wanted to take rebuilding our relationship. I had been the one to put a pin in our sex life - especially until Carlisle could figure out a functioning form of birth control for us - but seeing the boy half-naked in my bedroom was definitely testing me. 

“Alice, can I borrow your charger?” My bedroom door flung open, and Cynthia walked in, still texting before looking up to see Jasper shirtless, me in my underwear, and Ollie babbling in my arms. 

“Huh.” Cynthia looked Jasper up and down before flouncing over to perch on the end of my bed. “No wonder you ended up pregnant.”

“Cynthia!”

Jasper was smirking, as I put one hand on my hip as I faced my sister.

“What? I speak the truth. If you took a photo of all that,” Cynthia gestured towards Jasper who was pulling on a clean shirt, “and showed all those judgemental bitches who question ‘how someone ends up pregnant at 17 in this day and age’ exactly what you’re working with, I think they’d get it. Hell, I think they’d thank you for continuing the gene pool.”

“Knocking. Have you heard of it?” I asked through gritted teeth, as Jasper took Ollie back from me. 

“I need a charger,” she said, holding up her phone.

“Ugh!” I stormed over to my desk. “This is the gift I give my son. To be an only child.”

“Thank you Alice,” Cynthia simpered at me as I tossed her the charger. Well, threw it in the direction of her head. 

“We’re not going to have any more?” Jasper asked me, sounding wounded, and I span around to stare at him in horror, Cynthia looking between us like a tennis match. 

I was about to lose my temper on both of them before Jasper cracked and started laughing and Cynthia joined in. 

“You’re all terrible,” I informed them, right as Ollie started laughing too. 

—

[tinyfantasminha]

1 and 14 please!

referring to this

1. What canon character(s) do you love to draw the most? (And why?)

That might be surprising but Jack isn't my top 1 fave to draw LIKE SDFFSKDMGDS I MEAN I DO LOVE TO DRAW HIM but I don't enjoy the process of drawing him as much bc overall he is a pretty hard character to draw and I think most artists in twst can agree with that 💦 (me cryin n mentally preparing myself to render his hair)

I guesssssss I love to draw Idia,,,,,,, Maybe rendering his hair not as much but I love drawing Idia's face cause hes soooo expressive so it's always very fun ~

And surprisingly I love drawing cute characters like Riddle and Lilia, I feel like I'm more in my element when I'm drawing big-eyed feminine faces (which is funny and ironic bc I like hunky masculine characters the most but I dont enjoy drawing them as much as feminine twinks HHJASHJ)

Also a special mention to Dio from JJBA because OHMYGOD i love to draw this mf. Jojo characters have the perfect balance of hunky/masculine with androginous and feminine traits, like there's no bigger pleasure than to draw a big tiddy hunk with lipstick and big-ass eyelashes......... its so therapeutic I highly recommend it <3

14. Funniest thing that happened to you during the drawing process?

I have no idea 💀 uuhh idk if this counts but there was a time when I made a commission for a friend that had a NSFW joke in it, and whenever I go to therapy my therapist asks me to show any new art that I do and she insisted that I showedf what I drew in that week and I was like super embarrassed while she was like ''oh this is so nice 😇'' and I was sweating bullets thinking ''oh my god i hope she doesnt know what that english words means'' 💀💀💀

[screenshots123]

📆 31 Oct 2023 📰 Understanding dissociative identity disorder, formerly known as multiple personality disorder 🗞️ Los Angeles Times

... "The disorder has come into public awareness only in the last few decades. But one case of what would arguably be described as DID today was documented as early as the 1500s; Jeanne Fery, a 25-year-old Dominican nun, endured severe trauma and had several different identities, each with their own names and distinct characteristics. At the time, it was thought that Fery was possessed, but her experience has been re-interpreted by modern researchers as DID. Other accounts appeared in medical literature in the 1600s through the writings of Benjamin Rush, one of the founders of American psychiatry."

... "A person with DID has more than one personality state, with the different states often called “alters” or parts. The alters all reside in the same body, which may be referred to as a “system.” Alters may have different names, ages, genders, sexual orientations and personal preferences.

“Each alter serves a very special role in helping a person function,” said Fletcher, who has a DID system of 22-plus parts. “Some of them hold memories and traumas, while other help with daily functioning or keeping a person alive.”" "Everyone has different parts of themselves, said Jamie Pollack, founder of the advocacy and education nonprofit An Infinite Mind. “The professional self isn’t the same person who goes to club or goes on dates,” she said. “People with DID have those same roles, but they’re not aware of each other. If I was to meet someone at the gym and saw them the next day in a different place, I might not know who they are. “"

"“There’s a lot of memory loss,” said Fletcher, who is a survivor of trafficking and ritual abuse. In the past, Fletcher’s 17-year-old part would sometimes spend money recklessly, but she wouldn’t know about the purchases until credit card statements arrived in the mail. People would approach Fletcher, address her by name, and she would have no idea who they were."

"Fletcher wasn’t diagnosed until she was an adult, but she had strange and unusual memories that she would push down and dismiss. She found writings and drawings she’d created over the span of her life that she couldn’t understand or remember making. “I didn’t realize that I had different parts that were trying to communicate with me,” she said."

"Pollack was diagnosed with DID in 2003 at age 27. From a very young age, she had names for her different alters. “I knew that there was more than one of me. I always referred to myself as ‘we,’” she said. “I thought that everyone lived this way.”"

... "Another misconception is that when people switch alters, there’s a dramatic shift in identities — and that’s not the case for most people with DID, experts told me.

When Fletcher switches parts, she’s sometimes aware of what’s happening; other times, she isn’t. It depends on how much stress she’s under in that moment, she said. They might sweat a lot or get really intense headaches. But an outside observer is unlikely to see the change. “The media has made it look like switching is dramatic and overt,” Fletcher said, “but for many of us, it’s very subtle.”"

... "The most common form of treatment is talk therapy, experts said, particularly cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT). Antidepressants and anxiety medications are also helpful for some.

Rebecca Lester, a psychotherapist and anthropologist from Washington University in Saint Louis who has experience working with DID, noted that the dominant approach for treatment has the goal of “collapsing all of those identities into one, core self.”"

"“I don’t agree with that as a necessary goal,” she said. “For some people, that might be the right way to go, if that’s what they want. But some people do not. There’s a variety of ways we can work with people who have dissociation of various forms to help them manage it better, to be able to function better in the world.”"

"Lester had one client who was dead-set against collapsing her parts; instead, they worked on enabling her alters to communicate so that the client didn’t feel so fragmented. “Therapy helped her build a sense of community among her parts, who can work together for shared goals, which can be a really adaptive for people to live in multiplicity,” she said."

"Pollack has become skilled in this kind of internal communication. Her parts have a morning meeting and a night meeting, where everyone checks in about what they’ve been up to and what their needs are. Before she began doing this, her parts would write notes to one another in a communal planner. “I don’t lose time anymore because I’m aware of my parts, and they’re cohesive now,” she said. “I hear when they make plans, because I’m able to stay present when that happens. Even if there’s a moment I’m not, I’ve come up with tips and tricks to make it through the day.”"

"Both Pollack and Fletcher say that bottom-up therapies, or healing modalities that focus on the body such as somatic experiencing and EMDR, can be particularly helpful for people with DID. As I’ve written before, this is true for many conditions that are caused by trauma."

[lewisiana]

C.S. Lewis and the Madman

Another frightful fit—rolling on the floor and shrieking that he was damned for ever and ever. Screams and grimaces unforgettable...

When Lewis was 24 he spent close to a month helping to care for a man who had some kind of mental breakdown. The following are excerpts from his diary detailing the experience -

February 5, 1923

The Doc appeared and we had some talk. Starting from dissociation he went on to speak of the awful depths that one sometimes caught sight of underneath ones own mind....He was much more cheerful today, but looking wretched, his eyes all sunken.

February 23

Mary and the Doc came before lunch. D told me the Doc was very bad and must stay here. After lunch he began raving....Had two more bad attacks before tea—very violent. The third was the worse. Thinks (while in the fit) that he is going to Hell.

...When we started trying to get him to bed on a mattress in the drawing room there was another frightful fit—rolling on the floor and shrieking that he was damned for ever and ever. Screams and grimaces unforgettable. The fits began to get more frequent and worse. I noticed how exactly he reproduces what Faustus says in Marlowe. We spent most of the time holding him quiet—very hard work.

Dr Hichens came. They chloroformed the Doc. I had to hold his legs—dript with sweat, he’s got as strong as a horse. He was ages going over: and kept on imploring us not to shorten his last moments and send him to Hell sooner than need be.

...The Doc was now quite quiet but soon began to mutter. I was with him alone for a long time.

February 24

The Doc continued fairly quiet under the drug, but gabbling...I found the worst thing I had to contend with was a sort of horrible sympathy with the Doc’s yellings and grovellings—a cursed feeling that I could quite easily do it myself...

...The Doc seemed to become quite sane again and kept on saying irrelevant things: was threatened with several further attacks but they didn’t come on. Mary and I had to hold his hands a good deal. Sometimes he talked quite sensibly for several minutes: expressed gratitude to us in a way that would break your heart.

...During the day there were many encouraging signs. Tho’ often threatened with the attacks the Doc himself recognised them as a nervous ailment and didn’t talk about Hell. At about one o’clock Rob sent me into town to engage an ex-policeman for tonight in case of emergencies, since next time, instead of the Hell idea, the Doc might decide to murder someone...

Things seeming fairly quiet, I went up and lay down on my bed. Found I was now getting frightfully nervy: never having seen madness before, I was afraid of every odd thought that came into my own head...

The Doc came in to supper and was coaxed to eat a little. Soon however the beastly preliminary signs came on and we had to lead him into the drawing room (Rob and I). The poor fellow had got his will back and was making an effort. He begged us to help him: accepted our ‘suggestions’ that he was alright and was now mastering it.

My ‘perfectly safe’ turned out a most efficient catchword. Rob spoke to him sternly when he got wild and I spoke to him soothingly when he got scared. We managed to keep the fit in hand. Just before we got him to bed he started a bad one again, but asserted himself, using the phrase which I had suggested the day before about being a man and not afraid of bogeys.

...He held my hand for a long time after he was in bed... The Doc most pathetically thanked me for staying with him: he began to get a little extravagant, calling me an angel etc, but soon checked himself and said ‘Yes, I know that’s all sentimental nonsense’....

February 26

The Doc came down for lunch—quite normal and looking very much better than he did before the attack....wonderfully improved: hummed tunes: made a few attempts at conversation: said he would never forget what I had done for him etc...

Later at supper he started the same thing, and again at bed time. Later still, after I had gone to bed, I heard him starting again and had to go to him.

February 28

During the morning D had a very straight talk with the Doc, telling him that he knew and we knew that he was perfectly alright and that the continued hysteria was mere selfishness and nonsense. He remained quiet during the morning. We had another scene during lunch but succeeded in keeping him in hand...

He remained alright till supper and made some little response to my efforts at conversation. Towards the end of supper he began again. After much wear and tear we got him round again. ...

He was nearer the complete breakdown this time than he has been since Rob left. Contortions horrible and screaming always just about to begin. At an enormous cost of will and muscle we kept him in control.

They had succeeded in giving him the drug before I was called and he fought off its effects perversely for a solid hour.

March 1

At supper the Doc was nearly asleep and Rob got him up to bed soon afterwards. I soon came up with a hot water bottle and stayed to help in restraining an attack. Pretty near the edge this time and he said ‘I’m in Hell’ for the first time since Friday night . . .

March 3

The Doc had rather a bad attack at lunch. Even between the attacks he never rallies now: a frightful expression of misery and lethargy has settled on his face, he replies if spoken to, only in monosyllables and in a whisper. Nothing can wring the ghost of a smile from him. For painfulness I think this beats anything I’ve seen in my life...

The sight of these attacks has almost changed my deep rooted conviction that no mental pain can equal bad physical pain.

March 4

They had got on to the dreaded subject of the syphilis....Goode had been heard to say ‘You have none of the symptoms of G.P.I.’

Then he was heard talking to him about neurasthenia, particularly about the Hell idea, wh. results apparently from being frightened by one’s father in youth...The Doc, who had been heard during the interview talking in a strong and ordinary voice, was now collapsed again....

March 7

Before lunch I had to go up and talk to the Doc while he dressed. I hope I sympathise with the poor wretch, but, by God, never do I want him again to be within twenty miles of me—never...

After an hour or so of sleep I was awakened by the usual noise...He was very bad this time...We got to bed again at about four. About an hour later we were hauled up again. Mary said the dope had apparently had no effect.

After another ghastly struggle...we got him to take a second dose. In bed again about six.

March 10

He was very bad in his horrors today, flinging himself on the floor and restrained with difficulty from screaming. I was alone in charge for some time...

He finally lay down on the sofa and I sat on the table and talked to him: all the old wearisome assurances that he was quite alright, that it was nothing but nerves, that he was getting better, that there was no such place as Hell, that he was not dying, that he was not going mad . . . that he was not paralyzed, that he could master himself. It is a sort of devil’s litany that he must be as sick of hearing as I am of saying...

March 11

The Doc had several fits (indeed, tho’ milder, they have become almost continuous) but Rob attended to them. Rob is very impatient with him and bullying rather than masterful, which only excites the poor fellow more.

March 12

Came back to hear that Rob had fixed everything up by a trunk call to Pensions and the Doc was to go to Henley this afternoon. One of the most delicious moments I have had this long time: I could have gone on my knees to thank any deity who cared to claim the credit for this release.

...The Doc was very violent at lunch time and when the taxi (wh. Rob had ordered) came, I was afraid we would never get him into it. All through the meal he had been hooting and kicking and spitting out mouthfuls of food: he now began his ‘paralysis’ in a very acute form and fell on the floor.

He bade ‘a last farewell’ to Mary. It was all very painful. I hoped it was mainly an hysteric’s instinct for melodrama, but I am afraid there was a certain amount of real pain in it too...

When we got to the hospital Rob went in alone, leaving the Doc and me in the taxi. He was away for a long time. I was in agonies lest there should be some hitch at the last moment. The poor Doc described his symptoms to me once again and very nearly began the screaming. At long last Rob appeared with a very fat man and they took the patient in.

March 13

Awake once or twice in the night and had the delightful experience of imagining that I heard the Doc and then realizing that all that was over: then turning luxuriously to sleep, with the sound of heavy rain....

March 17

Had a letter from Mrs Stevenson .. [it] contained a lot of Job’s comfort about the Doc. She said that...we must look forwards to the happy time when he would have an etheric body. Then followed a long rhapsody on the delights of spiritualism.

This was rather unfortunate as spiritualism, together with Yoga and undigested psychoanalysis seem to have hastened and emphasised the Doc’s collapse...

I at any rate am scared off anything mystical and abnormal and hysterical for a long time to come.

April 11

On Saturday morning there came by the second post a letter from Rob announcing the death of the Doc the day before from heart failure.

April 22 - Letter to Arthur Greeves -

Mrs. Moore’s brother–the Doc–came here and had a sudden attack of war neurasthenia....You have no idea what it is like. He had the delusion that he was going to Hell. Can you imagine what he went through and what we went through? Arthur, whatever you do never allow yourself to get a neurosis....We hold our mental health by a thread: & nothing is worth risking it for...

After three weeks of Hell the Doc. was admitted to a pensions hospital at Richmond: and at first we had hopeful accounts of him. But the poor man had worn his body out with these horrors. Quite suddenly heart failure set in and he died–unconscious at the end.

[catboyaesthetic]

Ironsworn - Part 2.

This story was made with the help of playing Ironsworn by Shawn Tomkin. Please read more about it here.

In Pursuit of Arms

As I step outside, I look around for something resembling a blacksmith, a trader, or anything that might provide me with arms of any sort.

( Gather Information, 3+3 Wits vs. 2 and 0 – Strong Hit! )

I need not search long as the sound of iron being hammered fills the empty streets of Damula. The plume of a forge at work fills the already gray sky with a darker shade of it, and it seems to be the one of the few sources of sound and life within this hollow town. Why the Dead insist on assaulting this place, I don’t know. There seems to be little worth conquering.

I follow the sound along the muddy paths that suck away at my boots and venture over to the blacksmith, where I find a woman working away beneath an awning on an as of yet unremarkable piece of iron. Her work has made her lean, and she swings what I know to be a heavy tool like it’s a stick. Her skin is slick with sweat which glistens with the light of the forge behind her. Blacksmiths are hard and hardy folk, and she is no exception. Her hair is tied back with a headscarf that might once have held colour, but has long since grown dark with soot. Upon my arrival, she is either too involved in her work or cares too little for my presence to look up, and so I clear my throat and call out to her. “Greetings and good tidings to you, noble friend.” The woman continues hammering for a while, then quenches the blade – a touch too early for my personal tastes judging from the glow, but I keep my commentary to myself and merely smile. She pulls it from the water once more and lets it rest before finally turning to me and sizes me up in a way that seems to be something of a cultural staple at this point. “Don’t know you, so I’m not your friend.” She declares while she removes her gloves and sets them on her anvil. The thought strikes me that it seems a poor idea to rest one's sweat-filled gloves on your workspace. Especially as a blacksmith. I raise my hands defensively. “Of course, I don’t mean to claim undue familiarity-“ “Say less, you’ll tie your tongue in knots if you keep yapping like that." She interrupts. "You need something, clearly, so out with it.” I like her. I’m not sure what it is that keeps drawing out the courtier in me. Maybe Hann had more of an influence on me than I thought, and a pit opens in my stomach as I think on him. “Very well,” I say, “I’d like a weapon. You look like you make them. Do you have any?” She folds her arms across her chest and sniffs. “As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve been working on something special for someone." She pauses for a while. "I don’t think he’s gonna need it any time soon.” “Why?” “He died.” She replies brusquely, her face a mask. ”Fool got himself killed. Should’ve waited until I’d finished what I’d been working on.” Her tone carries something more than just cold judgement. Though I cannot be sure, her voice lingers with grief, and for a moment I feel we are kin. After a moment of searching, she turns back with bundle wrapped in cloth and sizes me up once more. “I’ll warn you, this isn’t as practical or as easy to wield as a spear or an axe. This is a proper weapon of war.” As she draws up the cloth, she reveals a longsword so lovingly crafted, I feel unworthy of wielding it. Despite its basic design, the simplicity of it served to give it an air of elegance rather than a crudeness of form. The crossguard is a simple affair, two prongs pointing outward. But the way they thinned ever so slightly allowed it to serve as a pick. The hilt was covered with black leather and the pommel resembled the waves that crashed against the cliffs nearby. Its balance of decoration and purpose was well-weighted, and I look upon the blacksmith then with fresh respect and admiration. Her ability to restrain herself while still adding art to what was ultimately made to be a tool was nothing short of exemplary, and this work of hers made me believe her talents were wasted, in this hole at the end of the world.

None of this I said to her. It is one of my many regrets. As I held the unveiled sword by the cloth underneath it, I wondered how I was going to pay for it. She must have been able to read it off my face. “Can’t afford it, can you?” She asks, and I hear no pity in her voice. I hear frustration instead, and I think to myself I should have informed her earlier. Still, this is something I need to fulfill my vow, and I turn to the blacksmith. “No. I can’t.” I say, then hand the sword back to her to indicate that I have no intention of stealing it. She takes it, wraps it back up, and we stare at one another for a little while before the silence grows to thick and I speak up once more.

( Compel, 5+3 vs. 6 and 9. – Weak Hit. )

“I need this.” I tell her plainly, “I will do whatever it takes to earn it.” Again, there is that look in her eye. She takes my measure for the third time it seems, and whatever influences her to answer me, I cannot thank them enough for their intervention. “Alright,” she replies without so much as blinking. “You can have it. I’ll even let you have the scabbard that I had made for it.” She turns around and goes to gather the sword and its holder, but before she puts it away, she holds it out to me. Instinct flashes and I move just enough to keep away from the point, stopping myself from stepping in and breaking her arms as my mind catches up with my body to realise she means no harm. If she notices, she does not show it. “I have a condition,” she begins. “I made this for one of my dearest friends.” It visibly pains her to speak of him, and it is obvious she is not used to crying, nor doing so in front of another. “He was a selfless man. Kind. Generous.” Her lips tremble, and her eyes swim with tears. “He taught me the craft and did not envy my ability when I proved to be his better in a matter of months. I made this as thanks for giving me a chance all those years ago. For giving me a home. For-” Her whole face twitches with effort it takes to keep her grief in check. She does not finish the rest of her eulogy. After a moment, she can speak again. Her voice is quiet but filled with anger. The words slip past her clenched teeth like knives. “Swear that you will avenge him. That you will drench this weapon to the hilt with death and gore in his name.” In a quiet voice I am surprised to hear is my own, I ask “What was his name?” “Themon,” she decrees. I feel like a knight within the stories as she hands the blade to me. “And this blade shall be known as The Ire of Themon.” Her eyes burn into me like the forge she works at. She entrusts me with what feels like a holy relic to avenge her. The world blurs and for a moment it is just her and I. “Swear it.” She demands, the façade of divine composure cracks and I see the pain and desperation in her face for a heartbeat. How could I refuse her when I know this depth of loss? I take the sword from the cloth that has held it for so long and nod. “I swear it. Upon the Ire of Themon, to drench this blade in the gore and death of those who took them from you.”

( Swear an Iron Vow. 4+3 Heart vs. 8 and 8. – Miss! )

As I accept, I see the relief wash over her. The tears flow freely but she smiles nonetheless. I don’t know what I’ve done to help relieve this burden by taking it upon myself, but I feel woefully unprepared. Should I not try to put Themon to rest? Perhaps he has joined the Innumerable. What are their rites that ensure they end up in their proper resting places? I fear I have already sank myself too deep in the people of this land. It seems ludicrous to think merely slaying the dead will honor the memory of Themon. To claim I have killed enough after a single individual would feel insulting towards his memory, however technically correct a life for a life might be. I will strive to ask myself after every kill to see if I cannot be guided by the spirit of Themon and see if he is sated. How, I do not know. But I know he will only depart once he will have had enough. It’s strange. I’ve never been one for religion or the spiritual. Yet here I am, seriously considering the satisfaction of a ghost. “Thank you,” the blacksmith says with a softness I did not expect to hear, and I can only nod in response. As I slide the blade inside of its scabbard and tie sword belt to my waist, I wonder what it is that makes these people so trusting. The thought occurs to abandon my vow the moment I make it. That I would never have to see her again and yet gain a tool. I recoil from my own mind and a sense of disgust washes over me. What separates us from beasts if we cannot even keep our word? I look up at the sky and wonder when the sun will set. Or perhaps there is no setting of the sun here. I shrug off the thought. Only time will tell. I give the blacksmith a final glance, then set out into the gray once more.

Trespasser and Treason

As my feet get sucked into the mud beneath with every step, I wonder how feasible it is to keep this vow. I must stay realistic. Sentiment ought not to interfere with my mission. I must stay focused and keep up the search for Lena. I’ve not even been here a day and already I am getting distracted. Perhaps it is best if I set out from here. I can keep my vow to Themon if I slaughter the dead elsewhere. Damula will stand as it has been all this time even without my interference. What difference can one man truly make in the onslaught of the dead? I push away the part of me that balks at such a transgression. Am I not a man of honor? Do I not expect the word of another be kept when I give it? It stings, and yet I cannot indulge myself in every flight of fancy. I am here with a mission. I am here for Lena. In the effort to distract myself from my musings, I look around for a place where I might find further information or supplies.

( Gather Information, 2+3 Wits vs. 5 and 9 – Miss! )

At a glance, there is no leads to be found. It is obvious that what food there is is scarce, and I think no one would be eager to part with it to benefit a stranger. I suck in air through my teeth and consider my options. Theft is always an option. But first I must find a store of it. There is no granary here, there seems to be no collective organization whatsoever to begin with. Having already taken a sword from the blacksmith and not wanting to impose on Kendri, I go to investigate a nearby hovel. No light flickers within, nor does any sound seem to come from it. It seems abandoned for as far as I can tell. I step closer and look inside.

( Gather Information, 2 + 3 Wits vs 5 and 9 – Miss! )

Nothing. Not even the suggestion that food has ever been cooked here remains. By all accounts, it seems no one has lived here for years. The dust is thick and nature has crept back inside. As I watch, I see a pair of small eyes looking back at me. A rodent, one I can’t identify. We share a moment staring at one another before it continues. Perhaps thinking me no threat to its existence. An assumption that might prove to be wrong should hunger ever set in proper. For now, however, it is safe.

I move on and walk to another hovel which seems deserted. It is the same, though the design is slightly altered. I think this one used to have an accommodation to house animals. The rot has long since set in. Time and neglect has been a greater threat to this place than anything else. Still, I glance around for a moment before I set foot within.

( Scavenge, 5+3 Wits vs. 10 and 3 – Weak Hit. ) ( +2 Supply, - 2 Momentum. )

As my eyes get used to the dim light within and I step inside, I hear the ruckus I have caused to the small lives that have since taken up residence. A family rodents scurry away, with one rat-looking thing staring at me defiantly before it decides to leave with the others. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought to have seen accusation within those little eyes. But they are no concern of mine. As quietly as I can as not to draw attention to myself, I begin to rummage through the dust-covered interior. Some baskets remain, chewed open by the current residents no doubt. But as I think to move on, I catch a glimpse of something. I find myself suddenly in possession of a ham. Salted to the brink and back, to be sure, but a ham all the same. The thought strikes me that perhaps this may once have been part of one of the animals they kept here. A grim thought, and one I don’t linger on. I find myself compelled to thank the long since departed beast who will feed me for a good while yet and look around to find something to wrap it in. There is nothing clean, but I find a piece of scrap linen and a simple disheveled linen satchel in which I can carry it. Like most everything here, it has holes in it. But the damage is minimal enough that it will do in a pinch, and it is a pinch I find myself in. I look around for a while longer and find nothing of immediate use. As I make to leave, my eye falls upon something glistening from the dim light of the doorway. Tucked away in a corner of the hovel lies an amulet and the remains of the piece of leather that served to turn it into a necklace. It is an intricately carved wooden idol of some kind, a warrior, clad in armour and a helmet, with his spear at the ready. If I am to believe the common conventions of religious imagery, I don’t think I would be remiss in assuming this is some kind of talisman meant to bring fortune in battle or war. Perhaps it is meant to represent some kind of god or spirit. As I turn it over in the dim light of the room, I find myself unable to put it back down. I put it in the satchel absently and turn to leave the house, feeling as I have taken and trespassed enough.

As I walk around the town, something pulls at my attention. I find it difficult to think with my mind continuously returning to the talisman within my satchel. My mind tumbles over several questions. Is it a ward of some kind? It seems likely, given that things that ought to be feared are likely not worn. But then, what does it ward? Who does it serve? By what forces does it function? Questions ebb and flow, with answers nowhere to be found. Before I know it, the darkness has set in. The sun – what little presence it has – vanishes beneath the horizon within minutes, and soon the only light that remains are torchlight. Within this vast abyss of darkness there are only flickers of light scattered around Damula. Only now does it truly sink in just how empty this place is. How many hovels are devoid of life. How few lives remain here, in what feels like the end of the world. I’m unsure whether it’s foolhardiness or hope that keeps these people here. But I suppose one does not exclude the other.

As I make my way back to Kendri’s Rest in hopes of finding a place to sleep or at least rest somewhat comfortably, I notice there are no walls around Damula. A fact that has been stored in the back of my mind for what feels like forever, yet as the dark presses in and the chill creeps up my spine, I find it leaves me vulnerable. Furthermore, there seems to be no watch tower, no guard post. No guards. Tension slips into my steps. My hackles rise to some unseen – or imagined – threat and I take a moment amidst the darkness to look around. Despite the moon, there is nothing I can make out past the reach of a pike. But is that a sound I hear whispering on the wind? No, I’m imagining things.

( Enter the Fray, 3 + 3 Wits vs 9 and 5 – Weak Hit. )

I duck as I hear a familiar whistle and weave away from a sword swung my way. My heart beats in my chest and my feet sink into an all too familiar stance of their own accord. With one fluid motion, I pull the sword from the scabbard, jerking it backwards and slash towards where I believed the strike came from.

( Strike, 6 + 4 Iron, vs 10 and 5  – Weak Hit )

The steel connects, biting flesh. My eyes grow wide with horror and my heart sinks into my stomach as I hear an all too human cry and realize that in my haste, I have struck out at a Damulan. I see him dimly now, outlined in the dark. His face is unreadable, but his body betrays his intent. Before I can speak, he strikes and I am forced to respond in kind.

( Clash, 1 + 4 Iron, vs 3 and 5 – Weak Hit )

I was not trained to take half-measures. He swings wide and I find the block and riposte as if he were a practice dummy. I cannot stop myself from striking. Even as I know doing so means causing harm the people here, I cannot help myself like the lion cannot remove his claws. My hands move without thought and again, I strike. A cut that would have been marked as exemplary now carves a piece out of one of the few lives that remain in Damula. Again, my foe strikes before I can bid him stop.

( Clash, 2 + 4 Iron vs 1 and 7 – Weak Hit )

(End the Fight, 8 vs 5 and 8 – Weak Hit.  Enemy #1 perishes. Another foe appears. )

He is relentless in his assault. Whether in rage or in desperation he throws himself at me. His crude swing does not even come close to threatening me as I simply step aside, and skewer him in the wake of his failed strike. He gurgles something unintelligible in surprise, clings to my sword and I do him the only kindness I can by ending him quickly. He does not deserve to suffer for my mistakes, my shortcomings. I withdraw my sword and try to gather my bearings determining who – or what – it is I was facing.

( Enter the Fray, 6 + 3 Heart vs 1 and 7 – Strong Hit! )

Another foe announces himself with a wrathful cry, and my hands work of their own accord to interpose my blade.

( Strike, 4 + 4 Iron, vs 6 and 10 – Weak Hit. )

From the Ochs guard I thrust forward to provoke him into motion, and he startles, unable to see the follow-up strike coming. I rotate the sword into a powerful diagonal strike with the momentum and feel flesh give way. Sometimes I curse these hands of mine. So keen to deal death. So eager for blood.

( Clash, 5 + 4 Iron, vs 6 and 8 – Strong Hit! )

He strikes once more and I find that this one is more reserved, but still unpolished. He finds my blade blocking his, and barely a heartbeat later, it bites away at his forearm. Even within the cover of dark I can see the first cut against him slowly darken his tunic with a growing pool of blood – grey in this lack of light.

( Strike, 5 + 4 Iron vs 10 and 8 – Weak Hit. )

He reels from pain and he leaves himself open for another assault. I step in and cut at his head which he narrowly avoids, but my sword still finds a mark along his shoulder and he lets out a cry of pain. It is the sound of a man who knows that he is outmatched. Who knows death awaits him. Who knows I am his end.

( End the Fight, 9 vs 8 and 8 – Strong Hit! )

The beginning of a plea of mercy dies on his lips as his head as hewed from his body. I enter a high guard in preparation for another assault as his head hits the mud with a wet thud, but my surroundings stay silent. There is some shuffling and scraping of chairs a little ways away, and some voices go from being muffled from being inside to loud calls outside.

( Secure an Advantage, 3 + 2 Shadow vs 7 and 1 – Weak Hit. )

I know what this’ll look like. They will likely not accept the explanation. To them, I will only be a murderer. Perhaps I am. I wipe my blade clean in a hurry and swiftly sheathe it before fleeing. There is no crowd to vanish into and subsequently no need to look inconspicuous. I will be suspicious simply by being alive in this town no matter what happens or what I say. The dawn will not be kind to me. If the dead assault Damula today, they will not find me among their ranks. I must go. I must go. But where? No matter. The voices grow louder and the streets are too wide and too open to hide well. I have to get out of the open, behind a wall, anywhere but here. My feet carry me onward, ever onward, until at last I am beyond the outskirts and in the darkness proper. I carry onwards, spurred on by the need to leave, away from the consequences of my actions. I cannot outrun them forever. But it’s worked so far.

I keep walking and find the island far smaller than I had hoped it to be. Perhaps it is my conscience catching up to me or the sense of the hounds at my heels. But salvation comes in the shape of a boat tied to a tree at the edge of the island. I don’t know if I’ve been walking for minutes or for hours, but I do know that I return to the world of the living once the boat comes into view. I take off my sword belt and satchel and lay it into the boat before hoisting myself in and using the paddle that had been laying within to lead myself into more open waters. I hear no one in my wake and yet I still feel as if the hounds could be upon me at any moment. I have not looked back since I fled from Damula. I hope never to return. I unfurl the sail and set it into the wind and let it carry me from my latest sins. I have memorized a map of this land but I don’t recognize the stars in this place. Thus, I cannot lead myself north. It seems I am well and truly lost. No matter. The sun will show me where the north is come morning. Until then, I'll try to rest. But sleep does not come.

[xoteajays]

I don't know why I thought Australia's time was a day after America or at least hours behind. Don't know why I didn't talk you were just a day ahead of us. Well.. That does answers some questions for me anyway.

No offence. But me and my character think it's weird that she really is superstitious about spiritualty. But, unlike me, most of my characters would be mostly accommodating towards her. Especially Orange too.

But me on the other hand would tease her for being any superstitious way about these stories, days and events. I would tease her over this.

~

If I ever drank alone at home.. Maybe wine. But if I decide to drink any wine, it has to be specific brands because I don't actually ever like the same wine as my mother. Her brands are too light for me to enjoy any wine. Surprisingly, when I drink wine, I tend to prefer stronger flavors. But I don't drink wine that often though. And my mother's completely different than me. I won't get into that though. But I can't tolerate her.

Any time someone in my family (especially my grandmother) makes a homemade cocktail for birthdays, holidays, any celebratory event you can think of... That drinks are actually too strong. They would add just way too much alcohol that you only taste the alcohol, nothing else. I'd say that those drinks are too disgusting to drink that I'd never drink it.

I'm going to say this vulgar comment in the nicest way I can. If you've ever seen how most women and girls in my town dresses, I would just have to say that prostitutes seem to have more class than the women and girls in this town do. Seriously. That's not a joke either. Ironic with how I mainly stuck to the dress code yet I was the only one would just got constantly bitched at, while girls who should have even been sent home for actual dress code violations never did. That made no sense.

And the worst part was the colder seasons like winter. It's winter. Like cold weather, icy weather, snowy weather, blizzard weather.. The cold weathers. Yet girls would walk to school either one of three outfits; so one - tight lowcut shorts with a lot of cleavage, either short shorts (or short skirts) that basically showed their underwear while wearing ugg boots. Ugg boots won't ever protect you from the cold! Two - just any overly sized sweat clothes. Three - pajamas.. Like they just got out of bed. They don't ever attempt to dress themselves when that happens either. I hated going to school but I still dress myself for public places though, so seeing so many people even lazier than me says so a lot of these people. And this town has gotten worse throughout the years.

I was diagnosed with some conditions at a young age. But diagnosed again when I was a really younger teenager, around thirteen years old.

The anemia didn't happen until middle school, or was it high school.. I can't remember. Either way, I only known about being diagnosed with anemia because of puberty. When I first started menstruating when, I couldn't stop bleeding so I had to take birth control to regulate cycles for a while until my bleeding was stable. I actually knew that I had this anemia condition when I was in school, but I felt that I never even had to justify myself to any teachers over my conditions. But if they might know about my conditions, then it was on personal paperwork I could have about myself. And I've never participated in gym. Since I was an outcast, the "weird" person, I sat in the bleachers drawing in my book since I used to be the artistic person (but I've quit creating artworks).

Because my cousin might have stolen my costume rings - plural as in three costume rings that I still never got back, which is why I really do hate children, so maybe I should try getting new custom rings that do actually fit me. I do not know why... I've always thought rose gold was just a bizarre shade of pink. Obviously rose gold is a pinker gold color.

I've had my fair share of injures since I'm clumsy.. Many broken bones happened in my lifetime. Actually I sprained my limbs a lot too, pulled muscles a lot. I've had just about every injury. And whenever it comes to spraining my ankle, I've actually sprained my ankle by falling down the stairs multiple times in a day while falling the exact same way too.

When I was a child, can't remember which age, I broke my own bones before.. I broke my own collarbone just from tripping over the carpets in my house. That happened in the summer, right before my birthday.

Since I suffer from frequent migraines, or when any sleep schedule is me sleeping during the day... Sometimes I wear an eyemask. Because the darkness does help me sleep. And also helps my eyes any time I'd have a migraine. Lavender scents tend to worse my migraine. But any scent, most scents, tend to be heightened whenever I have migraines though. So I really can't only blame lavender scents in this situation.

Well.. What I'd consider as an eccentric flower would be really unusual plants like; the bat flower, cymbidium flower (the black flower), devil's hand flower, grevillea flower, silver vase flower, asian chrysanthemum flower are some examples of eccentric flowers that I like. Oh! And you mention that bees are your favorite insect and orchids are your flower too, then search the bee orchid. And also the beehive ginger plants.

But for traditional flowers.. I would have to say basically any flowers if the flower has multiple colors; like hybrid flowers. I don't mind hybrid roses. Dahlias - especially any variation to black widow dahlias (since the colors are black, red, maroon and burgundy). Spider lilies are also another flower. So either eccentric flowers. Or flowers with more than one color to the plant, especially darker (nearly black) colors to any of these plants too. Also blossoms. I'm trying to think of any flowers I do like but my mind is blank right now. I don't know why I'm blanking out over this. Either way, you might have some ideas what flowers I'd like.

~

I still think Keiji Kuroki would be a perfect Nanami Kento from Jujutsu Kaisen. So that is another reason why I'm a bit upset he retired from a career as an entertainer. He's the only person I would accept as Kento in every way, based on the pictures I'd sent you. That should happen.

~

I'm torn about that situation. Because on one hand, I respect that this mafia boss does removed people who betrayed him - apparently with this guy working on the side for extra money, with drugs that he even stole from the mafia boss. But on the other hand, he warned him that the two cops he was close to who really gathered information on him. But mafia guy isn't listening to him though. Why is he so stupid now?

What do you think the ending would be? Who do you think would die?

I'm trying to think of any other horror shows and movies if you would probably watch. But I don't know.. My mind is blank at the moment.

So the violent scenes with violent in Talk To Me? At least a possession scenes. Unless the movie was violent? Was the movie violent though?

- 💋

nope! a day ahead! or, like, 10 hours ahead where i am iirc.

yui used to tease shizuka over it and hiroto does think it’s kinda dumb, but he can keep his thoughts to himself. but then they also both love shizuka, quirks and all. even if her quirks are slapping nail clippers out of yui’s hands at night (japanese bad luck superstition to cut nails at night) or diving across the room to stop hiroto from killing a spider during the day (spiders are good luck in the day but bad luck at night).

i think the only ones who would get her are maybe kato and hyuga, since they’re more traditional. shizuka breaks the strap of her geta one time and freaks out and hyuga’s the only one who gets that it’s an omen of misfortune.

~

i’m not a wine drinker at all. it just all tastes the same to me. or the white wines at least, because that’s what my mum drinks. i don’t like darker wines either tho. i don’t mind being able to taste the liquor in cocktails, but i do prefer fruitier cocktails. i like having the lil burn from whiskey or rum when i mix it with colas tho. and i’ll sip shots of rum/whiskey like how most people tastetest wine.

i had a friend who wore track pants every day at school. i had no idea how she did it because it was so hot all the time. it barely gets cold in winter. i wanted to be one of those girly girls who wore the skirts, but i hated them and ended up wearing the basketball-y type shorts instead because they were comfier. cannot do the girly thing, even tho i love dresses and skirts.

i got diagnosed with pcos when i was about 20. before then, i got my period at random and it never came regularly. my mum didn’t even want to believe me when i first suggested it because i stupidly mentioned how it messes with losing weight and my mum accused me of just being fat and lazy. i got a bloodtest tho and i was right. pcos. so now i’m on birth control to regulate it, and an anti-inflammatory pain killer to help with the totally awful cramps i get. i also used to take a blood clotting medication but i’m off that one currently. i’m also being treated for hypothyroidism and a heart issue.

i was also diagnosed with depression but that’s currently going untreated.

i have a lot of clumsy injuries that have left me with some lasting issues. scars on my knees from tripping, my elbows is a bit arthritic from where i broke it, i broke my front two teeth and they have permanent caps, i’ve got a scar on the inside of my top lip where i was shoved face-first into pebble tec. i’ve also got a scar high on my forehead from when i ran into a pole. well. walked hard into a pole. which my father literally just watched me do and then laughed about until he realised i was heavily bleeding. i was a lil kid, under ten.

my mum grows bat plants! black ones. those suckers have lasted for years and my mum’s given away cuts from. i think it’s a second generation bat plant from my grandma. devil’s hands are so cool!

i LOVE bee orchids!!! i might need to add it onto my tattoo list. they’re so neat looking! it’s so weird to imagine the bee species this flower outlived.

~

bossman’s really ruling with his heart instead of his head here. should be listening a lil more, looking a lil deeper into those coincidences, but i think he doesn’t want to believe it. that this guy who’s saved his life twice and been his friend, and the girl he’s been in love with for years could be lying to him. so i guess i understand. but it’s also so dumb of him. please pretty boy. use your brain! you’re a gang leader! and a drug dealer! get away from the cop!!!

at least he’s starting to question stuff now, since there’s holes being poked in the cop’s story and his informant isn’t getting back to him.

if someone was going to die, i imagine probably the boss, if he fights against getting arrested. or gets into a dramatic shootout with the cop. i’m not sure about how it’ll end yet. still a good handful of episodes left tho! there’s lots that could happen!

the possession scenes are pretty violent, especially the kid’s. the movie does open with a guy stabbing his brother in the back and then killing himself, so there’s no shortness of violent stuff happening across the film. the visual effects for the gory parts are very good too tho.

[machinicspecters]

I've posted a new piece. Here's a fragment:

The heated concrete greedily absorbs the tremor of the steps placed on it. It seems to swell from the sun. Light penetrates it, filling it and feeding it with heat like a monstrous child stretched across the visible world. Its body covers almost every nook and cranny, stretching within a small horizon bounded by buildings. It grows like a sprawl that can't stop expanding. It draws energy directly from the sky, from the incessant summer heat, while the creatures it carries on its surface pray for rain - pray for it to wash them off the surface of the earth; to take away the heat that penetrates their skin, seeps into their muscles and bones, making their bodies slowly boil, dripping with the sweat that constantly pours from them, which, steaming, fills closed spaces with its sour smell. This is what I associate summer bus trips with. The smell has become almost synonymous with a journey to nowhere, with strange faces whose features seem to blur when they are at the periphery of my vision - when I watch them through the window as blurry reflections, having no idea that I am poking my gaze into their bodies, piercing their flesh like solar heat. Is the sun watching us, too? Is its gaze burning, searching among the small creatures scurrying across the flat concrete surfaces for something it could call mutual? Perhaps it is looking for a likeness to itself; the embers flowing from cyclical self-immolation. It looks for the seeds of self-destruction in everyday movements, in the friction of bodies against bodies, in the rustling of feet on concrete as I walk out of my neighborhood, feeling the world open up in front of me - just a little, just enough for me to feel that I can choose to walk in it.

I pass a power transformer located at the end of the parking lot next to my block. Someone has drawn a big blue penis on it (circumcised; they always draw them circumcised, although hardly anyone in Poland practices this custom). Next to it are the words: "gdzie wy?". A simple equivalent of a sentence. We can translate it as "where you?". The question is crowned with a smiling face: ":D". I wonder who could have written it - and why. I look around, looking for someone whose absence I can feel; whose absence is so strongly imprinted in the space that the buildings themselves have begun to call out to them, longing for them to return. Maybe the people addressed by the small concrete building, buzzing with electricity, used to meet by its side, looking together into the unshielded sun that burns every bit of the neighborhood's concrete body, made up of overlapping accretions, from which emerge caricatured limbs, random faces of buildings - glimpses of smiling cracks in old facades.

I think back to when, as a child, I sat on the small wall surrounding the transformer. Back then, the writing on its wall expressed affiliation with one of two rival sports clubs. I remember the flag with red and white stripes and the scribbled insults when the other side discovered the new painting. Deleted words, altered words, distorted echoes as someone's hands, armed with spray, tried to change the meaning of what they found; in an interpretive act extract from the mangled letters something they had not seen before. An ontological discussion formed on the wall, commented on live - who is a dog and who is a Jew? Walking past the transformer and seeing the inscription calling out to someone in the neighborhood void, I recall how older boys climbed over the protruding parts of the building to its slightly sloping roof. They grabbed the concrete fragments with all their might and piled up. I wanted to join them, but my small hands could not support the weight of my body. I felt pinned to the ground. Like a flightless creature. I watched them disappear on the roof and wondered if I would ever get to the top to show myself to the sun, as if I wanted to ask - can you see me now? Are we alike?