#this poem is about a sadness so deep depression is only one word for it

[wordsarefakeokay]

How do you say what can't be spoken

How do you describe the indescribable

What words are there when quiet prevails

How do we return what has been broken

Some moments are louder in silence

Moments where speechlessness abounds

It's like a car crash you can't look away from

The screeching of metal you cannot hear behind your own mirror glass

But it's a living memory you know will never leave

You're carrying something profound, this will forever roam

A looming memory that could never be defined by words in any dictionary

It's a heavyweight no combination of any language could describe

So I'll wait with you in the silence

Watch the wreck with you until everyone goes home

And then when you're ready to leave too

We can hold hands on our way home

[ash5monster01]

Truths of Our Past Part 1

Pairing: Older!Charlie Dalton x FemReader

Warnings: mentions of suicide, depression, depressing thoughts, past trauma, facing trauma, romance, understanding, fluff.

Summary: You had met Charlie in University, were married shortly after, and had become accustomed to a beautiful life together. When you receive a wedding invitation to one of Charlie’s previous classmates weddings you discover that Charlie had a dark past, one he had been trying to forget. In the midst of it all you try to help him through it while finding out that he’s not the guy you thought you married at all. Maybe he’s even better.

word count: 2.6k

Intro ←→ Part 2

Masterlist

10/3/69

Day 1/8

You loved the drive to Vermont. You and Charlie did it at least two times a year and it had never gotten any less beautiful. There was something magical about the scenery turning from giant skyscrapers to deep forests. You always told Charlie it was so romantic, poetic, and all he could ever do is smile at you when you said it. You knew he was uneasy, like always, but a small part of him was still comforted by it. The sad thing about reminiscing was it always held the good with the bad. So every time you made a trip out here you made sure it held more good because even if it didn’t erase the pain maybe it could somehow make it less.

"Recite me something darling" you asked sweetly, sliding across the front seat of the car to be pressed against his warm side. Charlie smiled as his hand curled in your own, resting on the plaid of your skirt.

"What do you want to hear?" he asked as you flew down the country roads, orange leaves spiralling up behind you. You loved the countryside. Especially in the Fall, it was so much more magical.

"Something about the season, how everything is so pretty this time of year" you told him, head coming to rest on his shoulder. You felt his lips brush softly against your forehead.

"O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.”

You hummed in contentment as he recited this to you, the golden sun kissing the tops of the trees as you reached the town of your destination. The beauty of it painted exactly like the poem.

"Robert Frost, how lovely" you told your husband and a small laugh fell from him as he took the familar route to Knox and Chris' large white house on the edge of town, miles of field behind them.

"I love that you know old dead poets" he told you, shifting the car into park, and you leaned your head up to smile at him.

"I love that I married a dead poet" you told him earnestly and his lips met yours in a soft kiss. You only pulled away when you heard the screen door on the porch slam shut. That could only mean one thing. Charlie was out of the car in an instant, helping you out beside him as the six year olds feet thumped fastly against the hard ground.

"Johnny!" your husband bellowed as he squatted down to meet the height of the small brunette boy.

"Uncle Charlie" the boy was squealing right back before launching into his embrace. You laughed as he lifted the boy to his feet, spinning him around and tossing him into the air.

"Careful Charles!" Chris was already calling from the front porch and you snickered lightly at the fact he was already in trouble. It had only been a minute.

"Sorry little man but your Mom would not hesitate to suffocate me in my sleep if you get hurt" Charlie said as he placed the boy down to the ground but the six year old didn’t care before he was already barreling over to you and wrapping his small arms around your legs.

"Hey kiddo" you said, hand ruffling through his hair and he smiled up at you.

"Aunt Y/N! Do you want to see my new toys?" he asked sweetly and your heart instantly melted.

"Of course I do" and then you were holding hands with the six year old and walking forward towards your husband. Johnny reached for Charlies hand as well and you were both swinging the small boy between you as you moved the rest of the way to the porch.

"I hope the drive went okay" Chris said once you were up the short three steps and you smiled, letting go of Johnny to give her a hug.

"Beautiful as always, Charlie recited a poem for me" you grinned and Chris chuckled as she looked to the boy, his hair shorter than the last time she saw him.

"Our boys, such charmers" she grinned and Charlie was leaning over, pressing a sweet kiss to Chris' cheek.

"You tease but I recall a poem or two that Knox wrote you and won you over" Charlie said and she just laughed at the fond memories as Johnny curled his hand back in your own, tugging you towards the house.

"Knox is inside finishing up some work, save him Charlie I beg" Chris said, putting her hands together to convey her seriousness and Charlie chuckled as he let himself into the home and made his way to the study. You and Chris followed Johnny to the living room where he did indeed show you all of his new toys.

"Hey Mr. Lawyer man, work is over" Charlie’s hands clapped down on the shoulders of the boy who sat hunched over his desk, pencil danglng from his lip.

"Charlie, you made it" Knox was turning with a wide smile, meeting Charlie in a hug. No longer concerned about the extra work he needed to get done in his week off for the wedding.

“Yeah well, Todd is getting married and I had to come check for myself that it was actually happening” Charlie said and Knox laughed, reaching to tug his tie loose.

“Yeah, it’s shocking honestly but we’re happy for him” Knox responded, shuffling over to the bar cart and pouring out two scotches for them.

“I hope me and Y/N aren’t intruding. Todd did offer a room if we needed” Charlie said as Knox handed him the crystal glass half full of amber liquid.

“Nonsense, we all want you here. Chris and Johnny would’ve had me hung if I didn’t offer it to you first” Knox said before taking a sip from the glass.

“Either way it’s good to see you, good to be back in Vermont” Charlie said but Knox didn’t miss the way his eyes nervously darted around the study, a shaky hand reaching the crystal to his lips.

“Since when did you start telling me half truths?” Knox asked and Charlie sighed, dragging a hand down his face, gold wedding band glinting from the desk lamp.

“Sorry, it’s just. It’s Vermont, I wasn’t given much choice in leaving and I didn’t have much control of what happened either” Charlie said and Knox gave him a tight lipped smile, hand falling on his shoulder.

“I know, you get used to it though. Take the week and you might find it’s not as hard anymore” Knox said, him and Todd being the only ones to stay in the neighborhood but that was mainly because of family. Charlie stayed in the city after attending Columbia and Meeks and Pitts had an apartment together somewhere in Boston.

“I heard Chris wants Johnathon to be a Welton blazer boy” Charlie said, directing the conversation in a different route.

“She suggested it. I’ve been considering. It’s tough because I know Welton is the better school for him and he’s crazy smart for a kid, but when I start thinking about all these successful things I want for him I worry I’m turning into my own parents. Forcing a kid to conform who just wants to enjoy life the way it is” Knox explained and Charlie nodded knowing exactly what he had meant. Getting older made you realize you didn’t give your parents the benefit of the doubt at the time. Maybe they really truly wanted what was best for you and not just them.

“Listen, as the guy who did not survive Welton maybe give it a shot. I heard that old bag Nolan isn’t in charge anymore and maybe you can attend classes, see the curriculum, determine if they’ve changed the last ten years” Charlie offered a suggestion and Knox’s eyebrows rose.

“I’m surprised Charles, you hated Hellton more than the rest of us” Knox exclaimed and Charlie just shrugged, sipping more of the scotch that made his insides buzz.

“If anyone can be different Knox it would be you. You wouldn’t force him to do anything, if he said he didn’t want to go to Welton anymore you’d let him leave in an instant. You’d actually have him come home on weekends and for holidays. It wouldn’t be like how it was for us” Charlie said reminiscing one too many lonely winters where his parents had yet again sent a gift instead of bringing him home for Christmas.

“I know, which is why I think we might enroll him next Fall” Knox said and Charlie gave him a smile.

“At least you can trust he’ll make good friends” Charlie told him and Knox realized he had agreed with his decision. It was possible Welton wasn’t a soul crushing machine anymore.

“Lifelong friends at that” Knox told him before clinking his glass with his own.

“Boys, dinner!” Chris called for them and Knox gave Charlie a grin before finishing his drink and heading for the door.

“Let’s go Nuwanda, Chris made meatloaf” Charlie was chuckling at his friend, finishing his own scotch before following him out the door.

Vermont made Charlie feel uneasy of course but the five of you sitting at the dinner table felt like the safest place in the world. Even if it had been months it felt like the most natural thing, easy conversation, bottomless glasses of wine, and collectively keeping Johnny from spilling his milk. Charlie realized it was the first place since Welton that made him feel comforted like that. It was funny how the worst of places could be the ones you felt the most comfortable in. So after a short prayer you were all digging in, catching up as if you didn’t call each other at least three times a week.

“Y/N dear, please tell me you brought some copies of the times. I so wish to read some of your latest articles” Chris was saying as she passed the potatoes to Knox who scooped them onto Johnny’s plate. Charlie was the one to catch the milk glass when Johnny hit it with his fork.

“Of course I did, and I brought my famous blondies for Knox” you said, pointing to the man who just smiled wide.

“That’s why you’re my favorite” he told her and the group was laughing again.

“How about you Charles, how is Wall Street, you know stocks, and money?” Chris asked, everyone laughing again at her confusion over Charlie’s work.

“It is so good Chris, our company is doing very well” he informed her and Chris smiled widely, pouring some wine into your glass.

“I’m so glad you all could get off of work for this week, we have so much to prepare” Chris said, starting to dig in to her own meat loaf.

“In layman’s terms that means the girls decorate while we do all the heavy lifting” Knox explained, reaching for a napkin to wipe Johnnys chin that had gravy dripping down it. Charlie leaned over, pointing to his own mouth to which Knox just rolled his eyes.

“He’s exaggerating. Tomorrow my mother will come over and watch the kids and we’ll go over to the Anderson’s to build centerpieces. I think the boys are going over to the venue to start setting things up” Chris explained to you, hand patting your own, and Knox chuckled.

“See heavy lifting” but Chris rolling her eyes at him was enough to shut him up.

“Kids?” you questioned and Chris suddenly beamed.

“Yes! Todd’s older brother Jeff has two, Michael who is eight and Clara who is five. She’s going to be the flower girl, isn’t that so sweet” Chris grinned, eyes blown wide at the thought of so many young kids. After her own complications during Johnathons birth she had been waiting before considering more children but you all knew she wanted at least five more.

“Wow, I bet she’ll be adorable” you tried to beam back but Charlie could see the uneasy look on your face, how you both hadn’t been able to conceive yet. It wasn’t that you were necessarily trying but you were never that careful either.

“Either way I am so excited, the whole week has been planned out. I haven’t been in a wedding since yours and Ginny Danbury’s” Chris smiled, clearly excited, and feeling the love in the air.

“We’re excited as well, I mean Todd. Forget the blushing bride we’re going to be having a blushing groom!” you teased, pivoting the conversation from children as quickly as you could.

“I’ll drink the that” Charlie said to his wife, raising his wine glass, and the group just laughed.

“I’ll serve breakfast at eight and then we can ride together to the Andersons after” Chris told you and you nodded quickly, eager to agree with any terms because she was so kind to have welcomed you in her home.

“This will be a wedding for the books” Knox said before shoving a large bite of meat loaf in his mouth that made Johnny incessantly giggle at the goofiness of his father. This also cause Charlie to follow along and when Johnny went to try himself Chris stopped it, muttering about choking hazards, and you were so thankful for Charlie allowing you to be apart of this life.

“I’m glad we’re here” you told him later that night in the guest room, hanging your dresses in the closet after folding all his dress pants into the dresser.

“Me too, Johnny has grown at least five inches since we last saw him” he said, now propped up nicely in the bed wearing an old Columbia sweatshirt and plaid pajama bottoms. You admired his wife rimmed glasses tucked on his nose and the way his thumb kept his place in his book despite his attention being on you.

“You ever miss it, the countryside?” you asked curiously, closing the now empty suitcase, and reaching for the curlers to put in your hair.

“Sometimes, I forget how quiet it is. I like the quiet” Charlie said and you were smiling, sitting beside your husband. A man of many trades and attributes. Gentle but overconfident. Teenage him must’ve been relentless.

“You do not like the quiet, I think you like that this is still home” you told him, hand resting on his knee from your spot on the edge of the bed.

“Well that’s where you’re wrong dear, because wherever you are is my home” he told you, permanent flirtatious smirk on his face, and you hoped one day he could share everything about this place. The good and the bad, because all of it shaped him into the man you loved today.

“Sweet talker” you teased, leaning forward to kiss him but before you could pull back he was tucking you softly against his chest.

“Only for you Mrs. Dalton” he told you and you couldn’t help the butterflies that flapped in your stomach, there permanently for the last six years.

“Keep it that way Mr. Dalton”

Comment if you want to be added to the taglist :))

[david-goldrock]

I am thinking about them again, so let me tell you the story of Ayala

Ayala is not their name, obviously, none of them names in the story are true.

We met in the 4th grade. I just moved towns and went to this new school, but she wasn't in it. She was at the gifted kid institute. Once every week, they'd pull us out of the school system to let us into a world of happiness, challenge, and understanding. My best of days were from there, I have yet to have told you of the time I got high off of sugar there, but that's a story from another time, for another time.

It's the 4th grade, and I just meet the fellas, many of which I still keep in touch with.

She had glasses. she always wore the same blue hoodie, summer and all. She was always a bit cold. She had this weird bowl cut hair that never crossed her shoulders, as if she cut it the shortest she could without being an outcast. she was funny, she was brilliant, smarter than I am for sure. She beat me at math, and at riddles. She solved a Rubik's Cube while I was fiddling with the upper face. She could speak a bit of Chinese by the end of that year, I couldn't remember anything but my name, which was the same word

She was my best friend at the time. I didn't have a smartphone, so we couldn't text, only call. So we did, often. once a week, twice a week, thrice a week.

When we met, I'd hug everyone. we were still young enough so it wouldn't be weird. We were still young enough I couldn't control my strength, and would often chock my friends out. She was the only one who matched my strength. Some people appreciated the hug but wanted out, not her, her hugs lasted minutes, filling my inside.

The years went on and we grew closer. We made a religion, with goals, rituals and all. we made a plan to kill every adult in the world so only we will remain. We would make jokes, we would make games, we would recite plays, we would write poems.

6th grade. I got my smartphone.

We texted, every day, for hours. We didn't know what memes were back then, nor did we have some, but we would create jokes and tell each other. We'd challenge each other with riddles and philosophical thought experiments. We would plan actual experiments. I told her her experiments would almost certainly be illegal to perform, but she just brushed it off.

7th grade, the hottest class at the institute? gender studies. of course, it is, one day I'd perform the experiment we once designed: track the gifted kid population through a 10-year period and check how many are LGBT. in our institute it's only been 4 years, and we are already over 50%. I am one of the few cishet boys in the class, as to be expected. I challenge and ask questions, often. the class almost never advanced after the first slide, we would get caught up in discussions. the discussions didn't end at class, the WhatsApp group was fuming, always running, 19\7. The discussions didn't end at the group, She and I would chat to the late hours of the night, after the teacher couldn't handle it anymore.

She convinced me god does not exist, and that it is okay, because we had each other. It took her 30 minutes to turn me from a questioner to an atheist.

She was so smart, and so funny, and so... beautiful. She was stunning. No makeup, no fancy clothes, she didn't look like a traditional model, and my parents openly called her ugly to my face.

They could never understand, She was beautiful.

I fell in love. I didn't know it at the time, I didn't recognize the feeling, I didn't know it, but now I do. I fell in love, I fell hard.

Then 8th grade. Covid hits. my grandma dies. I don't know what happened at her side, but shit hit the bottom as well. We fell into a deep depression, both of us. There were weeks at a time I would feel nothing. We would message a lot over that time, I was really sad, she was suicidal.

At 9th grade shit hit the fan, she called me, she didn't call me often by that point, only texted, so I was ecstatic.

"hey david"

"HEY WHAT'S UP? HOW ARE YOU?"

"david can I ask you something?"

"Sure..... what is it?"

"if i'm gone, will you be okay with it?"

"WTF?! NO! WTF? WHY WOULD YOU SAY IT? NO! NOT EVEN AS A JOKE!"

"please"

"NO! AYALA! YOU ARE NOT DYING ON ME"

*hangs up*

I call her mother. It took me 15 minutes to call her, I didn't have her number, Ayala didn't give it to me, and none of my friends had it. I found it 15 minutes later in a "details" card I kept from a year before.

15 dreadful minutes

She responds, she tells me she's safe, she's with her, everything's fine, she knows she is suicidal, they are working on it, thanks for calling

A month later they tell me they are non-binary, and that their name is now Ash. I am shocked. I ask them if I could still refer to them in the female. They say that in hebrew, yes, but to use "they" in english.

Their messages get less frequent

2 months later I get a call from her mom. They tell me she tried to suicide. she took an overdose of pills, and then called the hospital on herself. She is fine, but she is put in the mental hospital for the time being. No phone contact

3 months later, I get a text. "Hi, sorry for being distant, I got my phone back, for a while. I wanted to tell you that the reason I called the ambulance is that I didn't want you to be hurt, or for my cat to be hurt"

They don't respond to any of my texts. I send them memes, and drawings, and get-well-soons. I pray for them every night. I get the occasional text, once a month roughly. "ha ha", "nice one", "use the masculine next time or this will be the last time I text". I didn't even know it bothered them

I finally changed their handle on my phone. I changed it to "Ash (male) GoodHuman". I knew their family name, of course, but it didn't matter, what mattered is that I miss the GoodHuman.

Then... a year passes, and a few months more, they haven't written a text in what seemed like forever.

"Hey david, sorry for ghosting you, It was too difficult responding, I love your texts, and I will try to text you more often"

so we continue to text. turns out, they cut their hair short. they switched to cargo pants and leather, no more blue hoodie. They wore a fedora now, and had new glasses

They had a new boyfriend.

I do not remember their name, I am afraid to go look if I'm honest. I don't like the guy, he seems way too controlling, and way too sure of himself, and way too... too dumb for them. But they were happy, and after the last couple of years, it's been good enough knowing that they were happy

They texted from his phone sometimes. he switched and talked to me sometimes.

I meant to sent her something by mail. I knew the city, but not the address, so I asked.

They told me "Oh didn't I tell you? My parents got divorced. My mom couldn't handle me being trans, my dad could. I live with him now"

They give me the address

It's so close. So absurdly close. Not in my city, but my city borders a field, and the field connects to another city. I lived on the entrance to the field, they lived on the other. Half an hour by bike.

So they invite me over, and I bike. I bike like mad, I didn't know the path, it didn't matter, I rolled through the thorns, they couldn't hurt me, we are about to meet again.

And we met, and we talked, and we watched a musical, and we played, and recited plays, and sand songs, and we riddled each other riddles, and we played philosophy, and it was suddenly like the old times came back.

I asked how was it going with the boyfriend. They told me they actually were polyamorous, and if I wanted, we could have sex right there and then, her father wasn't home.

I suddenly realized... the years have changed me. I say no.

It was getting late, so I went to take my bike and... the thorns punctured them. I didn't even think to look. I waited for their father to return to bring me home, and promised: next time in my house. They gave me an origami frog. I still have it

Their father came later. he drove me back, but by the time we got home, my mother asked where I've been.

I lied. My mother hated Ash, and still called them Ayala. I don't remember my lie, I am pretty sure she knew exactly what happened, but we never talked about that.

Stuff went well for a while, then...

We went into a gender studies discussion. It went as usual, then they said "yeah, but all men are rapists".

"I'm a man"

no comment

"Ash, I ask you to back down, this hurts me a lot"

They doubled down. I don't remember what they said. I remember I shed a tear for the first time since my grandma died and say "If you want to talk with me again, back down, if not, I will not engage again"

I assumed they'd back down in a day. In 2 tops. Every day I'd check the chat, still empty.

5 months later: "I am not backing down, but it shouldn't affect our relationship-"

I stop reading

I write some "professional speech" bs about me being able to accept an apology whenever they'd like, but I cannot continue like this, and wish them the best

This is the last message in our chat

Often I ask myself if I was too dramatic, If this was too much, If I should have accepted it for our friendship. I don't know the answer

This was a year ago. more, actually. They never came for the "next time in my house". The friends who keep in touch with both of us say they are still with the same boyfriend. they colored their hair. they are trying to pass school, but having a hard time with math.

I pray they are still okay

[vera-deville]

Vera's Hauntober 2023

Day 15 - Raven (Lucifer)

10/16/2023 - 10/20/2023

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader

Word Count: 779

Warnings: None that I can think of.

Gender: GN

Taglist: @animusicnerd, @leonistic, @pyroxeene, @savanaclaw1996, @thequeenoffishburrito, @ellssbellss, @reshi-galaxy, @hanafubukki, @hitoshislover, @purplecandything, @it-happened-one-fic

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary..."

You look at the figure laying on your lap, staring at your eyes. In any other case, you'd find the act slightly unnerving, but for once, his garnet eyes were softened.

Reading glasses lay in the waves of his hair, and you gently plucked them from his crown, and placed them aside.

"Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--"

He hummed, the sound so quiet and low that the only clue of its existence was the gentle rumble that his body emitted from on top of you. You stop reading for a moment. A second passes. So does another. No mellow-toned words. Then you continue.

"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;" you raise your voice accordingly to the words you read, "And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." The poem continued steadily, and he closed his eyes as it progressed, still, but awake.

"But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping." You smile at this line, and he hears it in the way you recite the lines as though you had done so many times. In truth, you most probably had, if your detailed and amorous description of the poem was anything to go off of. "And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door."

There was a certain rhythmn to your voice. It bobbed at the end of each line - a pattern. At the moment, he couldn't tell where the story would go. The imagery created by the words, so descriptive as they were, painted a dreary scene. There hadn't necessarily been anything to point to a tragedy, yet it felt melancholic.

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before..."

Now that sounded familiar. It reminded him of the times of the past. The memories from ages long forgotten. He had never been able to quite put them into words before. However, it was at this moment that he realized, if he were to have in fact worded his misery, they would sound a little something like this.

"And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!""--

Another character? Perhaps the raven from which the title was (assumably) derived from finally makes an appearance? And from there, it was nothing but misery in that story.

"Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."" You sneak more and more glances at his face. That was the first nevermore. From this point onwards, there would be nothing for the narrator but grief, longing, and sadness. Your lover, though eyes still closed, had his brows scrunched, and if you didn't know any better (which you did know better), you'd think he was fully immersed in the story (which he was).

You read through the Raven's grim words. You read through the narrator's sorrow. You read through the disheartening story, all the way to the very end.

"And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted--nevermore!"

Your reading comes to an end. A second passes. So does another. But this time, a mellow-toned voice inquires, "Is that the end?"

You smile at his question. "Mm, it is." Setting the poem aside, not far from his glasses, you lean towards your lover. "What do you think?"

Your breath tickles his face. "It was a rather depressing story." He finally bears his sanguine eyes at you once more. "Truth be told, I expected witchcraft. Or something to do with Mammon. Not a lover's passing."

A giggle, obnoxious in nature, escapes your throat. He raises an eyebrow at this. "Aren't you glad I didn't tell you anything about the story until I started reading?"

"Honestly speaking, I would have still preferred at the very least, some sort of understanding of the nature of the story," He lightly glares at you, "But knowing you, there is some manner of enjoyment to be gained from this."

"You'd be very right about that dear~"

"I believe you understand that coming from a demon, this holds significance, but you're downright evil-"

He didn't even need to look at you to know you wear a smug grin on your face with every ounce of pride you could muster. No, he could feel it. He would never understand just why you enjoyed such dark stories, much less how you could bring yourself to laugh at the endings of said stories, but he didn't care. It wasn't meant for him to understand. Simply to experience.

Author's Note: I am falling behind with this event, so basically, I'm speedrunning my writing fics right now-

Rest assured, things will be back onto track soon enough (hopefully sooner rather than later).

See you in the next fic!

Masterlist Hauntober 2023 Masterlist

[wandafiction]

Treehouse - Just Us Chapter 88

Warnings: Panic Attack, Talks of Death and Grief. Depictions and Talks of Abuse. Mentions of Depression, PTSD and Suicide.

Word Count: 5163

Series List | Chapter 87 | Chapter 89

================================

I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath allowing the cold winter air to burn my lungs. I slowly peek my right eye open looking down the arrow towards the target in front, adjusting accordingly when the target moves slightly. I slowly exhale, my hot breath creating a mist in the air as my fingers release the arrow and it whizzes through the air. My target falls to the ground, shot right through the heart, and the white snow is soon coated with a layer of red.

My eyes scan the area to ensure there are no other possible targets before standing up from the fallen tree I was leaning against. I hold the bow in my hand as I make my way through the snow which is at least a foot deep now, the body of the fallen target slowly sinking down as the warm blood melts the snow. I look down to the body smiling sadly. I used to love hunting with Sarah. It was one of the things we used to do together. But it doesn't feel the same anymore. 

"Nice shooting, but you missed your intended target." Kate nudges her shoulder against mine as she looks at the dead creature, as my eyes follow the tracks of the deer that ran as soon as the rabbit was struck.

"I could hardly kill the rabbit, I was not going to kill the deer." I bend down, pull the arrow out of the body and wrap a bit of string around the back legs. I hand the string to Kate who slings it over her shoulder.

"How about we just walk instead? Head up to the tree house." 

"Yeah I'd like that." Kate gives me a sad smile as she starts leading the way through the forest. 

"Do you want to walk and talk, or wait till we are up in the tree house?" I let my eyes wander the snow covered forest, my pace slowing sighting to look up to the tall trees. 

"The trees have ears, the treehouse is a safe space." I hear Kate hum in confusion at my words. 

"You're weird sometimes." I shrug my shoulders as I join her side once again.

"It's something Sarah would say whenever we came out here. Something about a drawing called ' The trees have ears, the field has eyes' and a poem by someone called Catherine Fisher."

"How did the poem go?" Kate links her arm with mine leading us through the forest as I look out to a distant tree, lost in thought. 

"I believe I remember this correctly. I heard her say it enough when we came hunting for it to be stuck in my head like an annoying song." 

"Sarah did like her arts." I smile at the memory of all the paintings that covered our walls and all the poetry books in our library room.

"Yeah she did." I take a small breath before recounting the poem out loud. "Walls have ears. Doors have eyes. Trees have voices. Beasts tell lies. Beware the rain. Beware the snow. Beware the man You think you know. -Songs of Sapphique"

"Wow, that is so beautiful yet the meaning is so deep and so true." 

I hum in acknowledgement as we make it to one of the bigger trees in the forest staring at the wooden treads on the trunk. Following the treads up the trunk, and I see the small hatch for the tree house. It's not overly large, but there is enough room for 4 or 5 people to sit in it comfortably. 

"Have you been here since I was here last?" Kate shakes her head.

"No, I haven't been back here since I last saw you. I've only just made it here this week to see Grandma J, since I'm meant to be training and preparing for a few competitions. Don't get me wrong I love living in New York and doing archery but sometimes it's nice to escape. You go first."

"I know what you mean. Running seems to be the only thing I'm good at these days." I turn around not wanting to see the possible pity on Kate's, and start climbing up the tree. 

I reach the hatch, reaching up to push it open but it doesn't budge. I try hitting it with the side of my fist a couple times, but again it doesn't budge. Now it can't be blocked by snow because this thing has a roof, maybe it's just frozen over. 

"Kate, have you got your hunting knife on you?" 

"Yeah, why?" 

"Chuck it up for me." 

"Uh, no."

"What! Why not? I need it!"

"I will climb up and give it to you, knowing us, if I was to chuck it up it would end up killing you. And I don't want to see what Wanda is like when she is angry."

"Okay, well hurry up because my fingers are freezing to the wood."

"Why have you taken your gloves off?!"

"Oh my god Kate, stop asking questions and just bring me the knife otherwise I am going to turn into an icicle. And then you have to deal with an angry Sokovian and her two children."

"Wait, she's Sokovian?"

"Yup." I laugh when I hear Kate make a scramble up the ladder.

"Here, you go." She passes it up by the handle and I spin it in my hand, then stab it through the small gap between the two doors that make up the hatch. "What are you doing?"

"Opening the fucking door." My words are strained as I repeatedly use the knife to hammer away at the layer of ice holding the two doors together.

"Don't break my knife." I roll my eyes at Kate's panicked voice.

"I'm using the blunt edge to break the ice, it isn't going to break the knife." I go to hit the ice again but nearly fall out of the tree when my phone's ringtone suddenly sounds. 

"Careful!" My foot slips but Kate manages to catch it.

"Could you answer that for me please?" Kate doesn't say anything but proceeds to lean up grabbing my phone out of my back pocket. 

"Hello, family crematorium you kill 'em we grill 'em." I laugh as I look down to see Kate with a look of panic. "Oh my god Wanda, hi, yup. She is fine. Uh huh, yup. Understood. Sorry for scaring you. Yeah no problem. Tell Grandma J the treehouse she will know where we are. Okay, sure. Maybe an hour. Okay cool. Cool. Yup. You too. Byyyyeeee." 

"Everything alright?" I laugh as Kate stuffs the phone back in my pocket.

"Yeah, I think I gave Wanda a small heart attack but everything is good. Now please get that fucking door open before we both fall out of the tree." 

"Take the knife." Kate grabs the knife and I line my hand up with the gap between the two doors, then bring it back to my shoulder. With an open palm I push my hand into the doors which swing open into the treehouse. "See I got it."

"Yeah, Yeah. I never doubted your abilities, now move." She pushes her hand against my shoe to get me moving. 

I pull myself up into the tree house heading straight for the oversized bean bag, my body falling into it with a relaxed sigh. I watch as Kate hangs the rabbit from the hatch. The world goes dark for a second as Kate chucks a blanket over my head, which I unfold and lay across my body. I watch as Kate grabs her own blanket, dragging a beanbag next to mine before collapsing into hers and throwing the blanket over herself. She turns onto her right side looking directly at me, so I turn onto my left as my eyes search her face. 

"Talk to me Y/n. I mean it didn't surprise me my mom went all protective mode with you, I nearly did myself." I scrunch my brows.

"What do you mean?" Kate's hand comes up to my nose, her thumb wiping over it and I wince away.

"Your make up had started coming off after you and Wanda had your little kissing session outside the cabin." 

"She didn't do anything." I'm quick to defend and by the look of Kate's face she doesn't believe me.

"Y/n, please."

"Kate I'm telling you the truth, she didn't do this." Kate raises her eyebrows towards me.

"Then what happened Y/n, and don't tell me you fell down the stairs again." My hands pull at the edge of the blanket nervously.

"I did fall down the stairs that time." 

"Y/n, just admit that she pushed you." 

"I can't." I turn to lay on my back looking at the ceiling of the cabin.

"Why not?" Kate stretches her arms out so she can pull my body around so I'm looking at her and I can feel the tears building in my eyes. 

"Because I fell down the stairs."

"Y/n, come on. You can't just say I fell down the stairs all the time because I know she did it. Just like she shoved you into a glass cabinet, or how she blamed you for why she would hit you. Y/n she abused you!"

"I know Kate, I know she did. I've come to terms with it, I've faced it head on. I'm over it now, it's in the past so stop bringing it back up."

"Well I can't help it when you turn up to my cabin with two black eyes and a bruised nose."

"Wanda isn't Steph, Kate!" I stand up in a rush shaking my hands and legs out, my emotions starting to get the better of me.

"How do I know that, Y/n? I never even knew you were dating someone else! Just because the boys don't have marks on them doesn't mean she doesn't hit you!" Kate stands up, standing right in front of me with determination in her eyes.

"Kate, stop. Wanda doesn't hit me." Kate takes a step forward, even though I'm taller than her she is intimidating but she also keeps her distance and her hands by her side knowing how I could react. 

"No, Y/n. How do I not know you're lying about this too? What did she do? Hit you? Punch you?"

"Kate, please." I look up to the ceiling as I tap my foot not wanting to cry.

"Y/n, you were so hurt and broken when Steph sent you to hospital. Twice might I add. The first time when she pushed you into a cabinet, the second when I found you at the bottom of the stairs with blood coming out of your nose." 

"Kate, it's not like that with Wanda." My hands pull at my shirt, why is she being like this? I know she won't hit me, her body isn't tense, her arms aren't moving but her words hurt. 

"Y/n how can I trust you enough to know you are telling the truth! You never told me Steph hit you until I caught her one day! So how do I know that Wanda didn't throw you down the stairs to shut you up!"

"Wanda didn't push me down the stairs, Steph did!" I shout out and Kate's face instantly morphs into one of relief and a small amount of smugness.

"Finally." Kate collapses back into her beanbag, and my head whips around with a look of utter confusion.

"What just happened?" I'm standing up looking like a complete idiot having no clue what just happened.

"You finally admitted to me that Steph pushed you down the stairs, and don't try taking it back now because you've already said it." My mouth opens and closes as I try to find the words. 

"You accused Wanda of hurting me just so I would tell you about something that happened like 10 months ago. That's messed up, Kate." 

"But it worked. Now sit down before you pop a blood vessel." Kate taps the edge of her head. "Your vein is bulging in your forehead, meaning you're angry which is understandable but just sit down and take a breath." 

"Fine but I am angry at you." I slump down into my bean bag crossing my arms, a scowl on my face. 

"I know, but I'm okay with that because you finally admitted something you haven't before, meaning you have finally admitted it to yourself." 

"What are you, my therapist?" I scoff.

"No, but are you still going to yours?"

"Yeah."

"And how's that going? Is it still once a month?"

"It's therapy, so it's going. Some sessions are easier than others but it's changed to 2 sessions a week." I grimace when Kate sits up straighter with a look of worry on her face.

"Wait, why. What happened? What did Wanda do?" 

"Why do you assume she did anything?" I defend Wanda knowing that even though what she said at the aquarium added to the reason it most definitely is not in the top 5 reasons. 

"Because last month you were still doing your monthly appointments so she must have said or done something to trigger you, to cause your therapist to think you need biweekly sessions." I sigh, rubbing my hands over my face, as Kate pulls my legs around and my body upwards so I am now sitting facing her. 

"She didn't mean it." My elbows rest on my knees as I bury my face in my hands.

"I don't care if she didn't mean it, what did she do?" Kate's voice has a hint of anger to it, but is also full of concern.

"Promise me not to go 'best friend' crazy on her. We have worked through it, and gotten past it...kind of….so no ripping her to shreds please." 

"I can't promise that until you tell me what she did."

"Kate, please." I lift my head out of my hands slightly, my eyes glassy with tears as my foot starts to rapidly tap against the ground causing my body to move with it since my elbow is resting on my knee. 

"Fine, I promise not to put an arrow through her." I give her a pleading look. "Fine I won't hurt her in any single way, but I can't promise I won't shout at her." 

"Good enough I guess." Kate's hands come to rest on my knees, her fingers wrapping around my elbows as they start gently brushing up against them.

"What did she do Y/n?"

"Just please know she was in a bad place all week, her husband is a micro dick, manipulative, douche canoe. And that what she said came from a place of utter fear and hatred towards herself and that man."

"Y/n you're avoiding the point."

"No, I'm getting there I promise. I just need you to know that she didn't mean anything and we are working past it. Well we have worked past it, sort of. I think I forgive her but I don't 100% know because my brain keeps getting shot back into the past ever since we got here. This was meant to be a nice family vacation and so far, I've had a panic attack in the middle of the night scaring Wanda and Billy. I've disappeared for the day, they knew my whereabouts but I still ran. I had a moment in that Christmas shop when I came across a seal ornament. I just can't seem to escape it, and I'm trying my best to keep up this happy front mostly for the boys because Wanda knows I'm struggling. We've come up with a plan for when we get back to New York, which I should also probably, maybe, tell you about. God so much has happened this past month a half and most of it has been really good, like, so fucking good. But then my past comes to bite us both in the ass and just ruins everything that we had going. Not that me and Wanda aren't happy together because we are but….but…"

"Woah, woah. Calm down before you spiral." Kate's hands move to cup my face tilting it up so I'm staring at her, my hands dropping to hold onto my shirt. "You're rambling. Take a breath, please."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." My breathing starts to pick up and I choke on my words. "She didn't mean it, I promise Kate. She...she...she loves me…..she didn't hurt me….I mean….not….physically…."

"Hey, hey Y/n. Breathe for me, forget about the whole Wanda thing for a second and breathe for me." My eyes dart around the cabin.

"I can't….I can't….Kate….I can't….."

"Y/n can you look at me." My eyes move to her face for just a second before they move back to darting around the room. "Y/n I need you to copy my breathing. In. Out. In. Out."

"Kate...don't...hurt...Wanda."

"I'm not going to hurt her, I promised. You just need to concentrate on breathing for me." 

"I can't…." 

"Hey, hey. Okay. Uhm….right. Okay. Tell me five things you can see Y/n, five things you can see." 

"I can see you, the beanbags, the….uh...the painting of you, the window and the door." Kate's thumbs start gently rubbing circles on my cheeks.

"Good now 4 things you can hear. What can you hear?"

"Me and you. The wind and the creaking of trees." 

"Good, you're doing so well. Now 3 things you can feel." 

"Your hands on my face, the beanbag under me and my shirt in my hands."

"Great, keep breathing for me. You are doing so well, so well. So tell me 2 things you can smell." 

"The wood and your perfume." 

"Good Y/n, you're doing so well. Final one, just keep breathing in and out. Name me one thing you can taste."

"Blood." I see Kate's eyes go wide but I finally feel calm again, my breathing still a little hectic but I can finally get it under some control. 

"Blood?" 

"I bit my cheek." Kate nods her head.

"You are okay, you've got me and I've got you. You did so well. How are you feeling?" 

"Calmer." Kate's eyes search mine for any sign of deception but when she doesn't see any she relaxes. "How did you know the five things, thing?" 

"I remember you telling me about it once." I nod in understanding. "What happened? Wait, no that doesn't matter, I don't want you spiralling again." 

"It's okay Kate, I'm okay. My brain just couldn't keep up with my word vomit, and when you stopped me it hit me like a tonne of bricks. It happens. It's not your fault if that's what you think."

"And it's not yours either." I nod, but when I see a sign of anger on Kate's face I know I need to say something.

"It isn't Wanda's fault either. She isn't even here."

"Yeah but whatever she said has caused your brain to regress backwards. All that progress you made on being you again is just gone." I wince at her tone, my head flinching out of her hold.

"I don't want me to be just me again. I want to be better for them." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Kate I can't go back to who I was. I can't be the person I was before Sarah, I can't be the person I was with Sarah. I can't be the person I was after Sarah and before Steph. Because that me, died when she did and I'm never going to get that version of me back. And I'm okay with that. I don't want to be the kid who lived on the streets for a year, married someone who bullied them for the first few months of being at NYU, I don't want to be the depressed 20 year old who tried to take their life twice after waking up from a coma to find out my wife and child were dead. Those versions of me, I don't want them. I don't want them, Kate. I don't want them. They can go fuck themselves if they think they are ruining the best thing to happen to me in the past 2 years." 

"But they are a part of you Y/n." 

"I don't fucking want them to be a part of me." I stand up, pacing around the cabin. "Because if they are always with me I can't be the person I want to be for Wanda. I want to be better for her and unless my past selves get the fuck out of my head I can't do that."

"But you can." Kate stands up slowly holding her hands out in a way that shows me she doesn't want to hurt me but is also a sort of defensive stance, like she is scared I will hurt her.

"I can't Kate. I don't want to have to be reminded every day of what I had! I can't do that to Wanda, she deserves so much better than what I'm giving her. She needs someone who is stable, healthy, someone who doesn't have PTSD, panic attacks and any of the baggage that comes with dating me." 

"You can and you will Y/n. You are not letting that woman go just because you don't think you deserve her. You do Y/n, you deserve so much in your life and from the sounds of it Wanda has stuck by your side every time you lose yourself to the past. Whatever she said or did to you, has hurt you but the difference is you know it was not her intent to do so. You know she loves you, like really loves you. You defend her honour, you smile at the mere mention of her name, you love the twins that is plain to see. You two have a plan, you told me yourself. Which to me means you are both going to be working as a team to be a better team. But don't you dare break that woman's heart just because you think you don't deserve happiness. Y/n, you are 22, you have been through lifetimes of hurt that no one should ever have to go through but you are still here. You are still fighting. Don't give up now when you are so close to getting the happiness you want and I know you deserve."

I come to a stop, my mind going over and over what Kate's said trying to make everything make sense. I mean she is 100% completely and utterly right when it comes to my love for Wanda and those boys, but I don't know how to move past the grief and everything that comes with it. I can't get past my past, and I hate that I can't but I know deep down that I never will. It's a part of who I am today and I am going to have to learn to be okay with that...I think I can be okay with it. Eventually.

I mean Wanda has already proven to me how much she loves me, it doesn't matter what she said or did at the aquarium because I know -deep down I know - she did not mean a single thing. But that part of my brain that I can never switch off, that part of my brain that won't let me forget.

Won't let me forget the moment I woke up asking for my wife and child, the looks on my families and the doctors faces telling me all I needed to know. It won't let me forget every mark Steph left on my body, every word she spat in my face, even times she said she loved me but showed nothing near what I knew love to be. It won't let me forget the year under the bridge. It won't let me forget how Sarah used to look down on me because she has money and I didn't, and she always seemed to hold that over me till I started working for her dad. The moment we got married my money was her money, and her money was my money yet I couldn't be the one to use that money. Not unless I had earned it. 

My sister left me so she could galavant around the world in the air force, leaving me with a man who was never the father I needed to be. A mother who tried her best at protecting me from everything, but couldn't protect herself. The days where I would go to school and get into fights just so I had an outlet for my pent up emotions, it also turned out to be a great way to shift the blame for all the bruises. 

The way my life was torn apart because I decided to save the life of a child. My world was completely destroyed. My future that was meant to be written page by page about me and my family, the book torn down the spine and thrown in the fire. My brain that's meant to be able to allow me to breathe, talk, think and control how I act has never truly been mine. That control has never been in my hands. That control has always been held by others around me. First my father, then by Sarah and finally by Steph. I've never had an ounce of control over anything I do when it comes to people who are meant to love me. 

Not until Wanda. 

I mean Laura and Clint also, but Wanda. Wanda doesn't have a need to control me, she doesn't want to control me. She doesn't hold anything above me, dangling it just out of my reach and everytime I jump to get it, pull it further away. She may have her own struggles in being able to open up, talk about things before she spirals but I understand why. And she understands me on a completely different level to anyone I've known. She understands me. She loves who I am now. She wants me for who I am now, including all the broken past selves that come with it. 

She makes me feel safe, loved, cared for, special and most of all she makes me feel like I am allowed to conquer my demons with her help or own my own. She knows my needs, my wants, my desires. She knows me.

I'm her Y/n, and she's my Wanda.

I turn to look at Kate, who's eyes I assume have never left me as I have been stood frozen in the same spot for a good while. She smiles letting out a relieved sigh when I move to stand in front of her. I pull her in for a tight hug and she doesn't hesitate to reciprocate the embrace. 

After a few minutes of just hugging in silence I pull away smiling down at my best friend who is smiling right back at me.

"I need to see Wanda." Kate's smile grows, her eyes scrunching.

"She's on her way." My head tilts to the side a little as I scrunch my brows. "The phone call earlier. She asked a couple of questions including where we were and if I thought she should come to see you. So I told her to wait an hour before getting Grandma J to show her the way here." 

"I love you so much Kate." I giggle out as a few tears fall down my face as I hug her again, her head resting against my chest.

"I love you too, you big giant. Now she should be here in a minute, so unless you need anything else I'm going to head down. I will take the rabbit with me. Wanda will shout up the super secret password when she gets here, so you know it's her. Then the two of you have the treehouse to yourself." 

"Thank you Kate. Really. For all of this. Thank you." 

"It's okay, just please tidy up after yourself and Wanda. I don't want to come back to a ruined treehouse." I shove Kate off of me as I gasp.

"Excuse me, rude. Firstly, we are going to talk. I need to tell her a few things. Secondly, get your mind out of the gutter."

"Yeah but we always know that an emotional talk leads to..." Kate puts two fingers next to her lips as she pokes her tongue out, then moves her hand down making a gap between her middle and index finger of both hands and pushing them together. 

"Kate!" I smack her hands gently so they fall to her side.

"Tell me I'm wrong." I got to speak but nothing comes out. "Exactly. Now I'm going before your hot girlfriend turns up. So bye Y/n." 

"Bye Kate." I laugh out my words as she gives me a small wave before descending down the tree. 

"Oh Y/n!" I peak my head over the hatch to see Kate on the ground.

"Yeah?"

"There's condoms in the small cabinet in the corner." 

"Fuck me! You are so immature sometimes!" I flip her off.

"No thanks, that's Wanda's job!" Before I can even reply she runs off, and I move back to sit in the beanbag. 

I let my mind go through everything from the last hour, smiling to myself as all I can think about is Wanda, the twins and how I will do anything and everything for them. Apart from leave them. That was a very dumb and very scary thought and I would hate myself if I ever did that. I promised myself, I promised Wanda, I've promised the boys and I've promised Nat to never intentionally hurt them. Walking away would have hurt all of us and probably made everything so much worse in the long run. 

Wanda is my safe space, the boys fill me with happiness and all I need to do is be the best person I can be for them. I will take everything that life throws at me. I will take it and I will deal with it and I will be grateful for it. I will take strides to become a better person for them using therapy and other techniques. The space will be good because it will allow me to find things that make me happy, make me calm and relaxed for myself and not try and get it all from the three of them. 

I'm brought out of my inner turmoil, wait no, my inner feelings; and possibly even some inner peace by the voice of a beautiful red-head who lights up my world. I smile widely as I hear her shout out the password.

"Clock tower!" 

================================

[gunshou]

🌈🍉🎈🍭🕯️💌 for the ask meme!!

Oh lord, hux asking the deep questions here!

🌈is there a fic that you worked *really fucking hard on* that no one would ever know? maybe a scene/theme you struggled with?

The ONLY one that came easy was Provisions; I got the mental image from prongy and the fic just burst out one Sunday afternoon like Athena. Writing is a struggle because with two emotionally demanding jobs, all too often I lack the spoons to make words happen. I have to be feeling it, and most days I'm only feeling the crushing depression and crippling despair of living in late-stage capitalism. I had a particularly difficult time with Fear Death by Water; since omorashi isn't one of my high-interest kinks, I had to marinate that idea for a long time before I could get something viable that wasn't trite. I'm not really a planner, but I do need a clear theme and sequence before I start, or at least one scene to get me into where I can build the plot from there, and tbh most times I burn out well before the story's done.

🍉in what ways has writing helped you process trauma and/or navigate through your own life?

LOLOLOLOL I absolutely refuse to confront my feelings or my trauma. Like, I constantly minimize my own shit even while validating others (I work on a crisis hotline). So I don't really process my trauma as much as I just sort of go through it like a Soviet slug, no rifling, goes through the wall of Steve's apartment. But I guess that's partly why I'm so drawn to darkfic, because it matches my mood. I do make my characters suffer more the more stressed I am but often anything I write in that sort of mood is just self-indulgent whump that never actually gets published. Not that self-indulgent whump is bad! I just feel too self-conscious to inflict mine on other people, haha.

🎈describe your style as a writer; is it fixed? does it change?

Wow, this is a hard one. I guess I tend to go for in medias res openings and character study over action plots. I definitely prefer exploring psychological states to having the characters do a lot of things, and I tend towards sensory descriptions. I write primarily prose, although I attempted a poem exactly once and it wasn't terrible. I write shorter stories rather than longfic, although I wish I had the stamina for long works. I don't think my style changes much, really.

🍭why did you start writing?

Writing is my escape, where I have no responsibilities and no one is micromanaging me except myself. And I can fantasize about beautiful men, which is really why I'm in this biz, y'know? It's my secret dream to be a published fiction writer, but that's never going to happen, lol.

🕯️how do you think engaging with each other through tumblr, twitter, comments, kudos, creates healthy fandom experiences? How do you deal with that if you're not a social person/experience social anxiety?

One of the things I struggle with in fandom is that I'm really introverted and have social anxiety, so I crave interaction but I don't put myself out there first. I think interaction is what creates a healthy fandom: finding something you love and are passionate about and talking about it with people interested in the same thing. I get a bit sad when I see my mutes referencing long discussions about headcanons and plots because I don't really have that. It's my own fault, I'm just too shy to ever reach out, and I would never expect anyone else to. I'm a pretty lonely person, so little things like AO3 comments and tumblr notes really make my day. I fear I come across as standoffish or bitchy, but I swear, I just want to scream and flail about Bucky Barnes with people!

Thanks for the ask and all these questions!

Ask meme

[icynderbolt]

Slam Poetry:

Conventions: Slam poetry is a performance based writing style meant to showcase raw emotion from the perspective of a marginalized community. In writing, slam poems are not commonly meant to rhyme. The oral presentation of it creates and relays the melody instead. A slam poem could be read at any pace, however, it must be performed under a time limit (a competition made art form). Common traits of slam poetry performance are: the projection of voice, rhythm, body language, pausing, word play, vocalization/drawing out out of emotion, and elements of music.

Depression

What is this? What is this feeling? Why do I feel so alone? Why do I feel like drowning myself And never swimming up to the shore? Why do I feel so empty inside? Like a hollow tree that is broken inside. Why do I feel like a ship at sea? Forfeiting my life to the waves coming at me. Why do I feel like crying all night? Only to wake up to tears in my eyes. Why do I feel like a small candle light that has been dimmed by Fear, anxiety, loneliness, guilt, and hopelessness of the dark, dark night? Why do I feel like there's something behind me?! Crawling up my spine and trying to hide me. Why do I feel so pulled to the dark? Do I feel protected?! Or do I not? My heart is blank and it cannot feel. I have lost all sense of anything that is real. My hands look small and my eyes seem large. What is happening to me?! What is wrong?! Why does the world look so dull at this time? So gray and so black No colours to shine. All the happiness is drained and the joy is gone. All that is left is my sadness that lives on. I’m withering, shriveling, and drying up inside. My body feels as though it is slowly beginning to die. I am given all this food and there is so much to eat! But I starve myself instead. Yet when I cry I feel so bad So I eat ice cream in bed. I force myself to close my eyes and think of something nice. But all that ever comes to mind are the sick and horrid thoughts from when IT came to life. Why has the sun disappeared?! Or is it just midnight? I can’t tell because I can't sleep at night. I see shadows and I hear whispers whenever I slide into bed. They tell me to do such things I wish they'd never said. My mind is shutting down and I'm falling into an eternal slumber. I am afraid I won't be able to wake up after all has been discovered. Someone has built these castle walls deep within my mind. And they have succeeded at keeping me locked inside. My friends have left me and my family won’t listen, They caused all these thoughts and have forced me to give in. I lost all connections I cut all ties. What more do I need to finally close my eyes?! I’m tired of life and I’m tired of living. What else can I do when there’s nothing I'm given. No ideas No solutions All I have are dark illusions. I have nowhere to go. I have nowhere to stay. My life has been turned away so there’s no way I can remain. I run outside, right into the crowd, Looking for some help as I walk around. I don’t know what I’m thinking and I don’t know what to do, But this voice inside me has got all the clues. It tortures me and it punishes me. IT pleasures itself with my painful and violent screams. “Just give me the hints and stop tormenting me!” I must silence this voice and stop its cruel schemes! But what can I do if it’s IT against me?! I look up at the sky and think of what to do... I climb up a roof, Jump off, “See you soon…” I look back at the things that I went through. And now I'm grateful for what I'm about to do. A loud crash from down below. You wondered what it was, And now you know. My life was a miserable lie And now I have died. I have numbed all my pain, And now my suffering is gone. I have taken away my misery, And now I am gone. What was this feeling that had made me suffer? The one I felt. The one that had made my life tougher. I had asked myself until this day. “What was this horrid pain?!” And then I knew, Once it was gone That it was none other than DEPRESSION.

[johnbazley]

Summer came on way too strong and the radio played all new songs

Ten years of 'Suburbia I've Given You All And Now I'm Nothing'

The saga of The Wonder Years, as it stands, starts in earnest not with the band’s jokey, nearly-satirical debut full-length, Get Stoked On It!, but rather with Paper Boats, or Some Poems I Wrote. Vocalist Dan Campbell’s chapbook of poetry written and released between that first album and the band’s revelatory, career-altering The Upsides, Paper Boats is out of print now and hard to find online, even if you know where to look. But one scan, widely-circulated on AbsolutePunk early in the 2010s, is signed—“I got a lot off my chest in this book. I hope it makes you feel something,” writes Campbell, his initials and three Xs below the inscription.

In the first poem, “Paper Boats (Or An Introduction to Some Poems I Wrote),” Campbell starts with a pseudo-invocation in block-text: 

My life stopped lending itself to poetry a few years ago and so I’ve manufactured my sadness in these factories that rose up all over my skin and had little neighborhoods form around them only to watch the industry fail and the buildings collapse and the neighborhood give way to violence and drug addicts. Alleyways you don’t walk down even in the broadest light of day. Yes, it must have been this way because I was absolutely sadder this past year than I ever have been before and the poetry never came.

Everything that The Wonder Years would eventually realize in their music starts here: the manufacturing of sadness into art, the alignment of the self with the suburb, the urban decay of that suburb leading to self-reflection. The casual classism of a writer whose most important identity is “suburbanite” aside, it’s here in the opening words of Paper Boats that Campbell sets out on the journey eventually evolved into The Wonder Years’ third album, Suburbia I’ve Given You All And Now I’m Nothing, which turns ten years old today.

I was sixteen years old when Suburbia released on this day in 2011, but more importantly, I was sixteen years old when Suburbia leaked a few weeks earlier, in the final throes of a brutal sophomore year of high school. I was more depressed than I ever had been, starting to realize that my bad winters and weeks spent sleepless were maybe actually a problem worth investigating. I was skipping class, failing history, asking my teachers for a bathroom break and retreating to the library or a bathroom stall to have a brief, or sometimes long, panic attack, sometimes cry for a while, then move into the next act of my school day, walk to Geometry/Trigonometry, and convince myself that none of it had ever happened. On one of those days, I made it home and downloaded the leaked Suburbia, breaking a few promises to some friends that we’d all listen to it together for the first time on the way home from the music shop in my only drivers’-license-having friend’s car, and look, I don’t want to say that things got any better once that leak made its way onto my playlist, because they didn’t. 

Suburbia didn’t save me. It made my junior year of high school a hell of a lot easier, and The Greatest Generation sure made the summer between high school and my first tragic year of college much easier to miss when it was over. But the bad times always came back. The magic of Suburbia was, for a summer, convincing me that they wouldn’t, that everything was going to be okay, that no pit was too deep to climb out of with a little dedication, that if Dan Campbell could look the listener straight in the eyes and close “Came Out Swinging” with “I spent the winter writing songs about getting better / and if I’m being honest / I’m getting there,” then I could survive any number of library panic attacks.

The brilliance of the opening one-two of Suburbia is that things don’t immediately start to improve for the speaker after “Came Out Swinging” offers some little spark of hope and honesty—instead, things get worse first, as they often do. “Woke Up Older” details the night of, and more crucially, the morning after a landmark breakup. Campbell describes the image of “a Bukowski novel on a Blacklisted LP,” a callback to The Upsides’ “Everything I Own Fits In This Backpack,” which itself contains an allusion to Charles Bukowski’s “You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense” and Philadelphia hardcore band Blacklisted’s 2008 album “Heavier Than Heaven, Lonelier Than God.” Instead of shirking the image of “how this must look,” as he does in The Upsides, Campbell acquiesces: “This time / what it looked like / was just what it proved to be.”

It’s that reluctant acceptance where Suburbia really starts. Things need to get worse before they get better. You need to accept that things need to change before they ever will. I think that’s the kernel of Suburbia that resonated hard enough with audiences to launch The Wonder Years into relative punk superstardom. Simply put, as it is in “Local Man Ruins Everything,” “it’s not about forcing happiness / it’s about not letting sadness win.” Suburbia is not an album about rebuilding, but rather what happens before rebuilding, refocusing the myopia of a depressed, angry winter into something more outward, more grateful.

That gratitude is never more apparent than in the album’s interludes and finale, odes to hometown’s specific scars and folklore, which when combined restate the title of the album back to the listener. “Suburbia” calls back to the image in “Paper Boats” of an industrial small town in decay, opening with the all-timer of a first lyric: “The bowling alley burned down / They said it was a cigarette / almost believed it / there were burns in the carpet / everyone knows that / it was for the insurance, and / this is where you pick up the bus.” “I’ve Given You All” takes the tour to Memorial Park, where Campbell tells the story of a local homeless man’s unsolved murder before pivoting to the townies drinking by train tracks, “wearing starter jackets / for teams that haven’t / existed since the ‘90s,” ending in a hardly-sung “man, I’m sorry.” 

It’s local folklore like that defines the life in the suburbs. Here in New Jersey, I could take you on a similar tour. Here’s the best coffee in town. Here’s the other coffee shop that has WiFi and will let you sit around all day and write. Here’s the street where Bruce Springsteen grew up. Here’s where I went to high school. Here’s the good Dunkin Donuts. Here’s where I saw one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey once. Here’s the bad Dunkin Donuts. Here’s where I got into a car accident when I was eighteen. I’m still afraid to drive in the rain.

Maybe knowing where the worst coffee in town is doesn’t seem like a particularly useful bit of information, but I still know it. That’s what sets me apart from the tourists who descend upon my little beach town in the summer, tripling its population between Memorial Day and Labor Day. That’s what grounds me when everything else goes wrong, through break-ups, anxiety attacks, pandemics, bouts of unemployment. I know the coffee shop to avoid. To quote “All My Friends Are In Bar Bands,” "I don’t know where I am / but I know where I came from.”

It’s clear that Campbell couldn’t see the journey back to gratitude when he sat down with a pen and jotted down the opening words of Paper Boats. That much is apparent from the closing words of “Paper Boats (Or An Introduction to Some Poems I Wrote)”:

If I could go back in time to when I wrote sad little poems, I’d punch myself right in the fucking face because it gets worse man. It gets much, much worse and the sooner we realize that, the sooner we can just start dying, and I know. I know—blahblahblah nobody gives a fuck about your broken heart, but you know something? Most days, I’m not even sure what I’m upset about.

And to be fair, just over ten years ago, when Suburbia leaked, I was misled too. I would have told you that everything changed the first time I heard that album, that Ginsburg spoken-word opening to “Came Out Swinging,” those massive drum hits that open “Woke Up Older,” that I would never be sad again because I knew now that it was simply just about not letting sadness win. But I’ve let sadness win a lot since then. I’ve let it win again and again over the past year, the worst of my life. I’ve let sadness wash over me, and I’ve spent days, weeks, months inside. But last summer, when I was more broke than I’ve ever been, more broken-down than I ever hope to be again, I kept sane by driving around town. Over the bridges between towns, along each highway, past my old high school, always stopping at the good Dunkin Donuts, past the roller-rink that burned down years ago, the old Asbury Lanes that I swore off the last time it changed hands, and here’s where you pick up the bus.

[abovebelowemilycywinski]

Doki Doki Literature Club 📚📝💌🖋

Doki Doki Literature Club is a visual novel video game, I'm using this visual novel as research on my own game. This game I grew up with and know very well, this game is very close to my heart and love it dearly. It's such a unique game and changed the gaming industry due to being one of the most successful horror visual novels in the world.

This game is about you meeting and joining a Literature club with 4 cute girls in it. You chose to grow close with 1 or many of the girls, making friendship or growing future romance. This game is a romance novel until a few things in the game starts to crack. You notice your childhood friend starts to get quite and sad, you find this out through poem giving. Poems is a constant club activity, each person writes there poem and then they will all share it with you. The poems are a great way to dive deep in what is going on inside each of these character head. Your best friend Sayori stars writing dark and disturbing poems even though she is one of the most happiest person in the club. You soon learn that Sayori has extreme depression.

Sadly one day Sayori hangs herself and then the game starts to glitch with the words: Sayori.chr exe and then the game restarts showing the total screen with Sayori as a glitchy mess. The game trees to play without her however it crashes and then restarts once more. Nothing will be the same from this point on.

The main character witnesses Yuri becoming more disturbing and unhinged, becoming more and more insane. She wants to be close with you and is very extreme about it, however, Yuri has her moment where she tells you herself that something is WRONG. Yuri explains to you a book she is reading, at the first part of the game she explains it in an interesting and normal way but when the game restarts with Sayori mot in it and is more insane she describes it as something very scary and unsettling.

Yuri then also explains to you her love of knives and how much she likes to cut herself with them. She then confesses her love to you but no matter what your answer will be she will end her life through constant stabbing.

Natsuki is the only character that don't “DIE” she just gets deleted at the end and gets glitchy sometimes.

Monika is the only one in the game that is ok, she never glitches or do anything out of the ordinary, she is suspiciously normal. however she dose say some things that makes you wonder if she is behind all of this, like she is surprisingly aware of everything, like she knows she is in a game.

When everyone is deleted, you are left with Monika, you are unable to talk but Monika can talk to you, she tells you everything. What you mean to her? and why she did all of this? you are then left with nothing but just Monika, you have no choice but to go into the games files and delete Monika’s Character file causing her to die. Monica asks you why you deleted her but when you cant talk, she is left to think for herself, she realizes that she took away everyone, she killed all of her friends. She realizes that she is a monster for what she has done and decided to put all of the character back into the game. create a world with Monika no longer in it. 

This causes a happy ending, however now that Monika is no longer the one who knows she is a game, the intelligence goes to Sayori. That's the end of the game.

this game is my favorite game because of the lore, its just fun to play and create theory's on the character and mostly Monika. This game is huge inspiration to my game, this games changed my life. They made me think that if I was to make something, I would need to think outside the box, because something so unique can achieve a lot.

29/09/2022

[avasghost]

UNTITLED: A POEM

(TW: self harm, depression, drowning, suicide implication)

helloo i havent been as active on here as i want to be so i decided to post this poem that i posted on my instagram a while ago and for some reason haven’t gotten around to posting on tumblr until now.

transcript & taglist under the cut.

UNTITLED

you buried your sadness in the back garden but it still shrapnels you through the soil. your stare is watered-down & nobody is afraid of you anymore. most nights the moon is just a slice in the sky where sunlight gurgles through but other nights it is its own source of darkness. you cry & mutter i am built for this i am built for this but you never find out if that’s true. you have the stare of a sea-turtle so don’t swim out too far. you have the perfect lungs for water so breathe a little deeper. sometimes you call 911 just to convince yourself there’s something wrong, but always hang up before they answer the phone. sometimes you call unknown phone numbers just to say you wish you were as anonymous as they are. no one ever calls back.

you buried your sadness in the chlorine swimming pool but it still steeps the air in colours & clots on your bones. it’s like a piano strapped to your back but the only song it plays is shame & old church hymns you’ve been trying to get out of your head. you sing your favourite song from when you were ten & forget half the words & think if only this was enough.. if you could travel back in time you wouldn’t. if you could go to the moon you wouldn’t. if you could become a deep-sea creature you would do it only to feel at home in a place you were always afraid of. you sit on the roof daily to feel sunrays spilling on your skin & it still fails to set you on fire. you’d do it yourself if only you had a lighter. sometimes you hold your wrist to a candle flame & wonder if you’d make a good fire-eater. it would hurt so much maybe it would help. you always pull away right before you touch the flame.

you buried your sadness in the linen closet but now it clings to your bedsheets. now it stings your mouth while you sleep & infects your lungs. you’ve been inhaling too much water, the doctor tells you. you’re diagnosed with a scientific word you can’t pronounce. you’re offered help but you toss your prescription in the garbage & pretend to forget about the pills. nothing will help now & maybe you should have been a sea-turtle. your stare is hardened like marble & people avoid eye contact now. you tell them please don’t take my silence as an invitation to leave. sometimes you want to drown & sometimes you want to learn to swim. sometimes you want to set yourself on fire & sometimes you wonder if even flames will hurt you now.

taglist (ask to be added/removed): @gracestowewriting @flip-phones @shaelinwrites @chewingthescenery @august-iswriting @dallonm @wildswrites @nodeadnarrators @annlillyjose @shaonharryandpannisim @letsgetsquiggly @strangerays @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @teaandtypewriters @kahaaniyaa @coffeeandcalligraphy @47crayons @writing-is-a-martial-art @familiarvillain @bookdragonfanish @childhoodlovers @zoya-writes @pepperdee @oceancold @unorganisedbookshelf @finch-goes-tweet @anotherwannabenovelist @sunstone-iolite @musingsbycaitlin @femmeniism @raywritesstories

[ibijau]

Concubine nhs pt11 / on AO3

It is odd to exist in this little house and not have a purpose, Nie Huaisang decides a few weeks after being discarded. For three years his entire life has revolved around the emperor, his only wish being to distract him from his duties to make him happy. Now the emperor is miserable whenever he visits, and Nie Huaisang isn't allowed to do anything about that. Not when the emperor has made it very clear that he is now disgusted by the idea of any intimacy between them, and talking feels so awkward.

If he cannot kiss him, or please him in bed, if they cannot laugh or even talk, Nie Huaisang doesn't know what the point of everything is anymore. 

His days are emptier than ever. His nights no longer bring any comfort. Nie Huaisang is miserable.

Worse, Nie Huaisang is bored. A deep, insidious boredom that taints every moment he’s awake, that even pursues him in his dreams sometimes, or makes it impossible to sleep, denying him even that relief.

If he weren't so constantly bored, Nie Huaisang wouldn't have started checking those documents the emperor now brings with him when he visits. He’s perfectly aware that he shouldn’t do that all. It’s not his business, it’s politics, it’ll land him in trouble, but... 

But the emperor always falls asleep long before him, and always ends up in terrible positions in that stupid sofa, and half the time he forgets to use a blanket. Nie Huaisang has to make sure the emperor doesn't catch a cold. And then those documents are right there, and he's so bored. 

The books Lan Qiren sends him don't last as long as they used to, now that he doesn't have to stop reading them at night. They're also less interesting, at least those newest batches: treaties on how to analyse texts, or write essays. It's all so painfully boring that by comparison, official reports filled with numbers are pretty interesting. 

Nie Huaisang doesn't mean to read that stuff, it just happens. And the first time it happens, he stops as soon as he realises what he's doing. It's politics, and he's sworn to himself he'd never get involved in that. He scolds himself very hard that first time, and the second one too. Even the third time. But the fourth time… 

The fourth time is different.

The thing is, Nie Huaisang is pretty good with numbers. That's the reason why his father relented and finally recognised him. Nie Huaisang can't read the classics with ease because he’s still learning some of those less common characters. He values fun stories over respected ones, which isn’t what a real scholar could do. And he can't quite say what makes a good poem better than a bad one, he just likes them or he doesn’t. But he's quick at counting and has a natural knack for arithmetics. That's why his father put him in charge of organising banquets and overseeing finances, and he likes to think he saved them some good money in the time he held that duty.

So when he starts noticing discrepancies on those imperial reports, Nie Huaisang doesn't really think. He does what he would have done for his father, and writes down everything he notices. Because he doesn't quite understand what those reports are about, Nie Huaisang doesn't dare to guess why the numbers are wrong. He just knows that they are. So he leaves his notes on the table for the emperor to find when he wakes up, and hope that will be helpful.

He just so badly wants to be helpful. Maybe if he shows that he can still be useful, the emperor will start smiling at him again, or even talk to him.

Nie Huaisang just feels so lonely and bored. 

Later, when it is light again and he's alone in his little house, Nie Huaisang wonders if that was the right thing to do. Since nobody comes to drag him out of his cage to publicly whip him as an example to others, it can't have been wrong. But the emperor doesn't visit for a full three days after that, so maybe it wasn't right either. 

On the third day, the emperor's brother visits, and sheds some light on that long absence. 

"Brother has been given proof that the magistrate in the region of Yunping City was corrupt, and hindering the war effort," the prince explains, which might be the most Nie Huaisang ever heard him say at once. "Urgent measures had to be taken."

Nie Huaisang doesn't dare to ask, and stares at his glass of tea. That report he wrote notes on was definitely about Yunping City. It means he might have become involved in politics after all, against his will. As if he can afford to be making enemies, in his position. 

"Due to this situation, I will leave for Yunping City," the prince announces. "I will work with Lord Jiang to restore the situation. Consort Nie knows him?" 

"Only a little," Nie Huaisang meekly protests. "He is a friend of my father. This humble one knows his children a little, and his ward Wei Wuxian, but not that well." 

The prince nods, and takes a sip of tea. That should be the end of it. The prince never speaks much, and he’s just used more words than he usually does in an entire month. Surely he’s told Nie Huaisang everything he had to say on that matter.

Right?

"Jiang gongzi and Wei gongzi are to assist me," The prince explains, putting down his glass. "Will consort Nie tell me about them? I want to know what to expect." 

Nie Huaisang frowns at that request. 

"Surely there are many others in the palace who can tell you that? This one is only a humble servant's son, his knowledge is too imperfect to be useful." 

"Others can have their opinion," the prince retorts. "I wish to hear consort Nie's." 

A direct order from the imperial prince cannot be denied, least of all by a concubine fallen out of favour. Sick with worry at the prospect of being again dragged into politics, Nie Huaisang still does what he's told and gives as honest a portrait of Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin as he can. He makes sure to point out their qualities, which are many, but also acknowledges their faults: Jiang Cheng's temper, Wei Wuxian's overconfidence, and the way they only really shine when they work together. 

It appears to please the prince, who thanks Nie Huaisang for his answers before taking his leave. He will write from Yunping City, he says, and might ask again for Nie Huaisang’s opinion in the future. 

"Please don't," Nie Huaisang begs. "This humble one is unworthy of such an honour." 

The prince doesn't reply, and Nie Huaisang is left alone to wonder if he's made another mistake. 

That night, the emperor visits again. He doesn't speak about those notes Nie Huaisang left him, though several times he stares at his concubine as if he were on the verge of saying something, only to change his mind at the last minute. His expression is so intense each time that Nie Huaisang ends up pretending to fall asleep just so the emperor will stop looking at him like that.

He takes notice of the fact that this time, the emperor brought a book with him, not reports. Nie Huaisang figures it's a message that his intervention, though perhaps useful, is resented. 

Nobody wants to owe anything to a mere concubine. 

After that one incident, life returns to normal. Or at least, as what passes for normal these days. 

Nie Huaisang is lonelier than ever. The emperor ignores him when he spends the night in the little house. The emperor's uncle, who was supposed to visit and find him a teacher, is too busy to do either due to having to take over some of the prince’s duties. And since that same prince is far away in Yunping City, even that last illusion of companionship has been torn away. 

Nie Huaisang is lonely. 

Nie Huaisang is miserable. 

So miserable, in fact, that he can't even rejoice when the aviary the emperor built for him is finally complete. Of course he puts on a smile when there is a banquet to celebrate this happy occasion, and plays perfectly his role of a cheerful concubine. He almost fools himself into feeling grateful and happy. Maybe he is happy, sitting again with the emperor, seeing him smile like this. It's easy to pretend, when Nie Huaisang so dearly misses how happy they used to be. 

But the next day, when he visits his aviary again, alone this time, Nie Huaisang only feels more depressed than ever. He wants to open every door to every cage, and let those expensive birds fly away. They all look as sad as he feels. But of course just like him, they probably wouldn't know how to survive outside a cage anymore.

If it were up to him, Nie Huaisang would never look at his aviary again. 

It isn't up to him. 

If he doesn't go, it will be noticed, he knows, just as it would be noticed if the emperor stopped coming to see him. If Nie Huaisang doesn’t check on his pretty new birds, people will say that the emperor spent a fortune spoiling a concubine who won't be satisfied with even the most expensive of presents. They will say the emperor is weak and foolish, or worse things even, and Nie Huaisang can't bear it. 

So he visits his birds daily. It is a punishment for fooling the emperor, for playing his father' s games. For being foolish enough to fall in love, when Meng Yao once warned him it is the one mistake a concubine should never make. At the time, Nie Huaisang hadn't understood. He does now. Being discarded would hurt so much less if he could only stop caring. 

But that's life now. Reading boring volumes selected by the emperor's uncle, spending time with birds he doesn't want, being ignored all night by the emperor himself. A new routine, much worse than the old one he used to have. 

A routine that finally shatters when one day, Nie Huaisang finds a stranger in his aviary, looking at his birds. 

Although there were many guests at the celebration to mark the completion of that aviary, the emperor made it clear that no one but Nie Huaisang, himself, and the servants attached to the aviary are allowed to come there. If the emperor were to have given permission to anyone else, he would surely have warned Nie Huaisang. And that boy's clothes are just good enough to make it clear that he cannot be a servant. 

He definitely is just a boy though, probably younger than Nie Huaisang by a few years. And yet there's a certain air to him, as if in spite of his youth, that boy knows more about life than some people much older than him. He just sounds so sad as he greets the talking birds. 

If that boy had been cheerful, or confident, Nie Huaisang could easily have chased him away. Happy people annoy him, when he has so little left to be joyful about. But seeing someone as depressed as himself makes his heart ache, reminding him how very lonely he is. 

Nie Huaisang watches that boy trying to chat with a pair of mynahs in a gentle voice that borders on hopeless, and comes to a decision.

"They're not very chatty," he says, startling the boy. "At least, not yet. I'm still working on teaching them to talk." 

The boy stares at him for a moment, then bows quickly and a little clumsily, betraying that he hasn't been trained for the imperial palace. Nie Huaisang remembers how he struggled as well when his father acknowledged him, when he came to the capital, and feels his heart swell again with sympathy. 

"Are you in charge of training them?" the boy hesitantly asks.

Since the emperor has made it clear that he no longer enjoys seeing Nie Huaisang covered in fineries, most of the time he dresses quite simply. It’s easier to put on, and it makes him feel a little less like a liar. He misses the fine silks and heavy gold sometimes, but plain clothes are more honest. Still, his clothes are only plain by comparison to the more extravagant outfits he used to wear for the emperor. Anyone glancing at him would take him for the privileged son of a great family… which he is, he supposes.

The point is, that boy must have already guessed that Nie Huaisang isn’t just one of the servants looking after the birds, so he doesn’t see any point in hiding.

"They're mine, actually," Nie Huaisang says, only to instantly regret it. 

The boy's eyes open wide, his face turning ashen before he falls to his knees and kowtow before Nie Huaisang, his entire body shaking with terror. 

"T-this humble one didn't realise! This humble one begs for your highness's mercy!"

Distressed by that strong reaction, Nie Huaisang takes a step back.

"I'm no highness."

"Your highness must be consort Nie!” the boy cries out. “This humble one never meant to intrude! This one knows no one is allowed here, but I really had to check, and… may his highness show mercy, though this one is undeserving!"

Nie Huaisang blinks. 

He knows, of course, that he's technically someone important. Servants are always very careful around him, and he has (had) the emperor's favour, which he could easily use to get his way, if he were so inclined. But since he lives in such isolation, and only leaves his little house for official occasions where everyone’s behaviour is strictly regimented by custom, it's rare for him to actually encounter anyone who might feel they owe him such open deference. 

He doesn't particularly enjoy it, he quickly decides.

"Please get up," he orders. "I'm guessing you came here by accident?" 

Refusing to stand up, the boy nods. 

"I was looking for my young master,” he explains in a pitiful voice. “I am a companion to a young lord called Ouyang Zizhen, and he escaped from me a little while ago when playing." 

The name Ouyang is familiar, but only vaguely. They might be related in some way to the emperor's late mother, though Nie Huaisang doesn't think the emperor is particularly close to them. Lord Ouyang is just closely related enough to be allowed to live inside the palace, but his son will likely not be allowed to remain there after his death. Anyway, the emperor rarely mentions them, and Nie Huaisang is pretty sure their son is a lot younger than this boy. 

Noble families like to bring in companions for their sons, as was done for the emperor, because they think it makes them look important.But sometimes what they really want is just a glorified nanny they don’t have to actually pay.

"What's your name?" Nie Huaisang asks. 

"This humble one is Mo Xuanyu." 

The name Mo doesn't ring a bell at all. They must be very minor in rank, or just rich merchants. Either way, people like that would take it as an honour to send one of their sons to the imperial palace, even if it’s just to serve an unimportant family. Being a young lord’s companion would give Mo Xuanyu the chance of a free education, at least if the family he’s serving treats him with any decency. They don’t always, as Nie Huaisang knows. The emperor complained about that sometimes, saying some families were very cruel to their sons’ companions.

But that was back when they would actually talk.

Nie Huaisang can’t remember when was the last time anyone talked to him.

He misses talking.

"Do you like birds, Mo Xuanyu ?" 

"Y-yes, your highness." 

"Me too. Do you know what species are here?" 

Puzzled by that question, Mo Xuanyu dares to look up as he shakes his head. Nie Huaisang grins, and kneels next to him, grabbing the boy's arm to force him back on his feet. It might be a mistake, but he’s been lonely so long, and Mo Xuanyu, in spite of his obvious fear, is actually talking to him.

Nie Huaisang wonders if that’s how the emperor felt that night, when he spoke to him with such insolence in the Unclean Realm. He quickly pushes the thought away. The situations are completely different, because Mo Xuanyu knows who he is.

"Do you want me to give you a tour?" Nie Huaisang asks.

After some hesitation, Mo Xuanyu shakes his head and bows away.

"I should really go find my master," he mumbles. "It's not that I don't want… I mean, this humble one would be honoured, those birds are all so pretty, and I really like… but I can’t, I have to…" 

"Duty calls, I understand,” Nie Huaisang replies. “But then, do you think you might come here again another day? I give you permission, so you won't get punished if you do. And then I can tell you more about the birds, if you’d like." 

Mo Xuanyu's expression is so funny as he eagerly nods, full of awe and wonder. Nie Huaisang almost laughs. 

He hasn’t wanted to laugh in so long.

He knows he probably shouldn't talk like this to a near stranger. He should be prudent, check the status of the Ouyang family, find out who the Mo are, and ask about Mo Xuanyu's reputation. But it has been so long since Nie Huaisang spoke to anyone, and he can't help the sense of kinship he gets when he looks at Mo Xuyanyu. They're the same, he can just tell: small and lonely, thrown into a world where they don't belong, forced to make the best of choices others made for them. 

But Mo Xuanyu shyly promises to visit the aviary again, and Nie Huaisang is happy. 

He hopes they can be friends.

[kingexpl0sionmurder]

Missed Connection - Shinsou Hitoshi

Author: @kingexpl0sionmurder​ Rating: NSFW 18+ Warnings: Unprotected sex, blowjobs, dirty talk, poking fun at fakes who shop at UO and wear band t-shirts for bands they don’t listen to, terrible poetry, Kaminari is a weirdo. Pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi/F!Reader Words: 4,554 AN: This is for the bnharem server collab, the theme is pen pals! We were able to write basically anything as long as there was some kind of communication/writing/texting etc! This is the first time I’ve written for Shinsou and I head cannon him as a fucking closet goth so don’t at me. Collab Masterlist (Please go check out everyone else’s contributions!) My Masterlist Buy me a Ko-fi -- When his phone started ringing, Shinsou was tempted to throw it halfway across the room. Whoever thought it was okay to call him at - he turned to squint at the clock on his bedside table - 10 in the morning on his day off, better have a good excuse. He frowned at the screen once he’d found his phone, and sighed.

“The world better be on fire, Kaminari.” His palm rubbed over his face as he pressed the phone to his ear, his eyes closing again.

The blonde chuckled, full of energy as usual. “Aw, come on ‘Toshi! It’s not that early.”

A million ways he could kill his friend and make it look like an accident flashed through his mind. “You know I like to sleep late on my days off.” He left it at that, no further explanation needed. Kaminari knew he stayed up impossibly late on his off days, crawling under the covers only when the sun started to rise.

“You want to hear this, I promise. I wouldn’t call this early unless it was important.” Shinsou listened to the sound of a keyboard clicking through the phone, waiting impatiently for his friend to continue. 

“So, you know how I sometimes like to fuck around on the internet?” This was a rhetorical question. Of course he did. “Well, occasionally I like to browse through Craigslist, and this morning I was in the missed connections section, and I found something interesting.”

“Why do you look through missed connections?” He didn’t really care, he just thought it was kind of...weird. But, then again, this was Denki, so he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Kaminari huffed. “Dude, sometimes it’s so sad to read how they saw someone and thought there was a connection. It makes me wonder if they ever find each other.” He was quiet for a moment like he was deep in thought. “But then sometimes, it’s like ‘You farted in the produce section and I’d still date you, let’s go out’ and it kind of loses the romantic appeal.”

“You’re a sap. Also, gross.” He found himself drifting off, bored with the conversation already. “Do you have a point?”

“God, you’re impatient! Listen, I was scrolling through the ads and I found this one, I think you should hear it.” Clearing his throat, he began to read. 

“You were the sleepy purple-haired man in the cat cafe on Main, I was hiding behind an orange tabby by the window. I was staring, but I wasn’t trying to be creepy. You just looked kind of lost, and the black and white short hair on your lap seemed to have all your attention. Oh, I think his name is Socks. Isn’t that unoriginal? Anyway, I’ve seen you there a few times and I want to know more about you. If you see this, please respond.”

Shinsou sat up in his bed, ignoring the sharp pain of his muscles protesting at the sudden movement. “What the fuck?”

“This is about you, isn’t it?” Denki’s excitement was clear. “You’re the only sleepy guy with purple hair I know who frequents that cat cafe on Main Street.”

“How long ago was that posted?” Hitoshi felt strange, restless energy flowing through him. Someone had noticed him and decided that he was interesting enough to want to get to know? He wasn’t anything special, and he kept to himself mostly. What did this even mean?

“Last night! When did you go to the cafe?” He didn’t even wait for a response. “I’m forwarding this post to you, and you better send them an email! It’s been too long since you’ve dated someone, ‘Toshi, and I’m concerned.”

Unfortunately feeling more awake than he wanted to be, Shinsou shifted until his feet were on the floor. “Yesterday afternoon. And it hasn’t been that long.”

“It’s been like a year, dude.” Kaminari sighed. “Okay, I sent it. Please write back to them. Let me live vicariously through you in this weird turn of events.”

Shinsou sighed and said goodbye, ending the call and staring off into space for a minute. He needed coffee before he could even think about reading it for himself and then maybe responding.

--

Uh, hello.

 I can’t help but feel like this was about me? I’m not even really sure what to say. This feels weird. You could have come over and said hi, maybe. I don’t bite. I might have stared at you and made things awkward but I feel like it would have been a surefire way to talk to me instead of posting this on craigslist of all places and expecting me to see it. 

You’re lucky I have a friend who likes to scour the dark recesses of the internet for entertainment purposes and happened upon this post.

-Shinsou

--

How do I know this is really the person I’m talking about? What were you wearing when you went to the cafe? That’s like the only way I can be sure you are who you say you are. 

The only reason I didn’t come over and talk to you was that I had Oliver on my lap and he is a grump and didn’t want me to get up until he was good and ready. (That’s the orange tabby’s name, by the way.) By the time I was able to coax his fat ass off of me you had gone. 

Honestly, I’d let those cats climb all over me like their own personal cat tree all day long and not complain about it, but I digress. 

I didn’t expect you to find this or reply, it was kind of my way of convincing myself that I’d given it a shot, even though I really hadn’t done much.

-Y/N

--

I was wearing the following:

A Joy Division t-shirt depicting the cover of Unknown Pleasures, which is arguably the most cliche t-shirt I own. It’s become one of those shirts that people wear who have no idea who Joy Division is, they just like it for the aesthetic. (I’ll have you know I happen to know who they are and like their music very much.) This shirt was more than likely covered in cat hair.

Black jeans, which were probably covered in cat hair as well.

Black boots, a staple of mine.

I am a closet goth. I don’t know what else to say. I won’t deny it. I’ve learned to embrace who I am. I happen to know that Oliver is a grumpy shit, so I am not surprised he kept you pinned down for so long. That cat has been known to knock people over and purr loudly while “making biscuits” on their chests for hours at a time. I’m glad to know that you survived his assault.

So what are you going to tell me about yourself now? I have confessed to you about my goth status, so I demand something in return.

-Shinsou

--

Yeah, it was you.

I was hoping that you actually liked Joy Division and you weren’t one of those Urban Outfitters aesthetic people. I can now rest easy. I like them too, but I really like New Order more? I hope this isn’t the end of our budding friendship.

I will not say that I am a goth, though I have goth-like tendencies? Or I just appreciate the music. Whatever. I don’t have, like, a pet bat or anything. I own a pair of Doc’s, though.

I have been on the receiving end of one of Oliver’s attacks before, so you don’t have to tell me about them. I have experienced his pushy demeanor on more than one occasion.

So, something about me? I don’t know. I spend a lot of time in that cafe because I love cats, but that’s kind of a given, isn’t it? I usually bring my laptop and make an attempt to work on my homework, but it’s usually futile. I’d rather pet the cats. 

Oh, I guess that counts as something right? I go to college. I’m an English major and taking a fuck ton of creative writing courses. What about you?

-Y/N

--

An English major? That sounds like fun. I think if I had a need to go to college I’d have liked to take something like that. I have a friend who writes ultra depressing Gothic poetry, that would be right up his ally as well.

I’m a pro hero, hence why I didn’t need college. Saving people is something I’ve always wanted to do, especially since I was always bullied about my quirk as a kid. It kind of made me more determined, I always wanted to prove those assholes wrong, you know? So, here I am.

I’m glad to know we can wear matching Doc’s together, and that you don’t keep a bat as a pet. As cute as their faces are, they’re not very easily domesticated. 

New Order is fine. The real question is, The Smiths or The Cure? Your answer to this question will be what determines the longevity of our friendship.

-Shinsou

--

This is the worst question you could ever ask me. How could you do this? I could never choose between them. Both? The answer is both.

I hope your next email will not be your last.

Bats are cute but they always seem to dive bomb my head when they’re around. Not that I go places with bats often, but I used to go camping as a kid and they always did that. It was not a good time.

I think it’s amazing that you’re a pro hero! You’re really out here, fighting the bad guys and saving people and then coming into the cat cafe and petting kittens and drinking coffee like a normal person. I think it’s admirable how hard you worked to achieve your dream. I know we don’t know each other that well, but I’m proud of you. Why were you bullied for your quirk? You don’t have to answer that if it makes you uncomfortable.

I wish I could write ultra depressy Gothic poetry. Here let me try:

The night is black like my soul Clove cigarettes burn slowly My life is Meaningless

How was that? Do I get a gold star? Or a black skull? Which is appropriate?

-Y/N

--

I’m printing that and sending it to Tokoyami. Thank you for making my entire existence with that poem. I’m breaking out the red wax candles and putting on “How Soon Is Now?” right now.

You get a star, but it’s a pentagram. We have to keep with the theme.

My quirk has to do with mind control, so I was always told I was meant to be a villain. You can imagine what that could do to a kid’s psyche, being told by peers and adults alike that you weren’t hero material, when that’s all you wanted. It’s okay though, I did what I wanted and they can eat my ass.

Sorry if that was too raunchy, but it’s how I feel.

If my earlier comment wasn’t proof enough, I prefer The Smiths, but I cannot deny the impact of Disintegration. Lullaby is a really great song.

That being said, this will not be my last email, so you can breathe easy. 

On a semi serious note, I really enjoy talking with you. We have a similar sense of humor, and you like cats which makes you automatically better than most people. Would you like to get coffee sometime? I know a nice place that’s quiet and filled with fluffy kittens...

-Shinsou

—

I’m glad I haven’t lost your friendship due to my opinion. I know how important that feud can be to some people. People get very passionate about it. Kind of like with Blur versus Oasis, or Brand New versus Taking Back Sunday. I hate that these are the only examples I can think of. 

It wasn’t too raunchy. Those people can most definitely eat your ass. I’m glad you have decided to use your powers for good. You’ll have to explain to me how your quirk works sometime. 

I shall treasure my shiny pentagram sticker with my entire heart.

Isn’t Tokoyami the Jet Black Hero: Tsukuyomi? He looks like the type to write Gothic poetry. I am not even mildly surprised. 

Even though the way we met was unconventional, I’d like to think I’d have gotten up the courage to speak to you the next time I saw you in the cafe. Somehow this is better, though. It makes for an interesting story, you know?

I’d love to get coffee. I think I know the place you’re talking about. Let me know when.

-Y/N

—

Shinsou was nervous. It was stupid really. He’d been exchanging emails back and forth with you for a few days, and even though you’d barely revealed much about each other, the easy banter through your messages was comforting. He felt like the two of you would be compatible. He just hoped that he was able to keep the conversation going in real life. 

When he entered the cafe, he ordered his usual and picked his normal table towards the back. Socks, his favorite black and white companion, was at his side almost immediately. He let his hand drift down to scratch behind her ears, his gaze fixed on the door as he waited for you to arrive. 

Out of habit he was a little early, but he figured it would be easier this way. He had no idea what you looked like, but you knew him, so he knew you’d come over when you got there, and it would make things less awkward. 

A few minutes later he saw the door open, and he immediately knew it was you. Black Doc’s and thigh high stockings, a black skirt and an oversized deep red sweater adorned your body, a leather jacket over your shoulders and your hair tucked under a black beanie, cheeks pink from the chill of the autumn weather outside. You were pretty, and he felt his nerves increase tenfold when your eyes met his, a smile gracing your face. 

He watched as you ordered a drink at the counter, the paper cup clutched in your hands as you made your way to his table. He stood up when you approached, letting himself appreciate you up close. “Y/N?”

“Hi, Shinsou.” You were so much shorter than he was, and he found himself having to gaze down at you when he was standing at his full height. 

“It’s nice to put a face to all those emails.” The way you blushed under his attention made his heart flip. “Please, sit.”

You nodded, sliding into the seat across from him. He sat back down, his hands moving to grip his coffee cup. 

“This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” You looked down when Oliver made his way over, rubbing himself against your boot. “I almost feel like I don’t know what to say.”

“I know what you mean. We could just sit here and email each other, if that would make you feel better.” Your laugh was like music to his ears. “I’d rather hear your voice though.”

Your face was red when you looked back up at him. “I have to agree.” You leaned your elbow on the table, your cheek cradled in your palm. “Tell me more about yourself, Shinsou.”

“It’s Hitoshi. You can call me Hitoshi.”

—

If anyone would have told him that the night would end this way, he’d have said they were insane, and should probably get themselves checked into the nearest institution. 

But here he was, his face pressed into the spot where your neck and shoulder met, lips ghosting over soft skin, his calloused palms sliding underneath your sweater. You were purring, your head thrown back and your fists clenched in his t-shirt, your back pressed against the wall in the hallway that led to his bedroom. 

“Fuck, ‘Toshi.” You mumbled, pressing yourself closer to him. “Bed?”

You didn’t have to ask twice, his hands sliding down to lift you up by the backs of your thighs, his cock hard and straining in his jeans as you rutted against him. He turned himself and began walking toward his room blindly, his eyes still shut as he sucked a mark into your neck. 

He pulled back so he could peer over your shoulder and maneuver your bodies through the doorway without bumping into anything, laying you back on the bed. 

The events of the night were a blur, your coffee date turned into him taking you out for ramen at the restaurant down the street, and then he asked you back to his apartment to show you his record collection. 

It was mostly a ruse though. You’d been flirting back and forth, the both of you getting bolder as the night went on. He was only half surprised when you’d entered his apartment, barely removing shoes and coats and hats before you spun around on him, pressing him against the door and kissing him like your life depended on it.

He rested on his forearms, poised above you, looking over your flushed face and kiss bruised lips. Your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled his hips closer, making him groan. “Impatient?”

Your hands moved to cup his face, pulling him down toward you. “Very.” 

He wasn’t expecting your strength, caught off guard when your lips crashed into his, your body pushing him over until he was on his back and you were straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. You ground down against him, moaning when his hips snapped up reflexively. He was happy to give you control for a while, especially when you sat up and grabbed the bottom of your sweater and pulled it over your head. The view was spectacular.

He let his hands wander, tracing along the lines of your thigh highs from under your skirt, and up to the lace at your hips. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, the devilish glint in your eye was not lost on his as you shifted down his body, fingers swiftly working to unclasp his belt and undo the button on his jeans. 

You slid off of him, and he lifted his hips to aid you in pulling his pants down his legs, his boxers following. His cock was achingly hard, the tip angry and red as it sprung free from it’s confines, nearly slapping his stomach. You eyed it greedily, and he was lost for words when you surged forward, delicate fingers wrapping around his length and stroking him, your tongue peeking out to taste him.

Amethyst eyes rolled back when you took the tip in your mouth, tongue swirling around the head, a low moan sounding from the back of your throat. The warmth and wetness that surrounded his cock when you closed your eyes and bobbed forward had him breathless, his hand threading through your hair, and his palm resting on the back of your head. He kept himself steady, fighting back the urge to buck his hips and push you down further on his length. 

Shinsou bit down on his lower lip, his stomach muscles tensing as he tried to keep it together. Kaminari had been right, it had been a while since he’d been with someone, and he wanted this night to last as long as possible. The sweet and innocent look in your eyes as you looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth enveloping him all the way to base, was nearly too much for him to handle, his hand tugging at your hair gently to pull you off of him. “I’m not going to last if you keep that up, kitten.”

You visibly shivered at the pet name and he grinned, loving the feeling of being able to invoke that reaction from you. He scooted forward when you sat back on your knees between his spread legs, his arms circling your torso as he worked at the clasp on your bra, pulling the straps down your arms when he unclipped it. Strong hands gripped your waist and moved you to the side as he stood up, reaching under your skirt to tug your panties down your legs.

He took a moment to consider what he’d do next. He wanted to taste you, it was only right for him to return the favor, and he was almost certain you would taste as sweet as you looked. Another part of him wanted to hike up your legs around his waist and slam inside of you, desperate to hear you moan his name as he pounded you into the mattress. As he contemplated what to do, reached back and pulled his shirt over his head, and then let his hands wander up to the apex of your thighs, digits sliding through your folds. You gasped, falling back onto your elbows, back arching as he toyed with your clit, letting his long fingers slip inside your heat. “So wet. Just for me?” Eyebrows raised, he teased you.

“Fuck, Hitoshi, please.” Breathless and panting, you gazed up at him, biting your lip.

“Please what? Tell me what you want.” You would make the decision for him. “Would you like my mouth or my cock? I’ll let you choose.”

Huffing, your hips rutted against his hand impatiently. He kneeled on the bed between your legs, adjusting his arm and adding a second finger in with the first, his thumb finding your bundle of nerves again. He listened to your breath hitch, and your quiet mewls, pride filling his chest that he was the one coaxing those noises out of you. Finally, you breathed deep and answered him. “Fuck me, Hitoshi.”

Ignoring the protesting whine that left your lips when he removed his fingers, he brought them up to his mouth, maintaining eye contact with you as he sucked on them, tasting you. “You’re delicious, kitten. I’ll have to make sure to taste you properly later.” 

Wasting no time, he lifted your legs up to rest your legs over his shoulders, one hand on his cock. He lined himself up with your entrance, grabbing at your hips and pushing himself inside you. If he thought your mouth was hot and wet and basically everything he thought was heaven, he was mistaken. This was it. This was everything. He wasn’t even inside you all the way and he was fighting back the need to cum again, cursing himself and breathing deeply. He leaned forward, forearms on either side of your head as his mouth crashed against yours, all lips and tongues and teeth, his need for you growing tenfold as you wiggled your hips in an attempt to feel more of him.

Groaning, he bucked forward, filling you up, the both of you sighing in relief at the feeling. He gave you a moment to adjust, lips moving down your jaw and tongue laving at the mark he’d left on your neck earlier. “You feel so good, kitten.”

“Toshi, you can move…” Your hands were gripping his biceps, nails leaving crescent shapes in his pale skin, breathing ragged as you clenched around him.

Hissing, he followed your instructions, hips pulling back until he was almost completely out, before sliding back in. Your arousal made the glide easy, your back arching underneath him. He started a steady rhythm, grunting quietly and letting the feeling of you pulsing around him keep him grounded. He let one of his hands wander, shifting his weight so he could ghost his palm over your side, fingers pinching your nipple and rolling the hardened bud between them. You keened, chanting his name like a prayer, the sound of blood pounding in his ears almost masking the sound.

It spurred him to move faster, his chest tight, sweat pooling at his temples and between his shoulder blades, purple locks sticking to his forehead. His gaze was locked on you, and it stole his breath. Your chest and neck were flushed, the most beautiful sounds spilling from your lips as he fucked into you. It became clear to him that he wasn’t going to last much longer, and neither were you.

“Hey, kitten. You gonna cum for me?” He shifted back to his knees and trailed the fingers on his left hand down your stomach, coming to rest between your parted legs. “I want to hear how pretty you sound when you come apart.” He kept a firm grip on your hip to keep you from sliding away, rolling his hips and rubbing tight circles on your clit. 

“Fuck, Hitoshi!” The effect was almost immediate, your body and lungs seizing, eyes rolling back as you fell over the edge, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. 

Falling back over you, his thrusts became sloppy as he chased his own release, barely able to move with how tight your pussy was gripping him, your orgasm still rolling through you. He felt your hands on his face, guiding him to kiss you again, fingers carding through his hair and down his back, your nails raking red trails down his back. He felt like he could barely breathe, lost in you. “Y/N…”

He felt his muscles tense, and moved to bury his face in your neck, his hips stilling as he came hard, filling you up with his release. You squeezed around him again, and he sighed into your skin, eyes closed as he tried to regulate his breathing.

Rolling over to the side, he hissed when he pulled out. You chuckled, and he turned to look at you, a lazy smile on his face. “What?”

“Is that what you call showing me your record collection?” 

Snorting, he propped his head up on his palm, leaning on his elbow, his free hand reaching out to push a piece of hair away from your face. “You attacked me, remember?”

“I couldn’t help it!” Protesting, you blushed. “I wanted to kiss you from the moment I walked into the cafe.”

It was his turn to blush. “Yeah?”

Shrugging, you turned on your side to face him. “Mm. Can you do me a favor?”

His body was still buzzing, muscles loose and pliant as he shuffled closer to you. “Anything.”

“Can you thank your friend for being a weird internet troll and finding my post?” 

Shinsou coughed a laugh, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Please, I can’t do that. It’s all he’d ever talk about for the rest of our lives if I did.” 

You leaned up and kissed him, your fingers pushing back his hair. 

He hummed against your lips, feeling content, shifting himself on the bed and wrapping his arms around your waist, tugging you into him. “Maybe I’ll send him a text later. For now, I have other plans.”

--

Kaminari’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, and he picked it up, eyes widening at the message that appeared on the screen.

Toshi: I owe you a crate full of Pokemon cards and my eternal gratitude for being a weirdo meme king who trolls the internet.

Denki: Oh, you’re in a good mood. Did you get laid?

Toshi: Fuck all the way off. 

Denki: That’s a yes. You’re welcome.

[beardrabbles]

composed together. [ ♡ ]

characters: venti, reader

warnings: alcohol mention

word count: 3,029

notes: been trying out venti as a muse on a roleplay blog i have, but I wanted to have a crack at writing a reader with him. i'm not a poet in any sense of the word, so i'm sorry if isn't up to venti's standards lmao. if you tolerated all the rhyming, you deserve a gold star and a high-five.

You had tried so hard to make it back in time, but were disappointed when you returned to find Mondstadt barren of the usual Windblume decorations. There were no wreaths or elaborately decorated banners, no potted plants sporting twirling pinwheels. The scent of fresh flowers and baking goods persisted, but it didn’t carry with it the festive spirit. People were, once again, content to ask for help rather than tend to their own needs.

‘ And that’s why I missed out.  .  . ’ You brooded. It was because you offered yourself as a member of the Adventurer's Guild that you had found yourself pulled away from your home. You had been promised that the job in question wouldn’t take you longer than three days, give or take a day depending on how well you did. But, as it turned out, you had been gone for an entire week. And in that week, the festival had come and gone.

Windblume had never been about the romance for you. Every year, you looked forward to the food and atmosphere, letting the spirit carry you away. This year, however, you had held onto the fleeting hope that someone might show interest. Or that you might gather the courage to approach the one you so adored. You knew it was a lame excuse to depend on one holiday to steel your nerves, but the time and your chance had dashed past in the blink of an eye.

“Shouldn’t have taken the damn commission.” You slumped at an outdoor table near The Angel’s Share, a half-empty tankard of cider resting in your hands. You drummed your fingers along the side of the tankard, willing yourself not to be bummed. The holiday would come around again next year, you reminded yourself as you downed another gulp. “But I’ll probably get sent out then too.”

You stooped forward even further, cheek nearly pressed flat to the table when the familiar sound of plucked  lyre strings thrummed in your ear. You sat straight so abruptly that you made yourself dizzy, your need to look around rapidly for the source not helping the fuzzy feeling in your head.

“Venti?” You called his name with such unbridled hope that he couldn’t keep himself hidden for long. A giggle sounded above you, and you felt your diminishing mood soar when you spotted the colorful bard sitting along the eaves of the tavern, beloved lyre in hand.

“The one and only!” He cooed, soaking in your glee. “Looks like you started without me.”

You frowned and peered down at your table, noting the two other empty tankards. Cheeks flushed from embarrassment, you pushed them aside, as if that would make them ( and your shame ) disappear. “Look, I just got back and I find out I missed out on Windbl——!”

Eyes up, you realized too late that Venti had vanished from the roof. You blinked once, then twice, your cider-addled mind slow to catch up. Where did he go?

“I was wondering where you’d gone off too.” His voice bobbed along the air, light and playful, and it tugged your attention like a hook pulling along a caught fish. He sat across from you, his chin resting in his palm and bright eyes twinkling with eternal mischief. “Missed Windblume, huh?”

“Mhmm.” You grunted and polished off the rest of your drink, mood dropping again. “I was looking forward to it too. Did I miss anything important?”

Venti hummed and leaned back in his seat. Absentmindedly, he toyed with the strings of his lyre. “Let me think. Margaret thought of a new, non-alcoholic drink and it went over pretty well with the kids and those looking to keep themselves a little more dignified during the festivities. Our own Honorary Knight was named this years Windblume Star! Oh! That’s right, I taught a class on the art of expressing ones love though poetry.”

You snorted.

“You taught people to write poems?” Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “At what cost?”

“Come noq, Y/N, do you really think I could put a price on the ability to write out what a person’s heart yearns for most?” He paused, saw your deadpan stare, then let out a nervous chuckle. “A few bottles of holiday-exclusive wine is all I asked for.”

“Begged is more like it.” You rolled your eyes and shook your head. “How many bottles exactly?”

“Enough to tide me over.” Answered the bard vaguely.

“Is there any left?”

His silence was all the answer you needed. You groaned, let your head hit the table, then left it there as your forehead throbbed. Venti, sporting the rare flicker of guilt across a normally jovial face, leaned forward to pat at the back of your head.

“Hey, don’t be down. I have an idea!”

You lifted your head, but your eyes were downcast and dulled. “Is it a bad idea? I don’t think I want to mess with anyone right now, Venti.”

“I thought of the idea, so of course it’s a good one! And we’re not going to mess with anyone.” Venti grinned from ear-to-ear and stood, offering you a single, delicate hand. You gave it a hard stare, wondering what sort of troublesome plans he had brewing in his head. Unfortunately, you weren’t able to come up with a believable excuse as to why you couldn’t indulge him.

Leaving your empty tankards behind, you stood and took Venti’s hand. You stumbled the slightest bit before finding your footing. “What’s your idea, O Great and Fantastical Bard?”

“Since you’re being so kind as to lavish me in well-deserved compliments, I’ll tell you.” He winked at your withering glare. “You’re going to help me compose a song!”

“How is that going to cheer me up? I’m not poetic.” You grumbled. Venti clicked his tongue as he guided you away from the tavern and towards the cathedral.

“That is wildly untrue, Y/N! Everyone is capable of expressing themselves through poetry.” He argued.

“But I’m not good at rhyming or thinking of pretty words.” You countered. Venti sighed and gave your fingers an encouraging squeeze.

“That’s not what it’s about. No one said that poetry was meant to impress people. If it does, that’s a bonus, but the point is to shape your feelings. You write how you feel, not how you want to sound. If you don’t rhyme, that’s fine. If you want to use big words, then by all means! Short words are still words, and they can still carry your thoughts with them. There are no rules with it comes to poetry, no matter what some stuffy scholar might say.” He tugged your hand and pulled your arm up high, leading you into an impromptu twirl. Unable to help yourself, you fell into a fit of laughter that instantly lifted your mood.

“I guess you’re right, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me.” You followed along, a new spring in your step. Venti shrugged.

“Practice means progress!” He clearly wouldn’t allow you to wallow in your negativity, and you were quietly grateful for it. If there was anyone that could lift you out of a funk, no matter how deep and depressing it may be, it would be him. 

Venti lead you past the statue of Barbados and around the side of the cathedral, where he perched on the side of a stone railing. Beyond you sat the lake, it’s surface a constantly shifting sheet of vivid oranges, cheerful yellows, warm reds and sleepy blues. The sun was setting, and soon night would fall, but Venti didn’t seem concerned. If it didn’t worry him, then it didn’t worry you, so you found a seat beside him and made yourself comfortable.

“The breeze is nice.  .  .” You let your eyes fall closed, skin kissed by a gentle twirl of the air against your heated cheeks. You couldn’t see then how Venti’s lips quirked up subtly, an adoration in his eyes that not many earned. He watched you for all of one, still moment before your eyes opened and he was forced to look elsewhere.

“Yeah, it is. So!” Quick to discard the hammering in his chest, Venti pulled forward his lyre and cleared his throat. “About that song——”

“What is it about?”

“Unspoken love, the kind that lives in your chest and makes every moment spent with the person you adore both exciting and painful.” His fingers strummed one string, then another. You frowned, the first few notes squeezing at your heart.

“Why is it unspoken?” You wondered, keeping your voice low.

“Because, sometimes, confessing is more selfish and cruel than never saying anything at all. Because opening up one’s heart may lead to more pain than you first expect.” The melancholy notes only proved to add more hurt to your chest, but still the bard smiled.

“Do you really want to write a song that sad?” You weren’t sure that your flimsy mood could handle thinking about such a morose subject.

“Oh, don’t misunderstand, dear friend~ The reason for love’s silence is upsetting, but the love itself is anything but!” Venti began to swing his legs, and you felt the breeze pick up. Green eyes turned up towards the sky, while a subtle tinge of pink touched his cheeks. “I’ll think of the first few lines, then you chime in with whatever your lovely little mind and heart think of first. Alright?”

“If you say so.”

“Great!” Skilled fingers began to play, the heart of the music beating in time with your own. “I want it to start like this: I want always to treasure your warm soul and kind eyes.  .  .”

You waited for more, but were met with a calm quiet. A single glance from the bard, and you suddenly felt as is everyone in town could hear and see you. Face burning hot with embarrassment, you looked out towards water rather than at your companion.

“I want always to treasure your warm soul and kind eyes. Hmm.” You breathed in deep and muttered the first thing that came into your head. “Every smile and glance like a hard-earned prize.”

“Good! And you said you weren’t skilled at this.” Venti beamed, the sheer glee behind his praise lifting your mood higher still. “Let’s keep going. Next line: Your voice it rings like the sweetest prayer.  .  .”

You thought hard again, arms crossed tight and lips pursed. This was as difficult as you thought it might be, but Venti’s enthusiasm was infectious. So, again you offered the only words that rose to the top of your mind. “.  .  . a blessing from lips so fair.”

Venti hummed, the sound soft and low in his chest. “Indeed they are.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Moving on!” He slipped from the stone railing and came to stand in front of you, posture loose and playful even as he came dangerously close. “I adore you, I do. My heart is yours, it’s true. Little skips and steady pounding, my dear, you are astounding.”

Feeling him so near, his eyes mirthful and intent on you, you couldn’t help but to shrink into yourself a little. You grasped the railing you sat on and hunched your shoulders, eyes glued to your feet. If only those words were meant for you. Oh, but then what would you do?

“Is this meant to inspire other people to think of their love, or are you thinking of someone in particular?” You couldn’t and wouldn’t dare to hope, but you had to ask.

The strumming stopped, but you didn’t turn your gaze up.

“Perhaps I am,” Venti purred coyly, “why? Is there someone you’re thinking about?”

“Don’t be such an imp.” You kicked a foot out, but he was quick to step aside. Your aggression, though harmless, pulled a laugh from the bard. “I might be thinking of someone.”

“Who is it?” Venti pestered. “Do I know them?”

“Maybe.” You sported a cheeky smile of your own. Venti moved in an inch or two more to your side, leaving only a breadth of space between the two of you.

“Do they inspire you?” He asked. You sighed, completely unable to contain the need.

“He does.”

“Oh, so they’re a he, are they? That narrows it down.” He tittered and let himself play a soft, ambient tune. “Does he know how you feel?”

“No way!” You let out a bark of laughter. “Been trying to keep it a secret.”

“Why?” Venti blinked, appearing thoroughly baffled. “He should know!”

“What was it you said? Confessing is selfish sometimes.  .  .”

“Using my words against me. Cruel.” Venti sighed. “You really won’t tell him?”

“Not until it’s right, and not until I’m strong enough to accept the possibility that he might not feel the same.” Your smile was feeble and didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Chances come and go, away with the wind they blow, so I hold these lovelorn words inside my chest, never to be confessed.”

Venti frowned, watching as your fingers pressed and rubbed at the sudden ache right where your heart sat. His own reacted in kind, the horribly familiar grasp of doubt squeezing at his chest. He knew those thoughts and feelings all to well.

“In your heart the feelings run deep, but darling, don’t put them to sleep.” He reached out again when you dismissed his lyrics with a scoff, only this time you didn’t hesitate to place your hand in his. He didn’t drag you away from where you sat, but let his fingers slip between yours. Your heart stuttered a moment, the gentleness of the gesture filling you with gratitude and trace amounts of confusion.

The breeze picked up again, and you thought you could still hear the gentle song of the lyre despite him being preoccupied.

“Look at me.” He voice dropped to a whisper, so soft and airy that you almost didn’t catch it. But when you did, you bashfully locked your gaze with his. The sweetest smile pulled at his lips, the glimmer in his eyes so sincere that it made your own eyes prickle at the very corners.

Why did you have to fall for someone like him? Why couldn’t you have fallen for someone forgettable, or someone that wasn’t almost always within reach?

“Listen to my words, find them true, only a moron would reject you. You are wanted, loved and adored, you are more precious than any treasure hoard.” Venti arched himself forward, his forehead meeting with yours. Music continued to play in your ears, making the air around his words sweet. Could you believe them when they came from someone as flighty as him? You wanted desperately to, but you had to argue, to contest his open fondness for you.

“By the time the day is done, you’ll have said that to everyone.” You countered. Venti couldn’t hold back a laugh, his head moving away from yours. Already, you regretted sassing him. Come back, stay close.

“You’re getting better at that. While it’s true that I love to sing peoples praises, what I give you aren’t throwaway phrases. You’ve caught me, dear heart, and I want to surrender, allow me to bask in your unending splendor.”

You snorted and gave him a harmless shove. Venti grinned and gave in to your push, but he was near again in an instant.

“It can’t be that hard to believe that someone would love you. Don’t you believe me?” His question hung heavy in the air, leaving you momentarily speechless. Your mouth opened and closed, and each time your words failed you. Only after a long moment of listening to you stammer did Venti cautiously lean in. “Should I be selfish?”

“What does it mean for a bard to be selfish?” After a moment of mental screaming, you felt a smirk tease at your lips, but it was short lived. “Aside from drink all his wine before sharing it with someone?”

“Selfish bards do many, many things.” He spoke slowly, making sure each word dragged and lured you in. “I’ll admit it was silly to drink all the wine without you, but I can make up for it.”

You hummed contemplatively, each passing second tugging you closer and closer.

“How?”

“More wine?” He offered. You pulled a face.

“Mmmn, maybe. And?” Your mind was numb at this point, the idea that you two were so close making every inch of your body squirm. You had only daydreamed of sappy little scenarios like this, so living one out felt too good to be true. You were waiting to wake up, in fact, because this couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be tempting the idea of confessing to you when the entire world of Teyvat could offer him better.

“Songs written just for you?” Venti’s grin broadened, but there was a hitch in his breath when you nudged the tip of your nose against his.

“Anything else?” You egged him on, catching a flare of darker green in his eyes. He said nothing, but the way he moved his hand to touch your cheek spoke volumes. “How about a share of the apples you pick every day, or some mora, or——?”

“You’re talking too much.” He muttered, lips only a fraction away from yours.

“That’s rich coming from you.  .  .”

His breath was warm and welcome and mingled with yours for all of one second before you felt the notion of a kiss. It was then that the bell above the cathedral chimed, it’s proximity and the intensity of the clap jarring you and the bard from your shared trance. You jerked away, flushed and wide-eyed, while Venti clicked his tongue. Vexed, he glared up towards the cathedral.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I need to go.” You scrambled from your spot, heart hammering so hard in your ears that it almost drowned out the sounds of the bell. “I forgot to see Katheryne about the commission!”

Venti arched a brow. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.” You vaulted over the railing and contemplated running off without another word, but it didn’t feel right. Rather than succumb to cowardice and embarrassment, you turned to face the bard. “Tomorrow. We’ll do this again, I promise, and.  .  .”

“And?”

“We’ll finish where we left off.”

“I was hoping you’d say that!”

[aikrus]

What It Means To Be Dead (Tokoyami x Reader)

Fandom: Bnha Warnings: Mentions of Dying, depression, bullying, abuse, and strong language Words: 2k259 Requested By: Anon <3 Request:  Hi I love your writing! Can I request one where Tokoyami )or anyone you'd like really,) finds a collection of old-ish diaries and letters while cleaning? The person's handwriting is very distinct and pretty (Think 1700's love letter find) but they never mention their name. As they read more of it they find newer entries where Aizawa is mentioned so they ask him about it only to find out the person who wrote them died almost 100 years ago and 'haunts' the school. (Sorry for long request) A/N: I deviated a little from the request, but I hope you like it!

            The night had already came and claimed the land of UA for itself. Shadows overtook the courtyards, and darkness fell across the classrooms, but not everyone had retreated to the safety of their comforters which shielded them from the secrets which the black abyss held so dear. 

After a draining day of learning and training, Tokoyami wanted nothing more than to go to sleep- sadly, it was his turn to clean the classroom. It was annoying and boring and he’d give anything to be able to go to sleep, but fair is fair and he wasn’t the tyrannical type.

And so, he washed the windows and wiped down the desks. He swept the floors and organized the textbooks, and he turned to put the broom back into the small closet in the corner of the classroom. With a heavy sigh, Fumikage realized he should probably tidy up the dirty, dust-filled, death trap that was called a broom closet. 

Narrowing his eyes at the cobwebs, he started to knock them down with the end of the broomstick (Seriously praying to whatever god there is that no spider fell onto his feathers). The room was in worse condition on closer inspection, it looked like not a soul had thought to clean it since the school was built. 

After taking the time to sweep the floors, wipe down the door and the counters, and organize the books, Tokoyami was beyond tired and ready to fall asleep in the still-somehow-dirty closet. No matter how many times he swung at the cobwebs, how many times he picked up the coats and books and papers on the floor, despite the effort he put into tidying up the smallish space, it still seemed to have a weird layer of age coating itself entirely.

The closet felt preserved in time, like the oldness it felt was not just in the items littered about, but in the very walls itself. The things it’s seen, the memories it held, something about the space simply felt... wrong. 

He turned to a corner he hadn’t worked on, inwardly groaning at the amount of work he still had to do despite the time of night. With a huff, he began to organize the textbooks and pages of work sprawled around the space. 

His hands fell upon and old leather book- very different in both appearance and age when compared to the marble notebooks that surrounded it. Leaning over, he saw ten to fifteen more of there journal like collections shoved deep into the corner of the room. 

Tentatively, he peeled open the first book. Looking at the pages, it looked to be the diary of a girl- the beautiful handwriting looked like it belonged to someone who saw the beauty that exists within the written language, someone who stops to smell the flowers, a person who looks at sunsets and bakes goods to say they love you. 

The ink that bled onto the early pages spoke of a student, a girl who wanted to be so much more, someone who wanted to save the world. He became enthralled by the speech patterns, the phrases and swirls of the letters drew him closer, enchanting his eyes to never leave the pages.

------ 

Soon the pages became all he could think about, even after he had to abandon the closet to race to bed. During class all he could think of was the feeling of the crisp paper under his touch. The voices of his friends seemed ugly, seemed to be missing the douse of honesty and beauty he had been exposed to, even when he was practicing all he could focus on was the experiences of the girl who wrote down all her inner thoughts. 

It was like she haunted him, appearing everywhere he went. Like she poisoned him, infecting his thoughts and feelings. She became everything to him so soon, every word had him on edge, every sentence a beautiful stream of imagery that he would give nothing but to experiencing along side her, what he wouldn’t give to see the world through her eyes of love.

As the day ended, he had quiet easily convinced Sero that he should take over his night of cleaning. Sure the actual work was quiet annoying, but he would be rewarded with her sweet words, he had left the book in the corner in his rush to get back to his dorm; he regretted his oversight the moment he laid down.

“Tokoyami, wasn’t your cleaning duty last night?” Aizawa asked, his eyes lazy looking up from the papers he was grading to make contact with Fumikage’s red ones. 

“Yes sir, it was. I volunteered to take over tonight as well,” 

“Mhm, and is there a reason for this?” He raised his eyebrow, dragging his briefcase off the table with him. 

“Cleaning helps me think,” this wasn’t a total lie, reading the journal will calm his raging thoughts of the mystery girl. 

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” his teacher echoed, not having enough energy to further investigate a seemingly innocent interaction.

Tokoyami was much faster with cleaning that day, and he was even faster to sprint inside the broom closet. He grabbed the leather books and raced back to his room, already feeling the warmth her voice provided. 

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

The passages started off innocent enough, complaints about school, fantasizing about a better life, just a teen writing down their emotions. It then morphed into the beauty in everything, words that didn’t release Fumikage’s eyes until they were tearing up from dryness. 

Then, things took a darker turn. Dark thoughts disguised in poems, things others have said to her, representation of her pain in drawings scattered throughout the book. The beautiful world- though still majestic in its own way- turned dark and twisted.

It was painful to read, and yet he couldn’t look away. It was like the book became a part of him- no. It was like he became a part of the book, nothing more than the cracked parchment and spilled ink. It was dehumanizing, but he wouldn’t change his position for anything in the world.

His bed was taken over by the old pages, dating back over two hundred years ago. The writer was in the post-quirk awakening. The world had just discovered the glowing child right before she was born. She was one of the first quirk holders in the world- one of the first one hundred Japanese citizens to have a quirk.

The journals started when she was ten- though that book was the fifth one he read. After that discovery, he categorized them in chronological order to read along with the flow of time. She wrote of the manifestation of her quirk- her parents had been struck with terror when their daughter walked through the wall of their living room to get into her bedroom. 

That was the first moment she realized how different she is. Her life never seemed to go back to the way it was before, not even after the initial shock of what she could do faded from her parents; because, there would always be a new shock, a new ability, and no one was prepared to help her.

He realized, reading more about how the quirkless treated her, that her life would have been much different is she had lived in his time. Hearing the slurs and bullying they  put her through, he wishes she could see how much the world has changed- would she be happy or sad that her bully's became the minority and were mocked in their normal-ness or if she would be ashamed of the people like her.

He was very satisfied that the people who made her life so awful were getting a taste of their own medicine, but he did wonder if that made him a bad person. Tokoyami figures that it really didn’t matter, she was gone so her opinion would never be known. 

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

“Death didn’t feel like I thought it would. Surprisingly, it was reminiscent of when I use my quirk to posses things or people. My body was there, on the floor, but I was floating above it. Much like I am when I leave my body before finding my target. The cold was instantly recognizable- like an abyss with no end.

The only difference I’ve noticed so far is the lack of body to return to, though I can enter it, it acts as an object. While I cannot move it, I can see out of it. It’s therapeutic in a way. Really, this must have been the best case scenario- I could see how everyone reacts, see who really cares about me.

It was hard at first, seeing all theses people, who I believed were simply pretending to care, braking down behind closed doors. It was only my sister- whom held no quirk- that cared. She did everything she could to make my funeral how I wanted it, and she preserved my bedroom the way I liked it. That was a nice gesture, it truly was. 

Now my life has come to an end- my body buried under ground, never to be seen again- I can’t help but wonder what comes next. How long will I be held in this mortal world? Will others be like me, or will I be forced to live alone in the agonizing realization that comes with immortality? I guess I’ll simply have to wait and see,”

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

He had fallen asleep after reading the last passage in the ninth book- where she described how she stayed a student at UA even after death. The names she referenced had been lost in time- Pro-heroes that have long been dead and are now another name on the Hero Memorial wall. 

She had possessed her home room teacher and walked to the headmaster- there she said what had happened. Her headmaster agreed to keep her on as a student, but only under the condition that she wouldn’t unnecessarily possess an unknowing student. It was fair- annoying but fair. They gave her her old desk and she worked along side everyone. When he woke up, the book had moved on its own. 

There was a page opened- an elegant scipt sprawllled at the top but had been smuged since it was written- the only elligable part following what could be assumed to be a name: Phatom-- The Ghost Hero. The script was familiar, but it wasn’t the handwriting the rest of the journal was written in. Beneath it was a drawing of a girl- a girl more beautiful than anyone Fumikage had ever seen. It was a realistic depiction and it looked modern- it was only with that realization which led Tokoyomi to realize this journal wasn’t one he had seen before. Flipping through it, he hadn’t even noticed its sudden appearance. It was the newest one of them all- spanning for the last decade.  He leaned back in his bed and began,

So I guess it’s been a while huh? Here are some general updates: Shouta from class 2-A is an idiot but I guess he’s kinda cute. We picked out hero names today, I wanted to just keep my name but he dubbed me Phantom.. I called him Eraserhead in return. I hope it sticks. 

I’ve graduated from UA more than six times now- but I kinda like it. I do some professional hero work- especially info recall- but I’m worried about how the public will react to a ghost. It would definitely fuck with some peoples religious views. 

It’s better this way. I’ve also decided to distance myself from Shinso- she and I got along great, but her twin brother has been acting weirdly around me for a while. His quirk is amazing, but I’ve seen plenty of unstable students pass through these halls and I know enough to keep my distance. Shouta doesn’t seem to agree- neither does Hizashi. I guess only time will tell.

As for manifesting my physical form- it’s a lot harder than I had hoped. I can become visual for three active minutes or ten minutes with no moving. I’m still not touchable, but I hope that will change with time. That’s all for now- I’ll try to check in soon.

He shook his head- surely those names must be common, but she was in UA and only so many coincidences can happen at one time. He wonders how she was now. Mostly, he wonders if she’s still at UA. They hadn’t announced her as a student, so was she a pro hero now? 

Was it weird to still be in the body of a sixteen year old? There were so many issues with immortality- he wondered how she coped with it. These questions abused him throughout the morning. He thought of how lonely she must be, how it must be so awful to be all by herself.

He wondered why he cared so much- why had he developed such a strong scene of attachement to this girl? The fuzzy feeling in his chest when he saw the drawing of the girl had taken up his entire mind- he needed to know more.

As soon as he entered his familiar class room he marched straight up to his teachers desk with passion in his eyes- “Professor, can we talk after class? I have some questions I’d like to ask you,”

Aizawa glarred at the corner of the room, an annoyed frown tugging at his lips. This was gonna be a long day.

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

A/N 

Sorry for dropping off the planet everyone! This has been in the drafts for a  long time and finally gets to see the light of day. I’ve had some mental health issues (not related to this story don’t worry) and am working on myself. I fully intend to finish the Christmas countdown I committed to and this account is still active, but this will remain on the back burner until I am well on my way to recovery. Requests will remain open for the time being and I will continue to make progress. Thank you for the lovely anon’s in my inbox with constant support and requests, I appreciate all of you. Thank you all and I hope you enjoyed this work <3

[kaypeace21]

Stranger things is about mental health & trauma- deal with it!

I’ve seen a lot of people claim anyone who mentioned this topic immediately be gaslit and told they’re “just crazy” and “rudely projecting their own issues on to the characters.’ Like- no you don’t have to believe my  Will DID/Lonnie theory ( I could be wrong). But to claim one of the show’s central themes isn’t about mental health/trauma (screams either complete lack of lit comprehension or denial cause you have your own negative biases towards such people). So let’s just go into what’s literal text-not subtext/symbolism. Just the super blatant stuff.  RIGHT IN THE SHOW!

S1

-We have El when she first appears on screen  asked by Benny if her parents starved and hurt her and if that’s why she ran away. Benny then calls CPS to say El “may have been ab*sed or something.” After this Lucas says there is “seriously something wrong with her-wrong in the head. She’s probably from the NUT-HOUSE in curly county.penthurst” We also see El  cannonically has PTSD-all of s1 she’ll see something benign (a cat, a coke commercial, a closet) and is triggered to see a traumatic flashback. That’s literally ptsd.  There’s also hints throughout the seasons she’s developmentally behind in both language, telling time etc (neglect like El’s irl can cause an intellectual disability-analysis on El/that subject here).The real pethurst in pensylvannia (not the one in stranger things/ Curly county)  closed in 1986-  it was a facility for people and mostly  kids with intellectual disabilities (it wasn’t technically a psych facility like the one in st)-but it was infamous for it’s abuse of these intellectually disabled patients kept there. We also have Brenner be a ab*sive psychiatrist.

- Hopper after suffering from the loss of his daughter. Is popping pills like candy, drinking and smoking constantly. He later says he used to hallucinate and forgot what was real -seeing and hearing sarah and says if he didn’t confront the pain he’d “fall down a black hole he couldn’t get out of.” NO... subtext here about what the void represents nope.

- Both mothers (Terry & Joyce) are dismissed as being mentally ill and simply grieving the loss of their kids . But both end up being right about the supernatural.

- “Terry pretends Jane is real. i mean it’s all make believe. you know the doctors all say it’s a coping mechanism.”

- While with Joyce the whole town pre s1 already questioned her mental health. Jonathan says “She used to have anxiety problems (pre s1).” And Jonathan, Hopper, and Lonnie all assume she’s hallucinating: talking to Will via lights, seeing a man without a face, saying Will’s body is fake -due to grief. Plus Lonnie mentions the fact Joyce’s aunt Darlene also used to hallucinate as a possible reason  (terry’s aunt also had mental health issues mentioned in s2 by Becky). Lonnie even says everything Joyce is seeing  is “all in her head.”  Hopper and Jon both say she needs to sleep and accept reality and Lonnie says she needs to see a “shrink”.  Hopper “i’m not saying that you’re crazy”. Joyce : “no, you are.” Joyce also says to Lonnie “Stop looking at me like that... like everyone else like i’m out of my damn mind.” Hopper also says about Joyce she’s “on the edge”. Callahan says in response , “she’s been on the edge for a while now” (referring to her mental health- even before Will’s dissappearance)”. While Lonnie says Jonathan is “feeding into her hallucinations ... you’re going to push her right over the edge.” In s2 Hopper says “ I think everyone is on edge- you, me, Will most of all. (when talking about Will’s ptsd/trauma)” 

- in s1 They claim Will just “fell” over the edge of the quarry’s cliff. Later the only other queer coded character (Mike) jumps off the quarry cliff (where Will’s body was found) cause the homophobic troy forced him too jump. Troy even says earlier dead-Will is “flying with all the other fairies all happy and gay” (to Mike). And Troy says to Hopper El made Mike “fly” after jumping off the cliff. Friendship saved him from jumping off the edge metaphorically ( and he’ll prob eventually be happy and gay too).

s2/3

-Will is seeing a therapist . And we are told he has ptsd and will experience the anniversary effect, personality changes,nightmares, having episodes, etc. And things “will get worse before they get better”.  Mike also asks if what Will is seeing is “real or like the doctors say all in your head?” And Will continues to see hallucinations of the mf/upsidedown that only he can see initially.

-Hopper also agrees with owens mentioning how he knew guys with ptsd . joyce : “it’s not like he’s describing a nightmare. He talks about them like they’re real.” Hopper: “Yeah, because they’re not nightmares they’re flashbacks.I think he’s right about trauma.I think everyone is on edge (bringing that s1 ref back), Me you, Will, most of all.Nothing’s gonna go back to the way that it was. But it’ll get better.In time.”

-Nancy suffers from survivor’s guilt and drunkingly says she killed Barb. Jonathan says like Nancy he has “a weight that you that carry all the time . i feel it too.” (cough depression). He also says he tries to be there for Will but says about Will “he’s not the same. maybe things can’t go back to the way they were. (mirroring Hopper’s words earlier that season)”

-Jonathan said in s1 Joyce had “anxiety issues” than Nancy says in s3 “you really are your mother’s son... you worry too much.” Then we see him look worried after the comment.

- in s2, Axel & a scientist both call El and Will “schizos” because of their powers. In s3 mrs driscoll isn’t believed about the supernatural cause she’s schizophrenic-but like Joyce/Terry was right.

- Kali saves a woman named Dottie (a british slang term for crazy)  from a mental hospital and then compares herself and El to dottie. saying her non-powered gang is “Like us ...outsiders... society discarded them.”  In graphitti we even see the title “obedlam” a british poem about discarding the mentally ill and leaving them homeless.  El before this sees a mentally ill man screaming “we’re all dead!” Kali’s friend says to El, after this encounter they were “dead all of us” until kali “saved them here” (points to head) “and here” (points to heart). Pointing to the theme of love and friendship helping those with such issues. Similar to the cliff analogy.

-The cycle of ab*se. Max in s2 says she’s afraid of becoming like Billy (her ab*ser). We see Billy mimic his ab*ser neil and inflict pain on max. In s3 we see the roots of his behavior are linked to mimicking Neil- Neil in a flashback says  about baseball “what are you scared?”  “ did i raise a p*ssy for a son”. So young Billy later in a fight says to a boy “ what are you scared to fight me? fight me p*ssy. (as he beats the boy)” Deflecting his anger of his father on to someone else. In s3, We see as a kid he used to say to Neil “don’t hurt her” (his mom)-specifically after  Neil backhand slaps her -but we later see possessed Billy backhand slap Max (just like neil).  The resentment to his mother leaving - festered into how he views women and max negatively . And his attraction to mrs wheeler prob is linked to him subconsciously missing his mother. Max in s2 even says  he can’t take it out on her mother so he does so to her instead (we even have Billy hallucinate hurting mrs wheeler).We see in s2 the cycle of abuse is there- Billy mimics Neil, and then Max mimics Billy. Billy harrasses Max and yells “SAY IT!” (mimicking Neil).  Max like Billy later  yells “SAY IT” and uses a bat /violence to stand up for herself against Billy- which earlier she said she was trying to combat … explaining she can be angry like Billy sometimes but she never wants to be like him (her nickname symbolizing this: aka ‘mad max’).  Billy’s last dying words were an apology to Max- for becoming her neil. And we hopefully will see Max break this cycle.

- Will says his now memories (that he describes like dreams) are “growing “, “spreading “,and “killing”. While Kali says they need to face their father and (as Brenner) says El has to confront her “wound” or else it’ll “grow”, “spread” and “eventually it’ll kill her.” Kali says she used to be like El . She used to bottle her pain away and it “spread.” But she then says  “I confronted my pain and I finally began to heal (from those wounds).” We also see with jonathan and nancy when describing “shared trauma” zoom in onto the scars on their hands. The wound heeled into a scar so to speak.

S2 & 3 ENDINGS

both have Hopper do a speech that delves into dealing with trauma/depression but still finding good along the way.

-s2 Hopper outside the snowball: “how are you holding up? Yeah, that feeling never goes away. It is true what they say, you know. Everyday it does get easier.”

-s3 Hopper monolouge : “ Feelings jesus. For so long, i’d forgotten what those even were. I’ve been stuck in one place,in a cave you might say , a deep dark cave (cough s2 supernatural cave). For the first time in a long time, i started to feel things again. I started to feel happy. Life... yeah sometimes it’s painful .sometimes it’s sad, and sometimes it’s suprising... happy.. And when life hurts you, because it will .remember the hurt . The hurt is good. It means you’re out of that cave.”

BUT YES- St has nothing to do with mental health/trauma, we’re just “crazy” and “projecting”. It’s not like some of ya’ll  act pompous when you just have a bias and get pissy at the idea of relating to characters you “other” as “crazy” or “damaged” irl or anything (so attack people for pointing it out). Or (benefit of the doubt) you are just like.... oblivious... or just a kid who doesn’t know better XD

[honestlyfrance]

( oranges in october )

You’d think that just because he had wings and he flies, that makes him an Icarus. Icarus fell to his death. He did not resurface, he did not live beyond that power. Sam Wilson soared high into the missiles of war and came back battered and red, dripping love and death as he stands in the aftermath of it all. You think he was an Icarus when he was actually Apollo. Anyone who gets too close to him falls to the ocean waves, then sooner than later, he’s left singing eulogies as his heart rattles in a cage.

He’s sadness in a bottle. He’s got a lot of baggage, and it took so much of him to figure out how he was going to carry it.

If you ever wondered why tragedy is always romanticized, it was because the red was too much, and what else is there to do? They made songs out of the fallen and poems from their last breaths. Sam Wilson gasped, “Let him live. Let me catch him,” and his arms caught the air that whisked Riley away. He only had a few regrets.

Sam’s thoughts ran that day. He wondered what would have happened if he did catch him. Would Riley say some ridiculous remark, or would he be shaken, overcome with the trauma of near-death? Would Riley cry, or would he be quiet, forever empty? Would Sam never have left the Air Force or would he be more careful, a never-ending feeling of death following him? It was no use anyway. All that Sam thinks of was What if I never met Riley? What if Sam never loved a man so much his death shattered his very soul. He’s battered. Gold can’t glue him back together. He’s seen so much red, it’s bleeding in his heart.

They buried an empty coffin.

Maybe if he had never let himself love then he wouldn’t get hurt. If Sam never let himself be vulnerable, maybe he could think of death as a missing person. Gone from your world, but somewhere out there living their best life, now that would be quite the belief. Sam wouldn’t have to spend so many nights alone if he had only let himself believe that. What if I never met him? He thinks that he would be better off okay.

It’s selfish, he knows, but seeing it happen and pretend it never did was something awfully wrong to him. It was like driving through an empty highway in the dark, speeding by with your headlights the only source of light, and suddenly by your right, you see the mangled corpse of some dead thing on the side of the road. You were too late, you couldn’t stop now or turn back around. It was dream-like, it always was. Sam couldn’t turn back and save it. It was like he didn’t know him anymore.

He’s screaming in his head because Riley wasn’t supposed to die young. That man had ambitions and plans. The world hadn’t had the right to do something so cruel.

If anyone tried to touch his hand, it would only go through. Sam couldn’t feel himself as he mourned. It’s all falling apart.

The thing is, it wasn’t just Riley. It was everyone who ever tried to be close to him. He’s a grown man whose most feared words were still, “Your mother isn’t coming home” and he wouldn’t even know how to begin to explain it. He knows he doesn’t owe an explanation about his grievances, but the thing that terrifies himself is the fact that he can’t even begin to explain anything. Sam can’t say how much he loved these people to even begin to comprehend how much it hurts. It’s a pool of love that drained itself every time he tried to do so. He can’t reach the seafloor.

Sometimes he thinks his remorse is just an overreaction, and then he becomes numb to the point it’s his normal to grieve this deeply.

He’s trying. He’s trying so hard. Please believe him when he says it.

He sees himself break and he doesn't even know what from. He's falling so slow he braces for the impact before he even brought out his wings. God, he’s trying, believe him when he says it.

Sam knows he's shattered. He's looking like a lost cause. Like a bruise pressed every time he sees it, he's screaming for the ache. He wants to live but at the same time, he wants every tear he shed to drown him. Heaven sighs at their angel, and Sam's going down like Babylon.

He's lonely, after the war. He's curled into his sheets as if everything was too loud to look at. He left the Air Force then he's looking up into the sky, wondering if every pararescue was an angel in disguise. Sam’s eyes were tired and he wished for a kiss goodnight.

Forgive him. He's sad and lonely. He wants to romanticize every single quiver of life before he loses it.

Goddamn, how he loses it. Sam walked alone on the pavement and dropped his umbrella, feels the first drop of rain on his cheek like a lover's kiss. And, oh, he's gone mad — mad with loneliness. He wants to kiss the sun all of the sudden but his tongue tasted like ashes from the war he died to escape from. He's losing his mind deciding if he's allowed to love again, and now he's shattered as he thinks about it.

Is a kiss any less lovely if it had been a different set of lips? Sam's turned to Shakespeare just wondering about it. He's still trying, believe him. It's just that the wounds on his back ran deeper than the trenches in the ocean and no one seemed to want to even acknowledge the depths of it. No one wanted a scar so deep they'd have to fill it with love to dig out the doubt.

War made poor boys angry and Sam might be one of them, he doesn't know. The pull of heaven’s light is enough to blind him but he knows the books, don't trust his own faith as much as he's used to. He's praying blindly and confesses as if he's got the right to in the first place.

If repentance was a kiss, Sam wouldn't even think he'd deserve to think about it.

He moves sluggish but that’s what depression does to you. It takes all of his might to even hold his niece in his arms without crying and then his sister's whispering in his ear, "I love you, Sam, but don't you ever hurt yourself." He finds himself in front of the VA Hospital in D.C. and suddenly he’s crying in the car as he drives home afterward. It was like an ocean wave cleansed his soul, but the shore was still a mess, he knew as much, but he'd watched the water ebb and flow for as long as the day burns bright.

There are years of healing after that, and he knows he’s trying, believes it some days but sometimes he forgets. It felt like eons finding help. Sam tells himself that war kept chasing him when in reality he just misses it, jumps at the first sight of danger, and follows it through the depths of hell. It wasn’t his fault — no one’s fault really. Who was to predict that Sam would be an Avenger?

No one thinks that what he does is like war, but Sam could sense the familiarity. He’s soaring into the sky and he’s kicking helicopters by the tail. He’s following orders and sending them out, back on a team so different from his own that it grounds him into reality. This isn’t war, he thinks, it’s just what your body wants you to think.

Sometimes he’s falling and he feels like he’s in another dream. Other times, he’s dreaming and he screams. But he knew that he shouldn’t regret what he had lost, all he needed was to take care of what he has now before he loses it later. You know, Natasha Romanoff once said that he was the embodiment of the present, so aware of your surroundings, you pick out exit strategies as if you made the floorplan. You don’t think of how the past is haunting you or even think of what you could have.

I’m trying to get through the day, he says to himself and her. Little things like these keep me okay.

Years pass and he finds what he could have had a little too late. He appreciated what he had had with his closest friends but he feels like pouring alcohol on a wound that never truly healed. Sam finds out Natasha was gone and he breaks even further, grief becoming too much of a permanent thing in his life.

He's singing Ave Maria as he's dying.

( read more on AO3 )