#you have someone’s good opinion before you ever had to suffer or bleed for it

[altschmerzes]

watching return of the king again really did wake up the part of my brain that had two fairly short oneshot concepts spring to life fully formed that more satisfyingly resolved some things to my view and im eyeing them like. hm.

[cangrellesteponme]

Would you care to share your feral thoughts on The Quarry with the class? 👀 🐺

OKAY OKAY OKAY spoilers ahead ofc (mostly just for the ending mac got, which is all playable characters live, no infected other than nick and at some point ryan, all cured at the end, sylas dies, innocence proven. but also some mention of infected dylan) and trigger warnings for like. canon typical violence (blood, amputation...) and i say some mean things about nick lmao

okay so let's start with my strongest character opinions:

Dylan <3 so smart so dumb so iconic. He is both a himbo and a genius nerd and I love him so much. I think he's the best character along with Kaitlyn, his lines are great, he's the only one who's not stupid in unbelievable ways (why was he the only one who thought Nick's leg needed to be cut off? it was so obvious.) but rather in pretty relatable ways (wanting the gun despite being a terrible shot, never trusting his intuition, the whole radio sos thing...) and I think his character is a perfect guy in horror! And the fact that he wants to get laid doesn't stop him from actually trying his best to survive! (*cough* jacob *cough*) Kaitlyn <3 gaslight gatekeep girlboss except she doesn't gaslight, like ever. she doesn't need to. says she's the smartest? true. says she's the leader? true. says she's the best shot and the only one who can use a gun? true. says she's the hottest? true. also LONDON TIPTON LONDON TIPTON BRENDA SONG I LOVE YOU. Jokes aside, Kaitlyn is one of the first times i've seen a woman in a horror game feel real and in a positive way too. I particularly liked how clearly she expresses her feelings about people.

I hate Nick. Like, not for getting infected like a dumbass, or because you can't just cut his damn leg off and let him suffer or bleed out. Nah I hate him because Abi deserves better. Their romance looked so cute at the start. And then you hear him talk with Jacob about it... which was uncomfortable at best!! And then Truth or Dare happens. I think Emma kissing Nick was a good thing, because we got to see that Nick is your good old typical untrustworthy man. He did not need to put that much effort into that kiss- and I know he says he just likes helping Emma make Jacob jealous, but that's stupid. Jacob did not need that much effort to be made jealous, Nick was overdoing it when he very obviously should have held back out of respect for Abi's feelings (which are supposed to be requited!!). All in all he's cheater material. But I can live with that. The worst part is that he's just a dick tbh. In his final moments before turning, the most raw version of himself is an asshole, being aggressive to Abi like it's her fault that he's pathetic? My guy, I know you want to date her and feel like she's not taking you seriously but get over yourself. Also imagine, you feel like you're dying, you're in horrible pain, you can barely think coherently and you ask for reassurance from the person you love... and when they give it to you you don't believe them and get mad over it? I can't possibly imagine being that much of an ass I'm sorry. And don't tell me turning makes everyone an aggressive cunt. Max visibly tries to stay away in the jail cell before the aggression takes over, and Dylan saves Kaitlyn's life! Nick's a dick. One letter away.

Abi's a well-written simp. Okay I, too, hate the "I can fix him" stereotype but Abi's just... such a good version of it. I find it perfectly coherent that this woman who started with pretty low self-esteem and originally refused to say she had feelings for Nick turned to resilient devotion the moment she got invested. It would not have made sense for her to fight to live like other characters do, otherwise. She's a pretty simple character, living for the chance that she can save someone else just by advocating for them, and I think that's nice! Because. Let's be honest. Who in their right mind would want Nick to live if not for Abi's constant "we must save Nick" bs? I wanted him to drown. Stan Abi for being a better person than I am.

Ryan's an ass. Love that for him. That's it that's the opinion.

now my thoughts about the capybaras werewolves:

Why are they not furry. Why do their hair, skin, clothes, everything, just explode in a spray of blood then everything comes back except their clothes???? The werewolved should be fully clothed but it's all drenched in blood.

Why does everyone turn at different speeds? It takes Nick hours, even longer for Laura, but Dylan turns immediately??? My best attempt at an explanation is that it's based on how likely they are to turn someone. I mean, if fucking rabies could turn into a very well-evolved nightmare that optimises infection in horrifying ways, why can't the werewolf curse (which has A LOT of rabies symptoms) be even better? We know Dylan would never bite someone, so there's no point in him staying human long enough to be with others. Nick, however, would've bitten Abi in front of that pool, because the way he's just absolutely pathetic gets people's guard off (like rabid animals being particularly docile at first) even when he says the creepiest shit about being hungry. Laura can and will take every risk and sacrifice anyone, or do any risky thing, so she could (and does.) bite, so keeping her human gets the infection to spread. But that's just my terrible theory. I don't actually think they thought this through.

aaaaaand the plot:

Predictable plot twists. AS THEY SHOULD I'm here to get spooked not to solve a goddamn nonsensical mystery. I'm so thankful that none of the lore is surprising. Glad the hag is everything literally everyone thought she was. Happy it was werewolves whose curse is transmitted through bites. Overjoyed to see Laura and Max survived the prologue and Laura was bitten.

The ending. Look I know it was rushed. But the Sylas bit was boring as fuck lmao. Also the podcast... let me just say nothing. Nvm I'll talk. I do think the characters were funny, and I liked their back and forth, but I wish we could've seen them.

[rustic-ghoul]

Hello Good Omens brain rot. When I say I hear them in every song I ain't even kidding.

Listen to Pink Floyd's - The Trial while imagining the trial of Crowley (and the other fallen angels - but mainly Crowley because I feel that they used him as a scapegoat. He was the one who initiated the questions/suggestions and Lucifer saw that as an opportunity to cause some chaos that led to the War against Heaven...in my opinion).

Picture Crowley shackled and knealing in front of The Metatron (Your Honour). Stood beside him are the Archangels Gabriel, Michael and Urial acting as the jury. All of the other angels surround them.

Sandalphon acting as go-between introducing Crowley to the court.

Sandalphon:

Good morning, Worm your honor

The crown will plainly show

The prisoner who now stands before you

Was caught red-handed showing feelings

Showing feelings of an almost human nature

This will not do

Call the schoolmaster

Gabriel:

I always said he'd come to no good

In the end your honor

If they'd let me have my way I could

Have flayed him into shape

But my hands were tied

The bleeding hearts and artists

Let him get away with murder

Let me hammer him today?

Crowley thinking to himself whilst stood in front of the jury (Archangels) :

Crazy

Toys in the attic, I am crazy

Truly gone fishing

They must have taken my marbles away

Crazy, toys in the attic he is crazy

Michael:

You little shit you're in it now

I hope they throw away the key

You should have talked to me more often

Than you did, but no

You had to go

Your own way, have you broken any

Homes up lately?

Just five minutes, worm your honor

Him and me, alone

Aziraphale's thoughts while standing amongst the other watching angels:

Babe

Come to mother baby, let me hold you

In my arms

M'lud I never wanted him to

Get in any trouble

Why'd he ever have to leave me?

Worm, your honor, let me take him home

Crowley thinking and muttering to himself:

Crazy

Over the rainbow, I am crazy

Bars in the window

There must have been a door there in the wall

When I came in

Crazy, over the rainbow, he is crazy

Metatron:

The evidence before the court is

Incontrovertible, there's no need for

The jury to retire

In all my years of judging

I have never heard before

Of someone more deserving

Of the full penalty of law

The way you made them suffer

Your exquisite wife and mother

Fills me with the urge to defecate

Since, my friend, you have revealed your

Deepest fear

I sentence you to be exposed before

Your peers

Tear down the wall

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

An earthquake type crack that is the entrance to Hell opens up by Crowley and have him fall.

[mindmeltonabun-blog]

Doom At Your Service: Analysis & Theories for EPs 9-10

Anyone mentally exhausted from watching DAYS? Well, you’ve come to the right place where I do the thinking for you, so you don’t have to! As always, if you have any questions, feel free to click on the ask question button! Happy Readings !

The Contract Revisited

While reviewing the contract, I realized there was something major that I had completely missed! Anyways let’s go over the contract again to clear up some confusion.

The Contract is as follows:

1) Dong Kyung must ask for Myul Mang to destroy the world before she dies (It could be rephrased as Dong Kyung must ask for Myul Mang to destroy the world before her tentative expiration date)

2) During Dong Kyung’s last 100 days, Myul Mang will prevent her from feeling any pain

3) Myul Mang has to grant her one real wish

4) If Dong Kyung breaks the contract (does not wish for the world to be destroyed) then the person she loves the most will die

If Dong Kyung does not violate the contract as in she wishes for the world to be destroyed, the person she loves dies anyways because you know.... the world is non existent. If Dong Kyung does violate the contract, meaning she does not wish for the world to be destroyed, the person she loves dies too because her doom is transferred to them. Some have also wondered whether she can has to ask for the world to be destroyed in order to get her one real wish to be granted. In my opinion, I don't think so. I think she can still get her one real wish to be granted regardless of whether she wishes for doom upon the world or not. Other things to note is that nothing will happen to Myul Mang if he does not stick to the terms of the contract (i.e keeps Dong Kyung pain free and granting her one real wish) because as Dong Kyung said "If I violate" not "If either you or I violate".

Now something to pay close attention to is #4. In Ep 2, Myul Mang had said he would take Dong Kyung’s doom (brain cancer) and transfer it to someone she loves. This is the part I missed! I’d thought that all Myul Mang was doing was transferring the death that was meant for her, not that he was actually removing her source of death which was her brain cancer. Therefore, if Dong Kyung breaks the contract, she will live because her brain cancer is removed and is subsequently transferred into the person she loves, causing them to die instead. I feel incredibly stupid for missing this important piece of info. In light of this new info, I will therefore retract my previous theory that Dong Kyung’s one wish will be to cure her brain cancer.

For those who were confused by that scene of Dong Kyung going to the beach and staying away from everyone, here are my thoughts on that. Dong Kyung was trying to find a loophole. The loophole was that she was planning on violating the contract while protecting the people she loves. This means that Dong Kyung was planning on ending herself at the beach (you can't wish for doom upon the world if you're already dead) and accepting her doom (her doom can't be transferred to anyone else because she accepts it in herself).

Who’s Going to Get Dong Kyung’s Brain Cancer and Die?

I recently had a eureka moment a few days ago before Eps 9-10 aired that led me to formulating a new theory -- it's actually Dora who will inherit Dong Kyung’s brain cancer and die. Let’s think through some things first, “the person you love the most will die”. The most obvious choice is Myul Mang. However, if you think about that statement in a more abstract way, you can see that if Dong Kyung loves her life, then the person who will die is Dora. Remember that Dora is basically the personification of life.

To further add evidence that supports this theory, I present to you Exhibit A, Dora’s massive nosebleed. We know Dong Kyung has a rare type of brain cancer and it’s located in her frontal lobe. As days pass, the brain tumor is growing or metastasizing. In theory, the tumor could grow into nearby areas such as her nasal cavity and cause Dong Kyung to have nose bleeds (FYI: In real life, I’m a scientist with experience in the field of oncology and most of the time brain tumors don’t grow outside of the brain. It can happen, but it is very rare!). Now, think about the events that occurred before Dora's nose bleed. For example, Dong Kyung was out and about enjoying her time with Myul Mang and her family and friends. Essentially, Dong Kyung was beginning to love her life. This causes Dora to suffer because she is taking in Dong Kyung's illness into herself. Subsequently, this leads to Dora experiencing some of the symptoms of Dong Kyung's brain cancer (e.g nose bleed). Thus, as Dong Kyung is beginning to live, Dora is beginning to die.

Exhibit B: Adventures of Pinocchio. At the end of the story, the Fairy (Dora) heals an ailing Geppetto (Dong Kyung) as a reward for Pinocchio (Myul Mang) becoming a good boy. Following this, we don’t hear much about what happens to the Fairy except that she’s in laying in a hospital on the verge of death. It is implied that in order to heal Geppetto, the Fairy had to take his illness into herself. Afterall, nothing is without consequences, someone must pay so that others can be happy. Much like the story of Pinocchio, Dora is doing the same thing as the Fairy. Dora is taking in Dong Kyung’s illness so that Dong Kyung can freely love her son, Myul Mang, without consequences (e.g Myul Mang dying).

Exhibit C: Dong Kyung walking around like she didn’t have brain cancer while in seclusion. You would think that since she didn’t see Myul Mang to recharge, she would be experiencing some severe symptoms, but nope she was walking around as if she was cured! I wonder where her cancer went.......DORA!

Exhibit D: Dora telling Dong Kyung to be madly in love and live. Basically Dora saying, "Love my son and live, don't worry about your brain cancer or him dying because I'm taking care of it."

Why Dora Didn't Want Myul Mang To See Her

For those wondering why Dora didn’t want Myul Mang to see her, here are my two cents. One explanation is that Dora probably didn’t want him to figure out that she was inheriting Dong Kyung’s brain cancer. It would’ve made him feel guilty to see that his mother was willing to take on even more pain just so he could be happy. Another explanation is that Myul Mang still has a lot of growing up to do (to become human). Dora didn’t want him to get the idea that he’s out of the clear just yet. Meaning if Myul Mang had found out that Dora was doing this for him then he would’ve thought life was a breeze now and have no further motivations to want to grow, thus ruining Dora’s plan for him (to grow up to become a good human). There’s no better motivation to make someone grow than the thought of their love ones dying.

Final Theory on Dong Kyung’s Wish

In my previous post, I had discussed that without knowing the limits of what one could or could not wish for, it was difficult for me to accurately predict what Dong Kyung’s wish would be. However, in this week’s episode, I was finally given the limits: the wish must be a wish that is doom in nature. I thought to myself, what could be a good thing to end? Oh, that’s right, Myul Mang’s immorality. Dong Kyung must say “I wish for your immortal life to end” or something along those lines. The combination of Dong Kyung’s wish + Myul Mang’s willingness to sacrifice himself for her + Dora’s plant = the rebirth of Myul Mang into a real boy....oops I mean real hu-man.

The Ending of DAYS

So, what kind of ending will DAYS have? Prepare yourselves. I think it’s going to be a bittersweet ending because it goes with the one of the main themes DAYS which is dualism. I think Myul Mang will be reborn as a human, but still have his doom responsibilities (so more like a fake human). He will probably end up becoming like Dora in the sense that he gets to experience the cycle of life and death over an infinite amount of time. Dong Kyung won’t be reborn in his next life cycle (remember Myul Mang tells that crazy lady there’s no afterlife; humans only have this one life). I guess the notion that the love he and Dong Kyung share will always be with him and forever serve as a shining beacon even in his loneliest days is sweet, but still I want a happy ending!!!

Now excuse my language, but to hell with dualism and what is logical! I want a happy ending where Myul Mang becomes human, lives with Dong Kyung, and when he dies that’s it. No coming back to doing his doom job in a different life. Dora can create another herald of doom. Dora did it once before and she could do it again lol. Or if Myul Mang must come back in a different life, at least allow Dong Kyung to be reborn at the same time. I mean you can grow the same plant again…. EVER HEARD OF PROPROGATION DORA?!! Metaphorically speaking, if Dong Kyung is a sunflower, then wait until she dies, harvest her seeds and grow her again…. it’s that simple Dora!!!

Some Thoughts on the Writer of DAYS

The writer (Im Meari) of DAYS is at best, pretentious and at worst, derivative. She’s more or less just rehashing the works of other great philosophers (Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Deleuze, etc). She presents DAYS as a collection of major philosophical concepts with the intention to differentiate herself from that of other kdramas writers. She goes onto placing great stress on the idea that in order to innovate or bring about a new beginning, one must deviate from the norm, yet she herself does not diverge from the ideas of other philosophers. She does not present any philosophy of her own. In this aspect, she is a hypocrite to the very ideas she tries to preach. Oh well, to each their own. Who knows, maybe my opinion of Im Meari will change by the end of the series. Anyways, I’m still here for the romance between the actors and actresses and solving mysteries!

Ep 11 Preview Predictions

Here are my predictions for Ep 11 based off of the preview, they may or may not be correct !

Dong Kyung takes back the bracelet from Myul Mang after their conversation on the beach. Honestly, I’m growing tired of this whole giving/taking the bracelet type situation lol.

Dong Kyung enjoys a nice vacation with Myul Mang on Jeju island.

Dong Kyung returns from the vacation because she finds out that her aunt is sick (probably from worrying about Dong Kyung). Dong Kyung beats herself up about it.

Dong Kyung is sick again (probably from hating life...remember that I had theorized that the more Dong Kyung loves her life, the sicker Dora will be become) and Myul Mang in his desperation pleads with Dora to help him, but Dora’s version of helping him is to …. surprise surprise… teach him another lesson. The lesson is that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side and that Myul Mang and Dong Kyung complete each other for the better. Dora shows Myul Mang what their lives would've been like if they had never existed in each other’s lives.

Dong Kyung having never experience any kind of suffering would live a healthy life but become the most unappreciative and spoiled person ever. She may go on to finding that life was pretty meaningless and would want to put an end to it all. And Myul Mang having never met Dong Kyung wouldn't have any motivation or desire to grow as a person and so he would remain stagnant. And who knows… maybe at some point, that Myul would’ve became so angry with humans that he would personally go around killing every last one of them.

[pridewhatpride]

Do you have any gx rival shipping fanfic recs?

This ask has been sitting in my inbox for far too long. Prepare to get linked to half the Manjoume/Judai tag on Ao3 (FF.net is impossible to navigate and most of the works there are... questionable?).

I'll try to make this organised in some way...

My absolute favourite on Ao3 is Sour Candy by Aamalysstuff. Chapters: 1 Word count: 23,522 Reasoning: It's just... nice. It captures an aspect of teen romance that I just love- the awkwardness of sharing a room with someone you think you could never get along with just to find yourself wishing to never be apart from said roommate. And they share candy and music- what more can you want?

Moving on, there's Colour Theory by Sophisticated_Adult. Chapters: 1 Word count: 1,850 Reasoning: Well, I am a sucker for soulmate AUs and honestly? This is genius. This is the instance in which the only colours you can see before touching your soulmate are their eye and hair colour. So imagine poor Judai only seeing in greyscale and thinking he doesn't have one at all. Also this author is just great in general, in my humble opinion.

Another soulmate AU! All the King's Men by Souless_Robot. Chapters: 1 Word count: 2,434 Reasoning: Do you like pain? Do you want to see Manjoume suffer? Well, I do. So take the sweet promise of soulmates and flip it on its head by making Haou Manjoume's soulmate, while Judai is happily paired up with Johan. Don't we all love unrequited GX Rivalshipping?

A 2020 special: A Man in Uniform by Draconicmaw. Chapters: 1 Word count: 3,011 Reasoning: Has quarantine made you starved for interaction? Do you love platonic Manjoume-Asuka? Great! This fic has Asuka acting as the best wingman to Manjoume, who is the world's most disastrous bisexual. Judai is the sweaty and buff UPS man.

There's also Jun's (questionable) guide on how to go out with your crush by SheepySeconds. Chapters: 1 Word count: 9,567 Summary: In which Juudai stays at Jun's stupid apartment, keeps on getting injured in increasingly stupid ways, looks at Jun with those stupidly pretty eyes, and is stupidly impossible not to ask out, because Jun never claimed to have good taste or anything.

The last one-shot! parallel. by kaibaboy. Chapters: 1 Word count: 13,754 Summary: judai has never really had a 'special summer memory', and he finds himself wanting nothing more than to be able to understand the feelings of joy and euphoria surrounding the warmest season. manjoume ends up getting roped into his scheme, as always, but he finds himself going on yet another journey with judai — except this time, it doesn't end with them going in circles. this time, they finally meet at the intersection, and summer becomes sweeter than it had ever been before.

On to multi-chapter fics. Now. I haven't finished some of these (and some are even just on my to read list but deserve to be mentioned regardless), so I'll give you a summary instead of my own silly commentary (I also sometimes just don't have much to say ;;;;).

Straying by 111 (Insert). Chapters: 27 Word count: 219,653 Summary: The next time Manjoume saw him, Judai had a head full of spirits and a desperation that almost showed through. (I am recommending this just because a friend said it's good, honestly. I have yet to start reading it...)

Crushed by 111 (Insert). Chapters: 19 Word count: 150,973 Summary: Manjoume Jun should be dead, but he's not. The guard who throws the cell door open shouts a title different than the name running through his head over and over again. "The Supreme King has requested your presence." (Again, if Haou is mentioned, you know you're in for some fun pain.)

Take me home where I belong by space_lace. Chapters: 32 Word count: 43,668 Summary: For as much as Jun knew his brothers hated him, he never would have thought that they would be so willing to kill him. (In case you didn't hate Chosaku and Shouji enough- also, Manjoume struggles to live working as a cashier.)

Soul Reversal by Sophisticated_Adult. Chapters: 12 (Ongoing) Word count: 22,458 Summary: The roleswap AU no one asked for, featuring clueless rich boy Judai and bitter Very Much Not Rich Manjoume. Behold as two idiots with equal social skills just kind of flail around at each other. (This is just a dream come true. I love this author lol.)

Bonus Round! I'm now throwing unfinished stuff and pwp at you. Also two fics I just want you to read.

Saving You Saves Me by Osidiano. Chapters: 15 (Unfinished) Word count: 67,169 Reasoning: You see, this one has Manjoume as an actual believer. The Society of Light was not just brainwashing. The Darkness in Judai is also... strong. There is a lot of violence, but it's just... worth reading. I'm devastated it was never finished. It's honestly so so interesting.

Pentadic by spellcastersjudgement. Chapters: 1 Word count: 7,458 Reasoning: ... Technically it's Misawa centric. It's Misawa watching porn, which just so happens to be a camshow by Judai and Manjoume. It's honestly very fun to read. Misawa is very horny. Manjoume is a victim.

Super Stud by Hambone. Chapters: 1 Word count: 3,708 Reasoning: Manjoume is a people pleaser and he just so happens to encounter a horny fan whose name is Reginald Van Howell III. But Ulri! That isn't GX Rivalshipping!!! Listen. It's funny as fuck and Manjoume has an undying crush on Judai in it. I will die defending this fic. It's not my fault Jun is a hoe.

haven't you people ever heard of using the goddamn door by chancellorxofxtrash. Chapters: 1 Word count: 2,187 Reasoning: When I say that the polyamorous relationship Edo-Manjoume-Judai is amazing, this is what I'm talking about. This fic. It's godly. Nobody can touch this fic and get away with it. I will personally come and murder you Edo style.

The last entry is some shit user pridewhatpride has written. Don't actually read it, it's bad. Anyways, the new work in the series is coming out soon, so... Yeah, no skip this one. Unless you want your eyes to bleed. Bad fic boys. Nothing to see here. The first work is called Playing Rivals, but like... really. Don't.

Please read my shitty drabbles.

[flowerflamestars]

I'm in a very angry-with-the-IC-and-Rhys-in-particular mood, and since I'm just rereading Daylight I was wondering, what is going through Rhysand's mind throughout the events of Daylight? Because it's basically his entire life CRUMBLING around him and I'd love to see the mental gymnastics he does to fit it all into his "I'm the good guy, actually" narrative. Or just his general reaction.

this is a FABULOUS question, thank you!

Daylight! Rhys is, in my opinion, the closest to a canonical (pre-acosf) character representation that I go for. He's so SO fucked up, and sublimating and burying all that trauma has, of course, failed, and it's all manifesting, in all these different directions.

To understand the level on which Rhys is losing his shit, it's important to go back to the very beginning: Rhysand, to Rhysand, is always, always the hero of the story. The down on his luck knight with truth in his heart. The struggling, just man.

He CANNOT seeing beyond himself for even a second. He casts himself in the most important role, as the only person whose personal consequences exist.

His mother, at probable great risk, takes him to Illyria to be trained- the precious, first-born, godly son of Night. To learn to fight- to learn, presumably, her culture- to see what that culture is reduced to, a harshness he will on day have the power to change. Rhys had to be, at some point, a great hope for Not High Fae denizens of the Court.

What does Rhysie learn? Illyria is harsh. Illyria is bad. Backwards and cruel.

He hates his father for...presumably, the crime of being a pretty traditional High Lord? Rhys hates the cruelties! the Court of Nightmares! the broken system!

So what does Rhys do when he has power? he fires everyone. He doesn't like them, he doesn't like whatever they did under his father...so instead of hiring new people, he removes himself entirely from a potential role in changing/mitigating those policies. See also: the Court of Nightmares, cowed occasionally, but not in any way governed by Rhys.

But he's the hero! He's destroyed the oppression! His Court of Just his Bros is made of women and Illyrians!

(Rhys removed the terribleness from his direct experience...because only his experiences matter)

So, Rhys in his head: the struggle, the hero, the man just trying to do it right.

Which brings us to Daylight....and Feyre. I know we can attribute the way the characters stop even remotely being sympathetic between acomaf and...everything else...to poor writing, but I also think there's some (maybe accidental but PERFECT) character work there: in acomaf, pre-acknowledged bond, Feyre is an important possession/ally- she's on the same level as the other members of the Court of Dreams, if the jewel of the collection, a high point in the story Rhys tells himself: HE saved the HERO OF PRYTHIAN

(which...let's not even touch on the fact that the deal he makes in acotar is CREEPY and he can only justify it later. she wasn't someone he wanted to work with in acotar- she was a vulnerable, hot young woman he fully took advantage of)

And then they're mates.

And then, slowly but surely, Feyre's personhood disappears. For two reasons: 1) Feyre is on a pedestal so sky-high it blots out everything. Good, pure, true hero Feyre whose adoration Rhysand needs like air. the happy end of his story, the prize and the salvation, the one who sees him.

and 2) ultimately, to Rhys, Feyre is an extension of him. A symbol: his happiness, his peace, his endless power, what he fought to keep.

She's his whole anchor staying sane, which isn't great, considering...ya know, everything. But the Story is Over. They are Happy.

Except- except- nothing is over. Post fifty straight years of torture, a freefall into war and fuckery, teen marriage and literal death, the consequences for all those things AND THE SHIT RHYS WAS PULLING LONG BEFORE AMARANTHA TURNED HIM INTO A CHEW TOY, are still present.

But now, he has something to protect. His golden future. His puppy Mate.

Because Feyre's safety is the safety of his power and vice versa. Anything he does is justifiable because the loss of Feyre is Not an Option. She is Happy. They Are Happy.

It bleeds into everything- and then it intensifies, because this is the breaking point.

The Az/Lucien thing and Feyre incredibly hurtful blindness? No Rhys isn't going to interfere- Az is so private anyway- if Feyre believes its a romantic bond, Feyre is right, she knows her sister, not that it matters because Elain is totally out of her mind.

Sending Cassian to Illyria? Illyria is a backwards shithole right? They're fierce fighters and that's what Rhys values them for- as the hammer of his power- and nothing else? why would there be anything else? Look at them fighting and hurting each other.

Nesta runs and Cassian is left throwing himself in battles actively trying to die and Rhys? Rhys is totally smug. A problem that hurt Feyre and his brother is GONE.

But it's not gone. Az isn't talking to anyone- and Rhys thinks this probably means Lucien is probably, finally fucking him- but even Feyre understands that Azriel knows where Nesta is. When this is proved (when Elain surfaces and they have the very fun kitchen fight) Rhys isn't happy- but he understands. Azriel has always felt responsible for broken things.

But thats not his job, it's Rhysands job, and Rhys has already made that tough choice for the safety of his own: Nesta has no place here. When she resurfaces inevitably, broke and wanting something, Rhys will stop her before she gets close enough to upset (hurt) Feyre. It's his job.

Cassian goes missing, and Rhysand sets upon what will become his eventual move: Illyria's value is strength. (a martial strength that belongs to RHYS). But they think they can take from him? They can destroy their own best chance? (Rhys recognizes Cassian's value to Illyria even while, you know, ordering him to slaughter Illyrians) They would threaten his power? hurt his family?

Rhys will not allow a world to exist where Feyre can be hurt.

If Illyria can't be controlled, Illyria will be put down, like the rabid creatures they are. (They were always backwards, Rhys thinks. Freeing my mother was the one good thing my father ever did)

But Cassian lives.

Rhys asks Azriel if he's been cursed. Az laughs in his face.

And Cassian is a terrible enemy to have. The strategies the loyalists are using? His, filtered through Rhys. The magical contingencies? Cassian and Az, trying to prevent bloodshed.

Feyre thinks, for a long time, that maybe the rebels have Nesta. What else could compel Cassian to even care? these people keep trying to kill him. they want to kill Rhys. the brothers suffered in the frozen mud at the hands of these monsters, what is Cassian doing?

And then the massacre happens.

And Feyre sick to her stomach, cries when she hears. Rhysand thinks about a little hazel eyed boy who'd never had a bed, a present, who'd been nothing until Rhysand plucked him up- a little boy who'd grown into a dangerous man, who'd just killed every person who ever contributed to his pain. Rhys thinks, knowing he'll have to punish Cassian for this, that it's over.

The camp lords are dead, it has to be over.

(Azriel hears and understands- because he knows damn well Cassian was something before Rhysand, and after despite him. That beneath those repeatedly broken ribs is a heart that was once so big so save him, grown strong enough now to save everyone who was like them: forgotten, abandoned, used.)

It's not over. The mountains are burning. Banners fly on northern wind in a language long dead. They're singing, the spies say, they call him dawn. Loyal-heart-as-dawn.

It's Cassians name. Not that Rhys, who never knew more than a few vile insults in the language of his mother's ancient, proud people, understood it then.

Rhysand, the long-suffering hero of his own story, has been betrayed.

He can risk no more- it's time to end this madness. It's Feyre's idea to use Elain- it's Feyre who is left crying, a betrayal Rhysand will never forget- when Elain, who they've given everything, Elain, perhaps just as broken and wretched as her eldest sister, refuses to help keep Feyre safe.

(Elain refuses to participate in what she sees as genocide, but as we've established, what consequences exist? the ones Rhys feels right in front of his face)

Azriel, Elain, and Lucien run.

Of course, if both Feyre's sisters are capable of betraying her, of course, both of Rhysand's brothers would as well. They are one in the same, aren't they? Marked by destiny, by fate for this hard and terrible work- of course it hurts. Of course- but Rhysand will stop it from hurting Feyre any more.

There's one force in the world that can stand in truth against Illyria. The Darkbringers- their ancestral, ancient conquers.

(Yes, I do think Rhys knows the shitty, shitty history of his court! He just doesn't care! He didn't do it. He's different. He's in Velaris with the common people. He has wings. He's not his father.)

(He is, in fact, far worse)

When he thinks of it, it seems perfect. Illyria will be destroyed- a loss, but a safe one. Keir, will, almost certainly, also be destroyed or at least critically weakened.

Rhysand will stand alone, the man who was willing to do anything for peace. He will rule over an emptied playing field, secure in a world where Feyre is safe.

The Hewn City empties, the armies march- Rhysand holds tight Feyre's hand, says nothing about the fact that nothing, nothing, will stop Keir from killing anyone in front of him when battle starts, and reaches once more for Cassian's mind.

His brother, his friend, his loyal right hand- he begs him to come back. To come home. That they can put down this rebellion and in his love for Cassian everything can go back to how it is meant to be, all of them together.

It does not occur to him to address the hundreds dead. The system he was complicit in and responsible for that ground a culture to dust and ash- what matters is brother against brother should never have turned, and Rhys, in his kindness, will offer Cassian this last chance for honor.

Rhys doesn't want Cassian to die- he wants Cassian by his side- but he will drown the world in blood before he'll lose his crown and hope and Feyre.

And when Cassian dies, falling to the earth in Rhysand's arms, Rhys thinks of penance.

A circle closed.

But of course- Cassian wakes. Death is not done with her right hand anymore than the contract between Lordship and land in immutable. Cassian brought the magic back, brought Illyria back.

Rhys is fighting for something personal- Cassian is fighting for a whole world and future, with everything in himself.

When the new border is drawn, Rhys doesn't despair- sure he's shaking, he's covered in Cassian's blood, his twelve thousand year old walls are smoking and the whole world smells like fucking Nesta Archeron- he's been the victim of curses before.

He won't let it keep him down. He'll be fine. He has Feyre, they're safe. Illyria is going to implode- and maybe, maybe, he'll save some of those that remain when the violence is too much, when they need a real High Lord.

They'll come home. Just like Feyre's sisters will. Rhysand's brothers. They fought for peace and Velaris has it- it is their home.

It's what they fought for, the happy ending, and it's all worth it.

It has to be worth it.

[ohwaitimthewriter]

O'r gar sur’haai’e (In your eyes)

Pairing: Din Djarin x nurse!reader

Warnings: mention of blood, angsty?

Requested by nony: No worries about the time it takes to write! You can’t rush creative genius! I would love something angsty with a nurse!reader (feminine)? Maybe he’s suffered a severe injury and she has to care for him? Thank you!

Words count: 1.404

A/n: Hi, hi! So here’s a little angsty story. To be honest, I’m quite nervous about it because it’s been ages since I’ve written something angsty so I wonder if I still know how to do this! I hope it is a least, a little bit of a angsty story haha. Enjoy your reading!

The Mandalorian Masterlist. // Masterlist.

Nurse. It had always been your dream job. Caring for people, helping them back to good health, helping them in one way or another was what got you up every morning. And you had seen many wounds, all uglier than the last one. Your eyes were used to seeing red and your hands knew by heart the feeling of the slimy fluid and even the smell, that special smell that bleeding wounds could have, had no longer made you gagging since your early days. 

You had always been able to do it. You had always been able to get past the wounds and the stories they told, sometimes violent ones, to put any being that came to your door back on its feet. But you had never before had to take care of a loved one. 

History had wanted you to cross Din Djarin's path. A Mandalorian. At the time, you had only heard rumors about these people. You knew they were good warriors. The best even said people. You had also heard about Mandalore. But you had never seen a real one before Cara Dune, an old friend, brought this 'Mando', as she used to call him at that time, to your home to heal him. 

And that day, something happened. You couldn't tell what, and in your humble opinion, Din couldn't explain it either, but a connection had been made. And Din had suddenly found the usefulness of having a nurse in his Razor Crest. 

Convincing you to leave your planet had been no easy task, but you had given him a month. Now you've been traveling the galaxy with him and Grogu for five months. You didn't hesitate to joke about it, "you owe me overtime! " and he would always reply "nothing prevents you from leaving the ship" and because you liked to have the last word, you always ended up with a « Something does, the space vacuum! "because, of course, this little game always took place between two planets. 

And you liked to hear his chuckle muffled by his helmet. It was brief, but it was a soft melody to your ear. He didn't laugh much, so you made the most of it when he did. You always wondered what it felt like to him. To have someone to share his days with. Din had told you about his solitary trips as a bounty hunter. It had changed a little since Grogu had invited himself into his life, but he told you enough times to understand that it wasn't quite the same as having you on the ship.

And the more time passed, the more you spent near Din, the less you wanted to be away from him. That connection that had made you leave had gently turned into an outline of feelings that tickled your stomach every time Din walked by, sometimes letting his fingers trail along your forearm. 

Sometimes you wondered if he wasn't doing it on purpose. It was always a light touch, it would go almost unnoticed if you weren't particularly aware of what he was doing. Din always had a special attention for you. And although he wasn't particularly talkative, he showed it to you quite well by lingering longer than necessary when you handed him something and he grabbed it. His hand stayed in contact with yours for another second and his fingers always touched your wrist a little more when he took it off. 

It was simple and it became your everyday life. You let yourself be lulled to the rhythm of a mandalorian who didn't really know how to show affection, but it suited you. You didn't need any more and if only you knew how much Din was fond of you... It was difficult for him. He didn't know the social codes of affection very well. For someone who had never felt such a thing before, he was doing quite well. 

The first time he realised how he felt was when he watched you playing with Grogu. Your smile. It was your smile that did it all. The brightness of a sun in the softness of a star. He had been slapped in the face that day. He had stood there, stupidly, watching you laughing and he had been especially grateful that you couldn't see the expression on his face. And since then he had tried, with countless little attentions, at the slightest opportunity to let you know that he was there. Because you had to understand, one way or another, that you had to see him the way he saw you. 

And this had to happen. 

He wondered if you were going to find him. If you were going to go looking for him. He was always on time. Normally he was always on time. One time he scared you, but you waited another hour before he came home and before you decided to go looking for him. 

Now he didn't know. He didn't know if he could wait an hour in the cold.

He had been tricked. He had been taken for a ride. A stupid mistake. A beginner's mistake. The traders had trapped him. And now he was left with a half torn breastplate and a bleeding wound on his ribs. 

Having a nurse on the ship had taught him a few tricks. He had seen you do it. You had to clean the wound. But how do you clean it when the snow around you was just getting more and more red? Din tried to press with his hand on the wound to stop the bleeding. You told him, with both hands it's more effective. He winced in pain as he pressed as hard as he could on the wound. You shouldn't move. Then he would wait for you there. 

Maybe you would feel it. Or maybe Grogu would feel it through his mysterious power and pass the message on to you somehow. Perhaps. 

He wondered how long to press on the wound. You hadn't told him anything about that. He raised his hands slightly but the blood was still running. So it wasn't right away.

The time seemed longer. The minutes went slower when he was alone. And he wondered if it was the same for you. Did time seem longer when he was away? He hoped that it would, so that you would come and get him sooner. 

The pain was spreading through spasms. It was hard not to complain about it and Din often grunted.  He noticed that his breaths were shorter. He had trouble letting his chest rise to take good breaths to calm his heartbeat. That was another one of your tips, stay calm when bleeding to reduce blood pressure. So he breathed with his stomach to balance it out. 

He wondered what you did when he was going on a mission. How you passed the time. Did you still play with Grogu? Did you tidy up and tidy up again your medicine box that followed you everywhere? Just in case. That's what you said. 

An intense pain stopped his breathing for a moment. He took a minute to recover and repositioned his hands that had slipped a little lower. It was difficult to maintain the same pressure. 

Din wondered how you did it every day. At least every day before you came with him. He wondered if you were going to come. 

Din noticed that it was getting dark and cold. Despite his armor, the snow had managed to numb his legs. Even his bottom was getting numb. He straightened up slightly. He had leaned against a tree trunk and the bark was beginning to scrape his back. His helmet tinkled as he let his head rest on the trunk. He looked at the stars. They reminded him of you.

You were probably in the ship wondering what the hell he was doing. The hour had passed. And he wondered if he was ever going to see you again. Maybe that was his last moment. He'd never really thought about it. He had never really thought about how he would end up. But he didn't want to finish that way. Not there. Not now. Because he still wondered if you felt the same way he did.And he didn't want to leave without being able to see in your eyes what he'd had in his own for you for so long.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (17) || atz

San looks over your hands gently, turning them over in his. His fingers trace the scrapes your fall on the cobbles have left behind, and he shakes his head in disapproval.

Then he lets your hands rest on the table of the sickbay and picks up a clean cloth with tweezers, soaking it in rum before wiping your hands down with it, removing any small pieces and blood still remaining on them. Your palms sting, but it’s nothing compared to the anguish in your heart.

“What happened?” San murmurs softly as he works on your wound. You remember Seonghwa had mentioned that San was a better healer of the heart than he was of any physical ailment, but the thought of Seonghwa’s once cheerful, smiling face twists at your chest and lungs like a poisonous vine.

The lump in your throat refuses to go away.

“I don’t know.” You reply in all due honesty. Truly, till now you still don’t understand what had happened to the gentle, kind-hearted cook, but you can only piece together what you have guessed from the incident earlier.

Seonghwa was afraid of the gallows.

Yunho has taught you that the brightest smiles can hide the most bitter tears, but you’ve never expected that the man who’d first treated you with such kindness has suffered so much.

San continues staring at you for a while. Then he finally puts down the cloth and whispers to you in a soft, secretive tone.

“Hey, look at this.”

You frown in confusion, but San places a single finger on your torn skin. Closing his eyes, you see his brows furrow in concentration before a tingling feeling starts to blossom across your hand from where San’s fingertip touches yours, warmth chasing the slight sting in your hand away. You feel as if you’ve dunked your hand in a warm bath, the heat emanating from San’s finger too real to be a mere figment of your imagination.

Then it happens.

Fascination washes over you as you stare at your hand in wonderment. The bleeding slows gradually and finally stills, before you watch the skin and damaged tissue steadily knitting itself back together like a spider’s web. In the end, the entire wound closes, leaving the skin of your palm a soft baby pink.

Your mouth falls open.

“Master, did you just-”

“I’ll be teaching you this over the next few days. Remember, don’t ever attempt this without me. It’s potentially fatal if you don’t know how to do it. Do your best to learn it fast.” San’s smile is a little sad, a little forced. Your initial excitement fades at your master’s clear unease. “I get the feeling we might need it.”

Your fingers brush the silver hairpin tucked securely in your belt for good luck. You don’t like the sound of that.

You know what your master is implying, that there will be much conflict happening soon. But you don’t like to admit that it may be coming already. You and your master sit in momentary silence, both preparing yourselves for what may be to come.

“Sanie, Chin Hae.” The two of you turn to the person who’s come knocking on the sickbay’s door. It’s Wooyoung, purple hair rumpled, rouge smeared on his clavicle and dark circles under his eyes from yesterday, but the unusually grim expression on his handsome face shows he isn’t exactly reminiscing happily about night before. “Captain wants to see us in his cabin, now.”

His tone gives no room for argument.

“Got it.” San rises to his feet, his expression neutral. You only know that there’s unease flickering in his eyes from the way his shoulders are tensed. Since you and Mingi have returned from desperately searching the town for Seonghwa, you’ve found out from Wooyoung, who’s just arrived himself with Yeosang, that Seonghwa had dashed up the gangplank in tears, all alone and ignoring the concerned shouts of his crewmates, before locking himself up in the kitchen galley by himself.

Ever since then, Hongjoong and Yeosang, as the most level headed of the lot, have been discussing what to do about this in the captain’s cabin, instructing for no one to enter while the meeting is still underway. Seonghwa might be only one person, but he means a great deal to many of the crew on board and for the whole afternoon, there has been a gloomy air settling over the ship, the deck unnaturally quiet and subdued.

Your mind has been filled with worry for the cook the entire afternoon, but then San brought you down to the sickbay to get away from the stress of it all. The initial concern and panic has worn off a little, but you can still your anxiety lingering at the back of your mind like an itch that can’t be scratched.

“Is Seonghwa-hyung okay?” You ask feebly, gripping the silver hairpin tight as the three of you make your way to the captain’s cabin beneath the quarterdeck. Wooyoung shrugs, mouth drawn into a thin, concerned line.

“I don’t know. Yunho’s with him to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, but...” His voice trails off as you stop outside the captain’s cabin. Wooyoung raps sharply on the door and you hear the captain call ‘come in’ from inside.

San pushes the door open and the three of you crowd into the room. Captain is sitting at the desk, massaging his temples with his fingers as he indicates for Mingi to lock the door behind you three. His blonde hair is falling out of its usual mullet, mussed and uncombed, as if he hasn’t had the time to do anything else this morning. You sit on the bed, sandwiched between Wooyoung and San, while Yeosang and Mingi stand around, looking equally tense and uncomfortable.

All three of them have dark rings around their eyes and grim, troubled looks on their faces. You can’t believe it was barely a night before that you had been drinking together, celebrating your integration into the crew, but this is your present now.

“Chin Hae.” Captain Hongjoong addresses you first and you snap to attention, back straightening as you look at your captain. His face is lined and etched with worry, so painfully obvious you almost wonder if Captain can actually feel Seonghwa’s internal agony and turmoil. “Can you tell us what happened today morning after Mingi left the two of you alone?”

You nod hesitantly. It only happened this morning, so the memory is still fresh in your mind, but the image of Seonghwa’s grief stricken face, how alone the two of you were and worst of all, your inability to do anything, weighs on your mind almost crushingly.

“Mingi-hyung, Seonghwa-hyung and I were shopping in the marketplace for herbs when someone bumped into me and snatched the herbs.” You begin, recalling the event to your mind. “Mingi-hyung said to go around to the town square to cut the thief off, so we did, but then when we reached the town square Seonghwa-hyung saw the hanging and suddenly started panicking and I didn’t know what to do and-”

Wooyoung’s hand is on your shoulder before you even realise that your breathing has started to turn irregular. “Breathe, Chin Hae.” His voice is as commanding as steel, yet as soft as velvet. San nods at you empathetically, rubbing circles into your back as you try to keep your breathing steady.

“I ran over as soon as I heard the bells, but I was too late.” Mingi says grimly, shaking his head, eyes downcast as if he personally blames himself for this happening. “I could have been there. I should have been there.”

Silence.

“I should have known what to do.” You murmur under your breath, a lump forming in your throat. There’s something lingering deep in your chest, you realise. It hurts more than empathy, eats you away from the inside more painfully that jealousy.

Guilt.

“None of this was your fault.” Yeosang says quietly, his voice almost cracking, but he speaks it like it’s a fact and not merely his opinion. “Especially not yours, Mingi.”

“It’s my job!” Mingi almost snarls, a glassiness to his eyes that makes you feel like crying from shame. The two of you were there, you should have protected Seonghwa, kept him safe. “That’s why you assigned me to follow Seonghwa-hyung around whenever we’re in town to keep this from happening, and look what I just did! I left his side for some goddamn cordyceps! As if this could buy back Seonghwa-hyung’s peace of mind!”

He throws the bag of herbs to the ground.

You don’t even realise you’re shaking from barely restrained sobs until San wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a side embrace. He doesn’t speak, knowing no amount of words can change your mind about your failure at this point, but instead giving you the physical comfort you need.

“Mingi, keep your cool. You’re scaring Chin Hae.” Captain’s voice is cold and detached, leaving no room for disobedience. Wooyoung nods in agreement. The captain continues speaking. “And regarding Seonghwa’s problem, Yeosang and I have been discussing whether to do something or not.  A plan, if you will.”

Mingi echoes your thoughts. “Plan?”

The navigator nods, a little jittery but face set in determination. “We’re sailing to Nassau.”

The word means nothing to you, but you can feel Wooyoung and San stiffen. Mingi gapes at his captain, as if he didn’t hear him right the first time.

“What?”

“We’re sailing back to Nassau. We’re going to find the person that got Seonghwa’s family hanged on false charges, and if Seonghwa so wishes, I’m sending him to hell.” Hongjoong elaborates, a little more clearly but his voice as sharp as the edge of his cutlass. “That’s the closure Seonghwa needs.”

The person that got Seonghwa’s family hanged on false charges.

“What if we sail back and Seonghwa-hyung has a relapse just like last time?” Wooyoung interjects nervously, foot tapping impatiently on the floor. But San shakes his head.

“He’s gotten stronger. It’s been six years, after all.”

“How do you know?” Mingi spits back, but your master replies without a trace of doubt in his voice.

“Ever since Chin Hae joined us, he made the choice to sleep below in the main hold instead of in the sick bay in my room.” Your eyes fly open, you’ve just remembered that your bed, the one you sleep in now, used to belong to Seonghwa. You open your mouth to apologise, but you master continues speaking. “He said he didn’t want to rely on my sleeping incense anymore, and that he needs to face his fears. Chin Hae coming was just a catalyst for him to take that first step.”

Your heart clenches in your chest. This whole time, you had no idea…

“I believe that he’s growing stronger.” Yeosang states, nodding his head. “In the past, Seonghwa-hyung wouldn’t sleep without that steak stuffed toy San gave him, but when Chin Hae came, he told me to lock it in strongbox because he was going to be in the hammocks and wouldn’t need it anymore.”

Part of you is honestly struck dumb. The entire time you’d been on ship, Seonghwa-hyung had been trying to turn his life around, and you had no idea at all.

“So there’s that, Mingi and Wooyoung.” Hongjoong ends off the debate smoothly, fixing the pair with piercing stares. “Are you ready to accept the plan now?”

Wooyoung simply sighs while Mingi nods reluctantly in agreement. Then you pipe up nervously.

“Captain…”

Immediately, everyone in the room turns to look at you, and you wish you’d just kept your fat mouth closed. But since everyone’s expectant eyes are already on you, you simply continue to speak your mind.

“Can I… talk to Seonghwa-hyung?”

To your surprise, the captain doesn’t question your request, simply rising to his feet. “It’s no problem at all. I was intending on talking to him myself. Come with me.”

San gives your hand a squeeze and a worried look. Do you want me to come with you?

You shake your head, squeezing it back as you stand up and follow your captain out of the cabin. The two of you walk in silence down to the galley.

“I’m sorry this had to happen the day after you got your name.” He says softly, and you turn to look at your captain. His cheeks are slightly sunken, mouth turned downwards in a worried frown. You’ve never seen your captain so worried, so concerned.

You wonder if he’d do the same for you.

“It’s fine.” You reply quietly, shaking your head as you climb down the stairs to the galley. “Seonghwa-hyung is more important to me than any celebration.”

When the two of you reach the bottom of the stairs, you see Yunho pacing in front of the kitchen door like a caged tiger. He sees you, and your heart almost breaks when you see the lookout’s face drawn with exhaustion and worry.

“Captain. Chin Hae.” He sounds spent, both physically and emotionally, but he straightens up while blinking the weariness from his eyes. “Do you need me for something?”

“Go take a nap, Yunho, you look like you need it.” Captain pats the lookout on the back, but Yunho shakes his head desperately, as if trying to clear his mind.

“But I need to be here.” His protest is weak and worn, like he’s about to keel over any second. The captain shakes his head.

“Chin Hae and I will be here. Don’t worry.” He reassures the taller man and all at once you see Yunho’s shoulders sag from the relief.

“Oh.” Yunho tries hard not to sound too relieved, but he can’t help the yawn that spills from his mouth. “Thanks, cap’n.”

With that, he stumbles past the two of you and staggers up the stairs, out of sight.

“Seonghwa-hyung?” You move to the door, rapping hesitantly on the wood. It’s the first time you’ve ever been denied entry to the kitchens and in your mind’s eye, you see all the happy times the two of you have had together in the galley, the first time he taught you to use a knife, the incident in which you’d nearly burned the kitchen down, the time you’d mastered cooking Seonghwa’s favourite grilled steak. “It’s Chin Hae.”

It’s silent for a moment and you turn to glance at your captain in a panic.

“Hey, Chin Hae.” Finally, you hear Seonghwa’s voice from behind the door, raw from tears and soft with vulnerability. Relief washes over you and you bow your head to hide your tears. “I’m sorry for making you worry about me, Hongjoong-ah.”

“Shut up.” The captain suddenly snaps, his own voice thick. “Don’t ever apologise for worrying me. I want you to tell me all your problems, burden me with everything, share life with me and the crew. We’re a family.”

There’s a soft inhale from behind the door as you slide to sit next to it. “Did we at least get the cordyceps back, Chin Hae?”

You snort through your tears. “Yeah, but Mingi-hyung threw them on the floor earlier.”

A weak chuckle. “Well, we’ll just buy more then. I’ll have to scold that Mingi for wasting all that… They were expensive.”

“Are you okay, Seonghwa-hyung?” You sniff, wiping your tears with your sleeve. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes… I am.” His voice is right there, at the door. “Chin Hae… can I… tell you about Ha Rin?”

Ha Rin.

Captain stiffens next to you, and you glance at him in confusion.

“Of course.” You tell him, trying to stop your nose from running, sitting up a little straighter even though he can’t see you. “I’d be honoured.”

“She was my younger sister.” His voice is soft, lost, far away, reminiscent of the time Jongho and Yunho had been telling you about their pasts. “I lived with her, my parents and my younger brother Hyunjung in Nassau. We ran an eatery by the harbour. Those were some of the happiest days of my life.”

The way he says it, with such yearning, makes jealousy clench around you. You have nothing to look back so fondly on.

“One day, I was at the harbor when one of my friends called me to the town square.”

Something sinks in your chest. You know where this is going.

“The town officials accused my parents of harboring pirates and sentenced my entire family to death at the gallows. And I did nothing but watch as my family were hung before my eyes.”

You recognise the emotion spilling from him, gnawing away at him from within. It’s an immense guilt, all consuming as a tidal wave.

Captain exhales next to you heavily, but he doesn’t look surprised at all by the news. Then you remember Seonghwa-hyung has been a member of the crew for six years now, of course Seonghwa would trust his captain with his past.

“Ha Rin was only nine. Hyunjung was eleven. I was supposed to take care of them, I was supposed to protect them.” He laughs but it sounds brittle and self deprecating, the weight of his failure settling on his shoulders. “And yet… I was the only one who survived.”

You don’t know what to say. Your fingers reach under the door, seeking his warmth on instinct.

There’s a pause.

Then his fingers intertwine with yours, gripping them tight. “I thought I could atone for my failure by taking care of the members on board the ship, but it seem that I’m failing in even that too. I still hear their voices, calling for me to join them every time I close my eyes. Maybe the gods are punishing me for my sins.”

You want to cry, scream, protest that he’s wrong, that he’s the first person who treated you with kindness even when you were tied to the mast, that the crew loved and needed him, but the captain beats you to it.

“You are not failing, Seonghwa.” Hongjoong growls, pressing his forehead against the door, voice raw with emotion. “Every single person on this ship needs you, you hear me? That includes me. Who else is going to cook us food if you’re not there? The whole ship will starve to death.”

It seems like such a small, petty thing to talk about, but Seonghwa manages a small laugh at that. “San was always interested in cooking.”

“Hell no.” The captain wears a fond, sad smile on his face. “We should just leave him to healing. Honestly, I don’t know how we trust him with our injuries. We need you, Seonghwa.”

You nod in agreement although he can’t see and Hongjoong continues to speak. “We’re sailing for Nassau, and we’re going to find the man who got your family hanged. Will you… will you do this with us?”

Seonghwa is silent for a minute. Just when you start to wonder if Hongjoong had asked too much of him, he replies softly.

“You know I’d follow you anywhere… Captain.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Delight in Misery (ao3) - part 1, part 2, part 3

-

Sometimes, Lan Wangji would weigh the various downsides of being injured against each other to see which one was the worst.

It was not, in Lan Wangji’s opinion, the pain.

After all, he’d long ago learned to cultivate through suffering, subjecting himself to discipline and the bite of the Cold Springs. Yes, the wounds of the discipline whip took a long time to heal, a constant throbbing agony, but Jiang Cheng faithfully applied a salve to them twice daily (sometimes after kicking the bed to get Lan Wangji’s attention if he happened to be in a stupor, because the man had no notion of grace) and prepared for nourishing soups and bitter medicines to help ease the feeling.

It took Lan Wangji months and an unfortunate incident with Jin Ling sliding himself forward on his belly towards the kitchen with remarkable speed to realize that Jiang Cheng prepared the food and medicine himself. It was supposedly to protect Lan Wangji’s privacy and better keep the secret of his existence, according to a flustered Jiang Cheng upon being confronted, but Lan Wangji knew that he was lying.

Lan Wangji had good hearing, after all, and Jiang Cheng sometimes left the door to his room open a crack, especially if Jin Ling was asleep in his crib in the corner, and, well –

Jiang Cheng talked to himself when he cooked.

(“Damnit, jiejie, did you have to pick the world’s most finicky recipe?” he’d grumble under his breath. “So many onions! I swear you secretly increased the number just to make me cry more – is that why it never tastes like yours?”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean it, jiejie. I know you’d never mess with your recipes, you always said that making us food was how you showed your love for us…what do you mean the soup’s just like me? I’m not finicky.”)

That had eased the pain even more. To know someone cared enough to –

Lan Wanji didn’t say anything about those conversations, or the worrying things they suggested about the state of Jiang Cheng’s mind. After all, a man was entitled to his own grief; wasn’t that how they’d ended up in this situation to begin with?

Anyway, if he were to start hallucinating Wei Wuxian, he’d probably talk with him, too. He’d never stop talking to him.

Of course, he thought, no one would notice it if he did. The conversations would entirely consist of him listening and occasionally grunting in acknowledgment while Wei Wuxian chattered on and on –

He didn’t hallucinate.

No, no matter how bad the pain got, Lan Wangji remained painfully lucid, excessively sober.

There had only been once that it truly got to be too much for him, and he asked Jiang Cheng to bring him wine to drink in an attempt to not think about it –

Jiang Cheng refused to tell him what he’d said or done that night, telling him that nothing of interest occurred, but he never brought him any more wine, either, so Lan Wangji didn’t believe him in the slightest.

He didn’t ask again.

(No one ever answered Inquiry, either)

So no. It wasn’t the pain that was the worst – whether the physical pangs of his body or the mental lashing of his endless heartbreak, he could, and would, survive.

Nor was the worst part the forced bedrest.

After all, staying still for long periods of time was nothing to a member of the Lan sect, and the immobility allowed him time to contemplate his thoughts, turning them around and around in his head until they were as smooth and polished as a stone washed by the river.

He had a lot of thoughts.

Very few of them were good ones.

It might have been too much, if he’d been alone and in seclusion – if Jiang Cheng wasn’t always blowing into his room like a hurricane, loud and always blowing hot and cold; if he didn’t have A-Yuan coming to him for lessons, regular as clockwork; if he didn’t get Jin Ling dropped into his lap whenever Jiang Cheng was otherwise occupied. But even when they weren’t around, there was always fresh paper and ink if he wanted to write, his guqin close at hand and a never-empty pot of incense…even a weiqi board that they sometimes unmercifully tortured.

There were books as well, of course; all the books that the Jiang sect’s recovering library had to offer. By being conquered, the Jiang sect had escaped the fate of the Lan sect, and while their official library had been plundered of all its manuals and textbooks, many of the personal books remained – especially the ones hidden in the walls or ceiling by mischievous children.

Sometimes mischievous adults.

Lan Wangji read the stories to a fascinated A-Yuan and Jing Ling. Sometimes, if it was a good day, Jiang Cheng would come by as well to tell stories of memories that the stories evoked – that this one was the one Wei Wuxian had insisted on hearing every single night until they were all sick of it, that that one had been purchased on an outing to an especially boisterous market town downriver, that yet another had been read to him first when he’d been sick with a cough and Wei Wuxian had never let him forget how he always seemed to cough whenever the love interest’s name was mentioned.

(If it was a bad day, Lan Wangji would read the stories at a louder volume, trying to drown out the sound of sobs from the room across the way, and ignore as best he could the smell of bile and blood.)

Yes, the bedrest was manageable. Fine, even.

No, Lan Wangji thought, reaching the same conclusion as always – the worst part of being seriously injured was, without a doubt, the getting better.

“Time for physical conditioning!” Jiang Cheng crowed, looking far, far too cheerful about it.

It wasn’t even as if he had any room to complain about Lan Wangji as a patient! Even in the worst days of the injury, Lan Wangji hadn’t once complained about needing to turn over to avoid getting sores or to the endless sessions of acupuncture designed to help maintain his internal stability, he’d submitted to Jiang Cheng helping him stretch his arms and legs without anything more than a grunt of pain – he’d even carefully maintained a regular circulation of qi throughout his body to prevent his muscles and bones from deteriorating too much no matter how bad his mental state would sometimes get.

Lan Wangji had always intended on subjecting himself to a harsh physical regimen to regain his fitness once his wounds were not so dire that excessive movement would rip them open or cause his qi to become unstable. Yet Jiang Cheng took a truly gruesome joy in (unnecessarily) forcing Lan Wangji to do things, things like walk around the room, or lift weights, or – now that he was doing better – exercise.

And he was being such a pest about it, too.

He’d forced Lan Wangji to start by doing the horse stance again, like a child.

In fact, he seriously suspected that A-Yuan’s conditioning training routine and his own were identical, a suspicion supported by the way A-Yuan would mimic him and claim he was just practicing.

“It’s good that he’s so diligent,” Jiang Cheng said with a suspiciously straight face. “And has such a reliable role model.”

Lan Wangji glared at him, exhausted and pushed past his limits from the last hour of performing the most painfully basic sword exercises to re-habituate himself to it now that his back was most of the way healed. “Get lost.”

Jiang Cheng exaggeratedly brought his hands to his chest as if in shock. “It can’t be! Have I reached Wei Wuxian levels at last?”

Lan Wangji, who’d been trying to slowly execute a maneuver he’d had down since he was younger than A-Yuan was now, missed a step, then turned and glared to cover up his amusement.

(Any mention of Wei Wuxian had once immediately summoned a flood of sorrow and regret, but Jiang Cheng simply brought him up too often; Lan Wangji had by now become somewhat inured. He thought that Wei Wuxian’s spirit, wherever it was and however resistant to his summons, might enjoy that.)

Jiang Cheng squinted at him with a suspicious expression. “I think you found that funny, but with an ice-block like you, it’s impossible to say.”

“Feel free to chisel an expression you prefer.” Lan Wangji finished the maneuver and started it over again. The scars on his back pulled, but held without breaking or bleeding anew; it had been nearly two years since the discipline whip had fallen on his back, and while he was still far too weak to risk going out, it meant – irritatingly enough – that Jiang Cheng was correct and this level of exercise was indeed appropriate.

That didn’t mean Lan Wangji had to like it.

“Can I? You mean that you come in an option other than ‘mildly peeved’?”

“‘Faintly murderous’ is also available. Continue on your present course to see it.”

There was a snort from the door, a voice so familiar that Lan Wangji continued another five steps in his current maneuver before realizing that the voice shouldn’t be there, that it was familiar from his memories of Gusu rather than his present day at the Lotus Pier.

His fingers tightened around Bichen. “…Brother.”

Jiang Cheng had finally told Lan Xichen that he knew where Lan Wangji was, and apparently the entire thing had been a fiasco of such epic proportions that he refused to speak of it again.

(The few hints he’d given of the situation suggested that tears might have been involved, and possibly a black eye or two.)

Of course, he’d then followed it up by banning him from the Lotus Pier until Lan Xichen felt that he could come visit without immediately demanding (or requesting, which was more likely) that Lan Wangji return to Gusu with him.

Lan Wangji hadn’t been especially impressed with that requirement, given that he’d already told Jiang Cheng that he would not succumb to any such requests; it had led to several days of cold war between them until Jiang Cheng broke and confessed that he assumed that Lan Wangji would want to leave the second he laid eyes on Lan Xichen and so was postponing it as much as possible.

Lan Wangji had magnanimously forgiven him, since in truth he’d been a little concerned about the same.

He turned around.

Lan Xichen’s eyes were wet and glistening, his body a little thinner than Lan Wangji remembered, but it was still him in all the important, fundamental ways. His elder brother, who loved him, and Lan Wangji was suddenly full of so many feelings that he couldn’t even begin to understand them, much less express them.

“You know, I think I hear someone calling me urgently,” Jiang Cheng – who must have known that Lan Xichen was visiting, since entering the Lotus Pier required reporting his presence to the Sect Leader – said, turning and fleeing from the room at once.

“Coward,” Lan Wangji said mildly, knowing that Jiang Cheng’s cultivation was sufficient to let him hear the word without him having to raise his voice.

“Don’t blame Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Xichen said, and his voice was warm as the summer days of their childhood. “I came several days ago; he had no idea of which day I would finally work up my courage to see you.”

Lan Wangji blinked, surprised. “Courage?”

Why would his brother require courage to see him?

“Wangji…” Lan Xichen’s hands were clasped together in front of him, a sign of anxiety. “I was worried you were still angry at me. That I would come, and you would turn me away.”

Lan Wangji would not have extended the invitation if he hadn’t been willing to see him. “I would not have turned you away.”

“But you’re still angry,” Lan Xichen said wisely.

Lan Wangji shrugged, meaning a little, meaning the love of my life died alone and you lied to me about it, meaning that I understand why you did it does not lessen how I feel about it.

“I am sorry,” Lan Xichen said. “I was wrong.”

Lan Wangji was surprised. He knew his brother well enough to know he would never say the words merely out of guilt or convenience or a desire to make peace; to say them aloud, he would have had to think over his actions, truly think them over, and to decide that he had in fact been wrong.

Lan Xichen saw his surprise and ducked his head a little. “I confided in my sworn brothers, and each one of them told me, in very different terms and for very different reasons, I was an idiot,” he said. “Even if I feared for your life, even if I doubted your choices – you are an adult, and I treated you like a child. I broke your trust. It was wrong, and I should not have done it.”

They were still in dispute as to the quality of Wei Wuxian’s character, then, but – Lan Wangji could live with that. It seemed more real, somehow, than a complete turnaround would have been.

“You are forgiven,” he said, and mostly meant it. The remaining part of that ‘mostly’ was only a scar, and could be – and would be – ignored by strength of will. And then, because he did love his brother no matter how much pain he had caused him, he added, “I missed you.”

Lan Xichen rubbed his eyes, which caused a dull ache in Lan Wangji’s chest. “I missed you too, Wangji. I – oh, I was so worried!”

Lan Wangji took an automatic step back from the unexpected exclamation, but he supposed it was reasonable. He had disappeared with his back still torn open from the discipline whip, and he had become feverish to the point of fainting – yes, worry was a reasonable reaction.

Especially since Lan Wangji had stubbornly remained missing for two entire years.

“I meant you to be,” he said honestly, because Lan Xichen deserved to know that his perfect little brother had an unexpectedly spiteful side to him.

Lan Xichen smiled at him, unbothered. “I figured as much, when we couldn’t find you no matter where we looked – the cultivation world is not so large that you could go unnoticed, even hurt and suffering; you must have found a place to shelter. We were fairly sure you weren’t dead, and that meant it had to be intentional. I was angry, for a while, but eventually – well, in the end, I’m just happy to see you.”

Lan Wangji was happy to see Lan Xichen, too. He’d missed his big brother, so calm and gentle; that he was angry at him did not mean that he did not love him, that he didn’t want him around.

It was a sudden breath of wind on a pleasant day, a sudden gust of Gusu tranquility in the middle of the now-familiar ruckus of the Lotus Pier.

“Can I serve you tea?” Lan Wangji asked, suddenly full of the desire to show his brother his room here – to show him that he hadn’t suffered during this time. He wanted to show him the weiqi board so that he could laugh at the appalling (and yet disturbingly successful) way Jiang Cheng played, to show him the books and the sandalwood incense that reminded Lan Wangji so much of Gusu that there was no way that Jiang Cheng hadn’t ordered especially for him, to let him meet A-Yuan and get punched by little Jin Ling who was too small for his version of his uncle’s temper to be anything other than cute.

To show him that the Lotus Pier was not merely a shelter for Lan Wangji, but a home.

Lan Xichen nodded, and they went.

Lan Xichen seemed pleased with Lan Wangji’s room, nodding in approval as Lan Wangji showed him around. But when there was nothing else to be pointed out, he looked sidelong at Lan Wangji and murmured, “Sect Leader Jiang informed me that I was not to raise the possibility of you returning. Was that your will, or his?”

If he’s keeping you here by force, I will put aside all etiquette to fight for you, he meant, and Lan Wangji was touched.

“Both,” he said. “I am not ready to return to the Cloud Recesses.”

They both knew that it wasn’t his injuries that were preventing him.

“You like it here, then?”

“I do.”

A pause, and then – “I’m glad.”

They had tea, then, and spoke of other things. Lan Xichen, always the more talkative one, told Lan Wangji of the way life in Cloud Recesses had at long last started to resemble the days before fire and war, of the rambunctious child that their uncle had adopted and couldn’t seem to bring himself to scold, and even of the way his sworn brothers who could scarcely tolerate each other had managed to come together in agreement to help him search for Lan Wangji.

“I may have let them search a bit longer than I needed to,” Lan Xichen confessed. “Things were getting bad for a while there, very bad – did you hear about Xue Yang?”

“Mm. Disappeared before trial.”

“Yes, in the end. Before that, though, there was a period when da-ge’s temper was getting worse and worse, and A-Yao was doing everything he could to irritate him while pretending he’d never done anything wrong in his life, which of course irritated da-ge even more…I honestly thought one of them might try to kill the other. But then I ended up having a small fit while the two of them were bickering, and by the time I recovered they’d somehow managed to get over the worst of it.”

Lan Wangji raised his eyebrows.

“I think they realized that I couldn’t handle losing either of them at that time,” Lan Xichen said with a shrug, indicating clearly that the fit in question was not a subject that was open for discussion. “I’d had the abrupt realization that I really might never see you again, if not even they could locate you...it really was a surprise that Jiang Cheng turned out to be such an accomplished liar.”

“Did he actually lie?” Lan Wangji asked, truly curious. The Jiang Cheng he knew was a horrendous liar, but surprisingly good at omitting details.

A Yunmeng trait, according to Jiang Cheng. It made Lan Wangji wonder what secrets Wei Wuxian might have been keeping hidden behind his smile.

“Well, he was very good at misdirecting away from any direct questions, at any rate,” Lan Xichen said with a smile that was a little tense around the corners. Lan Wangji suspected that he hadn’t quite forgiven Jiang Cheng for his part in hiding Lan Wangji, for all that Lan Xichen would never permit himself to seek revenge for the slight. “Often with anger, or with bluster…do you truly enjoy his company?”

“Very much,” Lan Wangji said, and almost chuckled at Lan Xichen’s somewhat disbelieving face. “Was his confession to you as much of a disaster as he made it sound?”

“There were tears,” Lan Xichen said. “And not just mine.”

Lan Wangji hid away a smile.

In return, his brother’s eyebrows went up. Lan Wangji didn’t blame him; he knew that Lan Xichen was not accustomed to his ever-serious younger brother smiling, even a hidden one.

Lan Wangji did not know how to tell him that the only way to put up with Jiang Cheng for any period of time was to learn to find his antics funny – how to tell his brother that he’d smiled more, here in the Lotus Pier, than any period of his life to date.

Even the parts with Wei Wuxian in them had been too full of confusion for smiles, confusion and love and denial. He dearly wished that Wei Wuxian could see him now, occasional smiles and lowering himself to engage in banter with Jiang Cheng – he thought Wei Wuxian would like it.

He thought, perhaps over-optimistically, that Wei Wuxian might have liked him. This version of him.

There was a familiar creak, then, and Lan Wangji shook his head, even more amused.

“He’s about to kick the door open,” he told Lan Xichen, who looked even more surprised at the unexpected prediction. “He always does.”

Sure enough, a moment later, Jiang Cheng burst into the door like a blast of the south wind, hot and blustery; his arms were unsurprisingly full of children.

“You forgot to stretch before you left the training field,” he said conversationally, which was a tone that, to judge by Lan Xichen’s expression, sounded to a normal person like an angry, dismissive growl. “You get an extra hour of acupuncture as penance. Also, I hope your bonding time has been enjoyable, because it’s over now - I need you to watch the kids before they ruin my trade agreements.”

It was a demand, not a question, and Jiang Cheng didn’t wait for an answer: a moment later and he was gone again. But now there was Jin Ling and Lan Sizhui there, looking curiously at Lan Xichen, and Lan Wangji nodded at them to indicate that his presence had been sanctioned.

Lan Xichen, in turn, recovered himself quickly and smiled at them. “My name is Lan Xichen,” he said, opting for a far more informal introduction than would normally be appropriate. “You can call me Uncle, if you like. What’s your names?”

“I’m Lan Yuan, uncle,” A-Yuan said formally, and tried to salute the way Lan Wangji taught him. “And he’s Jin Ling. He’s not yet two, so he doesn’t bow yet. Hanguang-jun, should I take him to paint?”

Lan Wangji nodded his permission, so A-Yuan took Jin Ling by the hand – not hard, since Jin Ling was not-so-subtly trying to hide behind him to block Lan Xichen’s curious gaze – and led him over to the corner of the room where they’d stored all the children’s supplies.

“Lan Yuan,” Lan Xichen echoed, and turned his eyes on Lan Wangji. “I’d heard of him before. The stories made him out to be the product of some sort of tragic love affair or a mistress of Jiang Cheng’s. I hadn’t put it together with your presence here before. Does that mean…?”

Lan Wangji nodded, confirming Lan Xichen’s suspicions that he was the one raising him – that he’d agreed to share his surname with him.

“Where did you find him?”

Lan Wangji shook his head, refusing to answer.

Lan Xichen nodded slowly. There was a little pain in his eyes: they had once been so close that there had been no questions that wouldn’t be answered, or subjects that couldn’t be discussed, like Lan Xichen’s breakdown or Lan Yuan’s origins. “You’re right; it doesn’t matter. If you say he’s a Lan, then that’s enough for me…I’ll have him included in the family register at home, if you’ll consent.”

Once in the register, Lan Sizhui would have the right to wear the cloud-patterned forehead ribbon. It would give him the backing of being a member of the Lan clan, with all the responsibilities that came with it – the ones Lan Wangji was trying to teach him, and which he could learn better in the future if he went to the Cloud Recesses to learn.

It would be good for him to have that option.

“How will you explain it?” Lan Wangji asked, meaning I don’t want them to know I’m here.

Lan Xichen smiled faintly, and that was agreement – reluctant agreement, but agreement nonetheless. “I wasn’t planning on explaining it.”

For once in his life, Lan Wangji was almost looking forward to hearing the gossip.

[kj-1130]

HIRAETH

Chapter 6

Main Masterlist

     At 19, Christine never expected to be where she currently was. Instead of spending her time at college parties or planning out her marriage (something her parents wished for her to do), she was attempting to run away.

     She just wanted to do her own thing. She was tired of trying to fit everyone’s standard of who they wanted her to be. She was tired of considering everyone’s thoughts and feelings and opinions except her own. 

     Christine was just utterly exhausted.

     There was only so much more she could take until she snapped. 

-

     At age 21, Christine began to make a name for herself. 

     At first, it was making street medicine. When people caught wind of what she was doing, many were crawling towards her, desperate to do her bidding and help themselves grow as well. 

     It was where she first started really. One person suggested the idea of making it a small gang and everything just seemed to grow from there. 

     The gang developed from street deals into the very beginnings of a whole cartel within just a year. With that ‘pre-cartel’ brought a lot of enemies and people who were envious of Christine’s success. 

     She doesn’t think she’ll ever forget how her first taste of revenge felt. 

     On October 31, 1996, someone thought it would be a good idea to try and sabotage her. Christine had been sabotaged one too many times whether that be self-sabotage or by a member of her previous community. 

     The fact that they thought they could trick her--that they thought she was so foolish. It made her angry. Absolutely livid. 

     The woman watched as her henchmen dragged in the scum by the shoulders and dropped him on the floor. She watched them kick him in his ribs. She heard each satisfying pop of his bones. 

     She watched as her right-hand men forced him to stand. And then, she watched him slit his throat with a kitchen knife. 

     Christine remembered tilting her head, watching the man bleed out. Then, she grinned. 

     Watching him suffer made her happy. What a great birthday that was. 

-

     It was December 31, 1998.

     Christine had thrown a party for the New Year. Her place was filled to the brim with high-up partners and clients. Strobe lights flashed and the floor vibrated with the bass of the music.

     She had just pushed one of her wing-women against the wall, nipping at her neck. It wasn’t uncommon for her and Adeen to mess around every once in a while. It was a great stress reliever in their opinion.

     At the entrance, two bulky men stalked in, looking as if they were hunting for their next meal.

     They searched the dance floor, trying to avoid the sweaty bodies and sky-high patrons who could barely stand on their two feet. 

     Just as Christine was placing her lips on the woman in front her, a tap reached her shoulder. The leader dropped her head down with a sigh, before turning around to face the men with an annoyed look. 

     “What?”

     “We need you to come with us.” 

     After a moment’s consideration, she turned back around towards Adeen and tapped her cheek. She gestured towards her henchmen and leaned towards her ear. 

    “You know what to do,” Christine whispered. 

     Her wing-woman nodded in response and walked off, but not before giving the two men that interrupted their time together a dirty look. 

     The leader waltzed off of the floor and headed towards her private office without so much as a glance. 

     “What can I do for you, boys?”

     “Bogomolov has a proposition.”

-

November, 2000

     Christine watched as the other scientists strapped down the young boy to the metal slab they called a table. 

     The woman couldn’t care less about his little screams of terror or the thrashing of his limbs. She just hoped they wouldn’t have to sedate him because she had other ‘projects’ of hers that needed to be tested and not enough time in the day. 

     “What number is this?”

     A gravelly voice spoke. 

     The scientist looked to her right and connected gazes with a tall man that had a dark and mysterious demeanour.  

     She looked back down at her tablet after assessing him with her eyes.

     “I don’t care about who it is. I just need him to sit still so I can see if this stuff works or not.” 

     The man whistled lowly and raised his eyebrows in response. 

     “Feisty,” he muttered. 

     Dropping her arms to her side, Christine looked up at the stranger with an annoyed look on her face that she didn’t even bother trying to hide. 

     “I’m sorry. Did you need something?”

     “Nah,” he said, shaking his head with a small smirk. “Just wanted to meet my new lab partner.”

     “Excuse me, new what?”

-

January, 2003

     If there was one thing Christine hated, it was James. They had been working together for almost three years now and she still couldn’t stand his cocky little attitude. 

     They had just been called Bogomolov’s office and walked on opposite sides of the hallway to get there (well more so Christine than James. He just found it all amusing.).

     When the two arrived they were greeted with the older man and files. 

     “You two have an undercover mission.” 

     “Ah,” Christine interrupted. “I don’t do missions, especially not with him.”

     “I wasn’t asking,” Dima responded, raising an eyebrow as if challenging her. The woman huffed and flopped back into her seat. 

     “As I was saying, I need you two to grab some intel for me.” 

     “May I ask where?” 

     The old gentlemen turned towards James with a blank face. 

     “Alaska.” 

     James looked at him in confusion.

     “Now stop interrupting me. You’re going undercover as a couple. A party in Canada.” 

     “That’s quite vague,” Christine mumbled.

     “You leave tomorrow.”

     The two stood and made their way to the exit, one with a frown on their face, the other with a giddy smirk. 

     “Oh cheer up, princess. You get to spend some one-on-one time with me!” 

     “Yeah, that’s the part I’m dreading.”

-

February, 2003

     She hated James. Hated him more than anything on the planet at the moment. 

     How dare he let her sleep with him while they were both drunk. I mean, yeah it was good but that doesn't mean she necessarily wished for it to happen!

     Storming down the hall, Christine banged on his bedroom door. After a couple of seconds, the door swung open and the woman barged in. 

     “If I end up pregnant, it is all your fault!” 

     “Woah, woah, woah,” James exclaimed with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Cool it, princess.” 

     Deeply annoyed, Christine took in a deep breath to contain the urge to knock out his stupid, perfectly straight teeth. 

     “Wh-why did we do that?” 

     “Well you were all up over me, mama,” James said with a cocky grin. “I was just following your orders.” 

     The woman opened her mouth to reply but instead was fighting the urge to gag. 

     “I am too nauseated to continue this right now.”

     Christine made her way to the man’s bathroom and hunched over the toilet. 

     “Fuck you, James!”

-

December 22, 2003

     Christine screamed in agony as she was told to push another time. 

     “I’m going to chop your testicles off!” 

     “I’m sorry! What do you want me to do?” 

     “Just hold my hand.” 

     James held out the appendage and winced as the woman in labor latched onto it with a death grip. 

     It was five grueling hours that Christine had been in labor and she had only recently started pushing. 

     It was another hour until the woman held her baby for the first time. 

     As the newborn drifted off to sleep, the scientist looked up at James with a small smirk on her face. 

     “You thinking what I’m thinking?” 

     With an identical expression, the man locked eyes with her. 

     “You know I am.” 

-

     “So she was born into HYDRA,” Sam started. “That means there most likely won’t be many records of her existence.” 

     “Poor girl never stood a chance,” Natasha muttered, flipping through the few notes they were able to retrieve. “Says here, they were attempting to create connections with the deceased.”

     “With everything we’ve experienced, I wouldn’t be surprised if they found a way,” Wanda stated, slumping back in her spot.

     As everyone continued to look through box after box, Bucky sat in his seat trying to remember. 

     A lot of it was fuzzy, but thankfully there were a few breakthroughs.

     He remembered hearing Karima and whoever W1498 was, having many conversations together. He remembered the countless times one tried to take the punishment for the other. 

     But the most prominent thing was when they talked about the voices. 

     Bucky can still faintly hear the whispers of Karima saying, ‘the voices are so loud,’ or ‘can you keep it quiet, Zee?’

     “W-we never talked about why she was doing this,” he spoke up.

     “Didn’t you say you were pretty sure these were revenge killings?”

     Steve asked. 

     “Buck’s got a point,” Sam spoke. “I mean, if it was revenge, wouldn’t she have been at least a good halfway through the staff by now?” 

     They all sat back and thought. 

     “You did say she was talking to this ‘Zee’ person when she said she wanted to make them hurt like they hurt them, right?” Natasha asked. 

     “Yeah but we can’t ignore the part where she said it felt like her heart stopped,” the former winter soldier spoke.

     “My thing is,” the red-head started. “Is that if these were revenge killings, why would she go after W1498’s handler? They probably rarely made any contact.”

     Steve turned to face his friend who had his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. 

     “Any more memories, Buck?”

     “I remember Karima talking about voices and asking ‘Zee’ to make them stop.”

     Rustling paper broke them out of their little huddle as they directed their attention towards the witch.

     “Says here that W1498 got moved out of that base around Christmas of 2018.” 

     “Didn’t Fury start sending surveillance over there around January this year?” the captain spoke.

     Wanda nodded in response and flipped through more documents. 

     “Last record of movement was said to be around February. Doesn’t say what happened to all of the people or why the base was suddenly abandoned.”

     “So if our girl was close with W1498,” Tony started. “It coulda really pissed her off when they moved ‘em.” 

     “What if Karima’s looking for her?” Sam suggested suddenly. “I mean, you have W1498’s relocation which Karima would’ve suffered from. ‘Zee’ practically helped her with whatever ‘voices’ Bucky was talking about. They took the one good thing from her; it would make sense if she snapped.”

     “That would explain why she went after their handler,” Natasha added. “She had no idea of her friend’s whereabouts ,the obvious choice would be to go to their handler and at least try to get some information.”

     “What about the sudden abandonment of the base?”

     “We don’t know the full extent of her powers,” Steve said. “We don’t even know how she killed the agent.” 

     The captain looked around at the few Avengers who were spread out across the common room as a pang of hurt stuck him. 

     He simply took a deep breath and stood. 

     “Let’s take a break. We’ll regroup either later today or tomorrow.” 

     With that, everyone left, ready to take advantage of the rare relaxation they had.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Hiraeth Taglist

@lizlil, @bellero, @ravennight41, @yasminwashere, @cay-writes-fan-fiction514​

Permanent Taglist

@stillmanicc​ @annestine​

[midnight-hotel]

I was thinking of a Alastor x Reader , where the reader is a fallen angel, and was given up by god, so now that she is in Hell she doesn't know where to go. You can do whatever you want from this, impress me

//Well, I impressed myself so I hope I’ve impressed you too!

Everyone had heard of God’s new plan. It was the biggest thing to happen in Heaven since the day word spread about the ‘Happy Hotel’ down in Hell. A rehabilitation centre for sinners wasn’t such a bad idea thanks to the population issue down there but it was also a ridiculous notion because, well… souls were sent down there for a reason. Now, you had never been human, so you were no expert on whether or not demons deserved a second chance, but unlike the princess of hell, you’d been given the chance to observe the behaviour of human beings and had yet to form an opinion on the matter. Not a proper one at least. However, you did not see demon’s worth so much as to have God banish an angel down to hell for all eternity to see if they can make any impact. It would be one thing to just send an angel down there, but it had been made clear that they needed someone expendable. An angel they could afford to lose should they be killed down there in hell.

That hardly sit well in your stomach and when you saw the arch angel Michael fly into the city centre with news of who would be sent down to hell, you spread your wings and took off to get closer. Whose life were they about to ruin? Angels all around you murmured softly between each other, watching closely as Michael gazed around as if looking for the ‘chosen one’. Everyone waited with bated breath until a name was finally uttered from the Angel’s plump lips.

“Amethyst Hearth.”

The name almost seemed to echo despite the softness of his strong voice and within moments, the crowd parted to show the young angel, a woman who had hardly been in heaven three years. From what you had head, she had been a single, teen mother. A young girl who had been taken advantage of in her youth but did her best to make a decent life for herself and her child. Unfortunately, she died in an accident of some sort.

“N-No! No, please, I couldn’t possibly survive down there!” The woman practically cried, taking stumbled steps back, trying to put more distance between herself and Michael as if that would make any difference to her fate. No one dared speak up, for no one wanted to defy the will of God.

“You’ll be serving our father more than you ever could have here in heaven. Don’t you see, you’ve been chosen, out of millions of angels, god’s children, to do this deed. To make a difference,” Michael’s soft voice spoke, reaching all ears without much effort. Crystal like tears rolled down her flushed cheeks as the angel shook her head, spreading her wings to get ready to fly away, only for a couple angels to finally step in and grab her arms.

“No! Let go of me! I don’t want to! I’ll die!”

You could feel your pulse increasing and clenched your fists to refrain from speaking. This was wrong, beyond wrong, but who were you to defy God’s wishes? He knew all, did he not? Yet you found yourself doubting him more and more as Amethyst struggled to escape. At war with yourself, you caved, spreading your large white wings and giving a single, strong flap, taking you over everyone else before landing once more, between Michael and the young girl. How could you, an angel of over three hundred years, allow such a young angel to suffer.

“Arch Angel Michael, you can’t do this!” You declared firmly, hands trembling lightly but standing strong. “I don’t see why God can’t just send an angel, an exterminator perhaps, down into hell to do his work? Why take someone’s halo from them? Their grace? It’s insanity!” Murmurs started back up at your sudden defence, familiar faces backing further into the crowd so they didn’t have to watch someone they knew make a fool of themselves. “I love God, he is my beloved father, but I can not stand by and watch this young woman lose even more after only dying recently. She stands no chance down there.”

“Miss (L/N), I would hold my tongue if I were you. If you continue to defy god, I cannot be held accountable for what may come next,” Michael warned you, fingers twitching by his side, ready to summon his holy weapon if you were to lash out. Your own hand longed for the comfort of your own holy weapon but you refrained from summoning it out of fear for what Michael may do to you.

“I will not let God or anyone else strip this angel of her halo without good reason. Send an exterminator,” you insisted, narrowing your eyes at your superior, holding up your brave front as best as you could but you could not deny the absolute terror prompting your heart to beat fast enough to harm had you been a regular human being.

You held Michael’s gaze, unwavering until you saw his tense body relax as a sigh escaped his lungs.

“Very well, Father has accepted. We will send an exterminator. Enjoy your time in Hell (Y/N) (L/N).”

Your eyes widened as your lips parted in horror. What? Gasps were heard from all around before you no longer felt God’s comforting warmth around you and the sensation of falling filled your very being. Oh, you were falling. No matter how hard you fought to spread your wings and catch yourself, you still plummeted. It hurt, no, it burned and after what seemed like eternity, you crashed.

Your body collided with a tall standing building, dropping through floor after floor and continuing a few feet after you hit the ground. The building soon followed, crumbling to the ground around your fallen from, unable to move out of the way. Yet nothing landed on you. With your arms and wings spread out, you stared up at the red sky above, dark yet somehow bringing light… Up, way above, was a white dot, much like the sun as it shone down on the earth, only now it was taunting you, reminding you of where you no longer were.

“Why have you forsaken me Father? Was I not right for protecting my fellow angels?” you barely whispered, the taste of blood finally reaching your tongue. You would heal in due time… nothing to fear. No, what you had to fear were the demons slowly making their way around you, gazing into the crater you had created with your ungraceful fall. Guess that’s what happens when you have your grace ripped away from you.

“Is that an angel?”

“What’s an angel doing in hell?”

“They don’t look like an exterminator. Fuck it, let’s take their wings.”

“Heh, you can have the wings, I’m after their halo.”

Voices chimed from all around you and all you could do was watch in a panic as you willed your body to move. You may not have had your halo anymore but you sure as hell weren’t going to let these demons take your wings! Your fingers twitched as the demons pushed each other around to get to you first, pulling weapons on each other despite knowing they could hardly kill each other without a holy weapon. Speaking of… You managed to close your fist and summoned your exterminator’s spear. Having the familiar weapon in your hands gave a wave of comfort to your sore body and an even bigger wave of energy.

While everyone was distracted with fighting each other off, you grunted, pushing yourself off the ground with the help of your spear to prevent you from going back over. It seemed everyone had noticed you stand up, shaking dirt and rubble out of your huge wings as an exterminator’s mask glitched over your face, crack running down the crossed-out eye as it struggled to stay activated. Perfect, a glitching mask. Just what you needed.

“Back off,” you growled, taking on a defensive stance, very aware of the fact that you were surrounded, and horribly wounded. The extent of your injuries could be figured out later, for now, you needed to get out of the open and find a place to hide out. You pulled your wings in tight against your back as all weapons were turned on you from those who hadn’t run off the moment your mask glitched into place. Good, a lot of them were smart enough not to mess with an exterminator. Well, ex-exterminator but they didn’t have to know that now did they?

Heart in your throat and pounding in your ears, you put up the fight of your life. So many demons usually feared exterminators, but many of these fools refused to back down, perhaps believing that they had a chance against a lone angel. You’d be ashamed to admit they were almost right, but luck seemed to be on your side, as you cut another demon down and dashed out of there, running down alleyways, running across empty streets and eventually finding yourself in an abandoned building, barely standing from ears of abuse. You recognised it, much to your own surprise, as a place you have been to before. You’d chased a demon here once. Killed them right in the corner you were sitting in, out of breath and body trembling from pain and fear. You hadn’t trembled so badly since your first extermination. Hell was a scary place, especially when you’ve never been there before. You’ve been here hundreds of times now, only this was your first time alone and with no clear way home.

Your heart didn’t slow all that much, your body too tense to possibly relax any time soon, but your breathing got better, much to the relief of your aching chest. Now calming down and somewhat safe, you uncurled and rid yourself of your mask, but kept your spear by your side. Just in case you needed to defend yourself again – but you weren’t so sure just how well you’d hold up in another fight so soon, so you could only pray that you were safe.

You stretched one of your wings out, curling it around yourself to inspect the damage, finding shards of glass stuck within the feathers and embedded in your wings, staining the once pure white feathers red. That was going to take a while to wash out… You heaved out a sigh and plucked out the shards of glass, causing your wounds to bleed some more but not dangerously. You did the same to the other wing and finally, felt yourself starting to relax when you realised that your wings weren’t broken, just damaged. They’d heal within time; you would be fine.

“Those are some nasty injuries you have there my dear! Why, I’d say you’ve had quite the fall,” a distorted voice suddenly spoke from one of the awfully dark corners of the room. Lifting your head quickly, you searched for the source of the voice, only to find two red, glowing orbs staring right back at you. How hadn’t you noticed them when you came inside?! No- they weren’t in here when you arrived, they had followed you. You quickly reached out for your spear, only for it to slap back down onto the hard ground as a dress shoe clad foot stepped down on it.

“Now, now, let’s not cause a scene, shall we? After the show you just put on, I doubt you’re in any shape to be taking anyone on any time soon,” he chided, kneeling down before you.

A tall man dressed in a red pin-striped suit, bright red and black hair and… hey would you look at that, he was a deer demon… and unfortunately, you recognised him. Exterminators typically knew a lot about those who roamed around in hell. For example, you could name a good number of the overlords, such as the man before you now, grin ever present on his face.

“Radio Demon…” you murmured, making his grin stretch wider as amusement shone in his eyes.

“My, the little angel knows who I am~” he hummed, grabbing your chin in a firm grip, turning your head this way and that as if to take a good look at you.

“You’re going to kill me then?” you questioned, your own (E/C) eyes staring intensely back into his. You were terrified, no doubt about that, but if you were going to die, then you would die fighting. The demon chuckled and shook his head.

“No, no, no, darling! Quite the opposite actually, I’m here to offer you a helping hand!” he declared, standing back up and making a microphone appear in his hand as he stepped off of your spear. Taking this as your chance, you picked it up and stood, holding your weapon defensively, pointed right at his chest.

“I hardly doubt you could help me demon. Now leave me alone before I end your sorry existence right here and now,” you warned him, hoping he’d just back down and maybe come back later. When you could actually stand a chance against him. He merely chuckled again, beginning to piss you off.

“Couldn’t I now? Not even if I offered you a 100% safe place to stay and assistance with your injuries?” he inquired with a raised brow.

You couldn’t afford to believe him. He was a demon, a liar, there was no way he wanted to help you out.

“How can I possibly trust you? Demon’s don’t do nice things for the sake of others, so what do you want?”

Alastor sighed but his smile never faded as he turned around and started to walk towards the exit of the building.

“I never said I was doing this from the good of my heart and what I want hardly matters either. It’s up to you if you trust me or not, but I’d remember where you are quickly. Not many here in hell are going to be so generous.”

So, what else was there to do but follow? After all, at this rate, you were going to die anyway. You never would have imagined that he would lead you to the very Hotel that started this ordeal in the first place.

[sadselfhelp]

Who I Am, And Why I Created This Blog.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Child Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Violence, Drug Overdose, Suicide, Psychotic Breaks. 

Take a walk with me, let me show you around the mind of The Sad Hatter.

There's a lot going on in my head right now, and I feel like I'm on the precipice of something. I'm standing on a cliff's edge and I'm either going to plummet or I'm going to fly. It's been building inside me for a long time, and I can't contain it anymore. So here it is, here's me laid bare, because I need to say this, I need to put it into words. I need to purge it all. To try and make sense of all of this shit in my brain, I think it's time I organize it. I don't know where to begin, but I guess I start at the beginning and make use of the ability to edit.

Before you read this, please be aware of the trigger warnings. And please understand that this is the most honest and open I have been, I really am stripped bare in this piece of writing. It’s not at all pretty, and am I not guiltless in parts. This may well alter whatever opinion you have of me. 

I guess the beginning is birth, right? But I don't want to rehash all that trauma, so let me speed through it. Twenty-Eight years ago I was born, violently. I'm serious, I ripped my way out of the womb, and tore that thing apart. I guess I can sort of understand why my mother couldn't love me after that was my first act, collapsing her womb. So let me speedrun this part of the story. Mum didn't want me, gave me to my dad who raised me as a single parent with the help of his parents, until he met my stepmother. Shockingly, she didn't want me either, but because she couldn't get rid of me she decided to physical and psychological torture was the next best thing. 

When I was eleven years old I snapped and didn't want to put up with it anymore, so I wrote a goodbye note and then snuck into the medicine cabinet and took a bunch of pills. Spoiler alert, I didn't die. I did however end up in a children's home, cue more abuse, little bit of bullying and sexual assault etc.... I snapped again, but instead of turning my anger inwards, I became an absolute bastard. Ok, I still turned it inwards a bit, I had a lot of anger, and now I have a few hundred scars to prove it. But, it turns out that violence can beget violence, and I acted out in every possible way. Racked up a horrifying rap sheet, assault, vandalism, arson, and finally... GBH. I was supposed to get put in a secure unit (child prison – Scottish Edition) but I was always able to talk myself out of trouble. 

See, I was this tiny little white girl with big sad eyes and a hell of a sob story, even at the bottom of the food chain I still had privilege. So instead of getting locked up, I just got sent to a different home. And here's the really messed up part, this home was better. The staff were nicer, and nobody hurt me. My behavior literally changed overnight. I went from being charged by the police on a weekly basis, to never getting so much as a pocket money sanction. I will never excuse my actions, nor condone them, but after years of guilt I finally realized that the bad things I did were in retaliation to a bad situation, and though I wasn’t acting like a good person, I’m not a bad person, just a messed up one. 

I still refused to go to school though, because though I didn't yet know it at the time, I had severe social anxiety. I was smart, a little too smart to be honest, and I found myself thriving with a private tutor. When the time came to sit my exams, someone fucked up, and despite having record breaking test scores on the pre-exams, I never actually got to sit my standard grades (think SAT's – Scottish Edition). I'm still bitter about that. So by this point in the story, I'm 16, and legally an adult, too old for a children's home. I got turfed to a hostel, and the next few parts of the story are pretty fuzzy to me. 

This is where my mental health really started to deteriorate. I bounced between homeless hostels and B&B's for a year or so, until I got a my first flat/apartment. By that point, I was utterly fucked in the head. I was blacking out frequently, for anywhere between a couple of minutes to three days. I would come back to myself in sometimes compromising positions, and once there was blood. A lot of blood, splashed all over the walls. Then there was the time I suddenly found myself standing in the kitchen, about to plunge a knife into my own chest.

Nobody ever did tell me what the hell that was about. Or maybe they did and I just... forgot? But because I was extremely suicidal, a doctor finally decided to do something, and the police and the paramedics came to my door to take me to the psychiatric hospital. I spent ten months there while I cycled through various anti-psychotics and anti-depressants, and was 'rehabilitated into society'. The second I was out, I made the worst decision I have ever made in my life. If I can give you one piece of advice, one lesson to take from my shitshow of a life, it's this: Don't move hundreds of miles away to be with the guy you met online while you were having a psychotic break.

I've never really thought of myself as a victim, but I guess I'm the only one who saw it that way. Ben, that was his name, Ben was a monster, and I didn't know it until it was too late. He never hit me, never lifted a hand to me, he never had to. He could put a knife in my hand and make me hurt myself for his entertainment. I had told him everything, so he knew exactly how to break me down, how to make me want to bleed. He locked me in a house and used me up. And when I had enough, and tried to break free of him, he would just tell the police I was mentally ill and they would smile sympathetically and give me back to him.

But then my dad had a breakdown. My dad, who when he found out what my stepmother was doing to me, buried his head in the sand and packed my little suitcase for me. I hadn't spoken to him in a while until he reached out from the same psychiatric ward I had not long vacated. He had cracked under the realization that I had never lied about her, and the guilt broke him apart. I could have hated him, if it had happened a few years earlier then I would have. But I had experienced enough of the world to learn a few things, like how easily it is to fuck up, and that no matter how strong you are, you aren't immune to monsters. The truth was he was as much a victim of her evil as I was. She had manipulated him, played with his head, used his insecurities against him. So I helped him through his issues, the way I wished someone had helped me. That doesn't really make me a good person, it just makes me human.

But my dad got better, and found his footing. And when he did, he realized something wasn't right with me, and I told him the truth about Ben. My dad had left me to suffer at the hands of an abuser once before, and he wasn't going to allow it to happen again. He came and got me, and he took me home. He moved me in with him, gave me his bed and slept on the couch. After a couple of months, he helped me get my own place.

And that's the happy ending, right? All the trauma was over, I was safe, that's where the story should end. Right? I bet you're not naive enough to believe that, but I sure as hell was. I thought I would recover and that everything would be ok. I thought that with safety, there would come the chance to heal. I thought my wounds would scab over, and I would have my scars but at least I would be able to move without bleeding out. But that's not how trauma works. I had two decades worth of trauma, abuse, and hell.

I just... faded. I didn't crack, I didn't crumble, I didn't break, I just stopped. For five years I sat in one room of my home, drowning inside myself. Last year I got handed a lifeline, and now I live somewhere better. I'm not really allowed to live independently so I actually live in kind of retirement village of all places. I have my own house, but it's got intercoms and emergency cords everywhere, I get checked on daily by on on-site worker. And I'm trying to get better, I really am. It's just not that easy.

There's more to the whole story that I maybe should have put in, like the fact that my mother was a drug addict when she was pregnant with me, and that may have been the reason some of my organs didn't properly form and/or formed wrong. My lung split in half when I was a baby, and parts of my stomach are missing. Or that my mother is full on batshit insane. I could have had a perfect childhood and I still would have been mentally ill. Hell, I was seeing psychologists at five years old. Take my sketchy genetics, add twenty years of severe traumas, and well... I'm a little fucked up. Because a lot of medical conditions use acronyms, my full list of diagnosis looks like I'm collecting the fucking alphabet.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Agoraphobia. I also have a Pulmonary Sequestration, Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia, the stomach and lung issues. Immune Hemolytic Anemia, I'm basically allergic to my own blood. Plus, ya know, my liver recently decided to just fucking nope out, the pissy lil bitch is failing. I also may or may not have cancer, I don't know because I pussied out of the tests. At this point I am a walking, decaying corpse that is held together by glitter glue and bitterness.

So... why exactly am I writing this? And why am I even considering posting this? I mean, my problems aren't as bad as some other people's. We've all got shit to deal with, especially in 2020. The whole world is falling apart, so what right do I have to sit here pouting and pouring my problems out? Well, for a start, I guess this is my blog, I can post whatever, and it's up to everyone else if they read it.

So here it is, you have the backstory, so here's what it's all been leading up to.

I'm struggling. Like, really struggling. I'm stuck on this cliff, and I want off, any way I can. Whether I fall or fly, I just want free. I can't live like this anymore, because I can't breathe.

The fucking agonizing duality of being socially anxious and too easily overstimulated, and yet feeling fucking empty inside if you're not surrounded by action and noise. The world is too noisy for my brain, but my brain is too noisy for the world. I get antsy if I'm not doing at least a thousand different tasks, but I get overwhelmed if I try to do anything at all. It leads to short bursts of mania, followed by weeks of depression. But underneath all of that, under all the dramatic showboating, and the dark humor, under all the bravado... I'm really just sad.

Years ago, when I first came up with the moniker "The Sad Hatter", I said it was because I may be mad, but my madness was born of sadness. I'm just sad. I carry it with me where my heart should be. So I named myself Sad, and I put on the hat, and I wore my sadness like armor, turned it into an act, and made a spectacle of it. "I'm The Sad Hatter, and I'm mentally ill but that's alright, I'm going to be just fine!" I told you all I had my issues, and I'll come close to opening up about how bad those issues are, I'll give little chunks of information at intermittent intervals, and then two hours later I'll act like it never happened. I'll admit I was close to killing myself, and then two days later I'll post dog photo's and act like I'm all better.

I'm writing this because I'm sad. And tomorrow, I'll act like I'm not. But when I waver again, I'll come back here and I'll open up again. And along the way, maybe you're reading this and realizing you aren't alone in feeling overwhelmed. Maybe you're realizing you're not the only one who isn't healing neatly and in a timely manner. Maybe you're reading this and gaining some insight into the struggles someone you care about is facing. Maybe my opening up is can help somebody else, I really hope so, but I know it's helping one person. It's helping me.

This blog, it's about living with myself. It's about living with The Sad Hatter.

[thesouthernpansy]

your hand, my hand (to hold it)

artemy burakh/daniil dankovsky

2,556 words

(here on ao3)

Dankovsky stands at the top of the staircase in his shirtsleeves. He's changed, again, from the last time you saw him, his eyes darker and his jaw weaker, but he takes your hands in his cool, gloved palms and tuts in that same distant, put-upon way he has.

“When was the last time you cleaned your fingernails?”

Even in pitch darkness, with your eyes closed, you could find your way back to him by his scolding.

“I think I have a few crumbs under there, I was saving them for later.”

Dankovsky tsks, not without humor. “I expect you'll try to convince me it's economical. Are you hungry? I have some bread and—well, I've been told it's trout, but who can tell these days. Some kind of smoked fish. It's yours if you'll wash up. Quid pro quo.”

Are you hungry? You wonder at his formality; you've been hungry for days.

His back is to you while he digs through his doctor's bag, the blades of his shoulders, the knife of his spine. Your fingers itch with the urge to touch, to run the pad of your thumb against his angles like it could draw blood.

“The townspeople are finally rubbing off on you, huh?”

Distracted thought creases a line between Dankovsky's brows. “Ah, the local bartering custom. You'll have to more fully explain the precise mechanics of the process to me at some point.”

It's heartening and unexpected progress, from him, the admission—the interest—though you refrain from saying as much.

True to his word, he sets out a generous heel of bread and paper-wrapped package bleeding fish-smelling oil. Leans his hip against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms across his narrow chest. The fine visible bones of his wrist, the pale exposed forearm, you could close your whole fist around them with space to spare.

“Where did all this come from, anyway? The Kains?”

Dankovsky stills, a sudden subtle tenseness, his gloves drawn tight across the knuckles.

“The doctor's fund,” he says shortly.

“Ah.” Guilt seeps through to tangle with the warmer sensation rising in your chest.

Dankovsky gestures dismissively, turning away. “Don't give me that martyred expression. You come to the hospital or you don't, all that's important is that progress is being made on the vaccine.”

“The panacea,” you correct him.

“Suum cuique. Do we have a deal or don't we?”

“The healer's hands are always bloodiest,” you say, half teasing.

Dankovsky satisfies it with a long-suffering sigh. “Don't you mean muddiest? By the looks of it you've been up to your elbows looking for your steppe herbs all morning.”

Always your herbs, an arrogant dismissal as if he doesn't by now have ample first-hand experience with the effectiveness of your painkillers, at least. It frustrates him doubly, you've gathered in time, that you insist on wasting your time with flowers rather than focus on the infinitely more practical and productive collection of infected human samples that Dankovsky continues to find himself unanimously denied.

Silence settles between you with gauzy tangibility, like the pest-thick air of the infected Bridge Square, grey-green and swimming-still.

An idea comes to you. Against the growing distance you lift your grime-streaked hands, palms open, up.

“With this I give you company. The road you walk is dangerous, but you don't walk it alone. I go with you, my help and my guidance.”

“Your guidance,” says Dankovsky, mostly to himself.

“What do you give me, oynon?”

Movement at the corner of his mouth. “Food. I had thought I made that clear.”

“A thing can be more than it is, more than an object to take up space in your hand. To give and take is to connect, a feeling or intention, or...” you falter, trying to remember. “Warmth. Kindness.”

Dankovsky bites out a laugh at that, harsh and short. “Kindness? In this town?”

“Comfort,” you persist. “Joy.”

“Nothing anyone has given me in this town has brought me joy.” He stops to look at you, then, though, to truly look. “I ought to give you rest, if I thought that you would take it.”

“You'd have to have it, first, to give it away.” Both of you well aware that this is the closest to rest you're likely to get today, and even that more than either of you can really afford.

Dankovsky turns towards the window, his jawline a taut cord of tension. His profile backlit with sickly light, casting him angular, severe, the unexpected stranger in the near-dark of Rubin's rooms. Near the hollow of his throat, the shadow of dark unshaven stubble, like a bruise.

“For all that it matters. What's the actual purpose of this asinine exercise?”

“I told you—” You reach out; his hair curls damply by his ear, the pulse quickening beneath your fingertips. “It's about connection.”

Prickling, “Warmth, yes, I remember. Here—”

He takes your wrist. Then, from the little shaving kit on the windowsill, a thin wedge of soap, soft from use. Presses it into your hand.

“Take...care.”

You have held human hearts in your hands, before—hot, and with the echo of beating still in them. Maybe this is nothing like that, but it echoes all the same.

“Thank you, oynon.”

“You're welcome...emshen.” At your smirk, “What? Didn't I pronounce it correctly?”

You shake your head, laughter on your tongue. “It's the vowels. They're tricky, if you didn't grow up with the language.”

“Don't you patronize me.” He swats you away and goes, muttering the word under his breath, to collect a washbasin and pitcher from beneath the bed. They're a matched set, not poor quality but plainly in disrepair, the enamel pattern chipped and cloudy. Dankovsky sloshes the basin half-full, notices your watching.

“Concerns, Burakh?”

“No, it looks clean.”

“Of course it's clean. I saw to its collection personally. Eva has been surprisingly diligent about boiling all the water she can gets her hands on, as well, for whatever good it does.”

“Cholera dies in boiled water,” you say absently. For a brief, suspended moment in Dankovsky's place you see the frightened woman in the Flank, her flat terrified eyes, her trembling fists.

Dankovsky frowns in dim recognition. “Someone else told me that recently. I can't recall who it was.”

“Maybe it was a dream.” Quick, careful efficiency as you strip away enough of your soiled smock to bare your arms.

“I have been having the strangest dreams,” he admits, voice soft. “Ever since I arrived here. I dream about walking, mostly, out across the steppe. I'm up to my knees in water and trying to reach something on the very edge of the horizon, or perhaps it's the horizon itself? And the sky is always red, dark red like blood, and I can feel in my bones that something is missing, as though the moon might not be there if I could think to look for it.”

Frown deepening, he shakes his head as if to clear the image. “In any case, perhaps it was a dream, then. I've been experiencing a great deal of déjàvu lately.”

The basin water murkies like a pre-storm dawn, greying lather sloughed away with the days' mud and blood and sweat. Like peeling back dead skin to see something fresh and pink underneath, new nerve endings, raw and receptive. It feels wrong, somehow. Dark water, clean hands.

“How do you imagine the Town will think of you when this is all over, after you're gone?”

“I don't,” says Dankovsky, clipped. “There are far more consequential matters that call for my attention. Who has time to worry about the opinions of small minds, with so much to do?”

Sanctimonious bastard.

“I do.” Gripping the edges of the washbasin like you could snap it in two, satisfying in the imagined sound of shattering, Dankovsky's startled expression, a rush of movement across the Stillwater's floorboards.

“Well, it's different for you, obviously. Being a local.”

You step away, scrubbing wet hands across your face. “I'm glad at least someone thinks that of me.”

Anger ebbs away in the ensuing silence. Then, the staccato click of Dankovsky's polished shoes accompanied by the faint sough of cloth. A towel, threadbare and yellowed, held like a surrender. You acquiesce, and Dankovsky pointedly avoids your gaze as he dries your hands with studious care.

“If you're...unsatisfied, here, you could always come to the Capital with me, when I return. Thanatica, or whatever's left of it, could benefit from your...unique perspective.”

His right hand in your left, points of articulation lined up—palm, wrist, knuckle, rib—and a warm thrum under your skin, heady and thick, like twyre bloom.

“That's a generous offer, oynon. You're right, though, I am a local. My place is here.”

“Yes,” he says. “well. I won't try to change your mind, if you're—”

“You could stay.”

Sudden, startled offense and dazed uncomprehending, Dankovsky's expression caught halfway between a sneer and something terrified. Defensive, cornered.

“I—here? No, what would I even—? No, no, I can't.”

“If you say so. I'll probably try to change your mind. Not right now. Later, when it matters.”

Dankovsky's eyes are sharp when they meet yours, lit with keen, unmasked curiosity. The full weight of his attention pierces like a pin punched through a beetle's jeweled carapace for display. A bright spot of pain in your chest, velvet at your back.

“You won't,” he says, weight in his words so you could almost see them falling out, bitten clean.

Fondness blooms in you at the thawing unease with which he holds himself, like a man who has forgotten how to be warm coming in from the cold. Reticent in a reluctant, guarded way you recognize, of all people, from Murky.

“I'll try anyway.”

A thin, unsteady laugh, reedy and nasal, and thenhe softens, all at once, deflating slightly, like a weight borne across his shoulders has been lifted free from him.

“Just so. Dum spiro, spero.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“I think you know,” he says carefully, “enough.”

Clearly, like a memory in your mind's eyes you see yourself kissing him, again and again, harsh and then tender, then tenderer still—the copper of blood on your teeth, the hazy, cooling steppe at dusk, the terrible sweet fever smell you know so well—a rush, like wind, like falling from a height, and here, constant, the place where the parallel nets of your lives snag and tangle.

Which is to say: what follows flows with the ease of the inevitable.

Dankovsky looks up, you look down.

The two of you meet in the middle.

The kiss starts slow, chaste and unsure and so nice; a pleased, helpless little sound escapes from you before you can think to stop it, and you feel Dankovsky's lips part slightly to form some wry response. You take it as an invitation, licking into the heat of his mouth, fingers threaded in the short hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders against you and moans, hitched breath and a deep, dreamy sigh that resonates like struck steel, pools low in your gut, molten and dark. Grasping, his hands find your waist, slide upwards to reel you close and keep you there.

Against your palm, the rabbit-pace of his pulse. Yours, sheltered against it. Dankovsky kisses you in the dim, stale Stillwater, and you think, the left and right hand. You think, yes.

Understanding: you are separate things like two hairs on a bull's back are separate, his heartbeat ending where yours begins without distinction. In the shared breaths caught between you, it's easy to believe that you could choose this—one vast, drumming heartbeat, one fast, endless line, strung through you soft and whole, tying indelibly together what you've feared would be inevitably torn apart. That after loss, losing, knowing what might still be lost, you could carve a harbor in the quiet and keep it shielded because you wanted it enough.

Behind you, the clock chimes the new hour. The adrenaline pumping in your blood start to sour.

“Fuck,” says Dankovsky, teeth scraping your lip.

You swallow thickly. “Is it two already?”

“Three, I think.” Focused on a point past your shoulder, his hands still under your shirt and his eyes already terribly far away.

“Shudkher.”

“You have somewhere else need to be.”

“I—yes.”

He nods, stepping away. His warmth goes with him. Clearing his throat, righting his clothes, you watch his expression shutter closed and feel like a limb that has been too long in a cast, pallid and shriveled and weak. Regret twists its clammy thorns around your heart, but there's nothing you can apologize for, nothing that it would fix.

“I'm sorry,” you say anyway.

Dankovsky shakes his head. “What for? Unless you're responsible for this whole wretched plague I can't accept that from you. And if you are responsible I wouldn't accept it it anyway, my reaction would be the furthest thing from forgiveness. Besides, it isn't as though I don't have work of my own to do.”

He recovers your discarded smock from the floor, gives it a vigorous shake. You take it from him, and he promptly busies himself elsewhere while you redress, the conspicuous return to silence aching in your joints like the promise of rain.

Dankovsky breaks it first. “Here, can you carry this?”

A hastily-wrapped parcel of waxed canvas, secured with a pair of safety pins that recently-acquired instinct hones in on immediately—that girl by the Trammel had been looking for pins, and she'd had a fingernail coin she was willing to trade—so that full focus returns with the thing in your hands and a stiff, dour set to Dankovsky's shoulders, the pull of his mouth. Unreachable, resigned.

“What is it?”

“My side of our bargain.” Hesitant, almost amused. “You didn't think I'd try to rescind our deal just because you can't stay for tea. Tell me you'll remember to eat it before it spoils.”

“I'll do my best.” Shifting aside bundles of twyre to tuck the food into your bag, as if you won't be tearing it open again as soon as you're outside.

“See that you do. I...be careful out there, Burakh.”

“You too, oynon.”

A fluid moment, blood pulled through the chambers of a heart, singing and open like the bare vein of Mother Boddho at the base of a tree. Pregnant with the promise of movement, the exposed unspoken, a restlessness that settles, itching, into the red of your marrow.

You wonder if Dankovsky would let you kiss him goodbye.

“Did you need something else, or are you just going to stand there hulking behind me while I work?”

The skin of tension splits, relief trickling out in a thin line.

“I'm going, I'm going, no need to force me out.”

“As if I could.” The formality of irritation over unmistakable affection.

You reach out and take his hand. Dankovsky watches warily, frowning as you peel back the edge of the clean black glove, but makes no move to stop you. The bare cradle of his palm still smells faintly of leather when you curve towards it, pressing your lips against the skin.

Dankovsky's eyes don't leave you even after you release him, fingers curling closed.

“Warmth,” he says softly, “yes, I see.”

[weirdestbooks]

The Shot Heard Around The World Chapter 9

The Burning of Gaspee

Thirteen Colonies POV

June 9, 1772

Ever since that one night in Boston I had completely cut myself off from my family. I hadn't talked to anyone since I finished recovering from my injury and was able to escape the city with the help of the Sons of Liberty.

Since then I had done a lot of thinking. Uncle England had shot me. He shot me. And then afterwards he apologized, but them immediately blamed it on me for not listening to him and joining the crowd.

'He doesn't care. If he really did he wouldn't blame you for his mistake. None of the British Isles care. They never asked how you were recovering when you were injured.'

'You shouldn't even call England your uncle. Not after what happened.'

I thought about what my thoughts had suggested, before accepting it. If England wanted to be my uncle again, he was going to have to make it up to me.

With my distance from my family, and had taken to leaning on my own thoughts for advice, forming my own opinion, without the influence from my Father, my uncles, and England. I had been thinking over a lot of the advice that they gave me.

To keep my mouth shut if I couldn't be polite, to listen to those who held more power than me, to obey the king and the laws. But those seemed wrong! What if following those rules hurt me? Was I supposed to follow them? Or would I have to break them?

'Those rules were made to keep you obedient.'

'You can't expect those rules to apply now. Forget the law! Forget respecting those with power! If they don't respect you, don't respect them.'

They were right. I couldn't respect my family when they didn't respect me. I was going to break every single one of those rules until I was treated with respect.

'Yes. Show them that you aren't going to let them walk all over you.'

'Are we sure we should do this.'

My doubts started coming back at that thought. What if I was doing the wrong thing?

'You aren't.'

'Do not doubt us. You will be making the right decision.'

Everything was confusing now. I wanted to support and help my family, it's just...

'Your family isn't supporting or helping you. So why should you?'

I shouldn't support them if they weren't even going to listen to me. I loved them, but I had to show them my support wasn't going to be unconditional, especially if me supporting them hurt me.

'Yes! Don't worry about hurting your family with this. They never cared about hurting you with those taxes. And the soldiers.'

'And England didn't seem to care when he hurt you.'

That was right. I shouldn't worry if me refusing to support actions that hurt me made my family feel betrayed. I told them I didn't like them. I told them that they were hurting me. I told them continuing to place taxes would cause them to lose my people's support. And I am my people. I will always be my people before I will be Thirteen.

But still rely heavily on Father and his people for things. Was that unhealthy? Being reliant on someone who could do whatever he wanted to me and my people.

'Yes. You are very reliant.'

'You don't even have your own factories. All manufactured goods have to come from Britain.'

'Could we make our own factories? It would help us be less reliant.'

I want to remain a part of Father's empire, because it's incredibly beneficial for me, I just want him to be more willing to listen to me. I couldn't continue to be ignored while my people suffered because Father places unfair taxes that my people can't pay, while soldiers attacked my people and killed them.

I couldn't just stand by after all of that.

I had been traveling around New England, and was currently staying in Rhode Island. I was trying to avoid everything. I...I didn't want to talk to my family. I was afraid they would take England's side, or blame me for what the soldiers did.

I wasn't sure I would be able to keep my temper under control if they did that. And I really didn't want to make things worse. I loved my family, they were just so frustrating sometimes.

I had just heard that the British customs schooner HMS Gaspee had just run around while chasing another ship. This was one of the ships enforcing the Navigation Acts, those acts that forbid me from trading with anyone but Father.

'Join the men that will attack it. Get revenge for the Boston Massacre.'

'And for Golden Hill!'

'And get more control over your shipping, so you're not overly dependent on British Empire.'

I stood up and walked to where the men were rallying, stopping several people I recognized from the Sons of Liberty there.

"Let us use this opportunity offered of putting an end to the trouble and vexation she daily caused." I heard the men who was leading them call.

'Yes!'

'That ship has violated the Rhode Island Royal Charter of 1663. It must be punished.'

'If we are to be punished with violence for our actions, let's punish the royal officials with violence.'

I walked forward, and the man's eyes widened when he saw my flag.

"Thirteen Colonies?" He asked. I nodded.

"I want to help you Mr.?" I asked.

"John Brown." (Not the John Brown from the Harper's Ferry raid. This is a different one.)The man responded.

"What are you planning?" I asked. John Brown looked nervous.

"Why are you asking? You aren't going to report us to the royal officials, are you?" He asked.

'Oh come on! Why would we do that?'

'We hate those officials.'

'They hurt us.'

"You really think I'll side with the officials and soldiers. I was shot during the Boston Massacre and these taxes, and ships hurt me as much as they hurt you. I side with my people." I told him.

"He's also a member of the Sons of Liberty." Someone called out. John Brown nodded and smiled.

"Well that's good to hear." John Brown said. I smiled.

"So? What are we doing?" I asked.

"We're going to go out to the Gaspee and burn it! We'll finally rid Rhode Island of that menace." John Brown exclaimed.

'Yes!'

'This is a good opportunity. Take it."

I smiled.

"I'm in."

————————————————————————————

June 10, 1772

I rowed the boat as we made our way to the stranded Gaspee. I had learned the name of the other leader, Abraham Whipple, and had gotten to know the plan for taking the ship-and avoiding any deaths.

I had a handspike, just like most of the men here. We needed weapons, for taking a military ship wasn't going to be easy. I felt nervousness rolling in my stomach. This could go very wrong. ANd there was also a bit of guilt. Why I hated the taxes, I still loved my family, and even though I had been a part of a few riots and protests, well, this was going to be considered treason.

'Don't worry about that.'

'This is revenge for the times British Empire hurt you.'

'Are we sure this is the best idea though? Committing treats of might make things with British Empire-on a personal level that is-worse.'

'Like the Brit hasn't done enough to damage our personal relationship.'

'British Empire's been hitting us. It's time we hit back.'

I had to do this. If Father was going to get upset over some protests and riots from taxes, wait until he sees this. Actions have consequences, and Father had worn down my patience-my people's patience-one too many times.

We rowed to the side of the boat and began to board. I was helping men up, wanting to go last. I was a bit of a dramatic person and I wanted to see the reactions of the sailers when they realized the Thirteen Colonies was siding with what they would call criminals.

"Who are you? What are you doing?" I heard someone demand from the ship, most likely a British sailor. I pulled myself onto the stranded ship.

'Finally making sure your ship sees justice.'

"We are the people of the Thirteen Colonies, more specifically, Rhode Island. And we're here to burn this ship." I said. The soldiers all seemed to be in various states of shock.

"You really didn't expect us-me to support you after all you did, right?" I said, my voice sounding slightly off, as if two people were speaking.

"This is treason." The man said. I smiled.

"This is me helping defend my people from the injustice you are bringing down on the people of Rhode Island." I told him. The man's face twisted to one of confusion.

"Injustice? I'm upholding the law!" The man protested.

'The law is bringing injustice down on the people! It may be the law, but that doesn't make it just!'

"The law is not just. Therefore you are being unjust." I told him.

"The law isn't unjust." He argued back.

"Maybe not to you, but to me, to my people, it is. Search though the ship papers and get everyone off of the ship." I said.

"THIS IS TREASON THIRTEEN COLONIES-BRITISH NORTH AMERICA!" The man yelled at me.

"I don't care." I said before pointing my handspike at him, "Now get off of the ship."

The men that were with me quickly took action, taking the ship with almost no resistance.

'Why aren't they fighting more?'

'I don't know, but we should take this as a blessing.'

Suddenly I heard a noise that made my stomach drop. A gunshot. I turned my head around to see a sailor lying on the ground, bleeding from a gunshot wound.

'Good. It's just a sailor-a soldier.'

'None of our people are dead or injured. That's a good thing. Now let's burn this ship!'

"Dammit! I said not to hurt anyone." Abraham Whipple said. This will not end well. Father will probably try and use this against me, saying how my people hurt his just as much as his hurt mine.

'His have hurt you more. Your people have died. His haven't.'

Yes. Even though one of Father's people were hurt, his hadn't been killed by mine.

"Thirteen?" I heard a man say from behind me before he passed me a torch. I smiled.

'Good. Now this is the fun part.'

'Where we get revenge.'

'For Boston.'

'For Golden Hill.'

'And we show British Empire we will not be pushed around.'

I dropped the torch on the ship before making my way off of it. As the small boat rolled away I looked back to the burning ship.

If Father wanted to being violence into this, that was fine. I could do the same.

[jonjordanforrealz]

12 Years Is a Long Time

September 29th is my son Arron’s 11th birthday – a cause for celebrating for sure, and a time for this parent, as most parents do, to ponder aloud, “How in the hell did that go so fast?” For me, sentimental sap that I am, birthdays are always a time for reflection too.

In doing so this morning, I was, of course, reminded that September 29th is also the anniversary of my brother Michael’s passing. A year to the day before Arron came into this world, Mikey left it. 12 years ago today. That’s gone a different kind of so fast itself.

I’ve talked about my brother’s death many times over the years and it never bothers me to do so. Most of the time, it makes me happy just to talk about him at all. To be remembered is to be loved and he certainly is in both instances. But I don’t think I’ve ever really shared much publicly about his last day.

And I need to let it go.

Who knows? Maybe something like this can help somebody.

For 12 years, I’ve carried the weight of that day and never really faced it or dealt with it. And I’m tired. It’s heavy and I’m tired. And to fulfill my final promise to Mikey, actually, I need to get rid of it, once and for all.

Following a lifetime of major medical issues and severe mental and physical handicaps, and doing all he could over the course of his 25 years to beat the odds and somehow conquer and survive one and all, Michael would meet his match in the form of an internal bleeding issue that just couldn’t be solved.

A kid like Mikey, who couldn’t really communicate outside of very basic emotions, had no way of conveying to doctors what anything felt like, where it hurt, how long something had been bothering him, and so on and so forth. So oftentimes, things got worse, sometimes as bad as they possibly could get, before anyone could even get anywhere close to figuring out what the hell was going on. And in his final chapter, this reality first led to him being transported to be treated by specialists in Tampa, and then ultimately, to our family’s greatest test. That we were so conveniently able to face that final decision together thanks to his relocation to my neck of the woods was a stroke of luck that I don’t think anyone appreciated until years later.

Michael’s bleeding issue just wasn’t going away no matter what the doctors tried. Not to cheapen the matter, but I think someone likened it to plugging a hole in a hose with your finger, only to have another open shortly thereafter. At some point, you run out of fingers. And so, we were faced with two choices: An exploratory and very invasive surgery that guaranteed nothing or a nonsurgical Hail Mary that was every bit the final hope. My parents encouraged me to speak freely and honestly in that days-long conversation and as I recall, my opinion never wavered, though of course, I respected and understood their agonizing back-and-forth.

To me, this kid had already been through so much, literally since Day 1. Countless major surgeries and painful procedures that would absolutely hammer (and maybe finish) most “regular” people were the worst of the lot. Other concessions over time – simple things like eating and drinking normally – also took a toll, I’m sure, as every human needs simple joys.

Throughout his last ordeal, there had already been several procedures, and in my eyes, he didn’t need more of that. With the proposed surgery highly likely to kill him anyway, I didn’t see the justification to put him through that sort of torture again. I didn’t want that to be his way to go out. As his closest advocate, because “brothers” means something more that those who don’t have can know, I knew he didn’t want that to be his way to go out either.

Instead, I argued, that through the non-invasive course of treatment, while the odds of that working were stacked heavily against him, this put the ball in his court. This made it so that he could fight, if he wanted to. For a kid who rarely had the chance to call his shot at any time in his life, this was that. “Scrap if you want to, kid,” I thought. “If anyone can beat the odds one more time, it’s you.” And if not, I thought he had that right too. And I wanted to fight for that. This time, I wanted to fight for his right to fight. Or not.

And so, with my parents on board, we gave him his shot, and at first, true to form, the kid was responding positively. Amazed yet unsurprised, we carried on with some hope for the first time in seemingly forever … and then everything just tanked. Quickly.

I’d prepared for this my whole life. And I had thought I had been stepping into this moment already time and time before. But I wasn’t nervous. I felt a sense of urgency, after getting the call, because I wanted to be with him but I wasn’t nervous or scared. Something that always comforted me was a belief that if anyone ever deserved a peaceful end, it would be Mikey. Once we were faced with the grave news, the doctor assured that as they stopped doing whatever they had been doing to treat him, and focused on making him comfortable, that he would indeed get that peaceful transition. And I know in the medical world that nothing is ever guaranteed but I really believed it. I believed in that. It’s all I wanted, then, knowing that there was no winning this last fight.

But it didn’t go down like that. His last day wasn’t, at first, peaceful at all. It was prolonged. And there were gasps and groans. At one point, a seizure. And I was mad. I was so mad.

At the same time, I knew what it was, really. This kid’s will to fight just doesn’t go away. It’s funny because from the very beginning, one of the things he was diagnosed with was some syndrome called Failure to Thrive. Fuck that.

When the worst moments hit, and I watched my brother and my family suffering, I didn’t feel mad anymore. I just felt like I had to do something.

There’s a picture that I have of my brother and I in bed. I was maybe 10 and he, six. We shared a room at that time and when my mom or dad would come in to get us up, if I was being a bum and still laying there and we had somewhere to be, they’d plop Mikey right in my bed next to me. That always got me up. Nothing like an eye poke or swift kick from the kid who “couldn’t control his movements” to start your day – accompanied, of course, by his trademark giggle.

That little shit … It’s still my favorite picture in the world.

In those final moments, I just crawled as far into his hospital bed as I could to lay next to him, just like we did on those mornings as kids, and I whispered to him, “It’s okay. You don’t have to fight anymore. We’re going to be okay.”

You see, I’d often wondered, when I was very young, why he pulled through so many things that most people wouldn’t. After all, I’d always noticed people bitching and moaning about the stupidest things (oh, contemporary America!), wandering around aimlessly in perpetual woe-is-me mode. If anyone should have ever just said, “Screw this!” and checked out, Michael should have. But he had us. And we, him. He pretty much defined us, really, for better or worse. I felt like there was at least a little something in him that told him he needed to stick around for us. And I just wanted him to know that we would be okay if he couldn’t anymore.

Within minutes, things calmed down. His breathing slowed. The stupid machines making noise start doing so more sporadically. And then, before we knew it, it was over. That was it. The end.

I remember lots of hugs and tears and one of many goodbyes to come. And then we said thank you to some staff members – really a symbolic thank you, from me at least, to so many over the years. To people in the medical field, I look at you as I do teachers, and that is in the highest regard, having intimately known both worlds, whether I wanted to or not.

I remember going outside and nobody saying very much.

I remember sitting down at a table.

And then I remember saying, “Well, what do we do now?” I don’t think I ever quite figured out what to do. A purpose I’d always had was now gone.

Of course, in the coming days and weeks, we had plenty to do – plenty of the mind-numbing, gut-wrenching things you have to do to prepare for a loved one’s final arrangements and all that. I took on a lot more of the sort than I ever had at that time because I felt like my parents shouldn’t have to, so I was distracted by productivity. But soon after that, I don’t remember anything. Don’t remember his funeral. Don’t remember leaving my parents and coming back home. Don’t remember going back to work. Sports, friends, events … nothing.

Truly, I think I completely lost a year. I don’t remember a lot at all about the time in between Mikey’s death and Arron’s birth. And then the latter happened and it was like the pause button I’d pushed on life had been pushed again, whether I was ready or not.

And while I was obviously happy to be a dad for the second time, I was also still hurting, which I must have forgotten about too in that year prior. And again, I was mad. I was so mad.

In the years since, that anger lingered, because if you don’t hit something head-on, it doesn’t just go away. Anger leads to hurt, fear, panic, anxiety, a defensive existence, and isolation. I’ve experienced it all and I wouldn’t wish any of it on my worst enemy. I’ve distanced myself, I’ve been checked out and I’ve lashed out, retreated within and pushed people away. It has caused me problems in every element of my life at one time (or more) or another.

None of it is any excuse and it’s a lot for which to apologize over a long period of time but if my suffering has ever caused any sort of suffering for anyone reading this, I am sorry.

(Note: I’m still going to enjoy my space and my distance more than most people but, overall, I can be better!)

I feel like some of this might be a surprise to people because I don’t show it, hardly ever. I’ve gotten good at projecting this version of myself at any time, regardless of what’s really going on. I even manage to have and to be a good time, probably a bit too often influenced by some additives I’ve grown fond of over the years. But there are times when all of that is just masking a wreck. And it has to stop.

I don’t know why I’m shedding this now other than that I need to – because it can’t go on forever. I haven’t come close to being the best version of myself and I have people around me who deserve nothing less than that. What better time than now if I’m finally recognizing that, at times, I haven’t been good? And at my worst, I haven’t even been okay.

And the bottom line is that I promised my little brother, as he left us 12 years ago, that I would be.

I’ll never let go of him. He’s on my arm and in my heart and I hear his voice – especially that laugh! – every single day.

But I’m letting go of that day.

12 years is a long time.

It’s been heavy.

And I’m tired.

And I have to be okay.

[citrineghost]

Why Compassionate Actions Matter (Yes, Yours Too.)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about communication. Communication and human interaction are both things I think of a lot, actually. The most recent thing I wondered about is why so many people seem to not care about the things their supposed friends do.

For example, I’m in a server with my 5 friends, all of whom are also my roommates. There have been a lot of times that I’ve posted my art or some short stories to the #share channel and then waited and waited and gotten no response at all.

It made me wonder, do none of them care?

I know that all of these people generally care about each other and each other’s happiness. They’re all fairly compassionate toward others. So why do they seem to ignore every effort I make to reach out and share the things I do? Why do none of them ever do the same? It’s not that I expect anyone to applaud me and tell me how good my art is or how compelling my writing is - I just wanted to be seen.

Feeling invisible has always been a struggle for me, being raised in a household where I was in “the forgotten child” role. So, in my friendships, this is a sore spot for me. It tends to make me move on after a while if my friends don’t ever seem to see me. This is also why I usually only have one or two best friends - people who feel the way I do about compassionate action.

What Is “Compassionate Action”?

When I say “compassionate action,” I’m talking about doing or saying things that don’t directly benefit you or that you may do purely to benefit someone else. It’s not an official term or anything, just an apt way to describe what I need to. This doesn’t have to be charity work or groveling or kissing up to someone. It could be as simple as letting someone know their message has been seen - sending a heart in the chat to let someone know you see their work and you appreciate it.

Compassionate action is what draws me to the best friends I do have. My boyfriend is someone who I can always count on to be supportive and give positive words no matter what I do. I do the same for him. If I draw a picture, he always responds to it, saying, honestly, that he likes it! If I get really excited about a formula I created for a spreadsheet and I send him a screenshot, even if he doesn’t know what he’s looking at, he’s really excited for me!

Why Is “Compassionate Action” So Hard to Come By?

Many of us, no doubt, have had similar experiences in regard to feeling ignored or unimportant to our friends. But, surely, our friends do care about us, right?

The answer is yes, in most cases. But, somehow, that makes the lack of response to the things we love seem even more confusing. So, this is where I began thinking the other day:

Why do people who care seem so uninterested or unwilling to interact with things their friends love?

I talked with my boyfriend about this the other day to parse out why this is happening. It’s something we’ve both experienced a lot in different friend groups over the years.

So, we sat down together - over call, since we’re in an LDR - and we talked about it. We tried to figure out why we both feel this way and others seem not to. For both of us, it’s important to us that our friends are happy. Even if one of my hydrologist friends posted some table he made, that he was really proud of, about stream flow data - something I’m only moderately interested in - I would make an effort to read and understand it and then give excited feedback. It’s not that I’m as passionate about stream flow information as he is, but I would be really happy to see his excitement and satisfaction with his own work. My boyfriend is of the same opinion.

But then, if our friends value our happiness, which we know they do, why don’t they ever give positive feedback about things we’re excited about? We talked over possible reasons for a little while before we finally found one that made complete sense - one that consistently fit the bill for all of the friends that we’d had who never gave us “compassionate action.”

Your Actions Matter

The result we came up with is that most of these people were dealing with depression or self esteem issues. They feel that their opinions don’t have value - won’t make a difference. They think that it isn’t important if they respond because, “Why would sending a heart matter? If I send a heart and don’t respond with an in depth review of how cool the thing is, my friend will just think I’m an ass for not saying more. It’s better if I just pretend I didn’t see it.”

My boyfriend and I both have had some pretty life-changing experiences where other people’s compassion, shown in small actions of recognition and solidarity, have kept us alive or changed our entire day for the better. We’ve learned through our experiences in suffering that those actions make all the difference, and we’ve put that philosophy to work in our own lives. However-

not everyone has realized that this is true for them too.

If you have depression, anxiety, or you’ve grown up in an abusive home, you might feel like your actions don’t matter. You might think this doesn’t apply to you - that you’re the exception and that your friends don’t care what you think.

You’re wrong.

The people around you, even people you don’t know very well, they care about the things you say. It doesn’t matter if you’re depressed or anxious, or an outcast, or kind of weird. It doesn’t matter if you’ve never spoken to them or if you’re best friends.

The things you say make a difference.

The sooner you realize that your opinions and your words have value - have POWER - the sooner you will begin to improve the connections you have with friends.

I grew up feeling like my opinion was worthless and that I should never give it, even when people asked for it. To me, it was obvious that they were only asking because they wanted me to feel included. I look back now and I see that that’s not true. The same way you desire to be seen by others, they desire to be seen by you. One such way that you can make other people feel seen is by showing them that you have put consideration into what they’ve done. You have formed an opinion on it. 

When your friend shows you a drawing they’ve made or they sing you a song they’re working on, more often than not, they are not looking to just show off. They are begging for recognition and are asking to be seen by someone they care about (that’s you!). Give them that. Tell them what you think! Get excited for them!

It’s Not as Complicated as You Think

Not really the kind of art you’re interested in? It doesn’t matter. “Wow, you really put a lot of work into this!” That sentence is a huGE compliment. You are showing them that you find value in what they did and that you see how hard they worked.

Did your friend sing you a song they’re working on and they’re a little bit tone deaf? That’s okay! You don’t have to lie about how you feel to be compassionate. “You show so much emotion in your singing!” Those words will fill a singer’s heart with joy. Not everyone sings to sing perfectly, but to convey their feelings and connect with people. That would make their day!

Is your friend a weirdo like me who enjoys creating spreadsheets? “Holy shit, that must have taken forever!!” Those kinds of words are so so validating. It’s okay if you don’t know what you’re looking at. It’s okay if you don’t want to try reading the data in the spreadsheet. What matters to me is that you have taken the three seconds to look at it and form an opinion about me and what I’ve done, even if that opinion is just seeing that I have put a lot of time and effort into something.

No matter what your friends show you, there is a way to show them that you see them and care about them being happy. You don’t have to lie or compliment the work itself, you don’t have to open up your bleeding heart and write a poem about the beauty of their creation.

You just have to show that you see them.

If you struggle to feel that your words have value, I urge you to take a moment and think of the times you’ve tried to share something with someone and gotten no response. I urge you to consider how the tiniest acts of compassion by other people have gotten you through the day. Please know that your words have the same weight.

I can HEAR you thinking that you’re different and YOU’RE NOT. 

Everyone! I repeat! Everyone! Has an impact! With their words!

Depressed people, anxious people, people who were abused, people with trauma, people with disorders, people with disabilities, people who have a hard time finding words, people who feel like they have no talent, people who don’t know anything about the topic their friend is telling them about, people who are young, people who are old, people who haven’t left their room in 3 days, people who haven’t sat down to breathe in 3 days, people who have forgotten to reach out in a while, people who have been self isolating because they’re sad, people who have scared away friends from their past, people who have left friends from their past, people who aren’t very fluent in the language their friend speaks, people who know their friends in person, people who know their friends online, people who are suicidal, people who think they’re not as good as their friends,

Everyone’s actions matter, especially yours.