#And mom tried to illustrate that it's about the intention to be mindful of God 24/7 by using the most batshit method available

[a-story-teller]

Seriously one of the most confounding things in the world is pop-Christian moralizing.

"Is ASMR ok for Christians?? 🤨🤔😧" I'm not sure in what world it would be sinful to listen to soothing brushing, ocean sounds, and tapping, yet someone felt the need to ask the question, and someone else felt the need to make a YouTube video answering it. (I didn't watch it, so I don't know the verdict, but somehow you're trusting the verdict to a rando on YouTube and not Discernment from God?)

"Christian facials" because having a hot towel on your face and putting on serum is in any way aligned with a religion or lack thereof, and therefore needs to/even Can be made Christian?

"Christian-friendly sex positions" and the only difference is it's stick figures instead of realistic drawings, and instead of male/female or penetrator/receiver, it's husband/wife. Because you know those goofy health-book illustrations were distracting you from the righteous goal at hand: eating your girl out. But you can't call her your girl, you have to make it clear to everyone seeing you have sex (which... is just the 2 of you, right?) that you're having Good and Not Sinful sex, because you, a Husband, are Married to your Wife. Side note: the stick figures actively make it harder to figure out the intricacies of any of the positions and therefore are objectively shittier at doing what they're made to do.

Christian soap, christian mints, christian calendars, christian music, christian curtains, christian fiction, christian restaurants, christian news, christian shops. There are things in the world that are OK being secular. The fact that your soap does not have an icthus sign etched in that washes away in 3 days anyway does not make you a bad person, or even a bad christian. Your home does not need something Christian™️ in every room for people (or yourself!) not to forget you're christian... I assume?

The king who must say he is king, etcetera. This kind of mindset is so boggling to me, and reeks of nominative faith and deeeeep insecurity. Retail therapy but instead of buying temporary happiness you're buying temporary grace. Being so beholden to the dogma of organized religion that you go to any person feigning authority on the subject rather than using your own brain to make a decision. The idea that things can only be okay to interact with if they're explicitly christian, as though interacting with it as a christian doesn't inherently put it through a christian lens; as though you can only get things trickled down to you from church authority figures with robust enough constitutions to judge what's ok for you because you don't have the ability to think critically; as though you should stay away from what's "sinful" rather than, LIKE JESUS, be able to go into it and be a good example; as though instead of learning to be capable of handling it, you should be as weak to sin as possible; as though you have to go through the world with kid gloves because touching something dirty would soil your soul (which, of course this implies, is sparkling - impossible, arrogant, and kind of denying God, lol [actually, not lol, I'm expanding on that. Denying God by refusing to admit your own sin. Denying God by refusing his grace because you won't admit your own sin. Denying God by acting like his power couldn't absolve something as simple as being exposed to sin, let alone if you did end up making a miatake. Denying God by keeping yourself in Good Christian spaces and not being there for people who need outside help. There's more but I digress]).

Also, the childish áffect of refusing to say things as they are because that would be bad, but referring to it in euphamism is fine - or, transversely, that using colloquialisms is bad, but medical speak is fine, depending on what breed of crackpot christian you're dealing with. "Hanky-panky" just say sex. "Adult drinks" just say wine, beer, liquor. "Flower" for the love of all that is holy just say vulva/vagina/virginity. "Breasts" is fine to describe your chest but "boobs" is not. You can say "buttocks" but not "butt". Discussing bathroom activities is decisively not cool but if utterly necessary you must say "urine" and "feces" because pee and poop are too pedestrian.

Like, entire side tangent, but the weirdly widespread christian-ism of not discussing things frankly or discussing them super detachedly, but both preferring to never discuss them at all, regarding anything "potentially sinful" or "not spiritually uplifting" (usually boiling down to "anything physical") is so whack to me. Do not discuss your period, even in female spaces, because it's tmi. Don't talk about your health issues if they're not Clean enough subjects, even as something to pray about (like breast/prostate cancer, shitting diseases). Don't ever talk about your sex life except to wiggle your eyebrows at your kids when they're old enough. Don't hug your male friends, daughter. Don't play with your little cousins, son. Sex is so so bad but everything is about it, actually. Sex is so so great which is why you should feel guilty about ever wanting it. All nudity is sexual. Dress so they know you're a woman but also that you're a lady. Fart jokes are not allowed. You must remember that all men are looking at you with lust at all times but you can't hold that against them. All things that get you sweaty or muddy are bad. Hair on women is unnatural but just dandy for men, except we can't talk about pubic hair so you're just going to have to figure out on your own if it's less sinful to not think about your vag enough to do anything to it or to ensure you're free of all sinful hair. Here's how to do makeup in a god-honoring way, because you couldn't know on your own, and you must both jump through this hoop to be acceptable to your men but not have enough fun and personal expression with it for it to become anything other than a chore. It is wrong to kill, which is why we support the troops. We are supposed to help the poor, which is why I drive past the beggars that are dirty and ragged and smelly. We are supposed to celebrate God with our bodies, which is why my most spiritually moved state equates to slightly raising my arms.

I can't close this post without including my oft-quoted favorite example of this weird-ass pop-Christian phenomenon translating to real-life people in real-time thoughts: my mom saying she had to take into account "which ice cream flavor is most glorifying to God" at a froyo shop. Either it's raspberry, or she chose sin that day.

#to be SLIGHTLY fair to my mom she was trying to give an example of ''having God as priority 1 all the time'' to middle school me #Who thought (correctly) that there are plenty of things which God has no direction relation to or care towards #What color you wear or what sandwich you eat having no impact on your relationship to God #And mom tried to illustrate that it's about the intention to be mindful of God 24/7 by using the most batshit method available #thus cementing my point and giving me the best example of the effects of this thing to date #christianity #christian #theology #in which I read a book with a really problematic fanbase #religion #So much of ''christian'' culture is alien to me... so much of it I hate with a deep fervor... #I will raise my kids to be okay with the fact that they are physical beings with bodies #I will raise them to make their decisions themselves based on their own interpretations and direction #And I will raise them to know that the world will not sully them without their consent - that to be good does not mean to be free of sin - #and that they take from the world what they bring to it and can face ''bad'' things without turning to stone

[weiwithwords]

A review of Everything Everywhere All at Once

In this sermon, an antisemitic, ignorant pastor who calls himself Brother Sean rants about why God hates video games. He used to be a gamer, but he quit a long time ago: "It was vain. It was stupid. It was a bunch of flashing lights."*

*Later, the pastor says has has a DVD player, which is better than a video game console because he can use it to watch YouTube. This is confusing for many reasons.

"Flashing lights" is a throughline Brother Sean returns to in the sermon, a two-word phrase that -- in his mind -- illustrates the idiocy of video gaming with the irrefutable force of a mathematical axiom. "That's what [video games] are," he says, "A bunch of flashing lights." And again, in fiery conclusion: "... it's a bunch of stupid, vain stuff. It's flashing lights on screens."

After I finished watching the 2022 film Everything Everywhere All at Once, I started reading its reviews. I'm happy I did, because reviewers found some wonderful turns of phrase to express the essence of that movie. I've seen the word "maximalist" a few times, which is indisputable. (I mean, it's right there in the title.) New York Times writer A. O. Scott came up with the delightful sequence "exuberant swirl of genre anarchy." Consequence's Clint Worthington wrote about its "dadaist absurdism and blink-if-you-miss-it pace." For The Guadian, Mark Kermode submitted "madcap invention and frenzied visual wit." IGN's Rafael Motamayor had the four adjectives "bizarre, gross, heartfelt, and honest" for us, while the Critics' Consensus section on Rotten Tomatoes describes it as "an expertly calibrated assault on the senses."

Don't get me wrong, I like all those words. They do a wonderful job of describing this movie. But for me, the core of Everything Everywhere All at Once is best captured in sermon. Everything Everywhere is a bunch of flashing lights. It's vain. It's stupid. It's flashing lights on screens. But here's something lost in Brother Sean's sanctimonious haste: flashing lights on screens are also some of the most compelling things humans have ever produced. For me, Everything Everywhere was a particular sequence of flashing lights that gripped me like few things I've ever seen.*

*Other notable titles: La vita è bella, Wolf Children, Homecoming King.

Early in the movie, a woman named Joy tries to communicate her sexuality to her geriatric grandfather in awkward, mangled Chinese. Not knowing the word for "girlfriend", she falls short. Her mom Evelyn steps in and, unable to get past homophobic Chinese mores, fails to stand up for her own daughter. Joy is infuriated by her mom's betrayal and storms away, even though Joy can't say the words herself.

This is just one example of the how film uses language to highlight its characters' complex emotional lives. Another is the meticulously-crafted chaos of Evelyn's dialogue. She bounces from English to Mandarin to Cantonese -- often mid-sentence -- with effortless, rapid-fire pace. These transitions are highly intentional, but they don't sound engineered. They rang with an authenticity that brought me right back to my parents' living room.

A full movie later, Evelyn has gone through a hero's journey. She has deep insight into every possible facet of experience, which conveniently helps her work out her problems. It's no surprise when, at the film's climax, with every reason to abandon her mediocre life and broken family, with the full weight of existential despair on her shoulders, Evelyn chooses love and connection. And as she redeems herself in front of Joy, finally telling her father (Joy's grandfather) the truth, Joy does not forgive her.

"I'm tired," Joy says. "I don't want to hurt anymore and for some reason when I'm with you, it just hurts the both of us." Joy just wants to go, to be left alone. And Evelyn says, "Okay."

I was no longer watching Joy in that moment. I was her, and I've been her countless times before. I've lost track of how many times I've wanted to tell my parents I don't care how or even if they're bettering themselves. How I don't want to hear any more apologies or rationalizations. How I can't forget the suffering they caused. I want to tell them I'm tired, and being around them hurts the both of us, and I just want to be left alone.

But at the same time, I want to tell them I forgive them, even if I'm not sure I do. I understand how their upbringing shaped their choices, and I'm not bitter about the resulting harm. I'm doing beyond well on my own. I'm past healing, into thriving. I'll never fully understand them, they'll never fully understand me, and that's fine. I know they did the best they could. How could I hold that against them? 

More than wanting to say any of this, I want acceptance. I want to hear my parents say, "Okay." That's why seeing Evelyn do so was so cathartic. It was my life and more, all rendered in magnificent flashing lights.

Sadly, this is also where Everything Everywhere All at Once disappointed me. Because in the aftermath of Joy's rejection, Evelyn gives a second heartfelt speech about love and connection, and Joy relents. She collapses into her mother's arms in a tearful hug, and the painfully honest bittersweetness of the scene is drowned out in a saccharine deluge of total reconciliation.

However badly my parents might want reconciliation, I do not. I don't want grand speeches collapsing into tearful hugs. I want acceptance and understanding, but I also want to move on. Sometimes, happy endings are not compatible. By contriving them to align so tidily, Everything Everywhere becomes less real for me, regressing back into the generic universe of every other feel-good action movie.

This is especially frustrating because Everything Everywhere has a whole multiverse at its disposal. There was such rich potential to tell a multitude of stories, and having them all end on such high notes killed that potential. If the endings had spanned the full spectrum of human experience -- soaringly joyful, absurd and silly, mature and bittersweet, heartbreakingly tragic, mysterious and ambiguous -- if there had been everything everywhere all at once -- I would have been a lot happier.

Hollywood's inability to divorce itself from less-than-perfect endings hurt the film again in the story of Evelyn's failing marriage. After decades of emotional neglect, her husband Waymond files for separation. I was excited at the potential here. It was a chance to fight back against the false notion -- especially prevalent among Chinese-Americans I know -- that divorce is the worst thing that can happen in a marriage, so disastrous as to be unthinkable.

I don't buy that. Far worse is trapping yourselves and your children in a toxic, loveless union defined by daily routines of blame and abuse. I was looking forward to a story about how divorce, though undoubtedly tragic, can also be liberating and virtuous -- a mature way to move forward and start fresh. Instead, after a few intense hours culminating in a single grand moment, the spark between Evelyn and Waymond rekindles and she enjoys total romantic renewal.

In real life, I don't see single grand moments undoing decades of strife and neglect. Which is weird, because I see it all the time in flashing lights.

Part of me sees the happy endings of Everything Everywhere All at Once as inevitable. It's a movie about Evelyn gazing into an incomprehensible multiverse, with all the vanity and stupidity that entails,* and nonetheless finding Joy, triumphantly emerging with an even stronger claim to hope and purpose. The movie's character arcs and themes demand these happy endings.

*One sequence of flashing lights features a supervillain laying the smackdown on security guards with two giant dildos, and that's not even the weirdest thing to happen in that scene.

But Everything Everywhere is not just a movie about triumph over existential dread. It's also a movie about being a first-generation Asian-American immigrant. It's about the vast linguistic, cultural, and generational barriers that alienate those immigrants from their children. So I couldn't help but feel like it's about me. 

It isn't, of course. Even though it's so close to my heart I could jury-rig it into a Pacemaker, Everything Everywhere All at Once is not about me. Sometimes, people do want total reconciliation. Sometimes, happy endings are compatible. Sometimes, when we gaze into the incomprehensible universe, we find Joy gazing back. Especially when we're gazing at a bunch of flashing lights.

Here's a rare accomplishment these flashing lights can claim: By the time I'd spent 140 minutes with them, I identified with them so strongly that any divergence from my own lived experience felt wrong. They made me forget that the unique bittersweetness of my own life story isn't the only flavor out there. Vanity was in the theater, just not all on the screen.

It would be easy for me to decry Brother Sean's vitriol as vain and stupid. So I will. Almost everything in that set of flashing lights is beyond vain, beyond stupid. He raves about how Jews own Activision and Bill "population control" Gates wants to murder babies. Truly deplorable stuff. But as much as I hate to admit it, there were rare moments in his sermon when I found myself nodding in agreement. One was when he denounced the military "going into countries and killing people," how they indoctrinate soldiers to devalue human life. Violent video games aren't how they're doing that, but I support his antiwar sentiment nonetheless.

More relevant to his point, I have spent too much time playing video games. Brother Sean cites Titus 2:7, exhorting his congregation to "in all things [show] thyself a pattern of good works." I also strive to in all things show myself a pattern of good works, and video games have been an obstacle. The flashing lights can be so captivating they entice me to neglect my responsibilities, or sacrifice longer-term fulfillment at their altar.

I don't mention the specks of truth in Brother Sean's incoherent screed because I think we should take it easy on his ideas. They deserve every bit of condemnation we can muster. But when I think about how truth survives even in that rambling wasteland, I realize something interesting. While Brother Sean's sermon captured the soul of Everything Everywhere All at Once for me, the same also happened in reverse.

When we gaze into the multiverse -- when we lose ourselves in that infinite, meaningless blur of flashing lights -- nihilism feels more than tempting. But he who fights monsters should take care lest he thereby see everything as monstrous. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, love and meaning also gaze back into you.

#eeaao #everything everywhere all at once #movie review #immigrants #chinese american

[mousehole5000]

okay im rewriting tgcf (only in my head im lazy) here are my notes on hua/lian specifically this is long bc fuck it. major spoilers obviously and same trigger warnings as the content of the book

disclaimer disclaimer disclaimer that i dont know anything about the cultural background of anything in tgcf or story tropes etc etc this is just I Think It Would Be Neat If..

there’s not really any reason to keep hc as a kid in the backstory BUT in the story in the intro (which i like narratively) it still says that it was a child who xie lian caught. it’s one of those things that got added to the legend to make xie lian seem even more noble, there are also probably a few other inaccuracies in the intro that get found out as the story progresses. in actuality hc was kind of a known troublemaker to the city guards or whatever or had been in the past. maybe his mother just passed after a long illness and his tumble off the wall was intentional. either way he’s kind of pissed at xie lian for saving him. xie lian is concerned about his health so he has to stay at the palace for a while he recovers and only interacts with xie lian a few times. there is a point where he says out loud all the things about the divide between the rich and the poor that have been illustrated by the scenes with mu qing. feng xin tells him to shut up but mq goes dead silent bc he kind of agrees but can’t say and does have his loyalty to xie lian (its a whole thing) and the resentment begins

also i think young hc’s personality is similar to his personality in the present but a bit more reserved and he’s got like this plucky streak or something. also he is unquestionably gay

anyway hc sneaks out of the palace and xie lian catches him obviously but they have a brief little heart to heart where xie lian is like “look you can go if you want here take this money food” etc and demonstrates that he has actually listened to what hc has to say and hc is like “wow no one other than my mom has ever listened to me in my life so thats what that feels like i kind of like it” and he probably is a bit awestruck by xie lian in different ways and after that is like “okay this kingdom sucks but.. that guys not so bad”

sad ironic sense that if xie lian hadnt ascended until he was older he may have actually be able to do something about the problems in the kindgom but alas we have a cycle to perpetuate

the “take me as the meaning of your life” scene still happens p much the same but xl doesnt recognize hc who is actually now at his lowest point. hc tried to find ways to make things better for people like him but he simply did not succeed (maybe his were efforts quashed by the corrupt authorities? its implied probably) and he’s more disillusioned with the kingdom and life than ever but still is holding on to those memories of xie lian as proof that it doesnt have to be like this but that thread is slipping until!! whose fucking voice is that??? thats right its the one person you ever believed was truly good and went and proved you right by ascending to the heavens at age 17!!! guess its time to stan him forever

anyway hc joins the army but legally or whatever and tbh i would have hated the flower cave scene regardless of anything i just hate any sort of s*x pollen trope or anything so thats gone (they can have a wound tending scene or something tho thats the good shit) and instead we have HL getting overwhelmed by some other demons or something together and xie lian protects hc and they both get injured very badly (maybe hc would lose a limb but im not sure how that would work once hes a ghost so thats on hold for now until i figure it out) and xl is fine but this situation ends up being part of why mq kicks hc out of the army but yes hc still ends up dying on the battlefield anyway </3

the wuming stuff is the same i think but also at some point xl is despairing and says something about that guy he saved from falling and wonders what happened to him and fire ghost wuming is like !!!!! (wait does this happen in canon? honestly it should)

in mount tong’lu i was tempted to actually have hc have a similar moment to the bamboo hat scene with the humans who are trapped in there but im not sure if i just want it to be the same as xie lian’s story... also i like the idea of hc needing to hang onto his devotion to get through his first few centuries of being a ghost so maybe he’s just inspired by xie lian’s sacrifice with the sword and the souls and thats why he claws his own eye out as a sacrifice

so this can go one of two ways from here!!! both are me projecting hardcore so take them with a grain of salt im not saying im right about the way relationships should be these a re just my thoughts <3

1. (the not fun one but it still has a happy ending) the story more or less continues the same as canon. pure and simple devotion is what carries hc through the centuries. we get to see some ghost city antics and its fun but there is nothing complicated about the devotion hc just wants to find xl and protect him. hualian eventually meet. they get along pretty well!! eventually there are cracks. when you hold someone in your mind for so long you have expectations for them that no person can meet consistently. hc thinks that since he’s seen xl during the worst time in his life that he can handle anything but it turns out that as amazing as xl is, he is also just a person and sometimes he is wrong or irrational or annoying. xl is so happy to have someone who will listen to him talk that he kind of neglects to really get to know who hc is as a person and hc is kind of like “huh i didnt expect this but im kind of hurt. i genuinely thought that i just wanted to serve and protect you but actually im my own person and this is weird” but he doesnt say anything he thinks he has to stick to his promise and it gets kind of uncomfortable!! maybe his luck goes haywire bc his faith gets rocked for the first time ever and they end up having to talk it out but their relationship is stronger for it <3

2. (i think this one is fun) hc struggles with waiting. he does it but its hard. he has doubts and when all his efforts to find xl are fruitless he starts to grow bitter and curses the day that xl saved him. his faith burns low but doesnt go out. then ghost city!! hc realizes that he can finally help people like him, even if theyre ghosts now and hes grateful for the chance to do this and grateful to xl and resigns himself to waiting. but its still hard!! he realizes that his luck is tied to his devotion and gets kind of pissed about it!!! he tries to remember all the good things about xl but its hard!!! his search becomes more about repaying a debt so he can be free than anything else, he just wants to help the common people spirits with no strings attached (this actually allows him to keep his luck bc he has the same wish as xl and thats what makes him a true believer!! is this corny? does it make sense? i dont care) and so eventually when he finds xl he’s like okay how quickly can i repay this debt/how can i keep my powers but then xie lian is... so good... and hc actually really likes him he remembers why he swore his devotion in the first place. now hes conflicted!!! dont worry they fall in love tho <3

wow this was really long if you read this hiiiii. anyway when i reread ill try to pay more attention to yin yu and he xuan for hc’s 800 years. hua cheng we’re gonna get you some friends and lore i swear to god

#agenda on the whole: hc character exploration #more ling wen and she gets a gf #i am making fq so fucking canon #sqx also gets a gf it is not [redacted] #less pm less qr #more lady rainmaster esp relevance wrt to agriculture!! it affects so much!!! #mouse mumbles #tgcf textp #move

[threecheersforinking]

Manga Review: The Promised Neverland

The Promised Neverland manga finally ended this month! I watched the anime when it was airing last year, but a few days ago I ended up reading the entire manga in 3 days because of how fascinated I was with the world; I wanted to know how it would develop beyond the first season, but was way too impatient to wait for the second season to come out!

Because I read it so quickly I’m kind of feeling information overload right now and just want to get all my thoughts down as fast as I can. So obviously, this post is gonna have major manga spoilers. If you aren’t caught up or aren’t a manga reader, I suggest you stop reading now, but if you want to read my commentary on the anime’s first season (spoiler free!) here’s the link to that. Thanks!

Once I got past the first arc that was covered in season 1 of the anime, I was a bit nervous about what would follow. Something I worry about with series like this with a huge genre shift or huge unknown world/mystery is that the story won’t live up to what I imagine it will be. And while I wasn’t able to predict much about the world, I really liked how the story ended.

Overall, I enjoyed how they chose to end the story with all the cattle children going to the human world, and I’ll talk about that a bit later, but one gripe I had was that there were way too many loose ends for my liking. I prefer when all the loose details of a story get wrapped up at the end of a series (which explains why I didn’t like EVA lmao sry) and I still had a lot of questions at the end, some questions that I had since the first arc.

Firstly, what the fuck is the significance of the hydrangea? They did briefly explain that it’s used to show whether the gods will give you their blessing to eat something you killed or whatever, which is kinda nice but they didn’t explain what happens if it doesn’t bloom, or why it’s important... more knowledge of this world’s ‘gods’ or religion would’ve been cool.

I also feel like the way children were produced in Grace Field (or hell, any of the plantations) was unclear; like, where do they get sperm from, or was there another way they got the Moms pregnant? What about in the factory farms? Is Carol supposed to be Emma’s biological sister, because they obviously looked hella alike but they never even mentioned it?? I also wanted to know way more about the Moms’ schooling and how one becomes a Mom. I would love if there was a prequel short story or one-off focusing on Isabella in Mom-training.

Also, I think we could’ve seen more of Phil. He was without a doubt the 6th most important Grace Field kid (behind Emma, Norman, Ray, Don, and Gilda ofc), plus what happened when that scary guy interrogated him?? I straight up thought he killed him lol.

I also wish we had more background on Musica. There was no real explanation for her powers and she had hella Deus ex Machina vibes.

Despite all these unanswered questions I had, I still consider this series enjoyable and well written. I really don’t think knowing any of this stuff would’ve changed the way I thought about the story, and none of them would have really impacted the conclusion of the story itself.

And yes, I’m so glad it ended the way it did. Maybe some people weren’t expecting or wanting a ‘happy’ ending, but come on, don’t these kids deserve a fucking break??? And I don’t consider it unrealistically happy, either. These kids know what they’re doing, and they have a plan for everything. Emma is not naive, she is hopeful. Every time she tried to resolve an issue with positivity, kindness, and forgiveness, she was still prepared for her enemy to turn on her. That’s the only way she was able to convince cynical Ray and skeptical Norman to ever go along with anything she did.

I  also loved that romance wasn’t really a thing in this story at all. Familial and platonic love are what kept the protagonists motivated more than anything else. I’m sure people have their ships, but personally I was just enjoying a series without any explicit romance.

Ray was my favorite character throughout the series, but I did kind of feel like his development was pushed aside in the later arcs. This def could’ve just been because his main development was in the first arc, but compared to Emma and Norman there wasn’t a lot of focus on my boy Ray. Yes he was by Emma’s side almost the entire time, but still.

I absolutely loved Isabella’s redemption. I can see why some people might not have liked it but i thought it was extremely fitting; every one of the Moms was once a cattle child, and they were just doing what they could to survive. This obviously does not justify their evil deeds, but it explains both their initial complicity and their willingness to change sides. And based on her reaction when Emma & friends escaped at the end of the first arc, I did suspect that if Isabella appeared again she would be on their side. I cried when her kids said they still loved her and she still loved them. It just reminds the readers of the innocence and unconditional love that children have.

While I do really love The Promised Neverland as a whole, my biggest qualm with this series was honestly the portrayal of Sister Krone... I immediately read her as being a racist stereotype. It’s a shame because upon her introduction I was actually really surprised and happy that they featured a Black person with natural hair. I didn’t mind her personality/character; in fact, I think she was a really nuanced antagonist for the first arc, but the way her facial features were exaggeratedly drawn made me uncomfortable. As an American, I’m familiar with how Black people have been portrayed negatively in our country’s media throughout history and it was just a little too close to that for my comfort.

 I was concerned with how the manga would continue with racial portrayals after Krone’s death, but it did kind of seem like an isolated incident. There are kids with a variety of skin tones featured, in fact Emma mentions it in one of the first pages of the manga; not to mention, human races don’t really seem to be a concept in the demon world (presumably because race is irrelevant to the demons, who only care about brains). It is possible that the creators weren’t thinking this way at all, and just wanted to make her a scary adult; for instance, Isabella’s facial features are sometimes exaggerated for effect as well. But intentional or not, it made me uncomfortable, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Anyway, those are just my immediate thoughts after finishing the manga. Something I forgot to mention was that the illustration is absolutely hauntingly intricate. The demons in particular were wonderfully terrifying, and really helped me visualize their world. I’m really interested in how the anime series will continue to adapt the material; looking at the first season, the difference in art style between the two is slight, but noticeable. I’m especially curious about how they will handle the intense action and detail of the demon fight scenes later on. I also read this super fast like I mentioned and I definitely might have missed some stuff lol so if any of my ‘unanswered questions’ were actually mentioned and I’m just a big dummy please lmk. And if anyone has any other thoughts or comments I’d love to hear them!

Thanks for reading!

-threecheersforinking

#the promised neverland #Yakusoku no Neverland #the promised neverland spoilers #the promised neverland manga #manga #anime #tpn spoilers #tpn #ynn #manga review #anime review #anime review blog #norman #emma #ray #demons #manga review blog

[azwriting]

A Tea-ffee Date (The Writer and The Photographer, Harry Holland x Reader) - Chapter Four

Hi guys, sorry for the delay on this chapter! I got a little wrapped up in one of my other fics! Anyways here's chapter four, I hope you like it! Feedback is always appreciated, and let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! 

Summary: Harry and (Y/N) go on their tea/coffee date where Harry reveals he read her book and (Y/N) reveals she knew who the curly haired boy was all along. 

Warning(s): Language, Reader has bad relationship with Mom, slight angst

Word Count: 2557

(Y/N) could not contain the pure happiness that was soaking into her skin, like the shining sun above. It had been since, well, since never that she had felt so content and at peace with life. Sure she had, had moments of happiness throughout her life, but it had always seemed like a dark cloud was hovering somewhere nearby. The dark cloud usually her mother… 

(Y/N) shook away the thought, she was thousands of miles away, an ocean away, she would not let the woman get to her here. (Y/N) had a new job, a promising career of writing and editing ahead of her, and not to toot her own horn, but she was pretty damn proud of herself. She was living in London, beneath the warm spring sun, with her best friends and her sweet dog. Not to mention the cute boy next door with wild curls and a contagious laugh, that she was quickly becoming friends with. Who would have thought Spider-Man would be her neighbor? 

Oh yeah she totally knew who Harry and his briefly mentioned brother were, (Y/N) was a massive nerd after all. All of these were reasons as to why she could not, would not, let her own mother squander her ambitions and happiness from a continent away.

It was early Saturday afternoon when Harry strolled into the nearby coffee shop in Kingston, where he had planned to meet (Y/N) for their “Tea-ffee” date as she had called it one day in passing. The Writer had a meeting in the city this morning, so she would be running a tad behind, urging Harry to just meet her at the shop. Harry took a seat in a comfortable chair at a small antique wood table in the back, waiting for his plus one. 

Shifting in his seat, he could hear the crinkling sound of the folded piece of paper in his jeans pocket, the paper filled with questions, remarks, and small notes that he had after reading A Mild Case of the Crazies. The boy had read (Y/N)’s book in one night and he could not even lie, he cried, a couple times. (Y/N)’s childhood had had great moments, filled with love, happiness, laughter and excitement, but there were many parts of it that were heartbreaking, dejecting, and self-esteem squashing. 

Harry now knew her favorite color, her birthday, her favorite movies, that she was in fact a big nerd, her custody agreement, the close relationship she had with her father, and the very tough one she had with her mother. It all only drew him in more, like an insect captivated by a bright light. He knew it was odd to have such intense feelings for someone he had only known for a week, had only talked to a handful of times, most of them in passing, but he could not help the natural allure he felt inside. Harry simply had to befriend her…

Two minutes before the clock struck 12:30 p.m. the front door was pulled open to reveal a woman walking in, catching Harry’s attention. She wore a black long sleeve tucked into a black and gray plaid skirt, black sheer stockings and black booties. Her red lips, sunglasses, and crossbody purse the only color against her monotone outfit. (Y/N)’s headphones were in her ears as she entered the coffee shop, Harry was pretty sure he could hear the music from his seat, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses as she scoped out the small shop. 

Her head finally turned to Harry’s small corner and a large grin broke out across her face. She rushed over, pulling her headphones out of her ears and placing her sunglasses atop her head, revealing her sparkling (Y/E/C) eyes. “Hey!” She greeted warmly, Harry standing to hug her. (Y/N) pressed a quick kiss to his cheek during the hug and Harry was certain his cheeks had turned to the exact shade of red as (Y/N)’s lipstick imprint. She did not seem to notice and if she did, she did not mention it. “Did you order yet?” (Y/N) questioned pointing behind her to the front counter. 

Harry shook his head moving towards the line, “No, I was waiting for you.” 

(Y/N) smiled at that following suit, “And they say chivalry is dead!”

After ordering their drinks and Harry insisting to pay, the two sat back down with their drinks in hand, tea for Harry and an iced coffee for (Y/N). “So…” (Y/N) giggled taking a sip of her drink. 

“So…” Harry mirrored smiling at the girl across from him. 

“Where do you want to start?” Harry pondered for a moment, taking a sip of his tea, the liquid warming his insides, it may be early May but the cooler temperatures were still sticking in East London. 

“Oh, I know, I read your book!” (Y/N)’s eyes bugged out, choking on her current sip of coffee. 

“You did?!” 

Harry laughed nodding as he retrieved the folded piece of paper from his pocket, “And I have some questions!” He waved the piece of paper in front of (Y/N), who still seemed to be in shock. She could not process the fact that Harry Holland had read HER book! Harry unfolded the piece of paper, revealing both sides to be filled with tiny scrawls of notes, questions, etc. 

“Oh dear god!” Harry flushed, mildly embarrassed, he could not help but want to address certain aspects of the book, and it was not often where you could do so openly with the actual author. “How about we make a deal?” Harry’s eyebrow rose at that, “For every question you ask me, I ask one in return?” 

A soft innocent smirk spread across (Y/N)’s red lips and it had Harry instantly nodding, unsure of what he was getting himself into, but he reminded himself that this is what he signed up for. 

“Deal.” (Y/N) bit her lip, gesturing with a manicured finger for him to start. 

Clearing his throat Harry mindlessly read off his first question, “Is it true your mum and you haven’t spoken since the book? Even after the epilogue?” Harry could admit the book illustrated (Y/N)’s mother to be an interesting person, one who yes, loved her children, but had the wrong way of showing it. 

Throughout the book, throughout the different years and milestones (Y/N) covered in her early years of life, her mother had always seemed to be a looming presence, one that had and Harry would quote the book, ‘...dragged me down into a deep abyss of self doubt and depression. One that no matter how hard I tried to climb out of, her dark tentacles would pull me back down into her suffocating grasp.’ 

The line had resonated with Harry as the boy could not imagine his mother doing that to him, instead she had always pushed the boys to spread their wings not drown. Yet, after an entire 369 pages of (Y/N)’s life, many chapters delving into her increasingly tough relationship with her mother, the Epilogue had been dedicated to the woman. (Y/N) had expressed her understanding of her tough childhood, of their constant arguments, and the hurtful words. She wrote how she understood her mother’s own demons had weighed her down, causing problems in their bond and how her mother could not accept responsibility for tarnishing that precious bond, instead choosing to blame her own daughter and ex-husband. (Y/N) wrote how after writing the past 360 or so pages, she had finally greeted acceptance as an old friend, and accepted that these were parts of her past. And on the final page of the heart wrenching book in big bold lettering three words were written that sent the world into a spiral of emotions. 

‘I Forgive You.’

  It was heavy, the book was heavy, touching upon things not many other books chose to discuss, the relationship between a child and a mentally ill parent. 

(Y/N) let out a loud huff of air, “Starting off with the hot and heavy huh?” 

Harry’s eyes widened at that, how foolish of him to ask that question first or even at all, “I-I’m so sorry, you don’t need t-to answer!” (Y/N) shook her head, a small smile on her face reassuring him. 

“No no, I don’t mind. Trust me I’ve dished plenty to interviewers and even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t mind telling you.” (Y/N) spoke calmly making Harry feel better. “No we haven’t talked really since the release of the book, almost two years ago now, but honestly she hasn’t even read the book. I believe she only read the first few chapters which I’ll admit don’t paint her in the prettiest light, but she never finished reading it.” (Y/N) shrugged, trying to hide the small frown on her features. Harry frowned with her, his sympathy going to the girl, he could not imagine his own mother acting in such a way.

 Clearing her throat, (Y/N) dismissed her sorrows and turned back to Harry, a smile returning to her face. “My turn,” She pretended to ponder for a moment tapping her finger against her chin, “What’s it like having three brothers?” 

Harry groaned, “A chaotic mess honestly!” He had answered so quickly, his mind had not even fully registered her question. “Wait!” His eyes widened and (Y/N) only smirked in return. “How do you know I have three brothers? I only mentioned one!” (Y/N) giggled lifting her shoulders in a simple ‘you caught me’ motion. 

“C’mon Harry! You read my book! I talk in extensive detail about my love for the Marvel movies! Hell, I was going to go to Film school so I could work for Disney before the whole book thing!” Film School? Ah yes he did remember reading about that in her book, another reason he was drawn to the girl. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Harry questioned, a small part of him beginning to doubt (Y/N)’s intentions with him, was she here to learn about Harry or his infamous heartthrob brother Tom?

 “I’m sorry would you prefer this,” (Y/N) paused inhaling sharply, “OMG Harry Holland is that you???” Her voice rose up an octave while still trying to be quiet in the store as to not draw any unwanted attention. 

Harry snorted, no he guessed he did not want that, but his inner doubt was still plaguing his thoughts, “So you’re a Spider-Man fan then?” 

(Y/N) nodded immediately, “Oh yeah love him, more of a Cap girl though.” Harry sighed a little, perhaps this was only an opportunity to meet famous actors, not that he thought so lowly of (Y/N), but he was just used to people cozying up to him for their own advantages. (Y/N)’s eyes narrowed watching him as if she was reading his thoughts, “I love Spider-Man don’t get me wrong, but I kinda have a thing for curly haired redheads.” She smirked at him as Harry’s face instantaneously burned bright red, her words squashing his doubts.

 “H-hey I’m not a redhead!” Harry defended, eliciting a loud laugh from (Y/N), the girl’s eyes widening in disbelief. 

“Oh Oh Oh you so are!”

The cool spring breeze whipped past the two as they walked down the sidewalk of Kingston, enjoying the sun and blossoming trees. “So you have a little brother?” Harry questioned, lightly bumping his shoulder into (Y/N). Her covered eyes looked over to him, a smile always on her lips, Harry never wanted her to stop smiling at him. 

“Yes I do, my pride and joy that goof!” (Y/N) laughed lightly, before looking off into the distance recalling something. Harry knew (Y/N) and her younger half brother had a close relationship, he had read all about it. Her Mother and Stepfather had always been working in their youth, leading to (Y/N) to practically raise the boy herself. An 11 year old girl becoming a parent to a 3 year old boy, it was absurd. 

Harry could only imagine the strain their mother had caused on their relationship as well, the book had described how she hated the motherly role (Y/N) had taken on for her brother. 

“He’s coming to visit during the summer, hopefully you can meet him!” (Y/N) spoke, returning to look at Harry, who nodded in agreement. The rest of the walk was quiet, the two mirroring flats coming into view. The two stopped in front of (Y/N)’s stairs, both fiddling with their feet as looked at each other, obviously hesitant to depart. 

The pair were unsure where this was leading; were they meant to be friends or something more? Neither could really tell, but the significant pull and attraction between the two was noticeable and unfightable, not that either one of them wanted to fight it.

 “Do you… do you want to come in?” (Y/N) asked, a nervous smile on her face. Harry grinned in return, his face was starting to hurt from all the smiling.

 “I’d like that.” With that, (Y/N) quickly turned on her heel and rushed up the steps to unlock the dark blue door, Harry following.

 “Honey I’m home!” (Y/N) shouted as she hung up her red crossbody onto one of many white hooks perched on the side wall. The flat was similar to Tom’s but this one appeared a tad bigger with a different layout and color scheme. Not to mention it looked much cleaner and more styled than Tom’s.

 “No one cares!” A voice called back and (Y/N) scoffed lightly as she removed her shoes and placed them in a shoe basket beneath the hooks. (Y/N)’s stocking covered feet shuffled forward on the dark wood floor as she bent down to greet the excited black lab who came bounding in, while Harry removed his shoes as well.

 “How was your date with the cute neighbor?” Another voice called making (Y/N) cough loudly as she walked into the kitchen on the left.

 “Um it went well, considering…” (Y/N) trailed off as Harry entered the kitchen behind her, Bella licking his palm, and the two twin girls surrounding the kitchen island going bugged eyed. “Harry this is Hayley,” (Y/N) pointed to the blonde girl standing behind the island, “and Madison”, she pointed to the brunette girl sitting on one of the bar stools at the island. “Guys this is Harry.” Short awkward waves were given along with small hello’s, (Y/N) only giggling as she moved to wash her hands at the large kitchen sink behind Hayley.

 “Idiot” Madison murmured under her breath, regarding Hayley’s remark about the cute neighbor, who happened to be in the townhouse as well.

 “God you’re so fucking annoying!” Hayley groaned back at her twin, which only earned her a huff in return.

 “Well you’re fucking ugly!” (Y/N)’s head dropped in the background as she snickered to herself and Harry had to hide his small laugh into the palm of his hand. The two twins were identical, besides their hair color, which only meant Madison was insulting herself. 

“Ok then!” (Y/N) laughed drying her hands on a blue kitchen towel, “I’m going to show Harry around. You two, keep doing whatever you are doing!” (Y/N) practically pushed Harry back down the front hall towards the stairs, unbeknownst to the eyes trailing after them. 

Madison leaned back in the black iron chair and Hayley leaned over to the kitchen island, the two watching their best friend and the neighbor ascend the stairs, both of them staring at each other fondly. 

“This oughta be interesting.”

Taglist:

@aloneinherroom​

@ineedabifriend​

#harry holland x reader #Harry Holland #harry holland imagine #harry holland x you #Harry holland x y/n

[madamsixx]

Beyond The Leather: Chapter 12: You’re Invited, But Your Friends Can’t Come

August 1985

It was My Bazzar Magazine Fashion New York Shoot today and I was very excited. I never thought I would get to this point. My Sports Illustrated Magazine shoot gave me more opportunities. I was getting more calls to do more magazines and more calls for movie auditions next year. I was making more money then I could imagine, and Tamara was over the moon with how I was presenting my self.

Speaking of Tamara, she had no clue about what happened with me when I went out with the Motley boys. And I wasn't planning on telling her.

"Hey girl you ready for your shoot?" Lisa asks walking into my change room.

"Just about." I smile.

"Don't smile." The glam team states as there doing my make up.

"Sorry."

I was finally done and I was ready to go. I looked amazing. I walked over to Lisa who was holding a camera. She wanted to take a picture with me. And I was happy to. We walked out of the room and into the hall. She looked like she wanted to say something but was a bit hesitant to.

"What's wrong Lisa?" I stopped her and asked.

"Its nothing it's just.... I haven't heard from Vince since the after party and.. I mean.... well... he told me he would call me." She shrugs.

I should have told Lisa this is how they behave. They sleep with girls and take off. You can't expect a real relationship to come from any one of them. Not even Tommy who is gaga over Heather.

"Look I'm going to take my pictures and then when Im done we'll talk more about this." I continued walking.

"Ok. It could probably be because Nikki got you high and drunk. Maybe that's why he's avoiding me." She crossed her arms.

I stopped in my tracks and looked at Lisa with wide eyes. What did she mean by Nikki got me high and drunk.

"Wait Nikki said I drank too much punch that had whiskey in it." I stated.

"You did buuuut when you were alittle tipsy he gave you brownies that had weed in it. And then got you high and took you to the bar and ordered you cranberry juice and jack. And that got you drunk." She giggled. "I thought he told you."

My breathing started to get heavy. I should have known that he would do that. And what makes it worse is that he was busy calling the hotel begging to speak me. And I let his call come through and spoke to him. He was talking casually to me like he didn't do a single thing. Every time I think he's a good guy something always comes up to tell me other wise. I even went as far as to thank him for taking care of me while I was drunk. Not knowing that he was the one that actually got me to that point.

"Mani....Mani." Lisa hit my shoulder.

"Sorry I'm good let's just go." I continued walking out to the set. I was to be taking a picture beside a white stallion in a barn area of some sort out side. I felt agitated and annoyed. I was suppose to be focusing on this shoot but instead I was focused on how much I was starting to hate Nikki. And hate is a strong word that we should not be using. But I'm using it, and it's being used on Nikki Sixx.

"Alright Miss Darlington grab the horse." The photographer shouted. I grabbed the horse with thoughts of Nikki in my head. Is there a reason why he didn't tell me that he was the one that got me drunk. Questions were running through my mind and I needed answers.

"Alright that's a wrap". The photographer shouted.

I headed towards my dressing room and just sat there looking at my self in the mirror.

Nikki Sixx equals trouble. ________

September 25, 1985

I have been waiting for this week to come by and it is finally here. New York fashion week. It was being held in Manhattan at the skylight Clarkson Square. I already booked 15 shows and was paid a lot of money for it. I walked down the aisle with my head held high owning it. Tamara actually cried, I was shocked. But she was so happy to see me up there.

My whole family showed up for the show. And also some friends. I called Slash and his family to see if they could come but unfortunately he wasn't able too. However he did have some good news for me. He found a band in July. He was trying to get a hold of me but I was so busy it was hard for us to talk. I think the bands name is Guns N Roses. He told me that they were playing in LA at clubs like the Whisky a Go Go, Trabadour, and The Roxy. After im finished in New York I'll head down to LA to check out there gig. I'm very happy for him.

Also Motley Crues Theater of pain album has been climbing to the top of the charts. So much for Vince saying that the album sucked. Speaking of Vince, I invited him to come and watch me walk my first runway. But not just for that, today was the last day of fashion week. But it's also my Birthday, and I'm having a party well actually a dinner. Vince agreed not to tell the other guys seeing as my family was here and I didnt want anything bad to happen. My mom really liked Vince. It turns out that Vince was quite the charmer. My sisters even liked him. Me and Vince agreed not to say anything about Vince being in the band Motley Crue.... for now. We settled on him being Lisa's date. And yes I got Vince to call Lisa, I felt really bad. But is it weird that I was starting to like Vince..... a lot.

As for Nikki he called and tried to talk to me but I confronted him and ended up hanging the phone on his lying behind. He's been calling non stop after that leaving crazy messges. Personally, I think he's psychotic. He should have just told the truth. But knowing him, its always lies that come out of his mouth. And I wasn't going to beleive a single thing he had to say.

We ate dinner and everyone got along well. I finally had somthing go right... for now. _______

October 18, 1985, Toronto Canada

12:00 pm

A couple days after my first runway and birthday I headed home for a bit of a much needed break. Especially because I was doing interview after interview and commercials. Me and my sisters just got back from shopping we bought alot of things, well I bought alot of things. Just to have some sister time felt so good. Since I became famous we haven't spent alot of time with each other so it was nice going out.

We started taking our clothes out of our shopping bags and trying them on.

"This dress is really nice I should wear it when we go out some time." I looked over at Selena she's the oldest but shes really short. She put on a short blue dress and it really looked nice on her.

"I think so too. I like this skirt and top." I say putting the clothing on the bed matching them together. "You guys care too much about what you wear it's annoying." Felicia my younger sister is a tom boy she likes wearing mostly T-shirts and sweat pants. Where as Selena and I like dressing up. Maya the youngest was 2 so we usually dressed her up.

"Iman phone!" My mom yelled.

"Who is it?" I asked

"Vince!"

I ran to go get the phone. "Vince hey what's up!"

"Hey Mani, guess what?"

"What?" I said,

"Motley Crue is in Toronto baby!"

He shouted with excitment. I thought he was joking but when I looked and saw the number on the phone. I realized it was a number at one of the hotels downtown.

"No way, oh my God we have to chill."

"Hell yeah we do girl. So uuuuh can you call up some of your friends and come down to the Maple Leaf Gradens show today?"

"Is that where you guys are playing?"

"Yeah you should come watch us. This show is gonna be fucking crazy!"

"Considering what happened last time when I went to go see you guys in New York and ended up a drunk mess in Nikki's room. I think it would be a great idea to pass on that. I can meet you before the show and we can go out. I know some really fun places."

"Oh yeah sorry about that."

"We'll talk more when I see you, what hotel are you staying at?"

"The Hilton. Meet me there for about 4."

"Sounds great."

"Listen I didnt-"

(Loud yelling)

"Hello, hello, Vince?" All I could hear was loud yelling and the phone being hit around.

"Hello.... Vince?"

"Mani?"

I can't even tell you how fast I dropped the phone. It was Nikki. And I had no intention of speaking to him. ________

3:15 pm

I called up some of my friends and we drove down to the Hilton. My crew was Mia, Ashley, and Anna. We met in elementary school and stayed friends. They have always been there for me. We had other friends but us four were the tightest. We were ride or dies. They were so excited to meet Vince. My friends are like me but a bit worse. I won't lie they're very judgemental divas and would never settle for less. Oh like me, so never mind. I told them about the rest of the Motley boys. But they weren't interested in them especially because of the way they looked. We finally made it to the hotel and I called Vince from downstairs.

"Hey there sugar!" Vince shouted.

"Hey Vince!" I shouted back. I ran and gave him a big hug. We both walked backed to my friends. They started giggling and smiling as if me and Vince were a couple.

"My friend Mia drove so were going to go in her car and go to this wings place." I smiled.

Vince put his arm around me and smiled with all teeth. "That sounds great sweetheart."

"Yeah that does sound great." We heard a voice behind us and we all turned around. It was Nikki and Tommy.

"Oh h..hey guys. Uh we were just heading out." Vince said in a nervous voice. Nikki was glaring at me. It was a look that I couldn't even read. But I knew he was angry. And so was Tommy.

"Hope we can join you. I mean we weren't invited." Tommy snorted and glared at us.

"Theres no room in my car. It only seats five people sorry." Mia stated and smirked at Tommy.

"Sweety we don't need your cheap car we have limos. Were rockstars." Nikki and Tommy pushed passed us and walked out.

This was going to be a very chaotic afternoon. ______

We arrived at Wings Palace and everyone ordered what they wanted. The boys were so loud and ordered alot of alcohol. They started getting very rowdy and people were staring at us. Some were disapproving of them while others were taking pictures of us. Young fans came over to ask for autographs and some girls would even go as far as to ask them to sign there breasts. And I mean lift up there shirts right there with no bra. Yuk.

"So why the fuck weren't we invited out hmm?" Tommy asked looking at me.

"Uh well..... I didn't know if you wanted to come." I scratched my head. Wow Iman great lie Tommy's down for anything.

"I smell a bullshitter." Nikki snorted looking at me.

"What ever Nikki." I rolled my eyes. Nikki sat right beside me in the booth he was on the right I was in the middle and Mia on my other side. Vince sat across, he was in the middle Anna on his right and Ashley on his left he had both arms around them. They were in heaven. Tommy sat in chair pulled up to the table.

"So Vince what's it's like being a Rock Star. I see the whole bad boys behaviour on TV but you honestly don't look the type." Ashley smiled.

"Pfft." Nikki snorted "Vince is just as bad as us."

"Probably, but he looks better that's for sure." Anna cooed.

"Why cause he's a blonde hair bitch." Tommy and Nikki laughed.

"Y'know jealousy dosen't look good on you two." Ashley sneered.

"Neither does your hair cut." Nikki laughed.

I turned and glared at Nikki. "knock it off." I hissed.

"Fuck off." He said flipping me off.

"Here are your wings boys." The server said as she brought our wings. She looked over at Nikki and smiled.

"Thank you bye now." I shooed her away.

"Jealous are we." Nikki smirked.

"I would never be jealous of a girl that wanted to talk to you." I snorted.

"You know Iman at one point I actually thought you were a cool chick, but seeing as you didn't even want me and Sixx around to meet your stiff friends I think your a fucking bitch." Tommy says waving his hands at me.

"Wow real classy I can see why she didn't invite you two losers." Mia said as she bit a wing.

"Fuck you stupid cunt!" Nikki shouted throwing wings at Mia.

"Nikki stop!" I shouted.

"Get these losers out of here. You think because your rockstars you can talk to people any how you want!" Mia shouted.

"Ok woah guys now calm down." Vince raised his hands up.

"This is why I didnt invite you two. Everytime I go out with you two something always happens. Your either drunk or high or both!" I yelled and pushed Nikki out of the booth.

Nikki got up and thrashed the table throwing all the food to the floor and spilling the drinks every where on everyone.

"Fuck you bitches! I heard you were hear and I wanted to say sorry for what I did last time!" He gestured to me. "But I change my mind, you deserved to look like a drunken whore at that party!" Nikki yelled in my face.

My eyes went wide. I didn't know whether I wanted to slap him across the face or kill him. Instead, I got out of the booth and ran out of the building. I had enough of this guy and I wasn't going to put up with him any longer.

"Iman wait!" Nikki shouted and ran after me.

I picked up my pace and ran faster with tears filling my eyes and running down my cheeks. I didnt want to see any one, I just wanted to get as far away from them as possible. I ran straight inside the downtown Library were I knew I wouldn't be found.

"Iman!" Nikki shouted, or I thought I wouldn't be found. I ran up the stairs and stood in the corner of the library. Taking my hands and rubbing my wet face.

"God Nikki just leave me alone!" I shouted.

"No!" He shouted back.

"Shh" we were both startled by the librarian who came over to us "This is a quiet library not a place for you guys to be yelling. You can do that outside." The librarian hissed. We both looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

"Please just leave me alone Nikki." I whispered.

"No." He argues. "Not until you hear me out." I rolled my eyes.

"Look princess I fucked up at the party when I got you drunk ok and I'm sorry. I didn't tell you because... because I knew if I did you would never speak to me again. And I didn't want that for us."

I sighed."Nikki I would rather you tell me the truth than lie in my face. It makes me wonder what else you actually lie about."

"Ok you want to talk truth. Well why did you invite Vince to your first runway and Birthday? You didn't even tell me, Tommy, or fucking Mick about it? What kind of bullshit is that?" Nikki raised his voice turning me to face him.

I should kill Vince for saying anything to them. I told him not to and now I have to answer for it.

"Well me and Vince became close we talk now and then. I tell him about things I'm doing and he tells me about the things he's doing." I say looking at my feet. I looked back up and Nikki and he just had a sad expression on his face.

"And you can't do that with me? That's what your basically trying to say right?"

"No Nikki I cant! And I don't want to!" I said that with a harsh tone. I wanted to hurt him like he hurt my feelings back at Wings Palace and for every other place he had hurt me. But when I looked into his eyes he looks like he could cry right now. And I felt a bit guilty for what I said. Until his face changed into the angry Nikki I was used to seeing.

"Fine fuck you then!" He snapped and walked away.

I met back up with my friends and we hung around later then I expected. We stayed for the show which turned out to be great. I had to call my mom from the arena so she wouldn't freak out. But she wanted me home anyways. We said our goodbyes to Vince and Mick. Tommy and Nikki ignored me and my friends. So that was a great night. Not!

_____ 3.22 am

I was in my room sleeping when all of a sudden a car horn started going off outside and someone started screaming my name at the top of their lungs. It was probably a crazy fan. All the lights went on and everyone ran out of their rooms and headed to the front door. I looked out the door and..oh my God it was Nikki. He was smiling drunkenly at me with his Jack Daniel's bottle in his hand. He was still in his stage clothes and he looked like a mess. Tommy was with him grabbing him trying to get him back in the car. How the hell did they know where I lived.

"Oh there look T bone! Awww theres my princess! Look how fucking beautiful you are!" Nikki slurred.

I moved and hid behind the door so he wouldnt see me again. I can't believe this guy came here like this. I'm so embarrassed.

"No! Mani baby please I'm sorry. I just...I'm a mess!" He slurred and fell on the ground with his bottle spilling.

"Who is this man?" My mom yelled "call security right now and get these dirty drunks off my property now!" My demanded. "Get off my property or I'll call the cops!" She yelled in there direction.

"Look im really sorry I'll take him home please don't call the cops!" Tommy shouted back.

"Mani baby just wait for me please. I'll get my shit together I promise! Just dont break yours!" Nikki shouted as Tommy picked him up and through him in the back of the car.

"I'm really sorry!" Tommy shouted and waved. He got in his car and drove off.

My mom shut the door and looked at me with a straight face. "Start talking now!" She shouted at me.

"I don't... I don't know those guys." I said with a hesitant voice.

"Do not lie in my face. Cause if I find out that your involved with any guy. You are done with your career. Especially if he looks like that pile of junk outside! They look like a bunch of leather head rock stars! Well not for my daughter! You will get a good Catholic man!" My mom pointed in my face.

"I don't know him, it happens in LA a lot when I'm on the streets." I whispered. I was terrified of my mom. I felt like I was about to pee in my pants when she gave me that look. The sweat was drizzling down my face and in my Pitts. My breathing was heavy and I felt like I was going to pass out.

"Good for nothing rock star junkies is what they are." She walked away and my sisters looked at me then walked upstairs to there room. I hated lying to my mom, but this lie had to be told.

I walked up to my room and I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night. I thought about the promise that I made to Nikki. A promise that unfortunately I would have to break. My mom would never accept Nikki. Even if I ended up falling in love with someone like him. She could never accept him for all his chains and leather.

#nikki sixx #vince neil #tommy lee #mick mars #motley crue #the dirt #model #chanel iman

[thesickpanda]

Painful Goodbyes

For many people with chronic/mental illnesses, saying goodbye to people becomes an all too common experience.  Sometimes you get to actually say it, but more often than not people just fade from your life/grow impatient with you and leave. In my experience, most people leave when I, at long last, reinforce a personal boundary.

You see, I was raised with emotionally abusive and manipulative parents who made me apologise for their cruelty and therefore set the tone of many of my future relationships. I thought abuse and horrible behaviour towards me was normal. I was MEANT to be the kicking bag, meant to be taken for granted, I was too sensitive, I was the problem. I had the mindset that I should be grateful for any and all people in my life regardless of how they treated me. For those people who showed me any kindness at all, a lifelong loyalty was forged, no matter how many terrible acts on their part surpassed the kind ones.  It took years of therapy to learn to recognise toxic behaviour/relationships, as well as self-care and self-compassion. The people who grew used to exploiting me for all I was worth did not take kindly to my standing up for myself, and so I have lost many faux friends over the years.  I was like a flame to which all the manipulative moths were attracted, because no healthy, self-respecting person would put up with the bullshit they dished out.  

As a result, I have had a rocky end to many platonic relationships. I’m extremely grateful that I haven’t had as much abuse in my romantic relationships. I met the love of my life when I was fairly young, and he’s an angel who gives me so much love and kindness. If not for him, I’m not sure where (or IF) I’d be today.

Recently, I had to end a 14 year friendship with someone. I have written about this person before here (https://thesickpanda.tumblr.com/post/186529191819/what-do-you-do-when-a-loved-one-changes-for-the)

Pretty much all of my reasons were explained in that blog post – it just took me another 7 months and my final encounter with this person to fully recognize the urgent need to walk away from what had become a very toxic, decaying relationship. It still hurt like hell, though. You don’t just go from having someone in your life for well over a decade to accepting their absence without difficulty. Even if he had largely become a negative influence in my life, that person was still such a permanent-seeming fixture that I cannot help but feel a sense of loss.

Long story short, I spent many, many years of my life trying to save him from himself. He grew increasingly emotionally distant, buried himself in addictions and self-destructive behaviour and outright refused any and all help offered his way. His family gave up on him. His best friend became the target of all his projected self-loathing (he is, without a shadow of a doubt, horribly abusive to this friend). He didn’t used to be like this, and part of me didn’t want to let go of the possibility he might change back into a decent and full human being. My last trip to visit him proved that not only had he not made any headway on working on himself, he had grown significantly worse. There was literally nothing left for me to save. He was dead inside.

The kicker came when he went to bed early one night (unusual for him) and I went to his door to ask if he was ok and he snapped at me, essentially telling me to piss off. I asked if he wanted a hug and he made it abundantly clear that I should leave him alone. It wasn’t anywhere near the first time he had unfairly snarled at me, but because I was still desperately clinging onto the notion there was something in him worth saving, it hit me really hard to realise there wasn’t. Or at least, I was incapable of rescuing someone hell-bent on their own demise.

It also triggered a huge PTSD response in me, based on decades of abuse I have endured from my family. Loving gestures have been mocked, belittled, slapped back in my face for as long as I can remember. I am a hugely loving person, so this is a common occurrence for me. As I stood outside his room, shaking violently, I knew I wasn’t just experiencing a trauma response. I knew I was finally, at long last, realizing I had to walk away from this friendship, too.

I mentioned earlier that his family had given up on him.  They half-heartedly tried to intervene over the years but in the past 4 years they just threw up their hands. I can understand why. You cannot help someone who refuses help. But they seemed to expect I’d keep at it.

This guy’s family was, in my mind, my second family. I loved them. I bonded with his mother in the first 5 years. I bought gifts for all his nieces and nephews every year since they were born. I planned our one holiday a year to be down in Victoria to spend time with them on their birthdays (which mostly fell across September). I’d phone his brother and sister on their birthdays, send handmade cards, and chat for hours with them.  I’d do all this when he almost never bothered to call them, forgot the kids’ birthdays, refused to wake up in time for funerals, skipped special occasions and more. He put minimal effort in, so I tried to make up for it by putting a LOT of care into his family. Sometimes they’d rant about their frustrations with my friend, and I’d try to mediate. I felt my rapport with them, after such a long time and so much personal emotional investment, was separate to my friendship with this guy.

I was wrong.

When I ended my friendship a few weeks ago, I did it via email. I sent a letter to him in which I held back 95% of my frustrations. Instead I explained that I was no longer getting any enjoyment from the friendship, that I’d always love him but that we had nothing left in common between us and it was time for me to leave. I did mention he needed to tackle his inner demons and start living life, but it was lightly touched upon, because in all the many years I've known him, I have told him what he needs to do countless times, and he has never cared. I also sent personalized emails to his sister, mother and sister-in-law to explain (with huge delicacy and diplomacy) my reasons for ending the friendship. I told them he had grown cruel and abusive to his housemate and also to me, and that I could no longer be the collateral of a man intent on blowing himself up. I explained that I thought of them all as my friends and wanted to continue a relationship with them, if they were cool with that.

What I received was radio silence from the sister and sister-in-law (both who had MANY times raged about how awful this guy was) and, a week later, I got a three line email from his mother that was cold, indifferent and unfair. She acknowledged NOTHING of the behaviour I’d illustrated in my email to her, and basically said, “Whatever. You do you. Don’t know why you gotta be so dramatic about it.”

I was crushed. 14 years of love and relationship building, and it meant FUCK ALL to these people I had held so high in my esteem.

My partner pointed something out a few days later. He gently and kindly said, “But it’s ALL been one sided.”

He observed that not once did they call me on my birthday. Not once did they contact me or visit me, even when they were in my neck of the woods. Sometimes trying to reach the sister was like getting blood from a stone. I’d hear how she was always Skyping her mom, but then she’d almost never reply when I tentatively reached out to her. She has three kids, I’d reason, too busy for me.  But it stung. When I did get her on the phone she’d talk to me like I was her best friend, mostly ranting about how much she despised being a mother for the better part of an hour. I’d be her emotional sounding board when her husband was letting her down. But that sort of emotional labour was never reciprocated.

Now I did stay at this guy’s parents’ house when he lived at home, as it made it easier/affordable to visit him. I’m grateful to his mother for having hosted me in those times. When he moved out 4 years ago, I went to visit him at his place. I always made an effort to see the rest of the family, often bringing gifts for the kids. But no one seemed much interested in me or my life. I was mostly spoken at, rather than with. The brother had an injury from work a few years ago. He’s been struggling with chronic pain since and I’ve spent hours listening to him complain about the nightmare of his life. He never asks about my pain or my struggles. I spent hours listening, but he couldn’t give two hoots about what I’d actually learned/had to say in response, compassionate and helpful as it always was. He just waited for his turn to speak again.

All of this dawned on me two days ago. I realised I had been deluded in thinking these people cared about me as a person in my own right; that they’d want to say, “We understand why you gave up trying to fix him. He frustrates us too. But we’re glad you’re still our friend.” What I received was silence and indifference. I was just an extension of a family member they didn’t care about, which of course meant they didn’t care about me. I had been so wrong for such a long period of time. The grief magnified tenfold and I had an emotional breakdown.

Being chronically ill, I have so little energy as it is, and for years I poured it into people who didn’t give a shit whether I was in their lives or not.  

So yesterday, when my 86 year old friend and former neighbor called me to say he was dying and in palliative care and wanted to say goodbye “only to my close friends”, I lost it.  I bawled. I was going to have to say goodbye to someone else I care about. I totally respect his decision to opt out of trying to get better at this stage, as his body is really going downhill fast and he lost both his wife and son to cancer in the past 3 years. He’s had enough and I get that. But my god, it hurt. And yet… I felt so touched that he made the effort to actually say goodbye.  He told me I didn’t have to come and see him one last time, that he didn’t expect it. I’m going to make every effort to see him this week; today if I can. I am grateful for the opportunity to say a proper goodbye to someone I care about and who cared enough about me to consider me among his closest friends.

All of this is to say: be careful who you pour your love into. Reflect on the dynamic of your relationships. Know that if you’re a naturally caring person, that that is a beautiful thing to be cherished, but that there are those who will take advantage of it. Surround yourself with genuine people. Be kind to yourself and let go of those who do not appreciate you.

It hurts like hell and is hard to do when you’re already sick and disabled and rely on the kindness of others so much of your life (much as you may resent that fact). But if it’s not real, you’re doing yourself no favours by clinging on. Learning how to set boundaries is hard, but it is worth it.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I dare say I’ll be repeating that to myself for many weeks and months to come.

#ending a friendship #Toxic Relationships #empty freindships #empty friendships #choose your friends wisely #letting go #walking away #boundaries

[artificialqueens]

What's New, Pussycat? (branjie) - writworm42

A/N: For Holtzmanns, who asked for Brooke helping Vanjie get over a fear of cats. Thanks a million and a half to Meggie for beta-ing <3

(1)

Brooke expected to open the door to a hug. She expected to open the door to a high-pitched yell, little arms thrown around her neck, a big, long, excited kiss on her lips. She expected to open the door to a ball of pure joy and energy, one that would make her feel excited and giddy, too.

What she didn’t expect was for Vanessa to stand stock-still and stare right past her.

“Babe, are you okay?” Brooke frowned. She turned around, worried, to see what Vanessa was staring at, but there was only Apollo washing himself contentedly, while Henry sat and observed the scene.

Suddenly, it clicked.

“Jo, are you… Are you afraid of cats?”

“No!” Vanessa protested loudly. There was a beat, Brooke staring Vanessa down with a bemused look, and Vanessa looked down, sheepishly admitting, “Yes. It’s not my fault, though!” she interjected when she noticed the smirk spreading on Brooke’s face. “They got the third eye!”

“Baby, they’re just animals.” Brooke tried and failed to hold back her laughter, giggles coming out in snorts as she tried her best to keep them in.

“I know that! Don’t mean they ain’t carryin’ some kind of demon-type juju bullshit!”

“Oh my God.” Brooke wiped her eyes, still laughing. “But you’ve seen them before, you knew I had them.”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t expect them to greet me at the motherfucking door! Starin’ at me like that. Shit. Might as well just try an’ kill me right here.”

“Well, unless you want to sleep outside tonight, you’re gonna have to come in.” Brooke slung her arm around a hesitant-looking Vanessa and steered her inside, pushing a little to offset the suddenly heavy, stubborn drag of Vanessa’s feet.

“Relax, babe.” Brooke cracked a smile, giggles escaping once again, “I’ll protect you.”

(2)

The truth of the matter was, having a boyfriend who was afraid of cats just wouldn’t do. Henry and Apollo liked seeing Brooke around, liked being able to know where she was in case they needed her. They liked having full reign of the house and being able to go where they pleased, whenever they pleased. They liked to sneak up on Brooke and butt their heads against her shins and liked to stare at strangers, daring them to touch their human.

Vanessa, on the other hand, spent their first day together holed up in Brooke’s room with the door closed, insisting that it stay that way overnight, yelling back every time she heard the cats meowing on the other side of the door. At one point when she had to go to the bathroom, she insisted Brooke come with her and guard the door, adamant that she didn’t want ‘some bitchass whisker monster’ sneaking up on her and ‘snakin’ me with its claws while my drawers are down.’

No, it was absolutely unacceptable–something had to be done. And Brooke had ten more days to do it; ten days she was sure she could take full advantage of.

On day two, Vanessa went out with Kameron while Brooke stayed at home to “finish up some work.” Vanessa hadn’t been too happy, but when Brooke promised her with a wink that she’d make it up to her later, she got over it pretty quickly. Vanessa had barely closed the door behind herself before Brooke whipped out her laptop, furiously Googling animal phobias and how to get over them.

(3)

Vanessa was still so blissfully fucked out the next morning that she didn’t even notice that Brooke had left the door wide open when she’d gotten up to make breakfast. It was just as well; Brooke needed Vanessa nice and calm if her plan was going to work.

“Hey, baby!” Brooke smiled widely as Vanessa wandered into the kitchen, eyes still bleary with sleep. “I made pancakes.”

“Mm.”  Vanessa yawned and slid up beside Brooke, wrapping her arms around her waist and nuzzling into her side. Brooke leaned down and kissed the top of Vanessa’s head, breathing in her smell: faint traces of Old Spice mixed with the lingering musk of linens soaked with sex filling Brooke’s mind with memories of lazy mornings in bed and cuddles on the couch, kisses over home-cooked meals and the weight of Vanessa on her lap while watching their friends perform at the club.

She was so wrapped up in breathing Vanessa in that she failed to notice the other smell building up in front of her until Vanessa pulled away suddenly, diving towards the grill.

“Shit, babe, the pancakes!”

Okay, so maybe Brooke’s original plan of cuddling up on the couch to eat breakfast while psychoanalyzing Vanessa’s fear didn’t work out. But, on the other hand, Vanessa was so busy trying to scrape the smoking remains of burnt batter off the grill that she didn’t notice Henry and Apollo creeping over to watch the action.

(4)

“I can’t believe this.” Vanessa huffed, slumping back against her seat dramatically.

“It’s just a quick stop.” Brooke kept her eyes on the road, suppressing a flash of irritation. She knew that this was all part of a plan Vanessa didn’t necessarily agree to, but did she have to be such a brat about it?

“Pet stores smell, Mary! I can’t be stinkin’ up all of Nashville! I got a reputation to uphold.”

“I think you’ll be fine.” Brooke responded dryly as they pulled into the parking lot. Her tension dissipated, though, when they got out of the car, Brooke grabbing Vanessa by the wrist and pulling her into the shop maybe a little more urgently than was necessary.

Pet Club 96 was small, and cluttered, but it was Brooke’s go-to for anything cat-related. The store carried lesser-known cat food brands that pleased even the pickiest of cats, and their toy and sweater prices were much lower than any Petsmart or Petco this side of the county. The lone staff member was a tried-and-true cat lover, and always had the best stories to tell. Brooke was excited to share all of that with Vanessa, of course, but the real agenda for the day was a little more specific.

“Look, baby, kittens!” Brooke gasped as she dragged Vanessa over to the back of the store, to the single, large cage where three tiny, mewling balls of fluff wriggled around, sticking their noses through the bars of their cage and stepping over each other to greet the action going on outside. Vanessa looked like she was going to say something, probably call Brooke out on her reason for bringing her here, but Brooke didn’t give her the chance.

“Aww, aren’t they cute?” Brooke grabbed Vanessa by the hand and yanked her down face to face with a tiny gray one, clearly the runt of the litter, who mewed pitifully at Vanessa. “Look at him, so tiny. Hi, buddy.” The kitten responded by sticking out a paw and catching Vanessa’s hand. Brooke expected her to jump back, maybe to yell, and tense, but to her surprise, Vanessa barely moved. Rather, she cracked a little smile.

“Aw, he a little rascal, ain’t he?” Vanessa stuck a single finger out towards the cage, watching with a surprising amusement as the kitten stuck out its paw and batted at Vanessa.

“Not very scary when they’re that small, are they?” Brooke grinned, and not even the venomous look Vanessa shot her could ruin the smug satisfaction that swelled in her chest, buoying her mood and egging her on.

(5)

Vanessa jolted upright in bed the minute she heard the scratching. “Did you hear that?”

“Mm, hear what?” Brooke stirred beside her, blinking hard and yawning.

“That scratching noise. Shh! There it is again.” Indeed, a little scuffing sound followed, barely audible but no less ignorable to anyone who knew what it signified.

Brooke sighed deeply, but chuckled a little despite herself. “That’s just the cats, baby. They miss us.”

“Oh.” Vanessa seemed to be placated at the answer, but stayed upright, continuing to stare at the door intently.

“Can I let them in? They’re not going to stop otherwise.” As if to illustrate Brooke’s point, a loud, plaintive meow sounded from the other side of the door. Vanessa groaned.

“Fine, but I better not wake up with no scratches on my face, bitch. It’s too expensive for that.”

(6)

Vanessa didn’t wake up with any scratches on her face, but Brooke had to bite her tongue hard not to point out that the smaller queen had woken up with Henry’s furry body snuggled in her arms.

(7)

By day seven, Brooke hadn’t just leaned in to her reputation as a master manipulator; she’d started to wear it as a badge of honour. They were halfway into The Notebook, Vanessa wrapped in a Snuggie while resting her head in Brooke’s lap, when Brooke decided that right then was the perfect time for popcorn.

“No, don’t get up, baby, I’m the one who wants it, I’ll get it.” Brooke slid out from under Vanessa, stroking a gentle hand through her hair before gingerly escaping to the kitchen. She worked fast–swapped out the plain kernels for pre-buttered, quietly took the margarine out of the fridge to coat the bowl lightly before dumping the popcorn in on top of it.

She’d barely sat down again before the cats had appeared, their tails twitching and throats rumbling as they waited for someone to inevitably drop a kernel.

“Gross, why’s it so greasy?” Vanessa scrunched up her nose and wiped her hand off on the fabric of her snuggie, practically inviting Henry to jump up and start sniffing at the oily smear left near her legs. Vanessa kicked him away, but otherwise didn’t react, and to Brooke, that was progress.

(8)

“GET ONE PAW CLOSER, BITCH, I SWEAR TO GOD!”

“Brock? Is everything alright?”

Brooke popped her head out of her room to see Vanessa holding a plate of pasta above her head and Apollo scrambling across the room, his claws scratching against the floor.

“Yeah, mom, everything’s fine.” Brooke went back in and closed the door. “Jo’s just getting used to the cats.”

“Oh. Is that… Does he normally react to things that way?”

There was a clatter outside, a voice growling out some Spanish curse-words, and then silence, followed by a quiet concession. Fine, I’ll pick you up. Fucking bitch.

Brooke shrugged, suppressing a giggle. “It’s not unusual.”

(9)

When Brooke woke up the next morning, Vanessa was sitting on the couch with Henry on her lap.

“Do mine eyes deceive me?” Brooke gasped in mock surprise, “Are you, Jose Cancel, otherwise known as Miss Vanessa Isabella Vanjie Mateo, hater of all things feline, sitting on my couch with a cat on your lap?”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “I don’t want him here, he just jumped up on me.”

“Uh-huh.” Brooke cocked and eyebrow, holding back a smirk. “So why don’t you just get up?”

Vanessa blinked, her face completely blank.

“But… he’s on my lap.”

(10)

Brooke had to admit, she’d never seen Henry or Apollo adjust to a person as fast as they’d taken to Vanjie. Maybe it was the fact that at first, she’d left them alone; maybe it was that she was secretly (allegedly) smearing the waistband of Vanessa’s shorts with just a smidge of butter every night. The details weren’t important. What mattered was, when Brooke and Vanessa went to bed on their second-to-last night together, they left the door open, and the cats slept at the foot of their bed.

(11)

“Awww, bye, little guys!” Vanessa crouched down to meet Henry and Apollo, who had padded over to sniff at the suitcases gathered next to the door and give Vanessa’s ankles a few last licks

“You’re not afraid of the demon-type juju bullshit anymore?” Brooke couldn’t resist teasing the Vanessa as the small queen leaned down to pick Henry up, snuggling into his fur and giving the top of his head a little kiss.

“Okay, maybe I was being a bit dramatic.” Vanessa conceded through a mouthful of fur, rolling her eyes dramatically. “But they’re not that bad, actually.”

“I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason.” Brooke winked, taking Henry from Vanessa’s arms and letting him down onto the floor. “Ready to go?”

Vanessa hesitated for a moment, looking sheepishly from Brooke back to the cats and back to Brooke again. Brooke grinned, a bubble of affection rising up in her chest, forcing its way out in a little laugh.

“It’s okay, babe,” she teased, pushing Vanessa out the door and giving her a quick kiss, “You’re coming back next month.”

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #fluff #domestic #writworm42

[welllpthisishappening]

Idk if you're taking prompts, but if you ever feel compelled: the Blue Line cast reacting to Gritty.

Ok, ok, so you are either a genius or a mind-reader or possibly both because several months ago when Gritty was introduced to the world, I texted @optomisticgirl​ and I was like...I’m going to write about Gritty. And because she is lovely, she encouraged said writing. Only I am woefully bad at posting things in a timely fashion, so it’s just kind of languished in my docs. Until now! 

So here is approximately 6K worth of very tired new-mom Emma, supportive friends, a road trip in Philadelphia and this very specific goal. Also, if you guys have not encountered Gritty yet, let me introduce you:

LOOK AT HIS EYES! WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE. Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam.

“Ok, so, according to your list, we’ve only got the jerseys and the sticks left. Are they all game-worn though? That’s not...that’s not on the list.”Emma made a noise, not sure if it was an agreement or a disagreement or just the general sound of complete and utter exhaustion. She was having a difficult time keeping her head up. And her eyes open. Her eyes actually felt like they were falling down her face.

She was, at least, seventy-seven percent positive that wasn’t supposed to happen.

And, really, in the grand scheme of parenthood and the actual action of parenting in the middle of a season and a second-straight Cup defense, Emma knew a distinct lack of sleep was, more or less, part of the deal.

She also didn’t care.

Because her eyes seemed to have a distinct weight to them and Matt kept crying at regular twenty-minute intervals that appeared to be getting worse the longer they were stuck in Emma’s office. They were still stuck in Emma’s office.

“Em,” Mary Margaret muttered, voice quiet and cautious and that was probably because Emma hadn’t ever stopped making that noise.

She was just kind of grunting at this point.

She had no idea what to do to get her kid to stop crying. It had gotten worse since the game started.

“Are we losing?” Emma asked suddenly, and Mary Margaret’s eyes widened slightly. That was probably because they weren’t weighed down. Metaphorically, or whatever. Emma was far too tired to worry about the metaphors of it.

“No, no, I mean...not winning either, but I don’t think Arthur’s broken that many white boards. So, you know, grand scheme.”Emma made a different noise. She hoped it sounded more like a laugh than it felt. It kind of hurt, like it was lingering in the back of her throat or trying to scratch its way out and none of these things seemed particularly healthy.

“Grand scheme,” she echoed, eyes flitting towards the TV screen in the corner of her office.

They’d done road trips throughout the season – and none of them were particularly easy, but Emma was fairly certain she was still holding on to the majority of her sanity. She was at least confident her eyes weren’t actively trying to fall out of her face.

And she had help, a small army of people and in-laws who were more than happy to pick Matt up or bring Matt somewhere and Emma was fairly sure Merida was still reporting on her eating habits to Killian. It wasn’t easy, but it was ok, and Matt’s eyes seemed to actually light up every single time Killian came home which, in turn, did something incredibly specific to Emma’s entire soul.

This road trip, however, seemed intent on slowly, but surely killing her.

There were teething issues and sleeping issues and the kid seemed determined to to pull himself everywhere – knocking over everything in sight like some kind of six-month-old masquerading as Godzilla. He was still working on sitting up, but Emma had to admit even the attempt was impressive and Killian was convinced their son’s diction meant he was some kind of inevitable genius.

That genius kept him up and babbling for hours at a time.

Emma had no idea if the pile of jerseys behind her was game worn.

“If I fall asleep right here, right now, in front of you, is that going to super weird you out?” Emma asked, gaze flashing towards Mary Margaret. She shook her head.

“I’ve definitely seen you sleep in weirder places.”“Ah, yeah, that’s probably true.”

“That one time, senior year, when David had four finals in one day and you had that ridiculous...what was it...French?”Emma nodded. “French II. Because I needed a language requirement and they wouldn’t take my sports management electives instead.” “God, your dean was the worst.” “That’s an incredibly scathing insult, Reese’s.” “There are children present.” Emma’s laugh was weak at best and drifting dangerously close to depressing, eyelashes fluttering despite the sounds coming from her kid and the hockey game. “I think we’re starting to deal with some object permanence actually. He’s like...aware that I’m not going to disappear if I move away.” “He’s a genius, obviously.” “You and Killian should start some kind of campaign.” “Don’t actually suggest that around him,” Mary Margaret grinned, and she was already starting a new list. “He’d go on the record or shout it from center ice or something.” Emma hummed, not quite able to make any other noise when her heart was so busy doing whatever in her chest, but Mary Margaret was absolutely right and Killian would probably call Dorothy and get some kind of special edition of Sports Illustrated printed. And, honestly, she didn’t mean for the sigh to just fall out of her the way it did, but she’d apparently lost complete control of everything and she needed to find Kristoff.

He had to know about the jerseys.

“Hey, hey,” Mary Margaret said quickly, reaching out and tugging the pen Emma forgot she was holding out of her hand. “What’s going on with you? You know you look kind of pale.”“That’s not really the best way to start this.” “How much sleep would you say you’ve gotten on average in the last week?” “I don’t want to tell you that.” “Why?” Emma lifted her head, slowly and a little repentantly, which didn’t really make any sense because Mary Margaret was not her mother. She was the mother and she was, approximately, eighty-two percent positive she was messing it up.

Matt wouldn’t stop babbling and crying and Emma’s arms felt like they were going to fall off. It was because she kept having to pick him up. So he didn’t knock over merch for whatever Garden of Dreams event they were planning for.

She genuinely could not remember the name of the event.

“You could come back home with us,” Mary Margaret suggested. She’d never let go of Emma’s hand. “We’ve got that pop-up thing and--”“--David’s got to work tomorrow, Reese’s. You’ve got to work tomorrow. The kid wakes up, like, several times a night to scream at the moon or something.” “Did you just suggest your own kid was a werewolf?” “At this point I really don’t know.”

Mary Margaret scoffed and her smile felt a little placating, but Emma was so tired and so sure she was ruining everything that she almost didn’t care. She wanted to be placated. She wanted this road trip to be over.

She desperately wanted to find a children’s medicine that made sure her kid didn’t suffer in agony so he could, eventually, eat solid foods.

“You also have to work tomorrow,” Mary Margaret pointed out. “Just, you know...if we’re covering all our bases.”“You’re mixing up sports references.” “Playing a good shift? Does that even make sense?” Emma shrugged. “That question is way too in-depth for the amount of consistent sleep I’ve been getting. How important do you think it is to get to REM?”

“Incredibly.”“Yeah?” “Yeah,” Mary Margaret nodded. “So, uh, I’m going to say something, ok? And I want you to bite your actual tongue if you have to so you don’t interrupt me because I know you’re going to try and interrupt me.” “That’s actually kind of scathing, Reese’s.” “That’s an interruption.”

Emma mimed zipping her mouth shut, staring at Mary Margaret with something she hoped was as much sarcasm as one expression could contain, but she figured she kind of missed her mark when she had to lean back and move Matt in the swing they’d put him in once the game started.

He would have tried to walk into the TV otherwise, Emma was certain. Object permanence or something. And possibly how much he wanted to see his dad.

She absolutely hated road trips now.

“Alright,” Mary Margaret starts, nodding again like she’s psyching herself up for this particular brand of hope speech. “I know you were off after Matt was born and that was good and, you know, medically necessary, but have you considered...maybe using some of your personal days for stuff like this?”The silence in the room wasn’t really silent – Matt was still babbling and Emma could make out the dim sounds of the puck hitting the boards in Philadelphia and the commentary in the background. She blinked, licking her lips and she wasn’t exactly comfortable, one of her hands still twisted with Mary Margaret’s, while the other tried to move Matt in some kind of consistent rhythm. The babbling was quickly turning to something that sounded like the tell-tale sounds of a complete and utter meltdown.

Emma briefly considered joining him.

“Thoughts?” Mary Margaret asked.

Emma tilted her head. “That doesn’t count as an interruption?”“I actually expected the sarcasm completely, so I’m not even turned off by that at all.” “What are you then?” “Worried about you and your distinct lack of REM sleep. And whatever horrible, no good, very bad things your mind is making you think because of that lack of REM.” Eventually, Emma was sure, Mary Margaret would stop being so impossibly good at reading her or knowing her or, possibly, just sharing a few of the same brain wavelengths. She hoped not.

Because those wavelengths made sure Mary Margaret stayed in the office that night – not bothering to ask, just sitting on the ground and tugging Emma’s list out of her hand with a practiced familiarity that defied decades.

“You should take this show on the road,” Emma muttered, working a quiet laugh and knowing smile out of Mary Margaret. “I bet you could make millions.”“Who would you get to babysit all the time, then?” “You don’t have to do that.” Mary Margaret squeezed her hand. “I want to. A whole line of people want to. Several professional hockey players are beating down metaphorical doors to want to.” “I’m not sure that last sentence made much sense,” Emma laughed, and it was still a little shaky and questionably watery, vision swimming a bit in front of her, but she took a deep breath and that felt like a step in the right direction.

“And I’m not sure you’re qualified to discuss sentence structure.” Emma rolled her eyes. “Honestly though,” Mary Margaret continued. “You don’t have to be some kind of superhero. I know you could be and usually are because, well--”“--You going to get sappy on me, Reese’s?” “Yes, don’t interrupt. I know you were worried about all of this and it happened suddenly and without much planning, and that’s not really your game, but…” She took a deep breath, shoulders heaving with the force of it and Emma didn’t think she imagined the slightly glossy look to her eyes. “You are doing an incredible job, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, no hint of anything except absolute and complete honesty in her voice. “I don’t know how you’re doing it.” “Was that last part a compliment?” “Of the highest order. Because you’re doing it all. That’s kind of where I'm going with this. I know you’re worried. But the crying is normal and the lack of sleep is normal and you could probably call the pediatrician about the teething thing if it’s freaking you out.” Emma let out a breath she didn’t realize she was hoarding, only slightly stunned by the mind reading going on in her office. Matt threw something. The game on TV got louder.

“I just…” Emma muttered, twisting her lips when the words got caught in the back of her throat. With the emotion. There was too much emotion. She was a mess.

“I know you do,” Mary Margaret promised. At some point she’d laced her fingers through Emma’s, thumb tapping just above the relatively-new laces sitting on her left wrist again. “Everyone does. And you are. The crying jags aside, that is the happiest and most loved kid in the entire National Hockey League.”“That’s definitely the marker we were going for.” Mary Margaret scoffed, shifting closer to Emma so she could wipe away a tear she hadn’t noticed either. “Don’t lie to my face like that, it’s not cool.”

Emma nodded, tugging her lips behind her teeth and trying to remember what any semblance of confidence looked like. Matt quieted for a moment, the sounds turning a bit closer to whimpers and that was, somehow, even worse. It made Emma’s body tense and her spine seemed to audibly snap back into place when she jerked around, eyebrows pulled low as her lungs desperately tried to get oxygen back to her brain.

“I know we’re not really doing that whole pronunciation thing yet, kid,” Emma said, pulling out of Mary Margaret’s and tugging Matt against her chest before she could remember all the reasons the websites told her she shouldn't. “But it’d be really great if we could fine tune what, exactly, has got you freaking out so much. Dad’s going to be home tonight.”

It didn’t work.

The sounds were still there – sinking into Emma’s skin and that same soul that never quite knew what to do with the idea that this was her life. She bobbed on her feet, rocking back and forth and trying to find a comfortable way to hold Matt and work her phone out of her back pocket at the same time.

That didn’t work either.

She was going to scream.

Or cry.

Or fall on the floor and sleep for several days.

Matt squirmed against her, tiny hands gripping her shirt and for a kid who seemed particularly interested with the National Hockey League he had a pretty good right kick, a move he appeared intent on perfecting by landing it in Emma’s liver.

“What if we just walked to Philadelphia?” she asked, directing the question more to Mary Margaret than Matt.

Mary Margaret smiled. “I don’t know if that entirely efficient. They’re already at the second intermission anyway and--”She didn’t finish the sentence, footsteps coming down the hall and a noise that might have been genuine laughter and not just exhaustion-induced insanity and Matt nearly flew out of Emma’s arms as soon as Ruby rounded the corner of the open doorway.

She was holding takeout bags. So was Henry. She’d brought Henry with her.

“Hey mini-Jones,” Ruby said, hardly breaking stride as she walked towards him. “You causing problems up here? We could hear you as soon as we got off the elevator.”“Not as soon as we got off the elevator,” Henry objected. “It took us at least a few steps before we heard him. Impressive lungs though.” Emma groaned. “You guys are all throwing out really horrible compliments.” “Aw, c’mon,” Mary Margaret sighed. She hadn’t gotten off the ground. “My compliment was good! And genuine!”

“Also,” Ruby added, moving some of the bags so she had a free hand to tug on the back of Matt’s onesie. “She managed to surreptitiously text me when it was becoming more and more obvious you guys were never getting out of here, so not only do I come with a plethora of promises that you’re the best mom this side of the Mississippi, but I’ve also got just a questionable amount of fried food to back up those claims.”“Do those go hand in hand?” Henry asked. He had to move a few piles of paper on Emma’s desk to find any open space, but there really was a ton of food and he kept smiling and maybe the Rangers would score in the third period.

That was almost optimistic.

Ruby shrugged. “I don’t know and I don't care. Emma’s too tired to be worried about my sentence structure anyway.”

“These are not the compliments I was promised,” Emma said, but she was tired and practically overflowing with sentimental thoughts and deep-rooted parental desires and maybe she’d take tomorrow off.

Merida probably knew what the event was called anyway.

“The compliment is that you’re some kind of super mom who’s really worried about totally normal teething schedules. Also you and Cap need to coordinate your worry a little better because Scarlet said--”“I’m sorry, are you gossiping about mine and Killian’s parenting with Scarlet?” Ruby didn’t quite glare, but it was almost like a scowl and Henry did try to turn his laugh into some other kind of noise. Mary Margaret was never going to get off the floor. “Give me a little credit, Em,” Ruby sighed. “Did you see the way Cap skated in Carolina?” “I watch the games, Ruby.” “Exactly. So we all know that no one in the Jones household is sleeping and you’re both absurd parents--”

“--In a way that is actually a compliment,” Henry added, flashing a smile when Emma’s eyes darted his direction.

“Again, exactly,” Ruby muttered. “But Cap could barely stay on the ice for more than thirty seconds and then they had the off day and now Arthur's breaking whiteboards in Philly and you have no idea what your event is called.”Emma blinked. “How do you know that?” “About the shifts or...because that’s kind of just basic math.” “That’s not really Emma’s strong suit either,” Mary Margaret muttered, shrugging when Emma gaped at her. “French II and that intro to stats we took sophomore year. Your academic downfall.”

“I passed both of those classes,” Emma said, and Henry wasn’t even trying to mask his laugh anymore.

“Ehh…”Emma rolled her eyes, but she didn’t really have a leg to stand on and she needed both of them if she was going to make sure the kid her in arms stayed there. “Is Scarlet worried about Killian’s sleeping habits? Is that what’s happening?” “Robin too,” Henry said, answering a question that wasn’t entirely directed at him. “He said Killian’s trying to murder mattresses.” “That’s impressive,” Ruby muttered. Emma didn’t object when she pulled Matt out of her hands, thankful for the lack of weight on her forearms and the no-longer present threat to a variety of internal organs. “The road trips are going to be garbage from here on out, Em,” she continued. “But we’re all still here and Cap’s destroying hotel furniture because he wants to be home that much and you’re way more organized than you honestly have any right to be and Mer said the jerseys were game-worn. Obviously.” “She didn’t say that second part,” Henry added.

Ruby waved a dismissive hand through the air. “That’s neither here nor there. So, we’ve brought the food, the third period’s about to start. Direct us, o fearless community relations leader. What has to be organized?”They weren’t quite a well-oiled machine – Matt was far too loud and squirmy for that and Emma’s legs didn’t entirely appreciate when she leapt up with five minutes left in the game, but she had some kind of sixth sense, or so Ruby proclaimed, and she might have actually fist pumped when Killian pulled his stick back.

It wasn’t the best shot in the world. It wasn’t even the best shot he’d taken all season. But it was a shot and there was a bit of power on it and her soul did something absurd again.

Mary Margaret’s breath caught. Loudly.

The Philadelphia defense hadn’t stood a chance, not really, and Killian hadn’t been sleeping much either, even when he was home, not really, but he still moved up the ice with a speed that was as ridiculous as attractive and Emma had clearly lost her mind. She wasn’t supposed to be attracted to an attribute of her husband’s game.

Her mind, however, did not care.

Her mind was moving as quickly as he was, a streak of blue up the ice and it was actually some kind of miracle the Philadelphia defender didn’t trip over his own skates. Robin’s pass slide between a pair of orange jerseys and around a stick that wasn’t entirely on the ice, the puck landing in front of Killian and he didn’t slow down when he pulled back. His hips barely moved, like he wasn’t even trying, and Henry mumbled something that sounded a hell of a lot like did that even go in behind Emma.

She nodded.

And the light went off.

She wasn’t sure what noise she made, but Killian spun around, back colliding with the nearest board in the Wells Fargo Center as his arm wrapped around Robin’s shoulders. They did something stupid, a shake of their heads and smiles obvious as the camera zoomed in and--

“Oh, they planned that,” Emma muttered, Ruby’s quiet hum of confusion barely audible when Matt started to make noise again. “They planned that,” she repeated. “The whole play. Did you see that? Robin didn’t even look up. He knew Killian was going to be there.”Emma turned back towards Henry, the smile on his face turning a little smug and a little knowing. “What do you know?” “That Robin was annoyed Killian was trying to pummel hotel mattresses into submission and demanded they discuss some kind of breakout on the power play if they were both going to get negative amounts of sleep.” “That last one verbatim?” He nodded. “It wasn’t a power play though.” “Guess Killian’s just that fast.” “Maybe he could walk back here,” Mary Margaret mumbled, and Matt was logging some pretty good mileage as he moved from person to person in an office filled with now-organized merch.

“I wouldn’t put it past him, actually.”Emma hummed or laughed or dissolved into those emotions that had been tugging at the back of her mind for the majority of the night, and she was almost confident they’d be able to get out of the Garden without anymore issues or concerns regarding her ability to parent, but that lasted less than a full second and the scream that came a few feet away echoed in between her ears.

That wasn’t biologically possible either.

“Oh my God,” she sighed, visibly deflating at Mary Margaret’s wide eyes and Ruby’s not-so-quiet gasp. Emma was going to comp the car she called. She was going to call out the next day. “What is happening here?”

She reached forward, pulling Matt back and wincing at several well-placed kicks. “What are we doing, kid? Did you not just see Dad score? That was a good goal! We’re probably going to win now. Aren’t we cool with winning?”“Ma ma ma ma ma maaaaaaaaa.”

The word got less and less pronounced the more Matt kept repeating it, twisting and turning and yanking on the ends of Emma’s hair and the front of her shirt. His legs flailed and his head dropped back and she was absolutely going to have the most impressive forearm muscles of anyone on the entire island of Manhattan.

“You know, I thought we were almost drifting close to actually falling asleep,” Ruby mused, trying without much success to rest her hand on Matt’s back. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”“Welcome to my world,” Emma mumbled. She shifted her weight between her feet, trying to work back towards the swing and the teething ring that was probably just lukewarm plastic at this point and they’d been doing so well. The road trip was going to end on a high note and she was going to be some kind of mother of the year with a husband whose speed on ice should probably get studied at some point.

That was such a weird sentence.

She was so goddamn tired.

And she didn’t know what to do next.

Emma muttered a string of increasingly absurd nonsense, trying to smile and not burst into tears, but that was proving more and more difficult and she was dimly aware of laughter coming from the TV.

“Oh shit,” Henry whispered, clicking his teeth when Mary Margaret made some kind of reproachful noise. “No, no, no, just...ok, don’t tell Gina I said that, but, listen, Emma, turn around. Don’t let Mattie look at the TV.”That was not the string of words she expected. At all.

“What?”“Where’s your remote?” “What?” Henry growled, his whole head rolling in frustration, and that wasn’t right either. There were takeout containers everywhere. One of them crunched under his feet when he moved, darting towards the TV with his hand already out and Emma was worried he was going to punch through the actual screen.

And that was when she saw it.

“What the hell is that thing?” Emma demanded, gesturing wildly towards the ice in Philadelphia and the furry, orange monstrosity shooting t-shirts out of an air-powered gun. “Oh my God, why are his eyes moving like that?”She expected Ruby to laugh even less than she expected Henry to swear. Maybe she’d just walk home. Screw the car. “Gritty?” Ruby asked, and Emma could not come up with a single word to respond to that.

The stupid thing was trying to dance on the ice. Matt cried louder.

“What is a Gritty?” Emma shouted, Henry still making ridiculous noises because her TV was state of the art or something and there were no buttons on the actual thing. “Ok, ok, Mattie, Mattie, we’ve got to breathe kid, the absolutely terrifying monster is not going to come out of the TV and attack us.”

“Should we be referring to him as a monster?” Mary Margaret asked. She grabbed the jersey on top of the closest pile, throwing it over the TV screen and it didn’t really cover everything, but it was at least a start and Emma was kind of terrified of Gritty.

Whatever that actually was.

“He’s a mascot,” Ruby reasoned. “I mean...we’ve all seen mascots before, right?”Emma shook her head, disbelief in her gaze. “We don’t have a mascot. Oh my God, Reese’s, do you think he was crying about this asshole the whole game?”

“I think that seems entirely possible,” Mary Margaret said, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth.

“This is not funny!”

“I mean…”“It’s not!”

“It’s a little funny,” Henry admitted. He was still trying to find the remote, but the game was almost over and Emma figured even terrifying, demon mascots had to get off the ice when there was a faceoff to take. “How have you never seen Gritty before, he was like...a cultural phenomenon.”“Can we please stop referring to him by his name? That is a man in a suit. An absolutely terrifying, shouldn’t exist suit.” “He’s been around for months, Em,” Ruby said. “All season. Oh.” “Oh. Oh, what?” “And you were worried you weren’t super Mom.” Emma didn’t respond immediately, but she tilted her head and tried not to covet that title too much. She wondered how quickly the entire New York Rangers could get out of Philadelphia. “Where are you going with this?” “They announced the mascot right before the start of the regular season,” Ruby grinned. “Henry’s right. He was all over the news and late night and social media because, you know--” “--He’s terrifying?”

“It’s the eyes, I think. If he didn’t have googly eyes, it wouldn’t be an issue.”“What does this have to do with my parenting skills?” “More like you becoming a parent,” Mary Margaret corrected. “I think you were a little preoccupied with, you know, giving birth to be worried about Philadelphia mascots that never should have existed.” “Wow, that’s harsh, M’s,” Henry muttered, still kind of laughing and he grinned when Emma’s head snapped his direction. “But also true.” “See,” Ruby crowed. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Em. If anything, you’re saving mini-Jones’ mental stability from the get because you made sure he wasn’t aware of a world where Gritty existed. And you totally went into complete Mom mode as soon as Henry said.” Emma wasn’t sure she was actually capable of blushing at this point – her capillaries or whatever were probably too exhausted, but she had never been very good at science either and Matt had finally stopped crying.

Mary Margaret’s eyes were distinctly glossy again.

“It’s ok,” Emma whispered, tightening her hold on Matt slightly and he didn’t squirm at all. He might have burrowed further into her chest. “You’re ok, I promise.”

And she didn’t walk back uptown, both Mary Margaret and Ruby scandalized at even the notion. She sat in the back of a town car instead, a sleeping baby next to her, a quiet that, somehow, made it easier to breathe. Mary Margaret helped her carry everything upstairs.

Emma didn’t plan on falling asleep, but her eyes had other ideas and she didn’t hear the lock click back in place, startling on the couch when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

He grinned at her.

“Hey,” Killian muttered, crouching in front of her and brushing the hair away from her eyes. “You can’t possibly be comfortable.”“I don’t know that I could actually move, honestly.” “I’m not sure that’s much better.” “Nice shot.” “It was an experiment.” “Yeah, I figured,” Emma said, and she appreciated whatever his eyebrows did at that. “Please, Locksley didn’t even lift his head up. Did you have to come up with some kind of signal, or how did it work, exactly?” “Do the years of experience not count?” Emma made a contrary noise, twisting despite the protests from several dozen muscles and Killian, tugging lightly on the loose tie still around his neck. His grin got bigger. “We counted. Scarlet was supposed to pass out of the zone and I had six seconds to get up the ice. Locksley had four to get to the other faceoff circle.” “I wasn’t aware Scarlet was part of the plan.”

Killian hummed, a quick brush of lips over her forehead and it was an impressive exercise in balance. “We had some time to kill.”“So I heard.” “Henry?” “Maybe you’re the genius.” “Ah, that just means it’s genetic,” Killian said. His fingers clearly had minds of their own, drifting over Emma’s neck and her shoulder and the bit of skin where her shirt had twisted underneath her. “You didn’t have to try and wait up for me, love.” “Try being the operative word.” “I appreciate the effort.” “You’ve got to sleep more on the road.”

“You’ve got to sleep more all the time.”She clicked her tongue, scrunching her nose and Killian’s capillaries clearly weren’t too exhausted to blush – particularly on the tips of his ears. “Ruby or Reese’s?” “Both. And David. They’re worried about you.”

“It was just a shitty road trip,” Emma whispered, not trusting herself to do anymore. Plus the sleeping kid a few feet away. Especially the sleeping kid a few feet away. “Did you hear about the mascot incident?”Killian blinked. And blinked again. “What?” “There is apparently some kind of actual monster masquerading as a mascot in Philadelphia and our kid is fundamentally terrified. Screamed every single time they showed him on the broadcast. Apparently.” “Apparently?” “I didn’t realize until the third period.” Emma’s nose was going to get stuck that way. Her sigh sounded impossibly pathetic when it fell out of her, throat tightening against the wad of everything stuck in the back of it and Killian really could not have been comfortable. He didn’t move. “We can’t fix everything, Swan,” he said softly, fingers still tracing absent minded patterns on any bit of skin he could find. “I don’t think there’s a clause for mascots anywhere.” “And you’ve read enough websites. You’d totally have found it.” “So would you, love.” “I’m so tired.” It wasn’t an admission, not really. Everyone knew. Strangers on the street knew. Gritty probably knew. God, she hoped Gritty didn’t know. But it kind of felt like one anyway, and she really could not cope with the realization that it only took Killian six seconds to get up an entire NHL-size hockey rink.

And she hadn’t really considered the fact that he hadn’t kissed her yet, but the move still caught Emma by surprise, quick and somewhere dangerously close to bruising and they were both slightly codependant disasters who just wanted to give their kid the world – particularly one without horrifying and badly named mascots.

“So we should probably get you off the couch,” Killian said, standing back up and Emma didn’t take his hand so much as she threw her palm against his. He laughed under his breath. “Move the kid? Don’t move the kid?”“Move the kid,” she groaned. “He’s bound to wake up soon anyway, I think he’s preprogrammed to know when you get home.” Killian’s ears got redder. And that was worse than recorded speed on the ice.

He brushed his lips over her cheek, moving across the living room and Matt didn’t wake up immediately, but he twisted and made a few pointed noises, Killian only wincing slightly when he bobbed on his feet to try and quiet him. “The workout after the workout,” Emma muttered, a hand on his shoulder and body against his back, and she swore she heard him smile.

“Ah, this is better.”“A line.” “A first line, actually. That’s got a very impressive plus-minus rating in the last few games.” “Are we acknowledging that stat?” “When it benefits me.” Emma laughed, pressing her face into the fabric underneath her cheek and if she was going to keep making sweeping assumptions regarding Killian, then she was positive she felt some of his muscles loosen underneath her. “Parents of the year,” she mumbled.

“I bet we could organize some charity event to practice slapshots at Gritty’s face.”“That’s violent.” “In defense of a kid, Swan.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Emma agreed, and there were feeding schedules and equipment to move, but sleep was almost there and it was always easier when she and Killian were in the same bed. “C’mon, if we don’t move, I’m going to fall on top of you.” “Not the worst thing in the world.” “That was another line.” “Yeah, it was,” Killian said, an easy nod and smile and they both slept through their alarms the next morning.

And Gritty never really went away, a lesson Emma wasn’t entirely sure she appreciated, but was sure the world thought was important – something about confronting fears and our own childhood worries and the ability to overcome both. The mascot was still there, orange with far too much fur and those goddamn googly eyes, terrifying Matthew Jones for the majority of his childhood and road trips he and his, eventual, younger sister got to go on.

The mascot was still there, shooting t-shirts into a screaming crowd at Wells Fargo, nearly two decades later and Emma hadn’t considered the implications of that when she put on a different jersey with the same name and number as it always was. At least she hadn’t until Henry chuckled lightly next to her, elbowing something that might have been her spleen to get her attention.

“Did you tell Rol?” she asked, glancing towards the grown man with his own kids who was doing a pretty good job of being super dad too. “Mattie’ll be mad if Rol’s got something else to trash talk tonight.” Henry shook his head. “Who do you think I am, Emma?” “Someone who knows about a professional hockey player’s deep-rooted mascot fears.” “You’re making assumptions. And, no, I never told Rol. It’s Matt’s first game in Philadelphia. I’m excited for him. I’m not a jerk.” “But?” “How do you know there was a but?”

Emma pulled her eyes away from the ice, nerves churning and pulse beating loudly in her veins and she’d been far too concerned about Matt playing in Philadelphia for the first time and playing against Roland, but Henry just smiled at her. The kid standing at his feet tugged on his jersey. A Locksley jersey. Always now.

“But,” Henry echoed. “We did discuss some quick exit options out of the arena if he’s suddenly attacked by Gritty.”

Her laugh jumped out of her, entirely impossible and far too loud to be acceptable and Emma didn’t think before flinging her arms around Henry and hugging him as tightly as she could. He hugged her back.

“I doubt the mascot will attack,” Henry muttered. “But now, at least, we’re prepared.”“Exactly.” The mascot didn’t come back onto the ice in the first period, but Matthew Jones, making his Philadelphia debut against the guy who helped him practice the wristshot he was quickly becoming known for, made it up the ice in seven seconds flat, the puck on his stick and the light going off almost as soon as he pulled back to shoot.

Emma jumped and Henry jumped and Killian might have hit the window of the suite, pride practically radiating off him. “We’ll get that time down, Swan,” he promised. “Five by the end of the regular season.”

“Parents of the year,” Mary Margaret said, a twenty painted on both of her cheeks that were quickly getting smuged by the tears in her eyes. “With some headlines to prove it.”

Emma didn’t answer – absolutely could not answer while her kid was still celebrating – but she nodded and Killian tugged her against his side, a kiss to her temple and the belief that they’d done something good.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #blue line one shots #please look up gritty's packing list for the all-star game #it's gold #justanotherwannabeclassic #laura rambles

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Hey ARC prompt, Ruby’s first serious SO is coming over for meet the parents dinner.

Bridget smoothes the front of her dress, and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her heart pounds as she stares at the black paint of the door in front of her. God, her palms are sweating. She can’t meet Ruby’s parents with damp palms. Gross. They’re going to think she doesn’t wash her hands.

Her vision pulses in time with her heart.

She could still bolt. She could flee to the furthest reaches of Panama, and text Ruby she got sick.

But no. One thought of Ruby’s disappointment nips that in the bud. She couldn’t do that to Ruby.

Instead, she reaches out and raps sharply on the door, sealing her fate.

The door swings open to reveal Ruby on the other side, offering a smile just as nervous as her own.

“Hi! Come in!” she says breathlessly. Ruby starts and stops awkwardly a few times, before they finally manage to meet in a stiff, chaste hug. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Bridget smiles. “Me too. Your house is awesome.”

“Thanks,” Ruby returns. She rolls her eyes, and suddenly the tension melts away. “I spent months getting the decor right.” They giggle together for a second, and then Ruby slips her hand into Bridget’s. “Come on. Kitchen’s this way.”

The kitchen feels like it could swallow the apartment Bridget shares with her mom twice over. She tries not to stare, and finds a distraction in the willowy woman who looks up from the stove at their entrance. In an instant, Bridget knows this is Ruby’s first mom, Sam. She had Ruby’s nose.

Or Ruby has hers. Whatever.

“Hi!” Mrs. Arias chirps, offering a broad smile as she wipes her hands on a towel. “You must be Bridget.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bridget feels the look Ruby shoots her. Ma’am? God she’s so nervous. She wipes her palm on her skirt again before shaking Mrs. Arias’ hand. “Thank you for having me. You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you, that’s so kind of you to say.”

Bridget’s heard her mom whispering with the other PTA moms, snidely gossiping about Mrs. Arias’ age. Bridget has a single mom too, but apparently the fact that she was married first makes it okay, even if Bridget never knew her dad. But Mrs. Arias exudes calm, like she’s done this a million times before. Considering her own mom was fussing even worse than Bridget was on the way over, it’s a stunning difference.

“Bridget, do you like pasta? I made some baked ziti for dinner, but if you’d like something else–”

“Oh, no! Pasta is fine. Great! I love pasta.” Ruby’s hand gives a gentle squeeze. Relax, it says. It’s okay. “Thanks.”

Sam nods warmly. “Great. There’s also green beans and garlic bread. Rubes, Lena’s still on her way. Is it okay if we wait?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Go ahead and grab yourselves some drinks, okay? Bridget, please make yourself at home. We’re really happy to have you.”

By the time Ruby shoves a glass of Coke in her hand and pushes her onto the couch in the living room, Bridget feels like she’s about to melt into a puddle.

“Okay, you need to breathe,” Ruby hisses.

Bridget sucks in a giant breath. “Oh my god your mom is so nice. She’s so chill! Does she have a condition? Parents aren’t supposed to be so, so–”

“Normal?”

“Yes!” Bridget gulps at her soda. “You didn’t warn me she was cool, Rubes.”

Ruby draws back with an incredulous arch of her brow. “Um, excuse me? She’s the coolest. But don’t worry, she’s also the biggest dork in the galaxy, so–”

Bridget’s attention wanders at the sight of motion in the kitchen. A tall woman with short hair enters, wrapping her arms around Mrs. Arias from behind as she works. Bridget can only see their backs, but the exchange is so soft, and punctuated with an awkward over-the-shoulder kiss, that Bridget can barely breathe.

She knows she can be happy as a gay woman. She’s read all the blogs and connected with happy, attached queer couples, knows what her future can be if she stays hopeful. But she’s never seen it.

She’s never seen her future so clearly illustrated before.

God, she wants it.

She wants it so bad.

Ruby nudges her gently, pulling her focus back around. Bridget blinks back tears, clearing her throat. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Ruby gets it. She doesn’t understand how lucky she has it, but knows what it means to Bridget.

The short-haired woman comes to join them in the living room. Bridget surges to her feet, pasting a smile on her face. “Hi, Lena! I’m Bridget. Bridget Tennyson.”

She sticks out her hand, knowing full well she’s coming on way too strong, but she’s committed now. Might as well lean into it. Lena accepts Bridget’s hand with an amused smile.

“Hi, Bridget Tennyson,” the woman says. “I’m Alex, actually.”

Ruby snorts. Bridget suddenly wonders if it’s possible for her to melt into the carpet and disappear completely. Because that would be preferable to the hot blush that burns at her cheeks as she robotically continues to shake Alex’s hand.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Alex assures her. “Don’t worry, you’ll know Lena when you see her.”

Ruby tugs at Bridget’s skirt. “Stop shaking her hand, Bridge.”

Bridget releases Alex’s hand in a snap. “Sorry! I, ah–”

“It’s cool.”

No, Alex is cool. Not just chill, like Mrs. Arias, but cool. Motorcycle cool. Professional side cut cool. Could crush a guy’s nuts in her bare hand cool.

Ew. Stop it, Bridget.

“But speaking of Lena, she’s actually going to be later than expected, so we’re going to start without her. That okay, Rubes?”

“Are you sure? We don’t mind waiting.”

Alex nods. “Apparently there’s bad traffic downtown. She asked us to start.”

Ruby looks at Bridget, who manages to shrug. She just wants the ground to open up and swallow her so she can forget the last few minutes ever happened. “Okay,” Ruby responds. “Let’s eat.”

Dinner is… normal? Like, shockingly normal. Well, aside from the fact that conversation frequently shifts back to Bridget. But it’s not an interrogation. There’s no hard-hitting questions about her intentions towards Ruby, or her plans for the future.

Despite the way Alex looks at her like she knows Bridget snuck a frog into her teacher’s desk back in the second grade, it all feels like a normal dinner conversation. Bridget feels her nerves relax a little, as warmth and laughter seep into her bones.

It all snaps back when the front door opens and a body bustles inside.

“Lena!” Ruby calls, breaking into a beaming grin.

“Lena!” Alex and Sam echo in unison, teasing and warm all at once.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry, Ruby,” Lena Luthor breathes as she walks in, making a beeline for Ruby’s seat. Bridget’s jaw drops. “I tried to get out early, but Supergirl had other plans, apparently. I got here as soon as I could.”

Lena Luthor presses a kiss against Ruby’s head, and envelops her in a one-armed hug around the back of her chair. “I know tonight is special.”

“It’s okay. We saved some for you.”

Bright eyes meet Bridget’s over the top of Ruby’s head. “Hi, there. So lovely to finally meet you, Bridget.”

Bridget stares. Her mouth flops open and closed for several moments, but only a squeak emerges.

Ruby comes to her rescue. “You know what? I need a break before dessert.”

“Good idea,” Sam chimes. “Why don’t you two hang out upstairs while we clear the table.”

“Thanks!” Ruby yanks on Bridget’s hand and hauls her towards the stairs. In the safety of Ruby’s room, Bridget finally gasps back to life.

“Oh my god, Ruby!”

“What’s gotten into you?” Ruby hisses back.

“Into me! You– you’re– that was Lena Luthor!”

Ruby shrugs. “So? I talk about Lena all the time.”

“You talk about Lena all the time! You never said she was Lena Luthor! Jesus fuck, Ruby. A little warning would have been nice!”

“Hey, it’s not my fault! I’ve never made my moms a secret.”

Bridget snorts. Suddenly there are tears burning behind her eyes and in her nose and her throat locks tight. “Right. Moms. You forgot to mention you have three of them!”

At that, Ruby’s expression turns cold. “You got a problem with that?”

Blinking, Bridget bursts into tears. “No!” Her voice cracks, and no matter how many times she wipes her eyes the tears don’t stop. “God, of course not! I just– it’s just…”

Bridget’s mom loves her. But Bridget’s seen the books her mom hides in her bedside drawer, and noticed the way she doesn’t comment on indecency the way she used to. Her mom loves her, but accepting Bridget’s sexuality is a work in progress. It doesn’t come naturally. But Ruby…

Ruby not only has parents who understand– she has not two, but three parents who know what it’s like to be her. Three moms who took one look at Bridget and welcomed her like it’s as easy as breathing.

She doesn’t know how she’s going to go back home tonight, to a small apartment with one mom who has to work to accept her.

Ruby touches her shoulder awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Before she can say anything, a soft knock sounds at her door. “Just a minute!” Ruby calls.

Turning, Bridget hides her tears from their visitor as Ruby cracks the door open. A soft voice asks to come in. Bridget hears Ruby hesitate, before the door creaks open. Then…

“Rubes, can you give us a minute?”

Ruby must be glad for the save, because she slips out without a word. Guilt floods Bridget. She’s supposed to making a good impression, not crying in her girlfriend’s bedroom in front of one of her three moms. She hastily tries to wipe her tears away, but they only smear across her face, mingling with new ones that continue to leak like the traitors they are.

“Hey, Bridget. I know it can be a little overwhelming meeting family for the first time. Especially when it’s the kind of family you didn’t know could ever exist.”

Sniffling, Bridget says nothing.

“Ruby’s pretty amazing. She’s probably the most resilient person I’ve ever met. But with her ability to settle into new normals so quickly– I think sometimes she forgets how special her family is.”

When Bridget finally turns, Lena Luthor is sitting on the edge of Ruby’s bed, still looking pretty and elegant in her work clothes. Red lips curve into a warm smile.

“Especially to girls who’ve never seen themselves in others before.”

Bridget coughs a laugh, nodding. When Lena Luthor pats the bed next to her, Bridget sits. When Lena turns her hand over in invitation, Bridget takes it. Lena’s skin is warm to the touch, and it bleeds the tension from her in an instant.

“But it’s okay,” Lena promises. “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, and also happy, and hopeful. It’s okay to have questions, and ask them. We may not have all the answers,” she laughs, “but you can ask.”

Bridget smiles wetly. “Pretty sure you do,” she mutters. “I’ve seen your TEDTalks.”

Lena’s grin scrunches her nose, and suddenly, she doesn’t look like Lena Luthor, CEO and billionaire. She looks like a mom. “I promise you, quantum physics is a breeze compared to relationships.”

This time, Bridget manages to actually chuckle. “Do you think you guys could be a little less nice? I don’t know how to process how great you guys have been.”

“Not a chance,” Lena gives her hand a squeeze. “But I will battle you for the last slice of Ruby’s tiramisu. It’s amazing.”

Bridget nods. “I can work with that.”

“Are you ready to go back down? We can take another minute if you need it.”

God. Would she please stop being nice?

“I’m okay.” Bridget groans, wiping her face. “I probably cried off all my makeup.”

“Come on,” Lena says, tugging her up. “I’ll help you touch up and then we can go save Ruby from pacing a hole in the floor.”

Bridget ends up sitting on the closed toilet lid while Lena reapplies eyeliner and eye shadow with practiced precision, all while somehow executing the most elegant half-squat in a pencil skirt that Bridget’s ever seen. When she checks herself in Lena’s compact mirror, Bridget looks better than she did when she arrived.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

She offers the mirror back, which Lena takes before catching both of Bridget’s hands in hers.

“I need you to listen to me, Bridget.” Green eyes stare into hers with startling intensity, until Bridget nods. 

“You are never a bother. If you ever, ever need anything, you come here. You can call Ruby, you can call me or Alex or Sam. Our door is always open to you. Do you understand?”

Oh, god. She’s going to cry again. She bobs her head frantically.

“And don’t you ever apologize for existing, exactly the way you are.”

Bridget swears she blacks out. Nothing else could explain the split second change from sitting on the toilet to suddenly wrapping her arms around Lena Luthor, and the warmth of Lena’s return hug tightening around her.

Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you thankyou…

“Come on,” Lena whispers. “Let’s go eat cake.”

But she maintains the hug until Bridget pulls away, and even then her arm remains around Bridget’s shoulders as they make their way back downstairs. It only slips away when Bridget moves to join Ruby on the couch, while Lena detours to the kitchen, letting the girls have a minute to themselves.

“Sorry I bailed on you,” Ruby murmurs. “I kinda freaked.”

“It’s okay.”

“You good?”

Bridget looks past Ruby’s shoulder to where her moms stand around the kitchen island. Lena’s already hooked an arm around Alex’s waist, and her free hand links loosely with Sam’s. She looks comfortable, and confident, and happy. When she notices Bridget watching, one eye flickers in the barest hint of a wink.

“Yeah,” Bridget sighs, leaning into Ruby’s shoulder. “I’m good.”

#prompt-a-thon #uncagedrage #agentreigncorp #arc #ruby's so #lena luthor #alex danvers #sam arias #ruby arias #bridget #bridget's now a thing y'all #i love her #happy #good #meet the parents #i'd watch the fuck out of this #i wrote dis #wall of text #sorry not sorry

[atrixfollies]

Just cos this helps me to clear up my ideas.

I wasn’t sure if talking about this, because it's a delicate subjet. But it's not something I can hide.  Sooner or later everything that happens to me in rea life gets reflected on my art anyways, so, I thought it might make good to my soul and mind to talk about it a bit. And finally get over this issue.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying so hard to befriend this artist since last year’s December. I’ve been neglecting my personal art projects and my comission work, and spent the very few free time I have (when I wasn’t at my job or looking for a job) trying to "make things clic" with him. But things didn’t really turned out well for me. I have the worst luck you know...

Also, I write this in order to not worrying my mom more. I've talked about this with her today because I needed a bit of comfort, but now I feel guilty cos I just gave her extra stress and made her feel bad without intention. She's got a lot of things to worry about, finantially, health (she has high pressure issues) and also issues with my dad cos he cheated on her, and they are getting divorced. And it's been hard for me and my siblings too. I don't want to bother my friends personally either, because I know they have busy lifes as well, and a couple of them are passing through even hardest times than me in this moment.

So…On December last year I found a fellow artist I fell in love with him.

He’s an illustrator, 2D animator and an streamer like me. And honest to god, he has the most beautiful and cool voice I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear. Combined with a very heartwarming, positive and enthusiastic personality. He have a lot of things in common also in personal tastes I realized.

So I tried to befriend him, as it was natural, cos I think new friendships with artists I admire are always cool. Also, is a good base to lead to a romantic relationship in the future, and that's what I aspired. So I went to watch his stream when I could, and I tried to give my feedback in his artwork posts on twitter and dA, and in general, to make him know his art worths a lot. But it didn't worked...

Time passes and I thought I had at least catched his attention, because he started to follow me on Twitter. So I felt myself lucky and I thought to take the advice that my mom and a friend gave me, and to try to get closer to him to buid up a good friendship, and I was planning to tell him about my romantic feelings for him after being friends. Because I didn't want to rush things up. I wanted to know him a bit better before being vulnerable in front of him.

So that was my plan. And I thought it was a good one…it seemed like a great plan.

So time passed and I tried to hang out with him, to talk with him, but he didn't seem to be interested on me as a person, or as an artist either. On all that time, he only replied a couple of my messages, and even so, it gave me the impression every time I talked to him, he felt like if I was bothering him. so I couldn't stablish a friendship with him as I planned.

…But that's not the worse! The worse it's that, yesterday, I went to see what was new on my social networks, and saw on his Twitter a post about him meeting a girl a few of days ago on an online game, and announcing they were dating.

Which it’s strange to me cos it’s a person who appeared from nowhere, recently joined to twitter and has only 1 tweet O_O And if you google for her with that nickname she has on twitter, there's nothing about her on other sites on the internet. Plus, he knew her just a couple of days ago. In my case, I know him since last year.

Well in any case. As you can imagine…this is probably the end for this story.

And the end of my hopes to find a true love, who I can love and who loves me back…

Cos you know, I’m one of these peeps who, when they fall in love, their heart belongs to only one person. So this probably means…

…that I’ll be all alone for all the rest of my life.

I feel devastated! This news broke up my heart to the core.... ...into very tiny pieces, and I think they cannot be put up together again…

At least right now I think so...And honest to God I don’t know what to do!

What I should do now? Should I keep following him and supporting his work and try to build up the friendship? Or should I just unfollow him and remove him from my social networks, to not suffer in the future?

Why God lets these things happen?...

And most important What I can do to take away the pain?….

Also… I can’t help but wonder if I picked up the wrong advice, I mean, if I was too slow and I should just have told him my feelings when I first met him like another a friend advised me, instead of waiting, like  my mom advised me.

I also wonder if I’d ever had any chance with him, too. I mean, seeing how much I struggled to make him notice me, maybe I wouldn’t have had much chance with him anyways. I think if he was in love with me whe we first met, he would have payed attention to me since the beginning and talked to me…and commenting on my art and liking it, and that didn’t happen.

One doesn’t choose to who you fall in love with…it just happens. And right now I feel like the feeling that it's conveyed in this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEnUhjmwjlI

…But well, one can choose what to do in the case things don’t come out well for you and you’re not loved back.

I do love him, I love him with all my heart! So I only wish for him all the happiness in the world, and that all his dreams and his artistic projects come true! And of course, I’d still like to keep supporting his art, and I'd still like to be part of his life, even if not in a romantic way, but I still would like to become a good friend to him one day. So I think I can't help... I’ll always love him and support him, even if he never loves me the same way. Or even if he doesn't love me at all? Because  that’s how true love is. When you love someone, you want their happiness, and you're happy if they're happy, even if they don't love you back.

In the other hand, I've talked with my mom and she told me that I was being dumb with this way of thinking, and that it was better for me to just forget the dude, since he clearly wasn't interested in me. 

And that by keeping supporting him and his art knowing he doesn't care about me I was going to be even more stupid cos it was going to be hurtful for me in a long time terms, and that is like if I didn't have any dignity. So, it's actually a case of lack of dignity what I have? I wonder.

In any case, right now I'm seriously thinking I'm going to dismantle all my art related sites and retire from art.

Parce que putain! Almost all my future artistic projects (wether animation or illustration, or artcrafts) were inspired on him. So right now, that I've realized he doesn't appreciate me, not even as a friend... I feel like all my motivation and inspiration to art it's gone! Et ça fait sacrement mal au coeur!!

So I frankly don't know what to do... So yesterday I spent all day and night crying, and praying God…I prayed to seek God’s wisdom.

And I hope he can give me the strength and the wisdom to do the best thing in this situation…I hope I can find the answar that will help me to find peace and solace in my heart…

[commander-yinello]

Trying to be better, part 2

If you haven’t read part 1, this story won’t make any sense! Below and under the cut, part of me sailing the crackship Echosung into slightly more serious waters. I hope you enjoy! <3

4:45 PM. She sighed as she held her phone in the air, time telling her how little she had done today. A soft whine and the scratching of nails came from beside her bed, Lady insisting that she needed to go out for a walk.

“Yes, yes. Gimme a minute to get ready,” she responded, pushing herself off her bed, blowing wavy hair out of her face. Lady didn’t seem to care for her owner’s prep time, running in circles in the hope time would go faster. Long used to her poodle’s antics, Kyungju dropped her phone on the desk next to her wardrobe.

It was right then a new notice popped up on her screen. She expected another meme from the chatroom with her overseas friends, but it was an e-mail. An e-mail with a particularly unexpected sender that made her swipe it away.

“Mom!” she yelled towards her open door while she attempted to brush out the creases in her dress so it didn’t look like she used them as pajamas. “Did you give the agent from Heart & Seoul Models my private email address?”

The gentle tapping of heels on marble followed, her mother’s shadow cast on the cream-colored wall. “Of course, I did dear! Why wouldn’t I?”

She groaned. “What the fuck, mom?!”

“Kyungju Choi, I told you to stop swearing!”

“And I told you, I don’t want these agents to be able to contact me!” Irritated, she brushed her hair down with her hands. Lady followed her every move, doing her best for constant attention.

“I don’t know why you’re so against becoming an idol again. You were so successful last time.”

She nearly lost balance, putting on her blazer and trying to win the argument. “I don’t want that anymore! It ended in a bunch of really bad bullshit, or did you somehow forget that we moved to Europe?”

“You made a mistake that you’re not going to make again. Your father and I agree that you need to be doing something other than loafing about and taking the odd modelling job. Or did you plan on finding a rich man and marrying him?”

“No!” Kyungju yelled. “God mom, I can’t believe you’re still suggesting that!”

Now properly dressed, she slipped her phone in her pants pocket and eyed the unpacked moving boxes in the corner as she left her room, making her way to the stairs in the hallway. Her mother stood on the ground floor, wearing a frilly apron, the only sign she was a housewife - unlike her hair in a tight bun and a face full of bold make-up. Kyungju glared as she ran down, but her mother had always been better in the glaring game. Lady hopped down the stairs, tail wagging from the noise they produced, noise she saw as fun and exciting like all noise really.

“God blessed you with a beautiful body and you’re wasting it,” her mom continued to nag as Kyungju tugged on her boots and jacket. “You may not have been able to charm that albino boy, but he’s young and poor - there’s plenty of older, richer, more interested men you should be aiming for.”

She couldn’t stand hearing more. “I can make it on my own, just give me time to figure out how. Come Lady,” she beckoned, and her poodle obeyed, trotting along while Kyungju grabbed the leash off the coat hook. “I’ll see you tonight mom,” she said, leaving her home for the city streets.

Her mother was merciful and closed the door behind her without another word. Kyungju sighed while Lady sniffed every possible corner and tree she could find, running back when she was called, allowing herself to be leashed. The fluffy ball of energy proceeded to pull Kyungju along the pavement while she pondered.

Her mother was making too big a deal out of this. They just moved here, surely she was going to find something, a job she could be proud of and that had nothing to do with Echo Girl. She nodded while pouting, ignoring the confused face the woman passing her made.

Rush hour had ended, and the once crowded streets slowly found silence as employees and students ran into their homes for dinner and relaxation. Kyungju turned the corner and ended up in a small shopping centre where everyone was closing up. At the end of the plaza Kyungju spotted the small building with illustrated cats and dogs on the windows, a sight that brightened her mood instantly.

Yoosung’s clinic. It wasn’t actually Yoosung’s clinic, he was just one of the vets working there, but in her mind it was. Conveniently close to her house, she had rushed Lady there - best idea she ever had. For once she was glad Lady was such a glutton.

Through the glass, she saw the blond behind the counter, busy with a customer, his red glasses nearly on the top of his nose while looking down. He’s cute, she thought. Against all of her expectations, Yoosung was understanding and warm. She smiled and began to walk over eagerly, feeling like Lady about to get a treat.

Guilt struck her, making her halt. Lady tried to run ahead and strained against the leash a few times before giving up and sitting down, scratching herself.

Kyungju bit her lip, continuing to stare at Yoosung who had no idea she was out here. Tempted as she was to enter the clinic and come up with some excuse to ask Yoosung out for an official coffee date, she couldn’t justify it. Yoosung was around her age and had his shit together better than her. No doubt her mom would be very pleased to know her daughter planned to hit it off with a doctor. An animal doctor, not that that would stop mother from counting in paychecks.

What was she even thinking? With a history like hers, it wasn’t right for her to ask him out. His friends, her parents, possibly even him, they’d all get the wrong idea. She had gotten a crush on another RFA member. What if she was responsible for causing a rift between Yoosung and the RFA?

And surely a guy like Yoosung must have a girlfriend as sweet as him already.

She spun around, fully intent on marching back to her house, only to be met with a man who obstructed her entire view. Startled, she took a few steps back. The man wore a typical gray office suit and his balding head was shiny from all the gel. His eyes widened as his amazement grew upon staring at her, dropping his suitcase next to his feet.

“Erm… Can I help you?” Kyungju asked.

“Echo Girl!” the man exclaimed in joy, clapping his hands together. “I can’t believe it’s really you! It’s me, Ben! I was- no, am!- your biggest fan, I used to send you a letter every month. Do you remember?”

Shit. “Ah… Not really. My agent let interns open the fanmail, I... didn’t.” Unpaid interns, she remembered. She didn’t want to bother with anything that wasn’t Zen back then.

Ben blinked at her. “What do you mean, you sent me replies back! They even had cute signatures! I really felt like we connected!”

“Automated reply letters,” Kyungju answered sheepishly.

“And the personalized autographed photo?”

“A copy. And the signature was never mine.”

Kyungju felt Lady paw at her ankles. Ben seemed lost, brows furrowing as he processed this new information. “I don’t… I don’t understand! We didn’t have something special back then? Why?”

“Because I didn’t care about anyone except me back then. Surely you must have read the scandal about me.”

The middle-aged man shook his head. “The magazines reported something, but it seemed more like a typical idol scandal. But then you disappeared. The fan club assumed you abandoned us.”

“It’s true, I did.” Better he knew now she was garbage. “It’s okay if you’re mad.”

His face completely fell. “I can’t believe this. I thought you had maybe some kind of family crisis and would come back in the future. I was hoping for your come-back! And then I could genuinely claim I am the number one fan!”

Lady reacted to his anger, growling as loud as a tiny poodle could. “God, I shouldn’t have wasted so much time on someone like you! Do you know how many you fooled with the fake crap you sold them? Was your singing even genuine or autotuned?”

“It was real,” she said, cruel words crash making her heart hurt. Lady was barking now, causing other shopkeepers to peer through their windows. Damn it, she swore quietly.

He jabbed a finger, nearly poking her chest. “Real my ass! You are supposed be pure, kind-”

“Hey!” came a sudden new voice, and they both turned towards the man with glaring purple eyes standing next to her. When had Yoosung snuck up on them?

Turned out Yoosung can be very intimidating, Kyungju discovered. His hands were clenched and his posture, wider from the white coat he wore, made him look ready to attack. The sweet, soft boy image of him she harbored since last time was nowhere to be found and she didn’t know whether to be fascinated or terrified. “What are you doing?!”

Ben bristled. “What am I doing? I’m giving this fake piece of shit what she deserves, that’s what!”

“How dare you talk to her like that - she’s still a human being!” Yoosung yelled back at him.

“It’s alright,” Kyungju said to Yoosung, who had moved in front of her, partially blocking her view of the angry fan. “I don’t mind, he has the right to.”

“Don’t say that!” Yoosung whirled around, expression equal parts anger and shock. “Kyungju, you can’t let him treat you like this!”

“Why not?” She bit back. “It’s true what he’s saying, isn’t it?”

“Why does that matter?!” He said, before pinching the bridge of his nose, calming down considerably. “I mean, yes, you did some bad things in the past. I don’t think anyone would dispute that.” He sighed, shoulders drooping. “But it’s obvious you’re genuinely sorry for what you’ve done. Letting yourself get verbally abused like this isn’t helping anyone. Why didn’t you tell him what you told me?” He gestured towards Ben, who stared at them considerably confused.

“This is different. He doesn’t know me.”

Yoosung gently took hold of her shoulders, and she recognized the same comforting gesture she gave him in the café. “Neither did I really, before we met. And even then, I was impressed by you. Everyone else would be too, if they knew. I’m sure of it.”

The dam she didn’t know she had inside her burst. Her eyes started to well up. Embarrassed, she rubbed them vigorously with the palm of her hand, feeling the heat of her cheeks. “Why are you so sweet?” she asked with a small pout. “I don’t deserve that kindness.”

“Of course you do. One day I’ll make you believe it.” Suddenly shy, he let go and blushed a little, aware of what he had said. Kyungju couldn’t help but giggle.

The sound of shoes scuffing the pavement brought about the startling reminder that they were never alone. Ben was still next to them, lost and hands raised awkwardly.

“Err…” he started.

“Look,” Kyungju intercepted, turning to him and clapping her hands together. “I can’t change the past and give you back your lost time. But I am genuinely sorry, and I have changed. I won’t be performing anymore.”

Ben returned to rage mode. “What does sorry do for me?! Do you think just cuz you’ve got a cute face that I’m going to forgive you?”

Kyungju grimaced. How long was this guy going to go on before she would have to threaten him? “I’m not asking for your forgiveness.”

“You should, because I’m done with you! It’s over!!” he yelled, grabbing his suitcase, walking off with his nose in the air. “Goodbye forever!”

Ben marched off, leaving the two blinking at the sudden turn. He had left the street before Kyungju and Yoosung grasped what had just happened, picking up the jaws that had dropped off. Then, she heard Yoosung attempt to muffle his snickers and before she knew it, they both laughed in unison.

“Wow, did you have to deal with his type all the time? I would go crazy,” Yoosung replied after he calmed down.

“Not all the time, thankfully.” Kyungju let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks Yoosung, I appreciate it.”

“No worries, when I saw you and that asshole outside, I couldn’t hold myself back.” Bashful, Yoosung scratched the back of his head.

How does he switch from scary to adorable so fast? Kyungju wondered. “I’m sorry for distracting you from your work.”

“We were closing up, so it’s fine. But what brings you back here again?”

“I live close by. And I, eh, I decided to pass by while walking Lady,” Kyungju admitted, blushing more.

“It’s good to see you still healthy! Haven’t been eating anything weird, have you?” Yoosung said as he bent down to pat Lady, who jumped to try to put her paws up as high as she could on Yoosung’s clean pants.

With things having calmed down, Kyungju followed Yoosung to his clinic, waiting inside while he locked up, his co-workers waving at them just like last time. She waved back as Lady chewed on her leash in boredom.

“Oh, Jaehee asked me to tell you that her café has new latté flavors. Maybe you’d like to try them?” Yoosung asked while he changed from his doctor’s coat to his leather jacket.

“Jaehee?”

“Ah, she’s my friend and the café owner. The café we went to last time.”

Is he asking me out? Kyungju thought, feeling the temperature rise. “Ah, sure, I’d love to try them. But won’t your girlfriend get annoyed with you hanging out with me?” she asked, instantly regretting how obvious she was.

Yoosung grabbed his keys on top of the front desk. “Girlfriend? I don’t think so, seeing as I don’t have one.” He shrugged, leading Kyungju to the front door.

It was hard for Kyungju not to let out any of the high-pitched squealing in her head. “Then, of course!”

“Great! I’m sure Jaehee would love your opinion on them,” Yoosung said enthusiastically, locking up the clinic behind them.

Kyungju wondered on whether this was a date or not. “Okay, but only if you choose a latte for me.”

“But… What if I choose something you don’t like?”

“I’m sure I will like anything you pick.” Kyungju smiled, Lady trotting by her side as they began to walk.

“You have varied taste, that’s good! I can be a bit picky sometimes,” Yoosung replied, placing his hands in his jacket pockets, practically beaming happiness.

Kyungju had a feeling Yoosung wasn’t getting it. But, either way, she was content being with him, at his side, feeling more comfortable than ever.

#echosung #fanfiction #mystic messenger #kyungju choi #yoosung kim #yoosung x kyungju #mysme #confession: I regret using the weird fan as a plot point #because I had no idea what to do with him after a while #but I had used him too much to remove him #sometimes fics have their own will haha #next one is gonna be much fluffier though #also probably the last one #I want this to be a short series #<3

[schmerzerling]

made manifest / 6.9k / canonverse trans!dean (read it on AO3)

wherein castiel defied god for dean before dean even knew his name.  

warning: slurs, gender/body dysphoria, some dubious consent

Dean’s twelve and bored in another health class. He’s staring at a pyramid in the margins of a textbook labeled The Hierarchy of Needs, only half-listening to the dull, muted monotone of the teacher’s lesson in the background. He’s confident he’s got this dumb thing down. After all, he’s seen it about three times this year, because they keep moving schools in the middle of the unit, and every junior high in the country apparently offsets their curriculum by one or two weeks with the sole intention of keeping Dean from getting to the really juicy bits of health.

Lecture complete, the teacher falls into his desk chair and dispassionately assigns a perky student in the front row to hand out worksheets. The promised land of goofy genitalia illustrations and condoms on bananas that lies in chapter seven is a distant dream to the depressing reality of this, a dumb photocopied doodle where he’s expected to write in where he stands on the pyramid. What he aspires to achieve in his life next. His stomach appreciates the irony of the whole situation and growls loudly as his hand hovers indecisively between the bottom tier labeled physiological needs and the next up, safety.

Are you eating? and Are you afraid for your life? Teachers usually assume the answer to that is a given for the kids in a junior high school class, but most the time but it really—isn’t. For Dean.

Not that he can write he’s not getting fed on a school worksheet. He can’t. And he can’t write that he’s not safe, either. He’s not stupid, and he doesn’t want CPS on his tail. But it’s pretty obvious, every time this dumb unit gets drilled into his head, that he’s never gonna move past the “safety” tier, not in his chosen career path. He’s always gonna be afraid for his life, right up until he doesn’t have it anymore. He taps his pen once on love/belonging section, then draws a thick line between esteem and self-actualization, like he’s hovering between them. Like he even has the option of getting to the top of the pyramid when there’s always this invisible monster hovering just under the surface that he’s too busy chasing real monsters to pursue.

His hand hovers over the Self-Actualization Goals line of the worksheet. He starts the shaky outline of a “B,” then a “T,”  and crosses both of them out, and that’s when the perky student handing out worksheets passes by him again, rubbernecking his paper before she resettles at the front of the classroom. Her name is Tiffany or Brenda or something. People seem to like her. There’s a Tiffany or Brenda at every school.

“I’ll bet I know what Deanna’s self-actualization goal is,” she stage whispers, leaning toward her neighbor. The henchman is giggling before Briffany’s even delivered the punchline. “I’ll bet she wants to be an even bigger dyke than she already is. Why else would she wear that awful flannel every day?”

Dean looks down at the dirt wedged under his stubby fingernails and the Bic pen cradled in the smooth, delicate softness of his hands. At the paper on the desk, and at the name in the corner like a foreign language.

Deanna Winchester, fourth period.

Then, on the line about self-actualization, he writes Be a bigger dyke than I already am. They’ll be on to the next town before the stupid health teacher even grades it, anyway. On to the next monster.

It’s less of a lie than he’ll ever admit out loud.

When he’s thirteen, Dean starts bleeding, and Dad drops him off where someone else can deal with it. Pastor Jim does, in his own way, with a discreet packet of bulky pads and pamphlets about abstinence from his Sunday school classes that do nothing to smooth the growing waves of tumult that are always at the back of Dean’s brain, now. The itchy-skinned wrongness that’s grown and grown and grown the more he’s tried to ignore it.

It’s raining out, so they take shelter in the chapel with Pastor Jim for want of anything better to do. Usually he’s all for playing with Sammy, but today he sits alone and sleepy, arms wrapped low around his middle, questing fingers taking in the subtle new flare of his hips and seeking to soothe the aggressive ache inside him. Sammy drives his tiny matchbox cars along the tops of of the pews, rumbling out little vroom vroom noises every time he jumps them across a gap.

Pastor Jim lights candles at the head of the church for evening services, one by one by one, until they light up the chapel, replacing the faded multicolored sunlight filtering weakly through the stained-glass windows overhead.

Dean gets up, and no matter how he tries to muffle his unwieldy feet with soft steps, they echo loud and awkward in the vaulted room. He stops just short of a statue of the Virgin Mary off to the right of the green-draped pulpit, hand still resting gently above the bloated, painful curve of his lower belly. Mary smiles at him, benevolent and wise and empty-eyed, her arms outstretched.

“Do you think God makes mistakes?” he blurts, eyes still on the sweet, feminine features. The demure bow of her mouth. The soft chin to match his own.

He’s not sure where it comes from. He doesn’t believe in God. At first, he hadn’t known he was supposed to believe, and by the time he figured out he was supposed to, he found he didn’t quite know how.

Pastor Jim stops lighting candles and Dean can feel his eyes on the side of his head, can just barely see the thin tendrils of smoke wafting upward from the dowel the pastor had been using to light candles in his periphery. He also notes the absence of the little vroom vrooms behind him, can almost see Sammy peeking above the edge of a pew, watching the exchange with his mouth hanging open.

“What’s this about?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but the silence is leaden and dragging. He can feel Pastor Jim formulating his own assumptions across the room, the same way he had been ever since the first time Dad dropped him on the good pastor’s doorstep. He makes the only pitying assumptions one could possibly make about an ill-kempt, transient child who couldn’t stay in one school long enough to learn why he was even bleeding in the first place.

Pastor Jim sighs. “Oh, Deanna. There are so many things in your life that may seem like a curse. You have experienced so much at such a young age.”

Pastor Jim is at his side all of the sudden, and Dean starts at the feel of a hand on his shoulder. It’s a marvel how quietly the pastor moves. How comfortable he seems in his own skin. His smile feels real, and he wears it like he knows what it means. Like there’s no dissonance when he looks in his mirror, and the way that it looks on his face is the way it’s supposed to look.

“But I think you’ll find that everything has its own logic. Its own intent. Its own reason.” He inclines his head gently to Mary, a deference and an example. “God and his angels are executors of a plan beyond our understanding. So, no. I don’t believe He makes mistakes.”

Dean looks back and forth between Mary and Jim, Mary and Jim and thinks—well, easy for Pastor Jim to say. Pastor Jim has a dick.

Dean takes the medical shears from the first aid kit to his hair in the height of summer when he’s fourteen.

He doesn’t know why he wears it long anymore. It frames his face wrong, thick and wavy where it falls—softening edges that are already too soft. It has a nasty habit of going to a bright, brassy, gold, so rich it looks like someone dyed it, when he spends time in the sun. He doesn’t like brushing it. Hates styling it. Hates how impractical it is when it gets in his face. And he figures that it’s time to get rid of it while it’s hot and he still has an excuse, anyway.

He’s worn it long all his life, just near the same length it was when his mom burned. It’s tickled his shoulders since he was old enough to remember it tickling. All the same, he doesn’t really think twice when it falls in thick clumps to the emerald green tile of the hotel-bathroom-of-the-week. He looks down at his stubby toes and tucks them into the fine layer of it on the floor, curling them there while he shimmies and shivers to get off the stray hairs still making their way down the back of his collar. Sam perches at the edge of the tile with a book in his hand, discreetly watching Dean discreetly watching himself in the mirror. Dean’s halfway pleased with what he sees there for the first time he can recall in a long, long while, even though the cut itself is uneven and sloppy.

“What do you think?” he says, spreading his arms for Sammy, doing a hips-first strutting swirl and spreading the mess at his feet.

Sam quirks his mouth. Frames Dean between his thumbs and forefingers like a dweeb. “S’good.” he says finally, definitive. “But…”

Dean turns back to the mirror, detail work now. He imitates the hairdressers he’s seen working in movies, squeezing pieces of his hair flat between two fingers and then chopping the ends even.

“But?” he says, poking his tongue out as he works. “But what?”

“But Dad won’t think so.”

Dean looks at himself, finishing the cut in silence. Finally noticing the cracks that cut through his reflection in the crappy bathroom mirror.

Sam isn’t wrong.

John Winchester is a man of contradictions. Most of the time he’s a hardened hunter, a single-function machine with a gun permanently affixed to one palm and a machete affixed to the other. And when he’s that John Winchester, he doesn’t mind how Dean looks. How Dean acts. In fact, he likes it. Prefers it. It suits his needs, then, that Dean’s—well, low maintenance. Someone who’s sure of himself and his body and the things it can do. The Dean that Deanna usually is until he looks in the mirror.

But—

But the rest of the time, Dad is drunk. And the older Dean gets, the more Dad tells him he looks like Mom when he’s wasted. Dad breaks him down, feature by feature, until he’s a parade of disembodied organs, a series of puzzle parts that his dad could dissemble and and smash back together in the shape of Mary Winchester.

And to some extent, Dean likes it. Wants more of it. Hungers for the comparison to something his dad clearly finds so good and pure and happy. But it exhausts its welcome fairly quickly, because as much as he loves that he might have his mom’s sterling character or charming wit, he doesn’t—he doesn’t want—

Her nose. Her lips. Her eyelashes.

Or—her hair.

He doesn’t want to be growing into the woman his mom was.

All the same, he’s expecting a reprimand at most. A few harsh words, maybe some extra laps during his workout. He waits up that night to face his punishment like a man, reading under the buzzing light in the kitchenette while the humid heat drifts in the window and cicadas chirp outside. Dad comes in at nearly two, when Sam has long-since given up waiting with him.

And of all the things he psyched himself up for while he waited—he isn’t expecting his dad to cry.

“Jesus,” Dad says the moment he steps in the door, voice soft with the hour and the Jack he’d clearly pounded back behind the wheel on the way home. He drops his duffel in the entryway and reaches out for Dean’s face, palms cupped softly. Dean’s flinched back automatically before he realizes that’s silly, and he lets his dad draw his fingers through the new liberating shortness of his hair, same as Dean had that morning. They share the same quiet reverence, but he suspects there are different reasons behind it for the both of them. “Jesus, Deanna, what happened?”

Shaken, Dean feigns nonchalance, even as the first whiskey tear leaks its slow way down his father’s cheek.

“Got hot,” Dean says, voice trembling and high and thin. “Decided it’d be easier to take care of this way.” He clears his throat, pushing past the tremors, and adds, “Sir,” in a gravelly baritone.

John looks into Dean’s eyes for a long moment, big hand still cupping the curve of his scalp, until he backs off, resigned and heavy-limbed. He runs a hand over his face, over his mouth, trailing tears all the while, and maybe he thinks Dean can’t hear him when he mumbles, “What would she fuckin’ say if she saw you now?”

But he can. And even though Dad doesn’t seem to remember it in the morning and acts surprised to see his short hair for the first time all over again—Dean does. Dean does remember. He lets it haunt him and haunt him and haunt him, like a cursed object that’s made its way under his skin and stuck there.

What would his mom say if she could see him now? What would she think of what he’s become?

Or, perhaps more importantly, what he hasn’t?

There’s no way to answer any of that without a big helping of heartache, so he just lets his dad be grateful when, on a hunt a little over a month later, a kappa tries to drag him into a water trap on a golf course by his hair but can’t get a good enough grip.

He’s got to take the wins where he can get them.

When he’s sixteen, Sam catches him duct taping his tits to his chest. Dad trucked in a bunch of supplies the night before, emptying out the car before he took it out for another week-long bender, and he had a whole couple of rolls he hadn’t used on his last hunt. And the idea grabs hold of him while he’s nursing a cup of coffee and doesn’t let go. He cups the handful he’s got on his chest, pushes the sagging weight hard against his breastbone and thinks. Well Dad’s not gonna be home for a while anyway.

When the door to the bathroom swings open halfway through the process, though, Dean freezes, tits mostly covered, a piece of tape he’d been wrapping around his chest like a string of christmas lights still held out in front of him, still attached to the roll. He’s terrified for a moment that it’s Dad, back a week early and disgusted with him from the bathroom door. But it’s just Sam. And Sam—thinks. That face he gets sometimes, the stupid neanderthal brow where he’s visibly considering.

The bite of the duct tape is hard and unyielding as they consider each other. His skin isn’t breathing underneath, and he’s already started to sweat and chafe at every point where skin meets plastic. His tits are squished up in his armpits somewhere, and even though he’s uncomfortable as hell—he gets the same little glut of satisfaction he got when he lopped off that first tuft of long hair and looked at himself in the mirror years ago.

He likes the shape of himself. The silhouette.

Sam furrows his brow. He’s muddy from the knee down. He’s supposed to be at soccer practice.

“What are you doing?” he says slowly.

Dean brings the strip of duct tape up to rip with his teeth. He says, “What are you doing?” but it’s barely intelligible around the tape in his mouth. Sam gets it anyway. Dean sticks the dangling tail-end of the tape somewhere under his elbow.

“Coach called off practice early. It’s raining,” he says. He looks over Sam’s shoulder to the kitchenette window, and it’s definitely pitch black outside, murky with heavy rain. He hadn’t even noticed. Sam points at the tape.

“That can’t be comfortable. Is that comfortable?” Sam pulls back to grab his own flat chest, wincing in sympathy. Dean reaches for where he cast off his t-shirt on the top of the toilet tank and pulls it over his head. He shuffles around Sam to get out of the bathroom, but Sam seems to have forgotten why he burst in on Dean in the first place, and he follows him back out.

“Do you do that all the time? I don’t think that’s good for you.”

“Don’t you have to piss or something?” he grumbles.

“Plus...pulling it off…” Sam grimaces.

“It’s fine, okay? It’s—whatever.”

“So you do it often?”

“No!”

“Why are you doing it now?”

“Just—leave it alone, Sam.”

“Is it some training thing? Is Dad making you?”

“Leave it!” he shouts, a whole decibel higher than he generally tries to go. It’s a shrill screech and he hates everything about it. “Just leave it!” His chest struggles gamely against the new restriction, heaving strangely and forcing him to take panting, shallow breaths. To Sam’s credit, he’s quiet for almost a minute before he points it out.

“See. You can’t breathe properly.”

“Oh my God you fucking twerp,” he pants. “I’m taking it off. Fine. Get me my fucking leatherman.”

Sam narrows his eyes, but he goes to Dean’s duffel across the room and fishes for the knife while Dean tries to regulate his breathing and act like he’s not sweating like a pig. Sam hands over the knife and gives him one more up and down glance.

“You look weird,” he says. “It just...it looks weird, Deanna.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

When he goes back into the bathroom to do the deed and sees his own reflection in the mirror, he can see why Sam thought it looked—weird. Why it looked stupid. It was. It did. He didn’t look like—like a dude or something. Didn’t look any more like the broad-shouldered, well-stubbled, macho-man Dean that lived in his brain. He looked like a flat-chested dyke in a baggy Goodwill t-shirt.

He cuts the tape off. Nicks himself twice with the sharp knife tip and nearly screams when he rips the goddamn tape off his nipples like a band-aid. And he comes out of the bathroom without even his sports bra on, because who the fuck cares.

Sam looks at him different from then on. Looks at him like he’s a puzzle that he can put together, if he only had the right pieces. And sometimes he looks to Dean like Dean has them, like he has the vocabulary to talk about shaving his head and duct taping his chest and talking like his throat is filled up with gravel all the time. But Dean never finished health class, and he doesn’t have the words. He just knows he’s still stuck down at the bottom of the pyramid.

A couple years later, Sam hits his full teenage growth spurt, sprouts up about a foot taller than Dean and gets the big attitude to go along with it, and he stops asking Dean about his feelings. Dean’s just another thing that makes his family not normal and another reason, ultimately, to get away from it. And that’s probably a good thing, because Dean doesn’t really know how he would express how much he covets Sam’s big arms and full chest and strong chin and body hair without sounding like a fucking creep, anyway.

When Sammy leaves for college, Dean, twenty-two and tipsy and touch-starved at a bar in Kentucky, figures that his virginity is a stupid thing to be clinging to anyhow. It’s been a long time since he dropped out of high school, a long time since someone called him a dyke to his face. It’s been a long time since he slipped a finger or two or three through his own sloppy wetness and admitted to himself that it’s easy to get off to the feeling of something inside of him—as long as he didn’t think too hard about it. Shit isn’t getting any more normal and Dean isn’t any closer to being able to hop meatsuits ala a demonic entity. So that’s that. He picks the most inoffensive of the drunk fuckers that had been ogling him since he walked in. They exchange pleasantries, though Dean honestly can’t be fucked to remember his name, and then Dean takes him to his car.

It’s fine while the asshole’s mouth is occupied. He can’t get any words out as he divests Dean of his jacket and one, two, three tops. And then, following that, two nondescript gray sports bras that were keeping his tits as close to controlled as they ever got. Dean’s perched in his lap, hands tentatively curled on his shoulders, trying to act like he’s done this before.

“Buried fuckin’ treasure under here, sweetheart,” the guy says, mouthing at his tits. Dean tries to tune him out, tries not to think about the way this guy’s big hands span the whole of his waist, because it actually feels alright. “Where were you hidin’ these sweet things?” He pushes one up, then the other. Cups the one he hasn’t got his mouth all over. Rubs rough on the nipples with the palms of his hands. Dean’s never paid that much attention to his boobs except to resent them when they get in his way, but this guy is getting a hard-on just planting his mouth on them. Dean can feel the hot line in his pants and he’s driven to that more than anything, so he takes the initiative and dives into the guy’s fly.

Dean gets the sense you’re supposed to feel more than jealous when you see a real-life dick for the first time, but that’s all he’s got. It’s an okay dick as far as he can tell. It’s not pornstar dick, but it’s a nice size and a nice weight and it’s—he pushes it up against the denim still between his thighs with both hands and gasps softly, too softly. A noise that he hates. Like the demure little kittens in pornos.

It gets harder in his hand and he bites his lip to stifle the sound.

“You like that, gorgeous?” the fuckwit says, looking at Dean on top of him with a dumb, dazed look. “You like my cock, huh, Miss Sweet Deeeee-anna?”

Dean does. He likes it a whole lot. He just doesn’t like the running mouth it’s attached to. Dean figures that his show of looking like not-a-virgin must’ve gone over well with his captive audience, because it’s been all of five minutes in the backseat of his Baby, and this guy’s primed to get his dick wet. And Dean thought he was okay with it, thought he could do it, but then the guy starts tossing pussy around like it’s a hundred-dollar word.

“Want this cock in your sweet pussy, baby?” he says, and Dean goes cold to his toes, feeling, suddenly, like he’s outside himself, watching this, and he doesn’t know who he is anymore. “Wanna feel it inside your pussy?” He pops the p against Dean’s tits. Puh-ussy, and goes for Dean’s fly. He must take Dean’s shivery withdrawal as excitement. He never once slows down.

Dean’s not sure how he figured this was gonna go, if not to—intercourse. Maybe he was hoping some drunk asshole would let him feel up his dick in the back of a car, get his mouth around it a little, and that would be that. Maybe that was fucking naive.

When he was eighteen years old, there was a whole group of shifters in Dallas that preyed on the hookers outside a bar downtown, and Dad gave him a pencil skirt and a tube top and a handful of silver jewelry and told him, in so many words, to suck it up and slut it up. They needed bait.

He’s back there now. Standing on that street corner in clothes he couldn’t stand, pretending to sell parts of himself that he didn’t even want to acknowledge existed. And he remembers thinking to himself, optimistically, that he wouldn’t ever feel that exposed again. But the truth was, so long as you had a pair of tits and a round ass, no matter what lengths and layers you went through to hide them, people stared and people ogled and people thought of you like this guy. As a puh-ussy. If anything, being made to dress like a girl and put everything on display just made him about a hundred times more aware of all the ways people could tear you apart with their eyes and decide what you were before they even said so much as a word to you.

When Dean’s back in his body, back in the back seat of his car and suddenly quite sober, he finds he’s somehow ended up underneath the guy with the nice dick and the bad attitude, and he’s still running his mouth about how wet and hot Dean’s gonna be down there. Dean grounds himself with the creak of his hand clasping on Baby’s leather. Baby barely even yields in firm support. He takes in the hand that’s massaging the fading wetness inside his underwear despite the fact that Dean’s pretty sure he’s been borderline comatose for the past minute and a half, and then he suckerpunches the slathering idiot right in his dumb face.

He looks stunned right before Dean manages to find the door handle above his head, knee the mouthy motherfuck in the exposed nads, and send him sprawling out the side of the car onto the pavement outside, dick flapping and deflating and not looking near as impressive now. He somehow manages to get the door closed and locked and feels solidly on the ground, wholly, completely, at last, sprawled across one leather seat and panting into the upholstery. The guy is still squawking all indignant, pounding on the window, and the front of Dean’s pants are somewhere halfway down his thighs, but Baby has a way of making things melt away. Like he’s just a part of her leather and he doesn’t have to be a body at all anymore.

Over the next few months, he shacks up with his fair share of women and learns to give great head. He finds he likes the equipment well enough when the junk’s not in his trunk. And the next time he nuts up enough to try it with a man, it’s some poor, self-hating sonofabitch outside a gay bar in Des Moines. Dean’s close enough to a man for the meek little bastard to get off, close enough to a woman for him to not feel bad about it. He doesn’t use the p-word once—they’re both chasing the same fantasy. They make a fine pair.

Dean’s twenty-six, and he corners Sam at an apartment in Palo Alto with nothing but dismay when he sees how big his brother’s gotten. How tall he’s gotten. How effortlessly large and imposing he manages to be, just standing across the room. He tosses Dean around like dirty laundry, cleans his clock despite the fact that he’s been training for months in preparation for seeing his baby brother again. And Sam should be rusty damnit. He should be soft. But no. He’s got Dean pinned on the floor like a stuck butterfly, struggling under one of his massive forearms, in five seconds flat.

It fucking stings.

Sam introduces him to his pretty girlfriend as his sister Deanna, and that stings even more. Because even though he’s still stuck down at survival, perpetually in self-actualization’s rearview mirror, he always figured. Well. Sam knows him better than anyone ever had. Probably better than anyone ever would. And if this is a part of him that even Sam can’t see, he figures there never ever will be anyone that does.

They never quite get around to talking about it either. There’s always something more important. College boy’s probably got the words Dean’s lacking now, if Dean ever bothered to pick his brain about it. Sammy could probably put a name to the gag reflex that wanna sends his birth control pills right back up with his breakfast, to the quiet that comes to him when he’s done a bit too much human interaction, but—

Jess dies, Dad dies, Sam dies. Killer clowns, stolen identities, heart attacks, demon possessions, vengeful spirits, ticking clocks, reapers, and it’s just as little Deanna figured it would be, twelve years old and sitting in health class with a sad roadmap of her whole life laying out in front of her on a Xeroxed piece of printer paper. There was never going to be a point where Dean mattered more than the rest of the world. Where this did. Never going to be a point where Dean got to care about more than living to see tomorrow. There was never going to be a point where Dean got to slow down and unpack why it made his blood boil when Sam printed the surname Scully on one of his fake FBI IDs, or why he felt the need to dismantle an entire hotel room with a tire iron while he waited for his dumb little brother to come back alive from a hunt in a men’s prison. A hunt where he couldn’t follow. There was never going to be self-actualization for Deanna Winchester. And there was never going to be a Dean.

There was never going to be, and there never was. Because then Dean dies.

At least all bodies, Dean figures later, innards strung in front of him on some kind of hellish clothesline, look pretty much the same when they’re inside-out.

They say your whole life flashes in front of your eyes when you die, but it turns out that happens when you come back to life, too. Like a deluge of your brain learning how to remember, drawing memories back into it like a prickling limb filling with blood again. And even in a shallow grave, even in the midst of a dark, waking nightmare of being buried alive, there’s a bit of cognitive dissonance to be had when you, past you, the you whose body you inhabited for twenty-nine years and whose sensory memories you’re currently reabsorbing, is different from the one that’s scraping long fingernail gashes into the top of a plywood coffin.

He has the presence of mind to navigate his way to the surface, because in the pyramid of the hierarchy of needs, breathing is pretty much the rocky foundation that forms the base. When he gets to the surface, dazed, it’s—an overload. Everything’s the wrong size. Everything is too bright. The dirt is too hard, too warm. There’s no pain for the first time in a long time, but at the same time, everything is painful. Everything. Down to the drag of the dusty air in his lungs, like shards of glass scraping up his windpipe.

That’s why it probably takes him almost ten full minutes of panting into the dirt by his own shoddy gravemarker to realize that he has a cock.

He flops over onto his back and pats down the front of his pants. He doesn’t remember which pants he died in, but these definitely weren’t made to accommodate the new addition to his anatomy, and it’s not hard to feel the solid lump of it pressed up against his zipper. Likewise, everything up top is too small, too—nothing’s torn up, so Sam must’ve redressed him before he planted him, but his arms are about ready to bust through the seams of his plaid when he bends them at the elbow to feel his chest. Solid, not soft. No tits to be found, in his armpits or otherwise.

He has to stagger almost a mile before he finds a reflective surface, and he spends almost the whole trip there looking at his hands, his feet, trying to fathom the new size of himself, the new shape of himself, his new wide-legged gait. And when he gets to a desolate, empty gas station, miles from any civilization, the only thing he can even think to do is look into the bent and unpolished side of a freezer, the barely reflective sheen of an unclean window to see—himself. He trails in frantic disbelief from reflective surface to reflective surface through the store until he finds the entrance to a dingy little bathroom and flicks on the light. A mirror.

There he is.

There’s not a lot of grand revelation in it, not for him, because this is the Dean that’s been living in the back of his brain since he was old enough to differentiate the things that made a male male and a female female. He still looks like—himself. The body he’s used to. Deanna. He still looks like his mom, more like his mom than his dad despite everything, and there’s still an edge of femininity to his features, but anyone who looked at him would be able to see, easy as anything, the Dean that he didn’t have the words to bring to life before he died.

He lifts his shirt, half to reassure himself that there’s nothing scarred or torn, half to see the flatness of his stomach and chest. He runs his hands over the stubble on his face, marvelling at the texture. At the bend of his arm in his too-small sleeve, he pops all the stitches in the seam along his bicep with an audible tearing noise, and he would almost say he was giddy if this strange turn of events weren’t tempered by the sporadic memories of forty-odd years of torture, and if that specific brand of tear didn’t remind him of the way skin sounded when you pulled it clean away from muscle.

So mostly he’s. Overwhelmed. He holds off on checking out his new junk, not sure he can stomach a look at his penis when just the sight of his Adam’s apple is a little bit more than he can process.

(Well. He takes one little peek, thumbing the waistband of his pants open. Just to be sure he wasn’t—mistaken.)

(He wasn’t.)

(He repeats the resulting, “Well I’ll be damned,” in his new voice six times, just to make sure that wasn’t a mistake either.)

When he can tear himself away from his own reflection, he steals all the money from the register and then he takes his time lavishly sorting through the pathetic clothing selection in the tiny gas station, looking at the men’s sizes with a practical purpose rather than a covetous one for the first time in his life. He leaves in a men’s size large Gone Fishin’ shirt that hangs perfectly on his shoulders and a pair of douchey cargo shorts that need a belt to stay on his hips.

Freshly changed and starting to settle in his skin, a new feeling starts dogging at him. The sort of hair-raising feeling you get when you know there’s something watching you, the prickling awareness you get on your skin when you’re being scrutinized. He pushes past the feeling, trying to formulate a plan, and he remembers that there’s a pay phone outside he could use. A couple cars he could probably jack if his new broad fingers are half as clever as the old dainty ones were. He concentrates hard, even gets as far as going back to the register to steal some pay phone change when he remembers that—that if he called Bobby, if he somehow got to Sam right now. Even if they miraculously believed that he’d been ganked from hell, they’d never believe he got ganked out with a dick.

A fine tremble starts in his hands. He rubs the back of his neck, trying distractedly to wipe off the pair of eyes he feels planted there. He grabs a water bottle out of the humming freezer by the register and tips his head back to take a long, hard pull—acutely aware, again, of that crazy fucking Adam’s apple and the strength in his hand when he squeezes.

When he tips his head back down and takes a long, calming breath, resolving to figure out how exactly he’s gonna make this whole dick thing work—

There’s a guy in a trenchcoat standing outside. Stock still, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, hair all mussed up like someone’s been running their hands through it. There’s a simultaneous sense of calm and tumult around him, ancient like a lightning storm but unpredictable like one too. He almost crackles with energy, and the store around Dean feels charged. Amped up past what he’d felt a few minutes ago, far past the static crackle of waking up in a completely new form.

Dean’s seen and felt enough non-humans to know that this is one, just from the way he carries himself. Dean rubs his hands together. Up and down his thick forearms. Up to the sturdy new divot of his breast and collarbone. He reorders his jangled nerves, aligns his scattered thoughts, and tries to be in the headspace is Dad pounded into him—he was always emphasizing forethought and planning for Dean on hunts. Always made sure that Dean knew he wasn’t strong enough, like John and Sam were, to strong-arm his way out of a situation. He was just a woman and he had to think.

He’s pretty far from that headspace though. There’s something invincible about the feeling of a bicep that strains against your shirt. Shoulder blades that ripple with power without even trying. Big feet, long legs, muscley thighs. And a height that meant he looked at things from a different angle—down instead of up. Past his nose instead of through his bangs.

So maybe he should set a trap. And maybe he shouldn’t go outside to face whatever unknown is waiting for him in an oversized suit and a trenchcoat. That’s probably what Deanna would’ve done. But today, Dean scans the store for a weapon. Eventually, he finds a big canister of salt and an iron ice pick that someone was using to chip at permafrost in a Coca Cola freezer by the entrance. And somehow, he feels more prepared to face whatever’s out there than he had at his most prepared in another body. Like someone stripped off his armor and give him a lighter, better set.

He approaches the open door, ice pick in one hand, salt in the other. The creature’s eyes travel to where he is even before he should be visible to it. There’s not much point in hiding anyway, so he stands in the doorframe, visibly armed.

Once Dean’s walking down the stairs of the gas station and onto the hard, dusty earth outside, the guy—tilts his head. His pupils seem to grow like a cat’s, and he makes no secret of taking in every inch he can of Dean’s body, from the top of his uneven haircut down to the new, strange, hairy legs that poke out from the bottoms of his stupid goddamn shorts.

He stops about twenty feet short of the guy and watches him watch Dean, watches the unabashed way he takes he takes him in and, based on the surprisingly human uptick to the side of his mouth, the unabashed way he’s enjoying it. The longer he stands opposite him, the more electric the atmosphere becomes. By the time Dean’s decided to take the initiative and take a chance with the ice pick, storm clouds have gathered out of nowhere, and the wind is whipping his dumb coat every which way.

Despite the innocuous tax accountant getup and the pretty, blue-eyed meatsuit, he has a sneaking suspicion that whatever this thing is—he had something to do with dragging Dean’s ass out of hell. He thinks of Pastor Jim in that moment as he drums his fingers on the handle of the ice pick. He thinks of the kind of power whatever this is had to have not just to undo what had been done, but to restructure it. Reorder it. To take whatever preordained sort of destiny people like Pastor Jim thought there was and throw it out the fucking window without a thought.

He raises his makeshift weapon quick, a question hard on the edge of his tongue, brand-new testosterone blazing through his veins like a virgin shot of liquid heroin.

But the creature speaks first. His voice is low and crackly, a pitch Dean used to try and achieve when he had a woman’s vocal cords and all the determination in the world to defy their limits.

He says, “Hello, Dean.”

And his smirk breaks into a full-fledged smile, like he’s been waiting his whole life long just to say those two words.

The ice pick makes a solid thunk as it hits the earth and settles in the shadowed grass at the creature’s feet, dark on its own like something bigger than the both of them, something Dean can’t see, is casting a shadow longer than Dean is tall.

And in the husky, disbelieving depth of his new-old voice, Dean says, “What did you call me?”

#spn #my fic #destiel #supernatural #trans!dean #spn fic

[spanglerscribbles]

Sticky Notes on My Face.

Considering what is going on in the world at this point, I thought I’d share I bit of my personal history regarding a certain psychological battle (albeit still ongoing) that I’m sure many of you will relate to. No politics here. This will be a safe space. Plus, I need to write this out and get it off my chest. I figured those who read this will get a better understanding of the human being behind the screen and/or find out more about themselves after reading my story. 

I want you to pay close attention to this next paragraph. 

I’m the first born child in my little family, and soon became an older sister to my baby brother after 3 years of waddling on planet earth. As I grew up, I was homeschooled. Despite the social stigma regarding this private system, it’s made me who I am today. I would go back and do it all over again. I was raised by my mom and dad, my mom being a highly esteemed worship leader at our local church, and my dad being on staff at said church as the kid’s ministry pastor. I would have been around 10 when they got these positions. I followed after my mom’s footsteps and joined our youth group’s worship team as a singer. Later, I began to discover a more creative side of myself. I’m an artist, in the general term. To narrow it down, I am in the visual arts, dappling in graphite and digital mediums. But to be even MORE specific, as I grew older I became a conceptual developer, character designer, digital illustrator, graphic designer, animator, screen writer, and creative director, to name a few. I am now a graduate of Kalamazoo Valley Community college, with a degree in animation with honors. Currently, I am nearing the end of production for my first collaborative, animated short film that will release in the coming months. 

Wonderful. Now that I’ve talked about myself, I want you to do something for me. Count all of the titles I have stated in the segment above. Adding the obviously worded statements plus the one’s loosely mentioned… that’s 17.

17 titles mentioned about myself. Out all those 17, which stood out to you the most? Which sounded more appealing to you? Were they intriguing? Relatable? Likable? 

Whether we like it or not, we are all labeled. There will always be some aspect of us that people identify with as soon as our name is mentioned, and it will always have a name. 

I want you to think up a list of all the titles and labels others have given you or that you’ve given to yourself. Think up as many as you can. A contractor, Pastor’s kid, singer, university student, doctor, engineer, couch potato, foodie, pretty, ugly, football player, band geek, hyper, emo, conservative, liberal… 

It could be a small list or an extensive list. Think of all of yours? Great. 

Who would you be if they all just went away? 

Photo by Kelsey Wilson

Are These Labels What Really Define Me?

I want you to go back to the list of my own titles. There were plenty to choose from such as homeschooler, worship leader’s kid, pastor’s kid and artist. Those were the labels I was known for growing up. 

When my family moved to Michigan and started going to our awesome local church, I had to start my life over. I was a fresh face, a newbie. I had to start making new friends, but I didn’t know how. I grew up with friends already by my side back in Indiana. Meeting new people and befriending them was a foreign concept to me at the time. 

But soon, kids and adults alike began to address me as Karen’s kid or Brad’s kid… since my parent’s faces were quickly becoming well known in the community. Which, for some reason, made me popular. I befriended other PKs (pastor’s kids) while my dad was on staff. I remember two or three kids in particular I gravitated towards during those first few years in the mitten state. We would often stay in church all day on Sunday because of our parent’s pastoral obligations, so we would run up and down the office space and just be goofy kids. 

I was homeschooled from 1st grade onward, which was another label I was recognized for as I went into middle school. I never went to co-op, or went to many outside classes with others in the homeschool community, so all of my friendships were cultivated in our church’s youth group. Everyone knows once you go into middle school, things start to change… everywhere. Kids start to judge things they don’t understand a little more harshly than before. So a lot of the kids I tried to be friends with picked on me for having that label. So for a long time, I tried to suppress that and make my PK status more prominent. 

But I was in middle school now and my dad wasn’t overseeing these grades. So that title was only visible to a select group of kids along with the adults in my life who respected my parents. With my credibility gradually declining, I had to find another title that would help maintain what social status I had. So I started bringing my sketchbook to youth group with me. 

Kids were drawn to me like a moth to a flame. It was like I had these sticky notes on my face that listed all the titles I had in my possession that molded me into this appealing museum piece. I was shocked to see so many kids I’ve never met just walk up to me and gawk at my drawings. I did’t even need to initiate anymore… I just had to create interesting things to gain the interest of others. Almost every week I would come in early, sit down on the couch, just draw whatever come to mind, and let people come my way. From then on, I was known as the artist. I would post art on Facebook, I would create more drawings on my off time to show off on social media and in person. This went on, and it worked. Until life decided to not go my way. 

Photo by Gregg Lawson

Loss of Self.

It was the summer of my last year in middle school. I remember my family sitting down at the dinner table and my dad telling us the news that he was leaving his position as the children’s pastor. Soon after that, my mom stepped down from the worship team after singing in every morning service for nearly 5 years. Just like that, 2 prominent titles that the world identified me with were gone. I wasn’t the pastor’s kid anymore. I wasn’t the worship leader’s kid anymore. 

I panicked. I literally had anxiety attacks over this for months. I had no idea how this would affect me and my friendships and other people’s perceptions down the road. It got worse once I transitioned into high school. 

I was friends with all lower classmen, besides a few guys I hung out with in my same grade. But they changed drastically in short span of time, and seemed as though they did’t want anything to do with me. I was in the midst of an identity crisis, and I had to figure out someway to make myself appealing to these new, older, taller group of students with the only positive label I had to my name. 

I worked my butt off to be known as the creative artist. 

I didn’t bring my sketchpad with me as often as I used to, but I drew almost every day. I honed my skills, and got better. I posted more online, I made more friends over seas because of my art. I had a batch of “online friends” to brag about to people. I wrote stories to draw more characters about. I did everything to make myself look as impressive as a freshmen could with the talent that I had. 

Come sophomore year, I gradually found my people. I clung to these new friends every weekend, because they were the only ones that accepted me. I drew for them. I made art for them. I tried to appeal myself to them as often as I could. In hindsight, the smothering of creative adulation was farfetched and unnecessary, but back then that was the only thing I knew to do to maintain a relationship. 

So I got better. I drew more and more. I wrote creative stories, and built magical worlds with my visual talent. I made all of my work known to people. Creating art began to transform into an obligation than a pleasant pastime. Once I graduated high school and my friends parted ways, it crashed on top of me like a dump truck. The friends I thought I had weren’t intentional about keeping in touch. They found new labels, and were drawn to those of the same name. I was left alone, on my own path. All the work I poured into art was squandered. It meant nothing. Even in the midst of working towards my animation degree, I had no passion for it. Not only did I lose my love for creativity, I lost my identity. 

Photo by Chris Holt

Who Are You, Really?

Freshman year of college was a rough time for me. In the midst of change, I had to take a few steps back to rediscover myself. My whole perception of love and friendship came out of the mindset that I had to perform. I felt I needed to create more content, to live up to my artistic title in order to get the admiration I wanted from the people around me. Because that was what I was known for. That was who I was. 

But was it really? 

It was’t until a year later I went to a conference with dozens of like-minded creatives, passionate about their craft as well as their calling that I began to understand. I had conversations with people that were twice as old as me who had been dealing with these same issues. There were professionals in the industry who talked about these things. It was then I knew I wasn’t alone on this journey of self discovery… but it doesn’t have to be as complicated as one might think. 

So what if all my labels disappeared? I was no longer an artist. I could’t sing. I have no talent to speak of. I was’t pretty, but I was’t ugly. Not athletic or smart. No notable works to be mentioned. I have done nothing to entertain the masses or add to society. Who would I be then? 

To my surprise, I’m more than all of those labels combined. I went back to my roots. The foundational truths of God’s Word that I was raised on. It’s amazing how we can go throughout life and sometimes forget or completely disregard what the Bible says about God’s love and promises. 

  In Romans 8 it describes us as heirs to God, adopted into His family through faith in Jesus. Going on it mentions we have a purpose in His plan as His children. 

I am a new creation. 1 Corinthians 5:17

I have not a spirit of fear, but of power, love and a sound mind. 2 Timothy 1:7

I was bought with a price. 1 Corinthians 6:20 

I am a light. Matthew 5:14 

I am blessed.  Ephesians 1:3 

I am an overcomer. 1 John 5:4 

I am more than a conqueror. Romans 8:37 

I am loved. Romans 5:8

The list can go on and on. There are so many places in the Bible that state God’s opinions about me. The kicker is that he thought of these things before I was even conceived. Before my heart started beating, before my eyes saw the world, He loved me. I didn’t have to do anything to earn it. He loves me, because He loves me, because He loves me… just because. 

  I didn’t do anything.   

Do you know how much relief I felt when I was reminded of that? There was NOTHING I could do that would make Him love me any more or any less than He does right now. He’s always been in my corner, I was just too blind by my own warped mindset to perform and succeed to gain admiration from others. In reality, it was far simpler than what I imagined. 

Photo by Luke Spangler

The Love that Defines You.

I didn’t need to put sticky notes listing my accomplishments and my titles all over me. Those are just things I happen to be called or that I happen to do. Those can come and go. Life has a habit of shifting your perspective that way. But what I know for sure, where my foundation lies and what I am grounded in is the fact that I’m loved by the Creator of the Universe.   

You may be reading this with one or two or fifteen labels spinning in your mind that you’re known for. You may feel the pressure to uphold those titles because you feel that if those sticky notes fall away, you would be left with an empty canvas that no one would love or admire. 

But know that in the very heart of it all, the treasure of your being is the unconditional love that burns inside you. The Love that wants you to prosper in life. The Love that had a plan and a purpose for you before you were born. The Love that loves your abnormally large nose, the one dimple on your left cheek, your bushy eyebrows and frizzy hair. The Love, that no matter how screwed up you are, or what awful things you may have done, or how many people you’ve hurt,  He is there by your side, willing to walk life out with you as you rediscover yourself in Him again. 

No matter how others see you, know without a shadow of a doubt, you will always be loved by the One who wanted you here in the first place, just because you’re His creation. 

Cheers, 

Hannah Spangler 

[literary-lioness]

Nanowrimo Day 7

Today was tough. I was tired and didn’t really want to write, but with some encouragement from @leeleesupreme I managed to finish some writing! 

Nanowrimo Word Count: 9035

                                                           V

                                                       Emery

           The morning after her run in with Quinn Stone, Emery was still mildly annoyed at the woman. She stood, bundled against the cold of the most recent snow, watching the kids who had arrived early play on the playground, and replaying the conversation over in her head. She still couldn’t understand how Quinn didn’t see a problem with Daisy being underdressed for school. She tried to calm herself with a deep breath, but before the exit breath was even out of her mouth, the object of her frustration appeared.

           Quinn and Daisy walked, side by side, up to the school. Daisy was appropriately dressed this morning, in a pair of jeans and hopefully something warm underneath her puffy snow jacket. Her hair was even pulled back into a neat braid. They stopped several feet away from Emery, and Daisy gave Quinn a half-hearted wave before walking away. For a second Quinn looked dejected, but quickly masked the expression.

           It was not Emery’s intention to stare at Quinn, but there she was, doing just that. Quinn looked her way, as though feeling Emery’s gaze on her. They locked eyes, and Quinn began to make her way over to where Emery was standing. She felt her body tense and prepared herself to go another round with Quinn.

           “Good Morning,” Emery said, her voice curt.

           “Good Morning,” Quinn replied in a softer voice that she would have expected the prickly woman to use.

           Emery felt momentarily disarmed but wondered if that was Quinn’s game and stayed on her guard.

           “So, I actually wanted to apologize, for yesterday, you were right. I shouldn’t have let Daisy go to school like that. Thank you for looking out for her.”

           Quinn’s apology completely disarmed Emery. For a minute she stood staring stupidly at the woman she had thought was her nemesis just seconds before. She cleared her throat, “Thank you for your apology, and please accept mine. I can get a little passionate about my students, but that doesn’t mean I needed to yell at you.”

           “It’s fine. Really. I was an idiot, and someone needed to tell me so. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing with Daisy.”

           “You just decided to jump in and start helping out, or?”

           “No, my mom called me, she needed help with her, and I thought I could handle it, but Daisy,” she paused, “Daisy’s not the same little person I remember anymore. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I am telling you this, my intention was to apologize. Have a good day, Ms. Webster.”

           Emery’s arm, on it’s own accord, shot out and grabbed Quinn’s forearm to prevent her from leaving. Quinn looked down at Emery’s hand and then back up at her questioningly. Emery dropped her hand, “You know, you being around might actually help Daisy. It’s true she’s been having a hard year, especially in the past few weeks, but maybe having her aunt on her side will help her out.”

           Quinn scoffed, “I doubt that, Daisy hates me now, and with good reason.”

           Emery raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

           Quinn’s face dropped, “Nothing. Thank you for your kindness, but I should be going.”

She started walking away again, Emery so badly wanted to help. An idea sprung to her mind and she called out, “Quinn!”

Quinn turned just her head back, “Hm?”

“Do you think you can stop by after school today? There is something that I think you need to see.”

Quinn shrugged, “I suppose so.”

Emery nodded and watched Quinn until the bell rang, breaking whatever spell she had once again fallen under. Maybe Lauren was right, maybe she was useless around beautiful women.

                                                          ***

           The day chugged on sluggishly as Emery tried to pretend that she wasn’t completely anticipating the final bell. The bell that would release the students to freedom and would mean that she was seeing Quinn again. It was difficult to reconcile her feelings toward the previously grumpy woman to her anticipation to see her again now.

           Finally, the time came for the students to be released. Emery said goodbye to her little ones before they all rushed out of the classroom, and then started picking up her classroom, more from nervous energy than a desire to have a clean classroom.

           When she heard the door open behind her she turned with a big smile, “Hi-“ and then saw it was Lauren, “oh it’s you.”

           “Ew, ok, I don’t love that.”

           “No, sorry, I was just expecting someone.”

           “Oh yeah? Someone pretty I assume?”

           “No, its definitely not like that,” she said, her cheeks heating.

           “It defiantly is, look at you.”

           “Knock it off,” Emery said, waving Lauren off.

           “Girl, I can’t knock it off until you spill the T. Who is she? And why are you meeting up with her at school?”

           “Ugh, Lo! I’m not ‘meeting’ anyone here. I did ask someone to stop by, but only to show her some student work I think she needs to see.”

           “Uhuh, and your over the top happy face after a long, exhausting day, has nothing to do with the fact that your find this person to be attractive?”

           Emery covered her face, “Oh my God. It was over the top wasn’t it?”

           “A little!”

           “Ok, yes, fine. It’s the girl that almost ran down Bucky the other night.”

           “Oof, you need to find another way to explain how you met her. She has a kid that goes here?”

           “Her niece, yeah.”

           “Who’s her niece.”

           “Daisy,” she said, regretting that she had ever told Lauren about her encounter with Quinn the previous day.

           “Oh my God, Em. This is not the same woman you got into it with yesterday is it?”

           “Yes, but she apologized, and I think she’s just stressed.”

           “Lord.”

           “Stop, it’s not as bad as you’re making it sound, and, like I said before, it’s strictly professional.”

           Lauren cocked an eyebrow, but before she could respond, the door to Emery’s classroom opened. Quinn came in, red cheeked and wearing a white lab coat.

           “I’m so sorry I’m late! I got stuck at the office. I asked Daisy to wait for me at the playground, so can we make this quick please?”

           Lauren’s mouth had dropped open the minute the copper haired beauty had walked into the room. Emery suppressed a smug grin, maybe she wasn’t the only one who was useless around beautiful women. Emery could practically hear Lauren’s bisexual heart pounding in her chest.

           Emery cleared her throat, “Yeah, I’ll be quick. Mrs. Woods was just leaving.”

           Lauren snapped her attention to Emery, “Y-yeah, right. Call me later, Em.”

           Emery nodded and waited until Lauren was out of the room before she moved to find that picture that she wanted to show Quinn.

           “I was thinking about what you said, about Daisy hating you, and I just don’t think that’s true,” Emery said as she dug through some of the old student work she kept.

           “That’s nice of you to say, but-“

           “Hold on, just hear me out,” she found the drawing she was looking for and pulled it out of the folder, “At the beginning of the year we talked about hero’s and what it meant for someone to be a hero. Afterward, I asked them to draw me someone they thought of as a hero. Daisy drew this.” Emery handed Quinn the slightly crinkled, dog-eared paper in her hand.

           Quinn’s eyes immediately misted over when she saw what Daisy had drawn. It was a drawing of a red-headed woman in a lab coat standing outside of a hospital. Underneath the illustration Daisy had written: I think my Aunt is a hero, because she is a doctor and doctors help people. I miss her.

           “I can see the resemblance now that I’ve seen you in the coat,” Emery said meaning to tease Quinn.

           Quinn, however, did not respond. She was clutching the paper in one of her hands, while the other one was covering her mouth. Tears started falling down her cheeks. Emery was immediately alarmed, it wasn’t her intention to bring Quinn to tears. She grabbed a tissue and handed it to the crying woman. And then, because it seemed like Quinn needed the support, she reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

           Quinn refused to meet Emery’s eye, “This is-I don’t know what to say.”

           “It’s ok, I just thought you should know how highly she thinks of you. You mean a lot to her,” Emery said, her hand still resting on Quinn’s shoulder.

           Quinn finally looked Emery in the eye. She reached up and placed her hand over the top of Emery’s and squeezed. It was electricity running through her veins. It was a shock of warmth that tingled in her chest. It was a simple touch, that turned Emery’s world upside down, so that she knew felt disoriented.

           She almost missed what Quinn was saying to her. She had to blink her eyes to refocus in, and even then she didn’t catch it, “I’m sorry, I missed that.”

           Quinn, no longer crying, half smiled at her, “I said thank you. This means a lot.”

           Emery felt an immediate sense of loss when Quinn pulled her hand away, “Don’t even worry about it. I was happy to show it to you.”

           Quinn took a step away from Emery, her ears looked like they had turned pink beneath her copper curls, but it was hard to tell.

           “May I keep this? I think I’m going to need to remind myself that I’m a hero doctor sometimes,” she said, obviously trying to make light of the heavy situation they now found themselves in.

           “Yes please, take it.”

           Quinn tucked the drawing delicately into her lab coat. She turned her attention back to Emery, “Daisy is waiting for me, I should probably go before the poor kid freezes to death.”

           “Yes, of course. I’ll see you around?”

           Quinn nodded, “I’m sure we’ll see each other when I drop Daisy off for school.”

           “Yeah, of course.”

           “Have a good night, Ms. Webster.”

           “Emery.”

           “Hm?”

           “Please call me Emery.”

           “Goodnight, Emery.”

           “Goodnight.”

           And then she disappeared out the door. Emery’s heart was still pounding in her chest, and she had to rest against one of the small student desks for fear of falling over. Quinn Stone had touched her hand, and she had nearly lost it. Truly, there was no one more useless around beautiful women than she.

#nanowrimo #nanowrimo 2019 #fiction #literarylionesswriting #lesbian #christmas novel #Word count 9035