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simsadventures · 4 years

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Not Me: Chapter 1: Sweet, Sweet Life

Summary: You always wanted the perfect life- great husband, fulfilling job, and overall happiness. What if you can’t have even a bit of your fairytale?

Warnings: angst, swearing, implied smut, memories (in italics)

Word Count: 2074

A/N: The first ever chapter of Not Me is finally here! Im so excited about this story, and I seriously can’t wait for you all to read it. Let me know what you think so far, and what do you expect from this little story? The ride has only just started, and it will get spicier as we go along, I promise xx

Series Masterlist __ Masterlist

The sun was shining through the blinds, and you groaned loudly. Another day in your personal nightmare. You tried to snuggle into the pillows harder, willing your sleep to come again and take you for at least another few hours, so that you wouldn’t have to face the world. And by the world, you meant your husband, James.

Just the thought of him made a shiver run down your spine, and not the good kind. You didn’t even know how you got to that position. There used to be times when James was all you could think of.

You were at high school together, buddies, thanks to your fathers owning a publishing company together. You were a freshman, and he was a senior, but that didn’t stop you from spending a lot of time together. You used to piss off your fathers too often for your own good, whenever there was a banquet or some other fancy shit, you and Bucky would always find a way to make it at least a bit enjoyable for the two of you.

You had each other to hold on to, and that was enough. You both went to a different university, Bucky attending Yale, while you went to Brown. It was during this time that you grew apart, having different goals in life, and life choices as well. But your crush was still strong as ever at that time.

James had this ability to draw people to them. You could even pinpoint the exact thing that made him so charming because there were so many of them. His eyes, his deep, gruff voice, his physique, which would get any girl to her knees, or his charm. But you knew he wasn’t interested in you that way.

While you saw Bucky partying every second possible, you were more the studying type. Not that you didn’t have your fair share of wild parties, making you wake up in Canada instead of your home. But you were a passionate reader and student, and so when the crucial times came, you knew how to use your brain. And form what you heard, with Bucky’s party habits, he had to pay somebody to take all his exams. That was the only plausible option in your mind.

You only saw each other during summers, when you both worked for Barnes&Clark, your fathers’ company. And while Bucky was much more interested in all the sexy secretaries, you were impressed by all it entailed to be a businesswoman. You sat with Mr Barnes and your father in their meetings, they even seemed to listen to you while you spoke about your ideas of new ways of getting books to young people.

It was close to your graduation that your life turned completely, and, at the time, you thought for the better.

There was a knock on your door, and you frowned. It was Thursday evening, and you weren’t expecting anyone. What was even weirder that the person was already in the building, without ringing the bell from the front door. You cautiously went and looked through the peep-hole, only to be utterly surprised.

You opened the door, a confused frown on your face.

“Bucky. To what do I owe the pleasure?” You asked him, stepping aside, to let him inside.

He didn’t say anything, just stepped in and waited for you to take him further inside your apartment. When you led you to the sofa and sat down, you raised your eyebrows, indicating that he really should start explaining what it was he wanted.

“Look, Y/N. We’ve known each other for a long time, and I’ve been thinking, recently, and I reached a decision in which, I hope, you’ll support me.”

You still didn’t say anything, not sure where he was going with it. You haven’t heard from him in months, and so it was peculiar as to why he suddenly came knocking on your door.

Without any other word, he got on his knee and pulled out a white velvet box from his pocket. Your eyes were suddenly the size of a cartoon character, and you were pretty sure they now occupied most of your face.

“W-what? Bucky are you drunk? Or are you fatally ill? What the hell are you talking about?” You asked him, on the verge of a mental breakdown. This couldn’t be happening. Sure, you liked him and sure, you did try to write Y/N Barnes a few too many times before. But you were both young, 24 and 27 years old, and you sure as hell weren’t ready for marriage.

“I prioritise doll. I know it sounds crazy, but think about it. I know you have been single for far too long, and you’re never comfortable around any other guy than me. I’ve had my fair share of fun, and now I’m ready to settle down. And with whom better than you? We used to be best friends, and I think you never really grow from that kind of bond. Just think about it, will you?”

You were looking in those icy blue eyes, and for a weird reason, you saw the desperation in them and a hint of anger. You couldn’t be too sure, because you haven’t seen him for so long, but he had one thing right. You never really grow out of that bond. You thought he did, but obviously, he was thinking about you as much as you were thinking about him.

“I’ll need some time, and I think we should spend some time together if you want to marry me, don’t you think?”

A flash of something you weren’t able to recognise ran through his face, but as soon as it appeared, it was gone, and you weren’t really sure what it was.

“Sure, can I stay tonight and we can watch a movie, or something, huh?” He asked, without a hint of a smile, and you enthusiastically nodded. After all, this was something you dreamed of quite often, to be completely honest.

It went like this for a while, you and Bucky spending evenings together, and after one particularly fun evening, full of gin and tonics and tangled sheets, you finally gave him your answer.

“I will marry you Bucky, if it’s still something you want, I think we could be really good together,” you whispered against his naked chest, laying almost on top of him in your bed. He hummed, patted your shoulder and got up from the bed.

You looked at him confused, trying to determine if you said something wrong, but he only pulled the velvet box out of the pants that were laying abandoned on the floor and slipped the massive diamond ring on your finger.

“Good. Now sleep so we can plan the damn thing,” he said in a hushed voice, got dressed, and left you laying on the bed, naked and exhausted from the amazing sex you just had, confused as hell.

And that’s how your marriage pretty much started. Despite Bucky leaving that day, you were pretty excited about the whole ordeal, and so was your and Bucky’s family. The only unexcited party seemed to be Bucky, but you thought it was just his face, nothing serious.

But after a year of marriage, you realised that it probably wasn’t just his face. When he was around his Uni friends or his colleagues, his demeanour changed drastically.

He was joyful and funny, and always the life of the party. But when you two were alone, he was brooding and looked pissed 99% of the time.

You thought you’d have everything you ever wished for. Happy family, amazing husband, and a dream job. But things aren’t always the way we want them.

Your amazing husband rarely ever spoke to you, and when he did, it was to point out a flaw on you.

You shouldn’t talk so loudly. Your language isn’t lady-like. I don’t like it when you wear sweatpants, I think you should look nice even at home. This steak isn’t medium-rare. This make-up is too much. Stand and be pretty. Blah blah blah.

You tried to do all he said, trying to be the best wife for him, because you still had the idea of Bucky loving you, and wanting to spend his life with you. But every sentence like this created a gash in your heart, and by the first anniversary, you thought your heart was just a shredded piece of muscle, unable to function any more.

What broke you down to your knees, was, however, a different kind of message, delivered to you by Bucky and your father.

“James will lead the company, he has most of the rights to Barnes&Clark, and we think it would be great if you were a stay-at-home wife like you were supposed to be from the very beginning. Look, Y/N, you are a woman, and those shouldn’t be heads of the company. You understand that, don’t you?”

You were in total and complete shock. He trained you your whole life, to be the CEO, or at least the head of the publishing, while somebody else would take care of the numbers. But now he was telling you that your dream was vanishing right in front of your eyes.

“But, but, dad, I thought you-“

“How about you stop thinking and just be a pretty thing, sweetie?” Your father asked you mockingly, and to your utter surprise, Bucky laughed as well, patting your father’s shoulder.

You wanted to run away in tears, because every time you tried to speak up, either your father or Bucky would shush you. By the time the meeting ended, your eyes were filled with tears, but you didn’t want either of the men seeing this weak side of yours.

When you left the company’s building with Bucky by your side, you were shaking with both sadness and anger.

“Are you seriously with him on that, Bucky?” You asked, desperation evident in your voice. But the look Bucky gave you made you regret that you even asked him anything.

“Of course, I agree with him. You have to take care of our household, and not be busy with business. Oh, and, by the way, I would prefer it if you called me James, from now on.”

It felt like he pushed a dagger deep inside your guts. He let everyone call him Bucky, he would always say that it just felt better when the people around him called him Bucky. And now he wanted you, his wife, to call him James?

You sighed again and sat up in your bed. Ever since you moved in, you had separate bedrooms, James telling you he needed his rest to run the company. And even if you wanted to protest in the very beginning, you gave up. Like on many things in your life at the moment.

You used to have dreams, you used to be ambitious, but this life took everything from you. You rarely ever had sex with James- he would always tell you how tired he was and that you should be tired as well. And if you weren’t, it meant you weren’t doing enough through the day.

You learned how to cook, how to bake, how to sew, how to have the perfect garden, but it still wasn’t impressive enough for James to spare a kind word for you.

And neither did you father. He would always only remind you to be a good wife to James and to leave the rest to the men, and by your first anniversary, you believed all of those things, your self-respect pretty much non-existing.

You got up from the bed and headed towards the closet, to put on something representative to not give James any reason to pester you. You took a quick shower and put on some make-up, knowing full well that James was against the natural beauty look. You put on high-waisted wide pants and a blouse, trying no to look too shabby even if you were only going down to the kitchen to make James a breakfast.

When you came into the kitchen, he was already there, sitting by the table, reading news on his phone. He didn’t even spare you a look, and you sighed, walking towards the kitchen isle. It would be just another day in your hell, and you couldn’t do anything about it. Or, at least, you thought you couldn’t.

/Next Chapter >

Not Me:

@jennmurowski13 @lovely-geek @vogueworthy-barnes @veronawrites @loser-alert @trumpettay @thesoldierrogers @girlbehindthecameraposts @little-smurf @jesseswartzwelder @fuckwhateverfuck @learisa @karla-silva @blowing-mikey @afterlaughter27 @93generation @ungratefultroll @maybeisthemoon @greenprisca @geeksareunique @champagnesugamama @hailqueenconquer @grincheveryday @mc225g @thatweirdwalangpake @neerness

Bucky Taglist

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Marvel Taglist

@voltage-my2dlove @kneel-begyourpardon @lumar014 @ptrs-prkrs

Forever Tag:

@eileenalone @sasbb23 @p8tn0lish @coffeebooksandfandom @waiting4inspiration @caswinchester2000 @mogaruke @justthatfangirloverthere @mushyjellybeans @livsheph @sebbbystaaan @notyourtypicalrose

If your name is crossed out, tumblr won’t let me tag you for some reason, I’m sorry.

If you’d like to be tagged comment/message/send an ask. If you like the story, please reblog :) any comments are appreciated, even the critical ones. Always a space to get better, so let me know what you guys think.

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edendaphne · 5 years

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“Discordant Sonata” Ch. 11

(Feat. beautiful artwork I commissioned from the amazing @corgi-likes-chat!) **Edit: I moved the image above the cut so it could be admired by everyone who scrolls by 😍

Time for some Ladynoir! :D

>Read it here on Ao3<

>Read it here on Wattpad<

CHAPTER 11: CAMBIARE

Music glossary: Cambiare: a musical instruction indicating some kind of orchestral change, such as using a new instrument.

(Mood music: Love Like You (Piano cover) - Steven Universe)

Ladybug squirmed nervously on her own family room sofa, sitting face to face across from her very own parents. Her skin felt prickly and uncomfortable, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve suspected Tikki of lacing her suit with itching powder as a prank.

The aforementioned husband and wife were none the wiser about her substantial anxiety, for they were far too shocked (as well as star-struck) about the sudden appearance of Paris’ beloved hero at their doorstep that morning. Their eyes were glued to her, following her hand as she raised a glass of orange juice to her mouth, as if it had never occurred to them that Ladybug would ever have to eat or drink. She would have found it hilarious if she wasn’t so utterly terrified about asking them to let Chat stay at their house until he was fully healed.

She’d shown up at their house an hour before the bakery opened, claiming that she’d seen Chat Noir’s signal on her communicator and had become worried; and that she was looking for him. They ushered her in and explained what had happened, and had quickly agreed when she asked them if they’d be willing to house him for a little while longer.

The superheroine took a long gulp to calm her nerves, then continued in her most professional voice, “Thank you for understanding. I’m ever so grateful that you’re willing to help us in these difficult times. If I were able to take Chat Noir into my own home, I most definitely would. But as it stands, our identities remaining a secret, even from each other, is of utmost importance.”

“Of course, Ladybug, we understand!” Sabine chirped emphatically. “We’re happy to help! Especially after all you do every day for our city; it’s the least we can do. Chat Noir is welcome to stay for as long as he’d like.”

“Thank you for entrusting us with this information,” Tom chimed in. “It’s good to know that he’s not under Hawkmoth��s control anymore.” He crossed his arms with a frown. “I just can’t believe that evil man would try to kill his own ally!”

“You and I both,” Ladybug replied, unable to conceal the sadness in her voice. “It seems Chat Noir was attempting to mediate peace between both sides; but as you can see, it backfired terribly.” She added sadly, “If only I’d known, I could have fought alongside him against Hawkmoth.”

The girl couldn’t suppress the heavy sigh that escaped her lips. She’d always tried to maintain an assertive, optimistic air about her while in the company of other people. But these weren’t just “other people”; they were her parents . Somehow, here, at this moment, with the people she was the most comfortable being vulnerable around, maintaining that composure was remarkably difficult. The emotional wounds were too fresh, the fear too overwhelming.

“Don’t blame yourself, Ladybug,” Sabine replied comfortingly, reaching forward and squeezing the hand on her lap. “You’re doing the best you can, but you can’t do everything . That’s why we want to help however we can.”

“Yes, you can count on us!” Tom exclaimed. “So, do you have a phone number or…? Is there a way for us to keep in touch with you?”

Ladybug brought out her yo-yo, opening it to show them her communicator. “Chat Noir and I can call each other from our weapons. They also serve as tracking devices between us. It’s how I found you today; I can follow his signal when he’s transformed.”

“Tracking signal?” Tom asked curiously. “Couldn’t you use it to find Hawkmoth?”

She shook her head. “It only works for miraculous holders who are allies. That’s why it works between me and Chat now… and why Hawkmoth can’t trace him anymore. He won’t be able to find him here.”

“I see,” Tom answered, pursing his lips into a thin line, brows furrowed in consternation.

Ladybug could tell that her father still seemed ill at ease about something, adding a bit of tension into the air. She brought the glass back to her lips and took her time sipping the juice, filling the silence until he could sort out what he wanted to say. The question hovered on his tongue, as if he was worried he’d offend her, but ultimately he couldn’t ignore his concern.

He rubbed the back of his head nervously when he finally spoke, “I’m sorry to ask this, but… Are you absolutely positive that Chat Noir is a good guy now? Do you truly, honestly know that he won’t betray you?”

A sliver of doubt briefly flashed inside Ladybug, its sharp thorns trying to worm their way inside her heart.

She mercilessly squashed that knot of apprehension in her chest, utterly furious at herself for allowing it to form in the first place. After all, Chat Noir was literally in the next room, recovering from his brush with death.

She chased the hated feeling away with all her memories of him, thinking about the way he made her feel; how protective she felt of him. During her daily life, her thoughts often drifted back to him, wondering if he was safe, wondering if he was happy. She thought back to how he had confided to her as Marinette just a few hours prior. She couldn’t allow any hesitation whatsoever to take hold; not after all they’d been through together so far. Despite their history, or maybe because of it, Chat had absolute faith in her; and she had to have the same amount of faith in him. She needed to believe that he was strong enough to overcome his past. That he wouldn’t allow himself to be manipulated by Hawkmoth once again.

Tom’s question was a reasonable one. Her father loved his family fiercely and would do absolutely anything to keep them safe. Last night had been evidence enough of that. However, she wasn’t sure if she could explain to her parents just how important Chat was to her, or how they were so intrinsically linked by fate. She yearned to be able to tell them more. After all, how could she possibly express that she was, and forever would be, connected to him?

She fixed Tom with a piercing gaze, voice laden with sincerity. “I trust Chat Noir with my life.”

Tom and Sabine looked at each other with matching smiles.

“Well, that’s good enough for me. Like my wife said, he can stay for as long as he wants.”

“We’re so happy that you finally have a partner,” Sabine said, reaching over and squeezing her hands again.

Ladybug smiled and squeezed back, letting out a small sigh of relief. “You’re both extremely generous. I really can’t thank you enough. I don’t think he has anywhere else to go. Not anywhere that would be safe for him, anyway. I’ll talk to him and see what he says. If he agrees to stay, I’ll be sure to visit from time to time to see how you’re all doing.”

“Sounds great,” Tom replied. “Let us know if there’s anything else you need.”

Ladybug eyed the guest bedroom door, pointing to it. “Actually, do you mind if I–”

Sabine nodded. “Please, go right ahead. We need to start getting everything ready for opening hours anyhow.”

“Thank you.”

They all rose and shook hands, with Sabine offering a motherly hug afterwards. The familiar, loving arms encircling Ladybug offered her more comfort than Sabine could possibly know. Making a mental note of doing something extra nice for them this week (she owed them big time), she made her way to the guest bedroom.

She had scarcely turned the door handle when she was knocked to the ground as the door swung open, a stupefied, rather ruffled (yet thankfully, fully clothed) Chat Noir inelegantly tumbling on top of her with a deadpan “OW.” He propped himself up on his arms, hovering above her, both of them wearing matching bewildered expressions, complete with dropped jaws.

“L-LADYBUG!! W-what a pleasant surprise!” he stuttered, face red, looking quite like a cat who’d been caught in the act of unfurling an entire toilet paper roll.

Her face paled. “Chat! Are you okay? Did that hurt?!”

He cracked an impish smile and replied with a playful chuckle, “You mean, when I fell from heaven?”

Quickly recovering from the abrupt non-greeting, Ladybug’s wide eyes narrowed and she quirked a teasing grin. “Why, Monsieur Noir, you couldn’t possibly have been eavesdropping, could you?” she teased.

“N-no, mademoiselle! Not me, not at all! Why would I do such a thing?” he forced an innocent laugh, which only succeeded in making him sound even more guilty.

“Sooo, you were just leaning on the door for no reason whatsoever?”

“T-that’s right, Milady! Nothing suspicious about that, of course!”

She made a brief hum, trying to conceal her amusement. “I must say, I’m not entirely convinced, Chaton.”

Chat pouted his lips. “You wound me, Bugaboo! I just happened to overhear that my favorite superhero had dropped by.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I believe I’m the only superhero you know, silly.”

“Well… you’re still my favorite,” he winked at her with a roguish look that caused her breath to catch, a rush of heat and color flooding to her cheeks.

A brief wheezing noise jolted them from their banter, and their heads whipped around to meet the Dupains’ flabbergasted stares, mouths hanging open like oven doors.

For a few awkward moments, the ticking of a wall clock was the only sound that resonated across the room, louder than Ladybug had ever heard it tick.

“UMMM, here,” Chat finally broke the silence, scrambling to stand up and offering his hand.

“Um… Thanks,” she replied.

A few more seconds ticked by, and Ladybug indistinctly wondered if this was what it felt like to be in a police lineup.

“SO! Uhh…” Tom began with a sputter.

“We’re just gonna–” Sabine muttered haltingly, pointing towards the living room exit.

“Yes!! Go right ahead! Please excuse us, THANKYOUFORYOURHOSPITALITY!!!” Ladybug cried, grabbing Chat by the bicep and practically dragging him into the guest bedroom, then closed the door behind them with a (louder than she intended) thunk.

(Mood music: I Was Lost Without You (piano version) - Mass Effect Soundtrack )

Ladybug leaned backwards onto the closed door with a mighty “PHEW!”, closing her eyes in thankful reprieve. The talk with her parents had gone much better than she’d anticipated, despite the ridiculous and abrupt parting. All that was left was to convince Chat to stay. Maybe he’d listen to Ladybug, since her words carried more authority than Marinette’s due to her status as a protector of the city.

“So, you found me,” Chat’s lilting voice brought her back into the moment. She opened her eyes and saw him across the room, arms crossed and leaning against the far wall. He wore his usual carefree smirk, but she noted his tensed shoulders and the position of the cape, purposely positioned to hide the bandages and bruises on his arm. Trying to downplay the severity of his injuries, she realized.

Ladybug put her hands behind her back and pursed her lips, replying impassively, “I did.”

Nervous butterflies filled her insides. Chat had told her as Marinette that he didn’t want Ladybug to find out he’d been hurt. Would he be upset that she’d shown up out of the blue? The thought of him not wanting to see her sent a cold, uncomfortable trickle down her spine. This wasn’t how she wanted their partnership to kick off. Instead of a joyous flurry of excitement and camaraderie, it had all turned somber and ominous, with the added burden of having to be even more cautious and alert than ever from now on.

UGH , this was so hard!! She hated that she couldn’t tell him her identity, or know his. It would make things so much simpler if there didn’t have to be any more secrets between them. Fu had explained why he shouldn’t know her identity; the risk of akumatization was still too great. But why shouldn’t she know his? Wouldn’t knowing who he was in real life make it easier for her to be able to look out for him? She made a mental note to visit Fu as soon as Chat recovered so they could discuss the matter further, along with the myriad of other questions about their current situation.

Putting those concerns on hold for a later date, Ladybug asked Chat hesitantly. “How are you feeling?”

Smiling wide, he replied, “Great! Fit as a fiddle, Bugaboo! Don’t you worry your gorgeous little head; I’m always ready and at your service.” As if to demonstrate, he stepped away from the wall, and bowed with a flourish.

“Is that right?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Of course! See for yourself.” He shifted his stance, suppressing a wince that she might’ve missed had she not been looking closely; and he stood hand on hip in the trademark cocky pose she’d seen countless times before, almost imperceptibly bearing most of his weight on one leg.

“Uh-huh…” she replied skeptically, eyeing him up and down. “So why are you walking with a limp?”

Chat’s face scrunched up like he’d sucked on a lemon. Shrugging, he fumbled out, “I– uh… stubbed my toe on the bedpost?” He pointed back towards the bed and gave her the phoniest, most ridiculous cheshire grin; and had it been any other occasion, she would’ve busted out laughing at his antics.

Instead, she frowned. “Chat…” she said with a disapproving tone and he winced in response.

She walked slowly towards him, stopping just past arm’s length.

“You know you can tell me anything. The most important part of being partners–of being friends – is trust and honesty.” She lifted her hand, placing it gently on top of his hidden arm. Her voice got softer, more solemn; she continued, “I’m sure you’ve had to hide a lot of things from Hawkmoth; out of fear. But you have nothing to fear from me. I promise.”

He looked away, expression changing completely, becoming downcast. Looking almost ashamed somehow, which made Ladybug’s heart ache. Chat slowly removed his cloak, revealing the heavily bandaged arm underneath, and set the garment down on the bed.

He bit his lower lip, absentmindedly rubbing his wounded arm. “How did you find out that I was… th-that I wasn’t okay?”

“I–” Ladybug’s gaze dropped, staring intently at the floor. “I don’t really know how to explain it, but… I could feel that something was wrong. Like an intuition, or a sixth sense. You and I are linked, and that connection is stronger now that we’re officially a team,” she explained. “I just couldn’t shake off that vibe, that feeling of wrongness. I had to look for you and see for myself. Your signal drew me here, and the Dupains explained everything.”

“I had no idea…” Chat said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m really worried about Pl... my kwami. Plagg. He’s…” He cleared his throat; his hands fidgeted restlessly with the belt around his midsection. “I-I can’t detransform. I have no idea how long I’m gonna stay like this. Th-that’s never happened to me before. Keeping up the transformation is... i-it must really be taking its toll on Plagg and his powers.” He looked at her with eyes full of concern and fear. “I just… I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.” His eyebrows quirked upwards, as if daring to hope for answers. “Has… the Guardian ever mentioned something like this happening in the past? With other miraculous holders?”

She nodded. “I’m told that it’s a failsafe to protect the wielder. You’ll remain transformed until you’re fully healed.” She disliked having to omit so many of the details, like Fu’s involvement in this case and the special potion that he prepared for Plagg, but there was no way to share that without revealing her identity.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. “That’s really good to know. Thank you,” he uttered with a tiny smile.

Ladybug smiled back tenderly, noticing the way some of the tension left his shoulders, his posture relaxing somewhat. Chat’s concern for his kwami touched her, reminding her of her own relationship with Tikki. It made her feel better that they’d had each other throughout these horrible past few years.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t contact you. I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve already been through so much because of us– because of me. Yesterday I promised that I’d never give you any more trouble again.” He swallowed thickly, looking away, blinking rapidly as if trying to fend off tears that were threatening to form. “But I guess I can’t even do that right. I’m sorry.”

Chat’s entire person radiated shame and self-loathing. It was obvious that he placed her well-being above his own, both physical and emotional, as if his own was irrelevant or unimportant.

But how could he possibly be upset at himself for almost dying? Why in the world would he be apologizing and thinking that he was an inconvenience to her?! Was this something he had to do often back at home with his father?

Her mind stopped in its tracks. Her brows furrowed, realization dawning upon her like freezing rain.

She understood.

This was all he knew.

Apologizing was second nature to him. Apologizing for any actions that were perceived as mistakes. Apologizing for having opinions. Apologizing for having feelings. Years upon years of having to hide his inner self for fear of repercussion.

Chat having an opinion was of no matter to Hawkmoth. As far as he was concerned, Chat’s emotions were inconsequential, trivial at best.

And the worst part was: Chat had believed him. He’d had to ignore his thoughts and beliefs since who knows when, convinced that his feelings truly did not matter. She realized this now, and it hurt. The fact that he’d managed to avoid becoming a cold, cruel person in spite of this was astounding, to say the least.

When was the last time his emotional needs were met? Did he even know, or remember, what that was like?

Ladybug’s skin felt icy, yet her insides were scorching with fiery indignation. Towards Hawkmoth. Towards herself. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest and she couldn’t contain herself anymore.

She cried, practically yelling, “NO, don’t you be sorry!!” She surged forward, crossing the remaining distance, her own eyes quickly becoming wet.

Chat’s confused gaze shot up to meet hers, eyes still glossy.

“This was all my fault! I shouldn’t have left you all alone after the akuma attack! It was.. UGH!! I was so stupid!!”

Ladybug crossed her arms tightly, curling in on herself, as if she was trying to become as small as she felt inside.

“I got so distracted by everything that had happened and didn’t even consider that you’d be in such danger. I should’ve met up with you later and figured something out, helped work out an escape plan, or something! I should have known!! I should’ve– AUGH!!” She covered her face with her hands with a choked sob, tears finally falling freely. “It was my fault that you got hurt! I’m the one who needs to apologize!!”

Chat paled, stiff as a board as he watched her crying, shaking form.

Hands shooting up to grasp her shoulders, he exclaimed in distress, “My Lady, no!! No, please don’t think that! There’s nothing for me to forgive! You had no way of knowing! Oh, please don’t cry, Bugaboo… Not for my sake. It wasn’t your fault. Never!”

He pulled her into his arms, both of them trembling slightly. He gingerly stroked the back of her head as she lay against him, sobbing quietly.

“Hawkmoth is to blame here, not you,” he cooed. “You’ve already done so much for me.”

“But I could have prevented this! I almost lost you!” she insisted, sniffling and hiccuping uncontrollably.

He squeezed her tightly. “Hey, I’m still here. It’s okay. It was a close call, but I’m alright now, I promise,” he reassured her. “There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent it, believe me. He would have found me sooner or later; of that I’m sure.”

“I should’ve at least been there with you when you faced him,” she retorted.

She felt him shake his head. “I’m glad you weren’t. I couldn’t live with myself if anything had happened to you, too.”

“You… you don’t think we could have defeated him, together?” she asked hesitantly, looking up at him through a blurry lens of damp eyelashes.

“It’s hard to say.” Chat frowned, his view distant. “I found out that he’s done... something to augment the strength of his miraculous. Something risky and unnatural. I don’t know what or how. But it’s affecting him; him and his miraculous. He’s immensely powerful, but also incredibly unpredictable. Volatile. I think he’s losing control, not just of his powers, but of his own mind.”

Ladybug wasn’t sure how to respond to this revelation. An intense chill gripped her, clawing insistently from the back of her neck, and she couldn’t help but nuzzle closer against Chat’s warm chest, careful not to irritate the deep gash on his torso.

What could Hawkmoth have done to achieve such a feat? And why? A storm of questions inundated her brain, the sheer amount almost dizzying. There was so much uncertainty and danger in their future, and, truth be told, she wasn’t just scared; she was absolutely terrified. What could two not-quite-adults possibly do against this kind of a threat? She hadn’t felt this unsuited to bear the title of Ladybug since the day she first accepted the earrings.

As her tears slowed and her sight became less obscured, she froze as she caught sight of what was poking out from under Chat’s collar. Deep purple, almost black bruises around his neck, the passage of time having darkened them to their current sickly hue. She hadn’t noticed them last night, as he was so covered with blood, dirt, and scratches that one could scarcely tell one wound from another. And they certainly weren’t this color.

Her stomach twisted and her eyes widened in horror as she realized the implication of such an injury. How could that monster do such a thing to his own son?!?

She whimpered softly, trying to choke back another sob.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair!!

Why should he have to suffer so much more than she ever had?? Or more than anyone else she knew, for that matter? How could the universe be so unjust, so incredibly cruel?!

Her eyes conjured up a new flood of tears, and she didn’t even register that she’d reached up to stroke the bruises on his neck, pulling down on his collar slightly so she could examine them; caressing them as though she could make them disappear if she only wished for it hard enough.

Chat gasped slightly at the contact, cheeks reddening at the intimacy of her touch. She could feel his chest rise and fall, his breathing shifting into a new rhythm.

She spoke, voice soft and airy, almost a whisper, her breath ghosting against his neck, “I wish I’d known it sooner; known what you’ve had to go through all these years.”

Chat smiled sadly, letting out a short, thoughtful noise. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I would’ve been ready to accept your help back then. I think I had to figure out for myself just how far my father had fallen. That we were chasing after something that wasn’t meant to be.”

Ladybug made a mental note to ask him about said objective some other time, when he wasn’t under such physical and mental stress. Surely the goal was something extremely significant for Chat to have blindly obeyed Hawkmoth for all these years. But what was it?

Ladybug pressed her lips together into a thin line. “I just… Hawkmoth needs to be stopped. I won’t let him hurt you again. I need to be better. I need to do more .”

“You’re already doing plenty, Buginette. And you’ve managed it all by yourself all these years; don’t sell yourself short,” he replied earnestly. “You’ve helped me so much already. Way more than I deserve.”

A sharp pang of sorrow struck her heart upon hearing him speak this way yet again. Before the night of their ballroom dance, she’d thought that Chat’s ostentatious bravado and cockiness were merely due to arrogance and egotism. It had made it easier to fight when she believed her enemy was just a rotten smart aleck.

But now she knew better; it had all been for show.

Did he have any other loved ones in his personal life? She really hoped so. Although, she suspected that if he did, his past actions would make him feel like that love was ill-deserved.

If only there was a way that she could help him realize how genuinely amazing he was. Just… how wonderful and unique and precious. This desire, this need to make him understand this, took root inside her heart, almost like a tangible weight that would refuse to go away until appeased.

Ladybug gently cupped Chat’s jaw and turned his head down to face hers. “Kitty… That isn’t true. You deserve so much more. You’re kind, selfless, and brave. I’ve never met anyone like you. Or anyone who’s overcome as much as you have. The only thing you don’t deserve is the horrific treatment you’ve suffered at the hands of that monster. Your worth is immeasurable, whether you realize it or not.” She paused, her eyes bored fiercely into his. “But I know it.”

Chat gaped at her, his face full of emotion. “Ladybug…” he murmured, voice rough and strained, as if he were trying to hold something back.

Ladybug stared into Chat’s impossibly green eyes, which were currently looking at her as if she was the dearest treasure he’d ever held. The chill down her spine changed into an almost overwhelming heat, and yet she couldn’t help but immerse herself in the fire of his gaze.

She stroked his cheek with her thumb, her brows turning upwards sorrowfully. “If only there was a way I could help make up for what you’ve lost. Some way to help the other ‘you’. The one behind the mask.” She sighed and whispered, “I wish I could tell you who I really am...”

Chat’s face reddened further and she felt him stiffen a bit. “I-I…” he trailed off, unsure of how to reply.

He swallowed thickly, and seeing the movement of his Adam’s apple was enough to make Ladybug become hyper-aware of how far she’d gotten into his personal space. She jolted upright, apprehension drenching her like a bucket of water, and her hand jerked back as if shocked by electricity. She winced, internally freaking out that her words and actions were unwelcome or too forward.

Why did I even bring up our identities?? God, I must be making him so uncomfortable!! Why do I always blurt out stuff like a total idiot when I’m with him?!

“S-sorry, I shouldn’t have–” she stuttered, looking away and wiping furiously at her tears. She started to step away from him, immediately missing the comfort of his broad, warm chest.

“Wait!” Chat interjected. He stopped her from pulling away fully, holding her hand and keeping her close, almost touching. He gently lifted her chin with his other hand, so she would meet his eyes again. She left out a soft gasp, her cheeks heating up under his intense gaze.

“My Lady…” he uttered longingly, voice low and thick with emotion.

Piercing emerald eyes held hers captive, so mesmerizing and beautiful that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to look away even if she desired to. It felt as though he was staring past the mask and straight through into her soul, able to understand it. Able to understand her.

He continued fervently, “I swear to you that as soon as you feel it’s safe to do so, I’ll be the first to reveal my identity to you. Just say the word. I trust you, one hundred percent.”

A pleasant wave of goosebumps covered her entire body, and she could only reply with a timid smile, a bright blush creeping on her cheeks yet again.

This wasn’t how she’d planned for their reunion to go. There’d been a lot more tears and a lot less professionalism than she’d expected. Regardless, they’d cleared the air and paved the way to move forward. Together.

Ladybug squeezed his forearm lightly, trying to blink away her remaining tears. “I’m sorry… I’m supposed to be the one comforting you, not the other way around.”

“Let me,” he replied, stroking her cheek softly and wiping the wet streaks. “And let yourself accept it. You’re incredibly strong, Buginette. Both physically and mentally. But you’re not invulnerable. And you’re overworking yourself. You didn’t get any time to recover from everything that happened to you yesterday. I want to take care of you, too. Just tell me what you need and I’ll do it, without question. Anything at all.”

The girl couldn’t help but blush at his honesty and forthrightness, almost too flustered to realize that he’d given her the perfect opportunity to ask for the thing that most heavily weighed on her mind at the moment. Almost.

Well… here goes.

Ladybug squeezed his hand tightly. “Chat… Will you stay? Here, with the Dupains?” she asked hopefully. “I just… I need to know you’ll be alright. Please?”

Upon hearing this, Chat visibly shrunk into himself a bit, brows turning upwards in concern. He replied nervously, “I-if that’s what you want. A-and as long as they’re really okay with it. Yes, I’ll do it. I can stay.”

She smiled broadly at him, elated to hear him agree. He was staying! He was going to be okay!! A healing wave of relief washed away the immense worry about his safety, and she felt significantly lighter. Practically throwing herself at him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave his cheek a long, loud smooch, eliciting a small gasp from him.

“That’s great!!” she cried happily, pulling him into a tight hug. “The Dupains will take good care of you, I promise! I’ve already talked to them about it. They’re willing to let you stay for as long as you need.”

He hugged back, albeit a bit flustered. “A-are you sure it’s alright? I’m just... scared of anything happening to them because of me.”

Ladybug pulled away enough to be able to look into his eyes. “I understand why you’d be worried, but believe me, everything will be fine. Hawkmoth would never think to look for you here. Taking care of your wellbeing is the priority, and they want to help us. They’re good people. It’ll be good for you to be around them. And…” She reached for his hand, squeezing it. “You’ll be safe. That’s what’s most important to me right now. You deserve to be able to sleep at night without being afraid.”

He looked upon her tenderly, gaze full of wonder and affection. He sighed and uttered, voice laden with awe, “You’re incredible… ” He cleared his throat, face turning bright pink, and stammered, “Th-that is… You’re all amazing. I’ll make sure to be the best houseguest ever.”

Ladybug giggled, her own cheeks flushed. “I don’t doubt it, Chaton,” she replied fondly, squeezing him back into the biggest hug she could manage. Chat’s arms wrapped around her waist in response, clinging onto her like a lifeline.

Ladybug sighed happily, and she heard, as well as felt, that same low, throaty purr she’d come to recognize immediately. She loved it.

It felt great to be able to rest easy knowing exactly where Chat was and that his life wasn’t in constant peril. Knowing that he was being cared for instead of being abused, or being forced to do something he didn’t want.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, just reveling in each others’ companionship. They’d earned this short reprieve.

But of course, as much as they’d both wanted it to, this moment couldn’t last forever.

Ladybug exhaled through her nose wearily, giving him one last squeeze. “I should go.”

Chat pulled away but still kept her close, standing almost chest to chest against each other. He gazed at her with eyes full of yearning and fascination.

“When can I see you again?” he asked softly. “I’d love to spend more time with you.”

Fire spread through Ladybug’s chest, quickly rushing to her face, and she had to fight the bout of speechlessness that threatened to overcome her. Her eyes dropped from his own like stones, only to land on his toned abdominals, which caused the burning to intensify. Again they fled, darting around, searching for something else to focus on, anything, until they finally settled on the hardwood floor.

Why was she reacting this way to what he said?! He just wanted to spend time together! That’s what friends do, right?! So why was she getting so hot and bothered over it??

Despite her brain temporarily short-circuiting, she miraculously managed to remember that Chat Noir was supposed to remain beside Tikki for the next two days, and should stay here at home.

She skittishly twiddled with the ends of her hair, stammering, “Oh! I- umm! My schedule? I-I have to– I need... school shopping! For school! ‘Cuz it starts next week! A-and, uh... You need to get in my bed. UM, I-I mean... I need to get in your bed. Wait, NO!!” she squawked, waving her hands around like a madwoman. “THAT IS, YOU NEED TO GET BACK IN BED!! T-to get some rest!!! S-so how about… Saturday?”

She facepalmed audibly. WOW, Marinette, just wow. Real smooth. First you amaze him with your incoherent blubbering and bawling, and get his shirt all wet. And now you astound him with your sterling display of eloquence. Great job making a good impression of a person who’s got all their crap together! UGH!

Was there any chance he wouldn’t notice if she spontaneously combusted? Why couldn’t one of her powers be for the earth to swallow her whole?! And why in the world was she acting this way with Chat Noir?! He was her partner! There was absolutely no reason for her to get so flustered!

Despite her less than sophisticated demeanor, Chat chuckled affectionately, bringing her out of her mental freakout. Smiling widely, he tilted her head upwards by the chin so their eyes would meet yet again. “Saturday sounds wonderful. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Y-yeah… Cool…” Ladybug breathed out dopily, struggling to remain upright despite her legs having suddenly turned to gelatin.

He gently tucked some stray hair behind her ear. “Thank you, by the way,” he murmured, “For looking out for me. For being so nice, for going out of your way to make sure I’ll be alright. Just… thank you. For everything.”

Chat’s eyes were soft and kind, yet intense and bold; they twinkled with a look she’d never received from anyone else before. It was new and exciting. Thrilling. Tempting. They captured her, like a snake charmer, drawing her near, and she couldn’t look away. And yet, here she was, wholeheartedly willing to become ensnared by them, inextricably drawn to his melody.

“Anytime,” she whispered breathlessly.

His hand made his way up from her jaw to cup her cheek, sending an intoxicating shiver down her entire body.

Faintly, she noticed the proximity of their faces… When she gotten so close? Her gaze flitted to his mouth all on its own, and everything else went out of focus. Chat seemed to notice her action, and he bit his lip slightly with a blush. Her hands trailed idly up to settle on his chest of their own accord, and she wondered if he could hear her own heart pounding. It didn’t seem to matter much right now. Nothing really did. Her whole world was the sound of his breathing, the curve of his smile, the feel of his hand on her skin.

Chat’s other hand settled on the small of her back, and he drew her towards him. He let out a shaky sigh, placing his forehead against hers, eyes squeezed shut, and swallowed hard.

He was hesitating. Was he afraid? Or… was he waiting for permission?

Her brain screamed at her to stop everything and analyze her thoughts before proceeding or making any decisions, while her heart urged her to stop overthinking everything and just do what felt right.

But was there even a “right” choice? Nothing about this moment felt wrong. In fact, she felt completely at ease. Although, to be fair, it was difficult to feel or discern anything outside of the whirlwind of butterflies currently swarming in her stomach.

Even though nothing had come of it, or might ever come of it, she was still in love with Adrien; of that, there was no doubt. So then, what was it that she was feeling right now, with Chat? She felt like she was being tugged in opposite directions, a cacophony of voices arguing and shouting, their words indecipherable.

While her heart and her mind were busy battling, however, her body moved on its own as if possessed, inching closer and closer towards the subject of the aforementioned internal conflict.

Her own arms snaked around Chat’s waist and his eyes flew open, accompanied by a deep blush that quickly colored his face and extended to the tips of his ears. His breath was shaky and a bit shallow, and she realized that he was having an internal debate of his own.

Did he want this? Did she want this? What even was “this”, anyway?? This whole situation was entirely new to her, and, so it appeared, seemed entirely new to him as well.

A thought occurred to her. It was so simple, but of course, it was anything but.

Why not just ask him?

After all, she had absolutely no clue what she was doing, and apparently he didn’t either, so neither had an advantage over the other. What did she have to lose?

Before she had a chance to ask, however, it was Chat who spoke first.

“My Lady… d-do you–”

A rattling door handle startled them apart, and just like that, the trance broke.

Sabine entered the room holding a small tray, but froze in her tracks upon seeing them. She let out a brief croak, but nothing else, as if her vocal chords had run away and left her behind. The couple stood there staring back, beet red with an exceedingly guilty look on their faces.

“MAMA–MA– MADAME!!” Ladybug yelped. “How nice to see you!”

“Oh, I-I’m so sorry!!” Sabine finally managed to stammer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything! We’ve got fresh baked cookies and they’re still warm, so I thought I’d–”

“COOKIES!! I love cookies!” Ladybug interrupted, clasping her hands together. She stood stiff like a telephone pole, as if anchoring her feet heavily onto the ground would prevent her from floating away due to the embarrassment of having been caught in such an intimate position with her formal mortal enemy. She squeaked, “What a great idea! We should go to the kissing– I MEAN, TO THE KITCHEN!!”

Chat fared no better at his attempt to appear innocent. His mouth was pursed into a crooked pout; his eyes darted around like a kid attempting to hide stolen candy behind his back.

Sabine quirked an eyebrow inquisitively, eyes darting between them both. She replied, “Alright. I’ll let you wrap up in here and meet you at the, ahem – the kitchen.”

(Mood music: La Veillée - Yann Tiersen)

Sabine closed the door behind her and Ladybug let out a long, pitiful whine, hiding her face behind her hands, hoping that somehow she’d find a portal to another dimension within.

Chat wrapped his arm around her shoulders and remarked with a snicker, “Don’t be so nervous, Bugaboo! You’re starting to sound a lot like my friend, Marinette.”

Ladybug’s head whipped up like a spring and she let out a shaky chortle, a too-wide smile plastered on her face. “HAH! That’s funny! HAHAAA!! The Dupains’ daughter!! Cute, isn’t she?”

GOD, WHY DID I SAY THAT?! WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH ME?!!

Chat chuckled in amusement. “She sure is. She’s a big sweetheart, but she can be a bit excitable.”

Ladybug groaned internally, feeling her eye twitch. Understatement of the century.

She cleared her throat in an effort to snap herself out of her stuttering stupor and get the thumping in her chest under control, before she did something stupid.

Not trusting her traitorous mouth to not embarrass her further, she simply took Chat’s hand and made her way out of the bedroom and towards the sweet embrace of crumbly, sugary, chocolatey goodness. The one thing that always stayed the same in her life, no matter how confusing everything else got.

“I wonder where she is, anyway,” Chat mused aloud. “I’d love for you to meet her. I think you two would get along really well!”

Ladybug almost tripped on thin air, but managed to continue her speed-walk to the kitchen while internally screaming.

From the living area, Tom overheard what Chat had said and replied, “Oh, that’s a great idea! I’ll go fetch her so she can say hello! Maybe we can even get a picture of you two!”

Ladybug suppressed a shriek and dropped Chat’s arm like a sack of potatoes and whipped around to respond. “OHHH, you know what?? I just realized that I’m late for a, uh– dentist appointment!! I’d better go! Sorry I won’t get to meet your daughter! Next time, definitely!”

She rushed over to quickly shake hands with Tom and Sabine, thanking them yet again, then ran back to where Chat stood perplexed.

“Feel free to call or message me anytime,” she said to him. “My kwami will let me know if you’re trying to get in contact with me.”

He grinned back widely and replied with a wink, “Can do. Goodbye for now, My Lady.” He took her hand and, with a slight bow, gave it a soft kiss. He gazed at her with the same look as before, back in the bedroom. A look full of fondness. Respect. And… something else; that other emotion she couldn’t quite identify. Could it be…?

No… There was no way. She was just flattering herself by even entertaining the thought. Chat was just… a very affectionate friend. Someone who didn’t receive a lot of physical closeness in his daily life. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’d be so touchy-feely with her. There might be some mutual attraction, sure (something that she still needed to sort her feelings about). But to imagine anything more would be delusional.

Regardless, his boldness always managed to knock the air out of her lungs, and she couldn’t help but be rendered speechless.

All at once, however, Ladybug could feel her parents’ stares from the back of her head, which Chat most certainly had not noticed (or if he did, he didn’t seem to care).

Pretty certain that her body had abruptly burst into flames, Ladybug stepped away with an awkward giggle and a small wave. “See you Saturday! We’ll have fun and make out–I mean HANG OUT!! SORRY, I’MJUSTGONNAGONOW, BYE!!!” she screeched, practically running into the door in her haste.

“Wait! What about your cookies?” Sabine called.

Ladybug skidded to a halt, throwing her hands in the air. “R-right!!! ‘Cause I love cookies!” She sprinted back to the countertop to grab a small handful, then bolted back towards the door. Squawking one last garbled goodbye, she swung the door closed, albeit unsuccessfully, the latter bouncing off the doorframe from the excessive force. The remaining three listened to Ladybug clamber down the stairs and exit the building in a span of time that would ordinarily be considered impossible.

About sixty seconds later, a pajama-clad Marinette descended the stairs from her bedroom with a loud, theatrical yawn, stretching her arms above her head. She called out, “Good morning, everyone!”

Tom replied, “Hey sleepyhead! You won’t believe who just stopped by!”

Maintaining her ruse, she answered innocently, “Hmm? Was it Alya? It seems a bit too early for her.”

Sabine chimed in, “Oh sweetie, this was definitely the worst morning for you to sleep in! Ladybug was here! At our house! She left a minute ago; you just barely missed each other!”

Marinette gave out a dramatic gasp, bringing her hand to her mouth, accompanied by a loud groan. “Oh noooo~! I missed Ladybug?? Darn my luck! Oh well, maybe next time!” She promptly changed the subject, plucking a cookie from the tray on the kitchen counter. “Oh, yum! You made cookies!”

Tom scrunched his eyebrows. “Uh... Marinette, we always have cookies.”

She giggled nervously. “O-oh yeah! Definitely one of the best perks of living in a bakery, that’s for sure!” She shoved most of the cookie into her mouth, thus preventing herself from blurting out any further absurdities. If anyone happened to notice how shaky her fingers were as she munched on her pastry, nobody commented on it.

They sat around the table, eventually settling into comfortable chatter, and enjoyed a proper breakfast accompanied by a wide assortment of teas. Afterwards, it was time for Sabine and Tom to say their goodbyes and officially open the bakery for the day. Chat made good on his promise to Ladybug and cleaned up after the meal, tidying up the kitchen and doing the dishes, with Marinette offering a helping hand to keep him company.

Afterwards, Marinette moved to the sofa and motioned for Chat to follow. He grinned widely and eagerly complied. The couple made themselves comfortable and resumed their friendly conversation.

“So, Ladybug stopped by to see you, huh?” Marinette asked, immediately noticing the way Chat’s cheekbones turned pink upon mentioning her alter ego. “What did she say? Other than asking my parents to let you stay here for a while.”

“I– she, uh... She just wanted to say hi and see how I was doing, and, um…” he stammered. “Like you said, she asked your parents if it would be okay for me to lay low at your house for a little bit. Then she mentioned she had an appointment and had to leave.”

“And… that’s it?” she asked.

Chat turned bright red at this point, his eyes wide and hands tightly gripping his knees. “P-pretty much.”

Marinette laboriously suppressed a wry smile, but decided to let him off the hook and stop making him wriggle nervously with her secret teasing. “I’m glad you guys got to see each other. And I’m relieved that you decided to stay.”

He smiled shyly. “I’m a bit shocked at how generous you all are, to be honest. N-not that it surprises me that you guys are so nice, of course; I already knew that,” he clarified. “But it’s just… it’s a huge favor to ask from anybody. Especially for nothing in return. I’d still like to pay you back somehow, but I’m not entirely sure how to do that.”

Marinette reached over and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay, Chat! You don’t have to do anything. Really! It’s just like a sleepover. Friends do sleepovers all the time!”

Chat twiddled his fingers nervously. “I, uh… I’ve actually never slept over at someone else’s house before. Not even Chlo– uh… not even my closest friends.”

Marinette made a small, thoughtful hum. “Well, thankfully we’ve got all day to prepare for the biggest, most amazing sleepover you could ever imagine! Starting with me kicking your butt in ‘Ultimate Mecha Strike 3’!”

Chat’s face lit up with an excited twinkle in his eyes and a mischievous smile that she couldn’t help but find utterly adorable. “Oh, we’ll see about that!”

They laughed freely and began setting up their game on the television.

As Marinette got the controllers out, Chat asked bashfully, “Umm, before we begin... do you happen to have any Camembert? For some reason, I’ve been craving it like crazy.”

Marinette raised an eyebrow. Camembert? That was… kind of an odd and rather specific request. Why Camembert, of all things?

Just then, a thought occurred to her. Since she was fairly certain that it wasn’t a pregnancy-related craving, she realized that that must be his kwami’s preferred food. Since Chat couldn’t detransform to feed him, the need for that extra energy must be manifesting itself through cravings.

Poor little guy is working so hard... He must be exhausted!

Making a mental note to stock up on all kinds of cheeses, she grinned at Chat with a cheeky wink.

“One cheese-fest, coming right up!”

#Miraculous Ladybug #Ladynoir #Marichat #Enemies AU #Marinette Dupain Cheng #Adrien Agreste #Discordant Sonata #fanfiction #Eden writes #friend art

573 notes · View notes

cuttoothed · 5 years

Note

first encounter jonmartin?

In which Web!Martin attracts some unwanted attention from the Magnus Institute.

Martin’s willing to admit it was a bad decision. Stupid, really, to do what he did so close to home, but how often do you find something like that on your own doorstep? One of those Divine Host cultists living right in his building, it was practically gift wrapped. It was far too easy to strike up a conversation, play the lonely misfit, desperate for a connection. (Not actually much of a stretch there, he thinks.) The perfect victim to lure her in, and she had gone so eagerly, had never seen the strands until they closed around her.

In the end she had walked into the Web with her eyes open and horrified, unable to do anything else and utterly aware of what was about to happen, gushing helpless fear.

It’s probably fine, though,Martin reassures himself. Nobody saw them talking, and he didn’t leave any evidence. Well, no evidence that would point towards a person being involved. Anyway, the Met tend to gloss over the odder cases.

He is almost entirely convinced that he’s got away with it until someone buzzes his flat on a Wednesday evening and says he’s investigating the death of a resident. Martin considers for a moment, and then buzzes the front door open. It might be nothing, and if it isn’t, well...

The man that comes to his door isn’t wearing a uniform, and he doesn’t look much like a detective. He is thin and harried looking, and younger than the gray already peppering his hair would suggest, maybe only Martin’s age.

“Hi,” says Martin.

“Yes, hello,” the man says. “You’re...M. Blackwood?”

The man has a deep voice, with an accent that curls sharp and precise around every syllable. It’s a rather nice voice.

“Martin,” says Martin. “You said something about investigating a death?”

“That’s right - one of the residents of the building, Lisa Suarez. She lived in, uh...” He shuffles a file of paper in his hands. “In number 102. I’m following up on the case.”

“Oh, right,” Martin says. “Would you like to come in?”

“That would be - very helpful.” He sounds mildly surprised to be invited in, as if it doesn’t happen often. Martin steps aside and the man walks into his flat, juggling his files and notebook as he tries to remove his heavy overcoat.

“Tea?” Martin asks over his shoulder, already heading for the kitchen.

“Sorry?” the man says, still struggling with his coat.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh, if it’s not too much trouble. Thanks.” He sounds even more surprised to be offered tea, and Martin smiles.

“It’s cold out today. A cup of tea usually helps. Make yourself at home.”

Martin busies himself in the small attached kitchen while the man sits down on the sofa, perching stiffly right at the edge of the seat and balancing his files and coat on the arm. A single brown spider skitters across the countertop as Martin pours boiling water into two mugs.

Not just now, Martin thinks, and says: “Milk? Sugar?”

“Just milk,” the man replies. Martin brings the mugs and hands one over with an encouraging smile. He sits down in the armchair with his own tea.

“Sorry,” he says, “What did you say your name was?”

“Jonathan Sims,” the man introduces himself. “I’m with the Magnus Institute - maybe you’ve heard of us? I’m doing some follow up research on the...circumstances around Ms. Suarez’ death.”

Not police, then. Martin’s heard of the Magnus Institute, here and there over the years. A supernatural research organization as far as the public is concerned, bit of a laughing stock among skeptics. But also, from what Martin has gathered, a stronghold of some power in itself. He’s never had anything to do with it before, though, so he’s not sure what to expect.

“Circumstances?” he asks. “I knew the lady downstairs died, but I’d heard it was natural causes?”

“Almost certainly,” the man - Jonathan - says, waving a dismissive hand. “But the, uh, condition in which the body was found was rather unusual, so I was asked to look into it further.”

“Right,” says Martin. “So what can I do to help?”

“Have you seen any suspicious people around lately? Anyone...unfamiliar, around the area?”

“Hmm,” Martin says, “Not that I can think of. I know everyone who lives in the building by sight. And I haven’t seen any mysterious strangers recently, just the usual, postman and the like.”

Jonathan scribbles something in his notebook and nods.

“And have you noticed any - ” he hesitates, “Any unusual wildlife around the building? Specifically...spiders?”

He sounds embarrassed to even be asking the question, a self-deprecating twist to his mouth. Martin frowns theatrically, makes a show of considering it.

“Spiders?” he says. “No, nothing out of the ordinary. Why? Was she bitten or something? I heard there were venomous spiders migrating north with global warming and everything, but on the news it said they’re not deadly - ”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Jonathan shakes his head with mild disdain, writing another note.

“We had silverfish last winter,” Martin volunteers. “All over the building, you couldn’t move for them.”

“I see,” Jonathan sighs, sounding more bored by the second. “Well, thank you for your time Mr. Blackwood - ”

“Martin,” says Martin.

“Martin,” Jonathan concedes. Martin quite likes the way his name sounds in the man’s mouth, even if he does seem a bit of a superior prat.

“You’re sure you don’t want to ask me anything else?”

“No, no, I have everything I need.” Jonathan quickly drains his cup and starts gathering his belongings. Martin mirrors him as he stands up, and escorts him to the door.

“It must be very interesting,” he suggests, “Working for the Magnus Institute. All...spooky occurrences and that kind of thing?”

“Occasionally,” Jonathan says, pouring a wealth of disappointment and scorn into that single word. “Mostly it’s, well, not that at all. Hoaxes and optical illusions, mostly, and an unfortunate amount of untreated mental illness.”

“Oh. Well, if you need anything else, you know where I am.”

“Thank you,” says Jonathan. “And, uh, thank you for the tea.”

“Anytime,” Martin tells him, and smiles as he shuts the door.

Nothing further comes of the visit, and Martin doesn’t think of it again until a few months later when he sees a job posting buried in the back of the newspaper. Short and discreet, as if trying not to draw too much attention to itself:

Researcher required. Must be willing to work in the field. Paranormal experience preferred. Proficiency with Microsoft Office beneficial. Apply c/o Mr. Elias Bouchard, Magnus Institute, SW3 4LG, London.

Well, Martin thinks, why not? It would have to be more interesting that Martin’s current job, the latest in a long string of boring office roles, distinguishable only by which slogan he repeats when he answers the phone. And having access to the Magnus Institute’s resources and knowledge could only be useful in finding suitable prey- it’s not as if eldritch cultists fall into Martin’s lap as a matter of course. Martin’s not sure if this advert has been drawn to his attention deliberately, or if it’s a coincidence, but either way, he likes the idea.

At his interview, Elias Bouchard quirks an aristocratic eyebrow at Martin’s CV and makes an enigmatic comment about singular credentials. His gaze pierces Martin right through, and Martin is very certain that this man knows a great deal more about him than should be possible. Elias offers him the job there and then, and shakes his hand with a veiled warning about ensuring extracurricular activities don’t impinge on the Institute’s mission.

On Martin’s first day, a familiar disheveled figure almost runs right into him, arms full of files.

“Careful,” Jonathan scolds, as if it had somehow been Martin’s fault he wasn’t watching where he was going. “Wait, don’t I know you?”

“Martin,” Martin reminds him. “We met a few months ago. My neighbor died and you were looking for spiders?”

“Right,” Jonathan nods, looking vaguely discomfited by the reminder. “And, uh, you’re working here now?” He glances at the Institute ID hanging around Martin’s neck.

“Just started,” Martin says. “You made it sound so interesting, I had to apply.”

“Right…” says Jonathan again, skeptical. “Well, uh, welcome to the Institute, I suppose?”

“Thanks,” says Martin. The man really is a terrible arse.

Unfortunately, he’s also very much Martin’s type.

#the magnus archives #tma #my fic #ficbits #web!martin #jonmartin #(sort of)#writing prompts

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a-daedras-best-friend · 5 years

Text

15 Questions Tag Game!

Tagged by @sunshine-tes (ty babey!! ♥️)

this’s really hard to choose... let’s go with... Alidae (and Ienelies as emotional support), seen as i’ve been developing him a lot recently.

1: What is your full name?

Alidae: Alidae Gabriel Alphonse. I’m personally not fond of it.

Ienelies: C’mon.... we all know ‘Alidae’ isn’t your real name.

Alidae: Are you drunk? Of course it is.

2: What does your name mean?

Alidae: I.. uhm..

Ienelies: Hah! You’ve fucked yourself here, haven’t you? If it’s any consolation, you could always tell them what Adaline means.

Alidae: Why in oblivion would I do that? That’s not even my name, Ienelies.

Ienelies: [Deep sigh] I know.

Ienelies: You always used to boast about how your mother always knew you’d be noble. Adaline means ‘noble kind’.. Alidae means nothing. You really were noble back then.

Alidae: ...Could you shut up talking about things that I don’t know?

3: What are your nicknames?

Alidae: Oh, I have plenty. ‘Ali’, ‘The Pestilance’ and ‘Summerset’ being a notable few. But I would very much appreciate not being called ‘Summerset’, sentimentality and triviality.

4: What is your gender?

Ienelies: Oh boy....

Alidae: Gender is false. A social construct to demoralise and conquer. Oppression given blame to mental illness. I have no time or sympathy for such a thing.

Ienelies: Could you get any more pretentious, honestly?

5: What is your sexuality?

Alidae: I... don’t know. Gender does not matter to me in any regard and I get... sexual desires... but I’m unable to act on them due to my blessing.

Ienelies: That’s pansexual, Summerset.

Alidae: But-

Ienelies: Nope, not acting on needs because of some dumb curse doesn’t count. Still pansexual.

6: Where are you from?

Alidae: I’m from The Pits. I’ve spent most of my life there, ordering. It’s n- Why are you looking at me like that, Ienelies?

Ienelies: You aren’t from The Pits. You’re from Valenwood. You aren’t the best person to ask about your own past, you’ve been stripped of most of it.

7: How old are you?

Alidae: Older than I look. I stopped counting long ago, yet my best guess would be 600 or so.

Ienelies: You have GOT to be kidding me! 600? That’s all the memories he left you with?!

Alidae: All who left me with?

Ienelies: Y’know what, we’ll have this conversation later. He’s well over 1000, by the way.

8: What is your magic form/ designation?

Alidae: I... I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean. But the form I take in Oblivion is much more grandiose than this one. Now, do you have anything to comment on how wrong I am?

Ienelies: Not this time. You didn’t even do magic back then, let alone have a different form.

Alidae: Good, keep your mouth shut.

9: What is your human form?

Alidae: I’ve never been fully mer, actual-

Ienelies: Okay, now that’s complete bullshit. I’ll answer this one.

Ienelies: It was... really pretty. Not too different from how he looks now, just add more freckles, dye his hair platinum and get rid of those green... whatever they are... across his face and make his skin a little more golden and less gray. And there you have it, Adaline Alphonse, back from the dead.

10: What are your aesthetics?

Alidae: Hmm... anything supernatural. Turquoise is also good. Cauldrons, bluebells, aquamarine stones, bluejays and gothic culture.

11: Who is your best friend?

Alidae: I find myself drawn to saying Aerine. He is the only one I can find myself speaking to without being interrupted by with meaningless untrue details about a past that didn’t even exist.

Ienelies: Just because you can’t remember it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

12: Would you ever get a piercing or tattoo?

Alidae: Well, my ears are already pierced and I have a small, however strange, tattoo of a symbol on my shoulder.

Ienelies: You still have that? I thought your lord would have gotten rid of any evidence, tut tut. Hey.. what about your Prince Alberts? I can’t imagine you would’ve kept them.

Alidae: MOVING ON.

13: When are you happiest?

Alidae: I would say when I’m working but.. there’s a difference between boredom and happiness I suppose. Hmm.. Being here.

Ienelies: ...Care to elaborate orrrrr...?

Alidae: You shouldn’t need me to, if you know me as well as you think, Stride.

14: What is your biggest secret?

Alidae: ....What my parrot over here has been squawking about, regarding missing memories, may have some weight. I am unable to remember my childhood.. family, friends... lovers. Nothing past waking up in The Pits. Serving in Oblivion. I still have no idea who this ‘Adaline’ you keep referring to is, however.

Ienelies: See! You know but refuse to understand, you stubborn mer.

15: Who is your sidekick?

Alidae: To imply that I am in need of a sidekick is utterly offensive.

Alidae: But Ienelies. Ienelies is my sidekick.

Ienelies: Summerset. You can kick me all you want, I really don’t mind - and if you want to kick me that badly, you only need ask.

Alidae: Must you make everything disgusting?

and we’re done! i hope you enjoyed listening to these two walking disasters bicker for a few moments.

TAGGING!!

@that-nordic-bish @diamond-auri-el @pit-pentagram @doomedteaparty @wyvo @curiousartemis @airiat @obsidiansobsessions @happi-iris

#THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS #UNFINISHED #for the longest time #IM SO GLAD I FINALLY FINISHED IT #AND THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME!!#Alidae #Ienelies #Aerine #ask games #tags #skyrim #shitpost #theelderscrolls

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jadewing-realms · 6 years

Text

“How can I trust you?”

Fictober 2018 - Day 3

No warnings this time. TuT Just Sasuke and Denki being dorks.

They’re up against Aizawa, and Sasuke’s stuck with Class 2-A’s resident idiot: Kaminari Denki.

As soon as he and the lightning brain had drawn the same number from the oversized fish bowl Principal Nezu had procured for them, Sasuke knew he was going to be bearing the brunt of the exercise. And this wasn’t an unfair judgment, it was an acknowledgment of simple fact based on multiple past experiences. The last time they had these exams, Kaminari and Ashido had failed so utterly and completely, Sasuke had felt like he was losing IQ points just watching them.

This time around, Sasuke’s not about to let his own reputation suffer because of an ill-suited partner.

They stand on the cusp of the vast and stupidly dark Hurricane Zone, with wind whipping bone-chilling rain all around and over them, soaking them to the bone through their Hero uniforms. This year, to up the ante apparently, it’s been decided that the USJ is a good choice for the exams to take place, since it gives them an assortment of environments to test their skills under pressure. As if facing off against the staff of UA, again, isn’t stressful enough.

Kaminari looks less than pleased with their draw of locations. Or maybe he’s just mentally reliving the very first time they attempted training here. Either way, it’s got him on edge and Sasuke doesn’t even need his Quirk to tell his classmate is wound up to the point of distraction.

Even more evidence that Sasuke will be the only reliable one on this field. He sighs into the pouring rain that makes his hair stick to his face.

“What kind of luck,” Kaminari offers, holding a hand flat over his eyes like that’ll actually keep the water out of his eyes. “You can’t see a thing!”

Sasuke clicks his tongue. “Tch. I can see plenty.”

He trusts his implication is clear.

It’s not.

Kaminari perks up a bit. “Oh, great. So you have, like… a plan or something, right? Mr. Top-Five?”

Sasuke had scored within the top five in the prelims this year. A lot of the less fortunate students seem intent on making sure he remembers it, if only by declining again and again their never-ending pleas for extra tutoring from him. If they had any brains at all, they’d ask Izuku. He could never say no. Or Yaoyorozu again, she loves doing that sort of thing. Alternatively, they could take their chances with Bakugou and maybe then he’d convince them of how utterly pathetic they are.

He doesn’t deign Kaminari with a response.

Admittedly, it’s less because he doesn’t feel like explaining anything to his classmate and more because he really doesn’t have a plan yet. He needs information. Data. He needs a better, more defensive position, and good view, and a chance for Aizawa to reveal his location. Then maybe he can come up with a location.

“I mean, what am I saying, pff.” Kaminari apparently doesn’t get the idea that Sasuke doesn’t want to chat. “Of course you have a plan! You’re super smart and basically clairvoyant.”

“I’m not clairvoyant,” Sasuke counters, not letting a moment more pass of Kaminari harboring that ridiculous theory. “I’m observant. You could benefit from the skill.”

“Dude, your Quirk makes your observation skills inhuman. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to do something like that. It’s not exactly in my skill set…” Kaminari scratches his ear with all the innocent bashfulness Sasuke’s used to addressing in Izuku. He already suffers through it enough with him, why is Kaminari doing this now…

In their first year, Kaminari was an insufferable hotshot. He overestimated himself time and time again only to be put down hard.

Maybe all the blows to his ego have finally caught up with him at the worst possible time.

The alarm blares over the arena, signaling the start of the exercise. Sasuke wastes no time in sprinting forward down the rain-soaked street. Kaminari follows close behind.

“So, what is the plan?” he asks again.

Sasuke huffs. “You want it straight?”

“Duh! Hit me with it.”

“Okay. If it was up to me, I’d ditch you right here. Then maybe I’d at least have a chance of crossing the finish line for both of us.”

Kaminari’s face completely crumbles, enough that Sasuke almost feels bad.

Almost. He’s way past regrets now. Last year taught him that hesitation kills, and to hold back is to admit defeat.

“Dude, come on.” Kaminari averts his eyes to his feet as they sprint. “Not cool…”

“Maybe, but also true.” Sasuke makes a beeline for a smaller, unassuming store nestled in the shadows of two large office buildings. It looks like it’s fashioned to be some kind of jewelry shop. “With my equipment, I stand a chance against Mr. Aizawa even if he does use his Quirk. Your combat skills are moderate at best, meager at worst, and if he dampens your abilities, you’re screwed. Plus, you’re still just a one-hit wonder, Kaminari.”

Truthfully, the electric blond has improved somewhat since first year. Perhaps he trained harder over break, or perhaps all the training from last year just upped his capacity and they’re only learning the extents of it now. But either way, it’s not enough to merit trusting Kaminari to pull through as an asset.

Kaminari manages to look even more miserable with every passing syllable and by the time they stumble into the shelter the jewelry shop provides, he looks like he belongs in a commercial for animal rescue efforts.

Sasuke doesn’t understand why he’s taking it so personally. He’s pointing out current circumstances—not inescapable facts of life. If Kaminari was truly hopeless, he wouldn’t be back here, in the Hero Course for his second year in a row. But that seems to have escaped Kaminari’s attention in favor of a wave of self-pity.

Sasuke sighs again. Just what they need right now. Seems like he’ll have to explain it himself.

“Like I said. If it was up to me, I’d leave you here and win it myself.” He pauses, takes in Kaminari’s wince, and then folds his arms over his chest. “But it’s not up to me. So I can’t do that. These exams are as much about teamwork as they are about winning. How we win matters.”

Kaminari raises his head ever so slightly, looking confused and not much else. “But… you said—”

“Here’s the plan. We make Mr. Aizawa think we did just what I just said. Make him think we split up. His guard will go down a little if he thinks we’re easier targets alone.” Sasuke glances out at the rain. “Which we are. So you’ll make a mad dash for the finish. That’ll draw his attention, since you’ll be the most immediate threat.”

Kaminari’s frown deepends. “Wait, but—”

“I’ll be watching from a bird’s eye and when he has your Quirk pinned, I’ll come down on him. If he focuses on me, you turn and keep heading for the exit. He’ll be torn between the two of us. Either he focuses on keeping you from the finish line and risks me apprehending him with my tasers, or he focuses on me and risks you winning by crossing the finish line.”

For a long second, Kaminari seems to think this over—harder than usual. He glances over Sasuke’s face. “What about his scarf thing?”

“The capture weapon will be preoccupied with me most likely. I can dodge it easily enough with my Quirk. And if he catches you with it, give him a moderate shock—not enough to disable him or cripple you, but enough to get him away. Do it, even if it might hit me too. Can I trust you to do that?”

Slowly, Kaminari begins to nod, much to Sasuke’s relief. Relief that only lasts until that nod turns very suddenly to an emphatic headshake mid-word.

“Okay, I think—HEY wwwwait a second! You just said a whole lotta really nasty things, man, what the heck?” Kaminari points an accusatory finger between Sasuke’s eyes. “You literally just said that if it was up to you, you’d ditch me! You steal my gimmick, basically call me a worthless loser, and now you expect me to just comply with your plan? How can I trust you?”

Sasuke smirks a little. Now he’s getting it. “In most situations? You can’t.”

Kaminari’s mouth drops and he sputters, unable to formulate an immediate response to that.

So Sasuke continues. “We’re diving head-first into a cutthroat industry where you’re going to have to do whatever it takes to survive the ranking system. Each one of us has to take every advantage we can get. Even if it means trampling others in the process.”

“You’re not exactly helping your case, dude!” Kaminari blurts.

“That said,” Sasuke pauses, waiting for his classmate to close his mouth, “in this case, the best case scenario lies in both of us succeeding. And the best case scenario is all we can shoot for. Make sense?”

He literally watches Kaminari’s guard go back down, as does his finger of accusation. He doesn’t look particularly happy about this, any more than Sasuke does, but at least he looks… marginally less offended.

That’s something. It’s plenty for Sasuke to work with.

“Okay. Let’s do it.” Kaminari sighs, scratching his ear again.

That’s all Sasuke needs. He steps up to the storefront window and peers out into the rain using his Quirk. The fact that he can still use it means Aizawa isn’t in the vicinity—or at the very least, he’s not giving his presence away yet.

“By the way,” Sasuke murmurs without glancing back. His breath fogs the window. “I didn’t steal your gimmick.”

“Taser gauntlets? Come on.”

“I merely settled on an offensive weapon that I concluded would suit my skillset best.”

“Yeah, and copied me in the process. And it’s not even as good as mine! I have a lightning sword!”

“And I have a electrified baton that also functions as a sword.”

“SEE? YOU STOLE IT!”

“Hmm.”

#fictober18 #sasuke's a jerk but he means well #most of the time #poor denki doesn't deserve this #my hero academia #naruto #crossover #fix-it au #sasuke uchiha #denki kaminari #lightning bros #boku no hero academia #fanfiction

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jcmorgenstern · 6 years

Note

please rant about the second half of COLS and COHF

this ask opened pandora’s box, consume at your own peril

Basically…my biggest problems with the second half of COLS and COHF as a whole is really just…Jonathan as a character really, truly, utterly, and absolutely makes no sense on a very fundamental level. Like I really don’t say this lightly, I spent almost all of last summer trying to piece together a coherent characterization and eventually came to the conclusion that…there wasn’t one, at least that I could see.

(Readmore for length, heavy criticism of the work (obviously), and mention of canonical attempted rape).

So before I jump right in to providing evidence for that uhh slightly bold claim, I do want to acknowledge that Jonathan in COG totally makes sense, even if certain uhh incestuous aspects of his character do make my eyes roll back into my skull. To me, it always seemed a bit evident that the series was meant to end at COG, and the second half of the trilogy was sort of an ad hoc thing that happened after the series kept building popularity and there was demand from the fandom (and the publisher) for content. If taken alone, Jonathan’s character in COG is relatively self-consistent, and I’ve posted before (also at length….lol) about how Jonathan’s character in COG alone is actually a bit tragic, and it’s not until COLS that he truly makes a villainous turn off a cliff. Though the incest is, from the start, #a bit much, we all know that that’s just how CC novels go and, to some extent, ya just gotta roll with it.

The first half of COLS continues to be pretty exciting from a Sebastian Enthusiast perspective–in fact, for me, it’s really what made me fall in love/hate with the character and his portrayal to begin with. And some of the character work in the first half of COLS is actually pretty good!! We have the moral ambiguity of the Jace/Seb bond, Clary being unable to tell to what degree Sebastian in lying, the slightly random, wild, and jumbled snips of his character coming through (vampire threesome, vampire fetish, wearing Jace’s cologne??, fashion whore, messy bitch, shitty poetry writer?? it’s all free real estate) and then he lays out what could have been such an interesting plot!!

All the mentions of the increasing number of demons coming through to Earth is finally being used after being mentioned ad nausea for three whole books!! We’re set up for an interesting, shades of grey antagonist who thinks the ends justify the means and that sometimes a Wee Murder is needed to end an unjust regime (the Clave) without realizing that removing the Clave violently without any real and just alternative will create a power vacuum that invites even worse outcomes!! And the protagonists have to navigate slightly more complex moral issues than “genocide is bad, really!!”

And then…er, no. Like, really no. The entire book does a complete 180 and says no, all that (questionable) character development was a complete lie, all the human motivations you could possibly ascribe to the villain are bunk, he just wants to destroy the world. And not only that, he tries to rape Clary and….yeah no. (I’ll talk more about that later…I have a lot to say).

And for me that was really a massive disappointment. Like, to be clear: it wasn’t that I wanted Jonathan to be a pure uwu soft boi who did nothing wrong ™, or that he would be anything other than an antagonist. But like….a) rape. no. and b) I did sort of want his motivations OR his goal to sort of make sense and follow any sort of reason but honestly…they don’t.

The rationale CC tries to offer is that Jonathan doesn’t understand the meaning of love and wants to bend the world to his will so that it will love him instead. And like….that works to an extent, but then she also very clumsily attempts to make him a psychopath and…

Look.

If you’ve followed my blog for a while you know my feelings on poorly-written psychopath characters but…I’m gonna be real honest with ya here….a true psychopath is, with a very few fine exceptions like the entire population of high-security prisons, super fucking boring. They’re emotionally shallow, both internally and externally, and are usually driven by very grounded and unemotional goals. Winning a promotion. Attaining a position of power. Becoming a neurosurgeon. Having the best lawn in the zip code. “The psychopath next door” isn’t Hannibal Lecter, it’s your shitty boss or that one prick who calls the HOA on you for having your lawn one (1) millimeter over regulation.

And you know what? I’d take a story about Hannibal Lecter, lawn fascist. I’d maybe even take a story about Jonathan Morgenstern, shitty CEO, though honestly that sounds dangerously close to 50SOG so maybe not. Because if written well, the sensational serial-killer psychopath can be genuinely thrilling in fiction.

But honestly in this case?? It doesn’t work. Not even getting into the issue of “are signs and symptoms of psychopathy diagnostic in a child soldier” issue (pro tip: almost definitely not), why does he want to burn down the world? Why does he want to kill downworlders if he is basically one? How does he react to his father’s ideology? Does he even have a consistent ideology? Why doesn’t he stay at home playing Mario Kart?? If you can’t answer any of these questions, psychopath or no, anything he does is literally just not convincing and falls flat.

And now I’m going to segue into my “demon blood as a metaphor for child abuse” rant, which will hopefully segue into my “the demon army and ending of COHF is bullshit” rant, and maybe round it all up with my “you don’t have to have your villain graphically try to rape his sister to convince your audience of teenagers he’s a Bad Dude” rant.

So! Demon blood. So full disclosure, the scene in question is probably my actual favorite scene in COLS and the series at large, god knows why really, but it was actually pretty well-written as a hook for a thread that was totally dropped and never ever ever mentioned again. I’m talking about the scene where Jonathan asks Clary for a strength rune, and he tells her Valentine whipped him as a child with demon metal. His wounds will never heal, and serve as a reminder of the “perils of obedience” which is, quite possibly, the most chilling and interesting turn of phrase in the entire series.

And if you think about it, “wounds that will never heal but hurt constantly” are a pretty canny metaphor for the emotional abuse that shapes Jonathan and his ability (or lack thereof) to relate to others. Valentine never particularly loved or even cared for Jonathan, and used him as a child solider (drop me another ask if you want to know the rationale behind that one, kind of not a lot of space for that here) in his genocidal crusade, complete with brainwashing and pretty obvious physical and emotional abuse. That stays with him, twists the way he views love and truth, and leaves him with a permanently negative view of self and worldview that he doesn’t seem to put much effort into overcoming. To be clear: being abused doesn’t make you evil. But in the absence of love and support and positive role models to help you unlearn things, anger and pain can twist even good motives into bad actions, and lbr, Jonathan doesn’t have an over-abundance of good motives. The real peril of obedience is never questioning what you’re told.

But of course it’s never mentioned again, so like, fuck me or whatever.

The show does a better job of it, and almost directly links Jonathan being Like That to what Valentine, Jocelyn, and Lilith did to him and…does a pretty good job of not woobifying him or dismissing his pain. Him having demon blood is almost completely uncoupled from him being “evil” (or, more accurately, doing evil or cruel things) and is instead his responsibility. What makes him “incapable of love” is that he was never shown love, and what makes him violent and cruel is that he was only ever taught violence and cruelty.

But in the books demon blood is definitely intended a metaphor for psychopathy. “He had the humanity burned out of him because of his demon blood” “he’s incapable of love because of his demon blood”…you get the picture. But considering she honestly doesn’t really hit psychopathy and (to me) pings in more at ASPD (antisocial personality disorder, the DSM-V approved version of psychopathy, with some MAJOR and important differences in diagnostic criteria) or NPD (narcissistic personality disorder), I sort of…don’t like how demon blood is directly used as a metaphor for mental illness. And once the demon blood is gone…poof! so is his “evil” so uhh yall read between the lines with me on that one.

(If you want a rant on why I think book Jonathan fits better with ASPD or NPD than psychopathy, drop me an ask, but god please consider the consequences. Also, I generally don’t feel comfortable “”diagnosing”” villains for the hell of it, but in this case since the canon itself has already Gone There and I’d be operating mostly off the DSM, I’d feel slightly less shitty about it).

Anyway. So what I deeply, passionately, truly hate about COHF is the ending, when the demon blood is burned out of Poor Green-Eyed Jonathan and There Is Not Enough Good In Him So He McFucking Dies. What fucking enrages me about this is like…the ENTIRE series is about how “blood doesn’t equal morality” EXCEPT in the case of this one guy apparently because fuck him and fuck consistency!! Also on a slightly different tack it completely erases all culpability of him as a person and like….what, “the demon blood made me do it” is now a viable excuse?? what the fuck. no. what the fuck. also what does “not enough good in him” even MEAN in the context of someone who LITERALLY DESCENDED HIS MOTHER’S BIRTH CANAL THAT WAY oh my god its??? so fucking stupid and the philosophical implications ENRaGE me especially like.,,,as a geneticist….we kind of had a wee run-in with that kind of thinking….it was called “eugenics” you may have heard of it….G OD !!!

Also that doesn’t even get into the contradictory nature of Jonathan’s actual characterization (I use the term loosely) itself like…sometimes his dialogue reads almost like Jace’s, but by the end of COHF he literally quotes Jesus Christ (render unto Caesar’s what is Caesar’s), says “FOOLS!!11!!1!” like….literally once a page, I think at some point dips into vaguely Shakespearean English while violently whiplashing into whatever “ ‘You’re insane,’ said Simon. ‘You’re dead,’ said Sebastian” is?? and is overall an editor’s literal worst nightmare. There is NOTHING driving this character other than pure, unrestrained literary chaos, and absolutely nothing he does or says seems to make a hell of a lot of sense and is designed purely #4 the evulz. It’s just so painfully cartoonish that it physically pains me to read it and yet, here I am, holding the physical (hardback) copy that I own, reading it, and physically shuddering jesus CHRIST

(You did uh, definitely ask for a rant, right?)

OH yeah uhh and to round it all off…the “you don’t have to have your villain graphically try to rape his sister to convince your audience of teenagers he’s a Bad Dude” rant:

Look my friends there’s nothing wrong with Clebastian but there is definitely something wrong with rape and lbr: there’s a lot of it written into this character and his relationship with his SISTER and fuckign thanks!! I absolutely hate it. Apparently, when asked why she chose to include the graphic attempted rape scene in COLS, CC apparently said she “wanted to make sure the audience knew he was beyond saving.”

Look.

When a guy builds a demon army to obliterate the world and everyone in it, I generally get bad vibes. Worse vibes, in fact, than from a guy who tried to rape his sister, though that’s pretty fuCKING bad. The point is, there is absolutely no fucking reason to do that. Seriously, there’s not. And when your entire NYT bestselling fanfic series is based on the incest fetish HP fanfiction, it’s?? proBABly not the best idea to like…include an attempted rape scene between two siblings in a work that already has a lot of UST between presumed or actual siblings because people WILL talk and.,,,can u blame them lol

On a more serious note…female protagonists are so often forced to undergo rape or sexual humiliation as part of a narrative (or worse, for titillation of the viewers–looking at you, GOT and also yeah lbr COLS). Even in the show, which has definitely improved on some weaknesses in the original narrative, Clary is nearly raped by a demon in order to awaken her rune powers. That’s disgusting, honestly, and unnecessary, and you know what? Luke Skywalker didn’t have to face a rape threat to get his powers, and neither should a female counterpart. The show didn’t even ADDRESS this later, or even bring it up at all, and that’s even more upsetting, and part of why I don’t have faith in the WR to bring the concept of a Jonathan-Clary bond in 3b to life in a way that doesn’t make me want to curl up into my epidermis like a chrysalis and never emerge again. (See also: Lilith’s unaddressed sexual assault of Jace, and Camille’s equally unaddressed assault of Simon).

And what bothers me almost more than all this is…it’s not like Jonathan’s creepiness is subtle. He constantly invades Clary’s personal space, makes comments she’s uncomfortable with, puts her in situations she doesn’t like. You could leave it there and I guarantee most of your readership (especially your female/female-aligned readers) will INSTANTLY pick up on the fact that this guy is Bad News and you know what?? Clary isn’t subjected to that bs for….the heck of it?? Not that subtlety is ever the strong point of this series but like…that’s a huge glaring issue and one I can never overlook, and why I’ve honestly chosen to basically Ignore Canon And Do Whatever The Fuck I Want.

In summary: Jonathan was basically shoed in as a) a half-assed foil to Jace and b) a plot device/fix and c) fodder for more incest after Jace and Clary were no longer brother and sister and tbh?? Not entirely here for it.

tldr: jonathan morgenstern is a dumb bitch and no one is valid, more at 9.

#i love a crispy boy #i CANNOT put ths in the tag there is way too much hate #anti tmi #anti cc #like honestly for safety but also bc i do sort of rip into it #YALL ASKED #obvs this is just my personal onion but y e a hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh #anyway!!!! i love how i said hiatus and post a like. 2.5k ask a few hours later #but thats them breaks folks #rape tw #rape mention

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hoshiko2000 · 6 years

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The Boy On The Bridge & The Dangerous Myth Of The Autistic Robot

I want to begin by saying how much I love M.R Carey’s The Girl With All The Gifts! A highly original addition to the sci-fi genre, it centers on a race of human/zombie hybrids discovered in the fallout of a devastating apocalypse. Told through the eyes of Melanie - one such of these unsettling, eerily intelligent children - it paints a terrifying and unnervingly tangible picture of a decimated England. It was a book I found utterly impossible to tear myself away from, so when a prequal was released in late 2017 I couldn’t fail to check it out.

Set around 10 years before the original novel, The Boy on The Bridge follows the ill-fated former crew of the Rosalind Franklin; an elite team of soldiers and scientists who will become the first humans to encounter the mysterious ‘hungry’ children. It’s a intriuiging premise, promising to provide answers to the many burning questions left over from the previous novel.

But as much as I wanted to lose myself in this exciting tale of post-apocolyptic survival, devastated cities and fungal-plagues, I quickly found myself distracted by one specific character. A character who, from the moment they first appeared on the page, immediately began to grate on me.

They’re not someone I’m at all unfamiliar with. I’ve encountered characters exactly like him many, many times over. While once they were rare, today they seem to endlessly bombard us in movies, on TV, across countless genres of fiction. They are a character who embodies troubling, regressive cliches that – in 2017 – I was hoping we were finally beginning to see the back of. A character who is, supposedly, just like me.

His name is Stephen Greaves, and he’s autistic.

(TW for references to both the fictional and real life abuse of autistic children)

I should correct my previous paragraph by stating Stephen’s not ‘actually’ autistic. The author does have the forethought to pull the disclaimer-card of saying he might just have severe PTSD instead. It’s the same convenient ambiguity that always seems to precede terrible, regressive depictions of autistic people; Christopher Boone being another key example.

Considering that this is a kid who literally watched his parents get eaten by zombies, the idea that Stephen may have PTSD does feel fairly plausible. Probable even. But this still doesn’t change the fact that Stephen is heavily, heavily autistic coded. By which I mean he is yet another exaggerated stereotype of how neurotypical authors believe we think and behave.

From the moment he first appears Stephen is strikingly, undeniably ‘odd’. At 15 years old he rarely speaks, is terrified of physical contact and devotes much of his time to avoiding other people. He is a scientific savant who views the world through a detached, analytical lense and considers human relationships an unwanted distraction. This doesn’t stop him from forming one close relationship - with his mentor and mother-figure Dr Khan - but this is clearly an exception to a rule.

Like many other autistic caricatures in fiction, Stephen is obsessed with facts and has a neurotic preoccupation with the truth. More bizarrely, he is physically incapable of telling a lie. Like, genuinely physically incapable. If forced to lie, he will literally begin uncontrollably stuttering out the truth as though under some bizarre curse.

Out of all the myths regarding us that exist in fiction, the one that says autistic people can’t lie is the one that completely baffles me. Autistic people can lie. I told a lie just yesterday; ‘I’m not drunk’. A claim I refuse to believe was at all undermined by the fact I was unable to walk straight at the time.

Some autistic people are, in fact, talented liars. Parents of kids with pathological demand avoidance will attest to this. Neurotypical writers keep returning to this cliché under the misguided belief it offers us a ‘virtuous’ quality; it doesn’t. It’s patronizing and dehumanizing; dismissing us as individuals with free will and turning us in to the helpless puppets of some ‘robotic’ internal wiring.

And this is the fundamental issue with Stephen’s character: his uncomfortable robotic quality.

Unusually for an autistic character, a great amount of effort has been put in to exploring how Stephen thinks and feels. But this is only to emphasize how fundamentally different he is from other human beings. Stephen doesn’t function like a human being, he functions like a computer. His machine-like mental processes are depicted frequently, and in tedious detail. He is not a character who exists for non-autistic readers to relate to. He is instead constructed to be as strange, as baffling and as dramatically different as possible. Not because this is how autistic people actually are, but because we apparently make much more interesting reading this way.

A lot of neurotypical readers are probably wondering why – outside of the blatant predjudice, loss of relatable representation and piss-poor, lazy characterisation - the ‘robotic’ stereotyping of autistic characters bothers me so much. And that’s because outside the realms of fiction, the dehumanization of autistic people has devastating repercussions. The most harrowing example being the all-too-frequent murders of autistic children at the hands of their parents, and the disturbingly sympathetic news coverage that follows them.

These reports follow a distinct formula. They paint a tragic picture of the murderer; their ‘hellish’ existence as the parent of an autistic child, the eventual ‘breakdown’ that drove them to commit this ‘desperate’ act. They will gloss over incriminating details like online-evidence suggesting the murder was being planned weeks in advance, or previous accusations of exploiting their child’s disabilities for money or attention. We will hear all about their ‘mental health problems’, their manslaughter plea, how ‘dedicated’ a parent they supposedly were prior to stabbing, drowning or – in one inconceivably horrific case – burning their own child to death.

The one person they say little about is the murdered child.

Unlike other young murder victims, we rarely see quotes from grieving relatives or teachers about how they were ‘a delight to teach’ or ‘a bubbly, affectionate little girl’. We don’t hear about how they - like other kids their age - loved cuddles and bath-time and watching Peppa Pig. We often don’t even get a photo.

Instead we are presented with yet another faceless autistic monster who has driven their parents to desperation.

It gives me no pleasure to detail these horrendous acts of violence. I know this segment must be deeply distressing for many of you to read; it was harrowing to research. I’ve not included it because I wish to upset you. I’ve included it because I want you to understand that the dehumanization of autistic people across the media - the depiction of us as emotionless, affectionless and not quite human - is a very, very dangerous thing.

At best, it robs of us our identities as sensitive human beings who experience life in diversely individual ways.

At worst it legitimizes the abuse we suffer; turning us in to the deserving recipients of our own victimization.

And indeed, the way Stephen is portrayed in The Boy on The Bridge is only one half of the problem. The other is how the rest of the cast treats him. Stephen isn’t just treated with dislike by the other members of his team, he’s treated with open contempt. He is nicknamed ‘The Robot’, a cruel moniker that is used so frequently you’d be forgiven for forgetting his actual name. He’s called ‘emotionally disturbed’, ‘an idiot’ and a ‘fucking retard’; the verbal punching bag for the frustrations of a terrified and disillusioned crew. When a panicked Stephen locks members of his team outside during an attack, this abuse boils over in to physical violence and he is viciously slammed against a wall.

There are two very important things to remember when we talk about how Stephen is treated by the other character in The Boy On The Bridge.

This is the abuse of a literal child at the hands of adults twice his age.

This is abuse of a child at the hands of characters readers are sympathize with. Characters who have their own chapters, voices, storylines. Characters readers are not meant to always necessarily like, but are expected to relate to.

We are expected as readers to empathize with fully grown adults victimizing an autistic child. The bullying, isolation and violence Stephen is subjected to by the rest of the cast is presented as cruel, but seemingly understandable.

Because Stephen is different, and that makes them uncomfortable. And that is the only defence they need.

I don’t want anyone to leave this post with the wrong impression; I’m not writing this because I don’t want to see autistic characters in fiction. I do, desperately so. I yearn for characters I can relate to, characters who represent my own experiences. Autistic characters who, like me, who have struggled with a life-time of misdiagnosis. Autistic characters who are told they ‘don’t look autistic’. Autistic characters that struggle with subtle, frequently misinterpreted difficulties which are constantly overlooked.

Autistic characters who represent the sum of our real experiences, not creative interpretations of how non-autistic writers imagine we ‘might’ function.

I don’t want to see yet another tiresome savant with intellectual abilities way outside of human limitations.

I don’t want to be represented by caricatures so cartoonishly exaggerated they are unreIatable to most autistic people, let alone neurotypical people.

I don’t want to see the abuse I have suffered legitimized through the myth that my supposed strangeness ‘drove’ my abusers to it.

I don’t want to be shown the world through the eyes of another emotionally-detached robot, and be told that this is how people like myself think and feel.

Those are not my eyes, that is not my story.

#autism #disability #actuallyautistic #disability in fiction #asd #aspergers syndrome

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taylorftparamore · 7 years

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I'm not sure if you're interested but have you read this about Selena/her health burnthroughmyskin*tumblr*com/post/165337919738/okay-i-cant-believe-im-going-to-actually-do-this it does seem like people are forgetting about the "chronic" part of her illness

link

i want to warn before anyone responds that skimming this will be quite evident if you attempt to argue before reading as i will attempt to cover as much as i can. this will lean very “pop feminism”, however there are brushes of other types of feminism mentioned.

the thesis statement: how we view female pop stars and their recovery is a direct reflection of our society and we all have an inherent bias against women in their own narratives.

In order to best understand why people view Selena Gomez’s treatment as a “she’s healthy now and will never be sick again”, one must first examine the fear behind why one wants recovery to be as simple as “she got a new kidney, now she’ll never be sick again”. It’s the inherent fear of being sick. This is an overlap where physically disabled people, chronically ill people, addicts, and mentally ill people receive most of their discrimination. It strongly ties into the fear of growing older.

Even men get hit with it, though we are going to disregard the male experience entirely in this thesis as I have little experience with being male for obvious reasons. This will solely focus on the woman’s narrative and how it ties into other isms in our society.

With women, they are expected to be pretty, look youthful, and be healthy for as long as they possibly can. When someone at twenty-five has a chronic illness, this upsets the balance of what women are expected to be. A woman with chronic illness is expected to hide it away in shame. With the rise of social media, this is no longer something celebrities can do. A celebrity in the 1950s would be able to quietly disappear for six months then return as if nothing had happened.

Shirley Temple, the first example (and yr example) of a child starlet did not have the same circus surrounding her as she grew up. Before 2005, the only examples of stalking out a young starlet was limited to those who could afford the cameras to do so. What happened in 2005? Camera phones became easier to acquire, MySpace begin to rise in popularity, and thus our ability to stalk out celebrities became far easier too. While there’s issues regarding celebrity life before 2005, the focus is post 2005 and how it interacts with the need for a narrative.

Narrative wise, “was sick then got better” is a nicer summary than “was sick, then was fine for a bit, then was sick again, and will now need treatment until the day they died”. People don’t like it. They don’t like that Halsey’s cauterization of her womb to treat PCOS is only a treatment that might fail her. They don’t want to think about how Demi Lovato’s stint in rehab and therapy are only treatments for her addiction and bipolar disorder. They don’t want to think about how their treatment of these delicately imbalanced women can worsen their symptoms later.

Which is the crux on which this entire theory is built: people don’t want to be held responsible for their actions. They don’t want to think of Selena Gomez as being delicate in regards to her feelings towards growing up in the spotlight (in which she described being photographed on a beach at fifteen by grown men “violating”), they don’t want to think about the long term effects mocking Taylor Swift for her surprised face when she was only seventeen carrying into adulthood, they don’t want to think about how Demi Lovato hitting a dancer could have been caused by the speculation of her mental health, and they don’t want to think about how Britney Spears’s public breakdown could be their fault.

No one wants to be the bully and they want to victimize other people so they can then accuse of “playing the victim”. Playing the victim as a phrase was originally coined in reference to abusers manipulating sociological effects to appear to be innocent while utterly demonizing the victim. Oddly, the mob mentality bullying of these starlets work more of “playing the victim” than any female starlet. They are restlessly bullied then accused of being “too sensitive” the minute they cry out. They are forced into a reaction of smile and laugh politely at jokes about their mental and physical health.

So, let’s think back to 2007 - the invention of the iPhone and the rise of Twitter and the birth of Tumblr. Suddenly, social media and cameras were novelties… that allowed us to watch in real time Britney Spears shaving her head and beating Kevin Fenderline’s car with an umbrella. No longer did we have to wait for the page 6 news spread of it in US Weekly or People - we got to see it happen while it was happening. This is our first example of a public breakdown actually being public. Suddenly everyone had an opinion.

Britney Spears was crucified as a warning - step out of line, and we’ll tear you apart too. Her career was dead the very next day. While Blackout managed to regain some of her popularity back, Britney will never again reach the same heights she had pre 2007 break down. This is mostly good for her mental health, however. The 2005 darlings - Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Raven Simone, and Amanda Bynes - all now had black marks against them with social media and narrative writing all contributing to their fall.

Lindsay Lohan’s recovery is ignored, Amanda Bynes’s mental health issues ignored, and Raven Simone was left to fade into obscurity with only the occasional reminder she is still working in television. This set a precedent.

While Taylor Swift, Demi Lovato, Lady Gaga, and Selena Gomez all rose at roughly the same time, there is a strict timeline to adhere to here. Taylor Swift began her career in 2005, but only started to gain traction in 2007 - the same as the rest of her contemporaries. It is with this marker that we recognize that Britney Spears’s public melt down served as a warning to these darlings - you are not human.

Thus when Demi Lovato’s breakdown started happening in 2009, she was instantly hospitalized with the excuse of “exhaustion”. Selena Gomez would later use this excuse to hide her first diagnosis with lupus. “Exhaustion” was now something none of these starlets could use because now the narrative had already taken shape: exhaustion means drug addiction. Nevermind that dancing for two hours every day and singing for two hours every day is physically exhausting for even the most abled of bodied people.

In 2011, Demi Lovato’s image was given a make over with the release of “Skyscraper” - a double edged sword. She was presented to the public as if she’d fully recovered. However, bipolar and addiction are chronic illnesses. Yet the narrative stuck - she was recovered. Now it traps her - she’s unable to backslide in public. Which means that all of Demi’s backslides must occur within conveniently timed slots which is not how backsliding works.

You might be asking “wait you mentioned Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga… I get how Halsey and Demi Lovato relate to the subject matter, but how does this tie together?” The answer is already there for you: narrative. Taylor Swift’s career path is that of a woman in total control of her narrative. This actually did not occur until 2010, in which she released Speak Now on the promotion that then 17/18 year old Swift wrote and produced the entire album by herself.

Lady Gaga, conversely, owns her narrative in total control of her sexuality. These are two things that women are not supposed to do and thus they are demonized for this. The demonization of Taylor Swift occurred during 2011/2012 - the same as Demi Lovato’s narrative of being a phoenix who rises from the ashes, the same as when Selena Gomez was first hospitalized for lupus (then described as malnutrition and exhaustion - symptoms of lupus), then same as Lady Gaga’s release of Born This Way.

Narratives are important in this new social media game, in which you want to package your starlet in a way that can be easily ate up in soundbites. Lady Gaga was “born this way”, Demi Lovato was a “phoenix”… Taylor Swift is a slut and Selena Gomez is the future trainwreck. The narratives once given are incredibly difficult to break free of. It didn’t help that Demi disparaged Selena for not visiting her in the hospital and that in 2012, Taylor Swift began to date boy band favorite with the hair extraordinaire, Harry Styles. They were now outcasts.

1989 in 2014 helped take back narrative control for Taylor Swift - until it didn’t. The same way Taylor Swift put her career back on track was the same reason it fell off again. Because Taylor Swift puts so much emphasis on controlling her own narrative, she is the most prone to receiving backlash out of all the starlets. People do not like narratives being in control of the people they wish to write them about. Selena Gomez, conversely, now has come forward and publicly admitted to having lupus. Lady Gaga’s new album is “too weird” and thus the subject of derision. The same narrative that put Halsey on the map is now used against her.

So what is the truth of it? Narrative speaking wise… women aren’t allowed to have messy, ugly, complicated narratives.

22 year old Taylor Swift who came on the scene as a pretty, hopeless romantic must have something wrong with her if she hasn’t settled down already (never mind that relationships are naturally complicated and messy and often times both partners have some fault) and is now dating an 18 year old.

Selena Gomez must be heading for a breakdown if she is checking into hospitals for exhaustion and suddenly working “less”.

Lady Gaga should be “over” her weird phase after experimenting with Born This Way.

Demi Lovato must never be allowed any freedom to backslide. Halsey must never, ever show any complaints of PCOS symptoms ever again.

The worst part is that these narratives are often written over the course of two years. It is why new female artists often have difficultly breaking past that first hit. The demand that a female celebrity gives us something to root for often outweighs the music itself. It’s why post The Voice, Cassadee Pope is finding it difficult to receive mainstream success. It is why Britney Spears’s level of fame will remain plateaued at the current level. It is why instead of viewing Lemonade for what it was (a celebration of being a black woman), there was an instant need to pry right into Beyonce’s marriage with Jay Z.

Following this, women’s narratives that are independent of men will be treated as if they have resolved only because of men. Taylor Swift’s relationship with Calvin Harris was treated as the reasoning behind her success, Demi Lovato’s relationships with men disallow her bisexuality to be seen as legit, Halsey’s own relationships with men have choked out any other thing about her, Cassadee Pope’s win was credited to Rian Dawson’s fanbase, etc.

“Recovery” becomes a meaningless word to women’s narratives if they are not allowed an independent narrative.

So what makes this reflective of our society as a whole? It shows what we value and what we mock. Women who are single are to be mocked and told they’re the problem if they do not settle for less. Women who are weird are mocked because they’re funny and not actively striving to be pretty. Women who are sick must recover in order to be seen as inspiring. These are things that we can find examples of in every given pop star. It is why Madonna is mocked - she is an older woman who is still having fun. Older women are not supposed to be fun or be single.

This leads to a conclusion that despite all our progressive beliefs on an individual level, on a societal level we’re still stuck trying to implement second wave feminism. Until we fully dismantle the ableism in the recovery narrative, we will never be able to truly reclaim women’s narratives. Thank you for coming to my TEDTalk.

#i nearly lost this last time #mywriting #p: selena gomez #p: halsey #p: taylor swift #p: britney spears #p: lady gaga #p: demi lovato #abuse ment /#drug abuse ment /#mental illness ment /#Anonymous #there are other celebs briefly mentioned but i'm using these current ones to really drive my point home #anyway this is really long and i do not blame you if you did not read it #i'm not sure if i'm happy with it but i have other things to do now

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dawnkiwi-blog · 7 years

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A Beautiful Mind Chapter 2 - Tony Stark fanfiction

A Beautiful Mind - Avengers fanfiction | Iron Man / Tony Stark-centric | #1 in the Wretched Adrenaline series

Summary: 'Prodigious clarity conceived', Tony Stark is the most enlightened mind of this existence. Like an elastic band, his mind expands to encompass all knowledge he comes across. Bands snap.

Genres: Drama/Sci-fi

Word Count: 2,200 Chapters: 02/05 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness + suicide / familial abuse and trauma / mentions of sexual activity.

Sincerest apologies for this late update! I had this posted on ff.net some days ago but this has been a hectic time for me and I forgot to press ‘post’.. I should probably queue these things..

Chapter 2: Gods

It had been days now. Thousands of minutes in which he had hidden himself from the world and all interaction, with only the precious indulgence of the most artificial mind- his own creation, and thus the safest option, as Tony innately knew that only he and that which he could completely dictate could be trusted.

Days since Tony had found the courage to face them.

He had suspected when he ventured upstairs- to his own kitchen- that it wouldn't go well, but the need for food had won out. And inevitably he had been humiliated. Perhaps they didn't see it that way. In fact, for all Tony knew, neither Steve nor Vision had picked up on how 'out of it' he had been. But the days taken their toll and his sleep deprivation had culminated in one of those dreaded flashbacks.

At least this time it had not been of Afghanistan.

"JARV, can you copy this template and store it on my private server, please."

His lab was washed in a soft natural lighting, creating a calming atmosphere. Controlled chaos reigned in his most precious space; his modus operandi flowed in a maze of questionable ideas. Each time he was struck with another moment of euphoria, it had to be jotted down by hand and plastered up in a string-board flow chart that coated every surface and space available.

Tony worked like a madman, never entirely still. His hands shook and his eyes wavered. Almost wordlessly he spoke to himself, reciting formulas, theories, and mashing the very fringes of theoretical science together in a corroded version of logic.

"Of course, sir."

He snapped his fingers, twirling around to snatch up another hot cup of liquid energy. $60 a cup. Because he's Tony fucking Stark.

"Sir, the synthesized element is now complete."

Tony let out a shaky breath. "Bring her up, JARV."

His beloved AI did as requested and the newly synthesized component emerged like an infant Jesus, or Simba. The steaming mist rose up, slowly evaporating into the air ducts. The theatrics of it all did nothing but exacerbate his irregular heart beat and warm his hands with nervous perspiration.

"Perfect," he murmured, gingerly plucking it from its perch. His latest attempt at recreating one of the many Chitauri 'elements'. Once he'd come to terms with whatever materials the Hoard consisted of essentially being out-of-this-world, he'd set about making his own. PTSD prevented him- no, reminded him of why space travel is a bad thing- a terrible, most dreaded, and utterly anti-human endeavor- so the safest option he had was to simply create it all.

He'd done more difficult tasks before. Like in caves, with a car battery wired into his chest.

Tony repressed a shiver but was unable to stop the frown which settled upon his face like scar tissue. Even during his most poignant moments, the repressive and plagueish feeling gnawed at him, chewing him to pieces and scattering his sanity like dollar bills from a blimp.

His new element glinted in the soft lighting. Iridescent like a polished pearl, it held his hopes, his fears, and his obsessions.

Snatching up his scanner, he let the holographic wave flow across it before processing the data.

Tony stood quietly with shaking hands, lost in the swirling mist of his coffee.

"The element does not match, sir."

Tony cursed, nearly throwing his cup against the wall. Instead he discarded it behind him, unaware of the blistering liquid splashing his bare feet. In a rare moment of ill-restraint, Tony let out a frustrated scream, sweeping his arm across his desk and sending it's contents scattering across the polished floor. Glass shattered and sprayed him with thin, nearly invisible cuts. His chest heaved, pumping out gutturally anguished grunts.

"Sir?"

"Does any of it match?" Tony screamed into his hands, fisting his hair into painfully tight clumps.

His shaking increased with his shoulders hunching and tensing more as he waited for JARVIS to calculate the difference.

"There is a 52% match rate, sir."

"Fifty-two percent," he enunciated to himself quietly, "It's never enough."

Tony straightened up to stare blankly at the mess covering his lab.

Post-it notes dotted the walls, his tables, and even his cars. He didn't need them. In fact he had only ordered them last week thinking perhaps it would ground him, and remind him of the necessity and fruition of such an ambitious dream. But now it slammed into him with a splitting ache, his eyes scrunching up as a blinding pain coursed down his head. It reminded him of how fucking ruined he was.

"Never fucking enough," he muttered.

Fifty two percent means the elements, the material, whatever the fuck he labelled it- it all boiled down to having the same matter which existed for tangible forms, but beyond that, whatever accumulation of atoms formed the mysterious armours, 'flesh', and weapons of the Hoard simply did not exist as an Earthen configuration, and if Tony dared to press his mind into the darkest corners of his intelligence, he would be forced to consider that potentially, the elements he searched so desperately for were beyond his highest form of science.

Beyond science itself and perhaps into the realm of speculation and, he shuddered, magic. The horror.

Horrible potential. One would believe Tony Stark idolized magic. His own creations all embodied the most human form of magic. Technology so advanced he could craft his suit from the air (seemingly) and power his tower from a self-sufficient source. All ideas that scientists had salivated over, but truly, few had the brains capable of processing such advanced theories.

"JARV," he ground out through gritted teeth, "What does the two-percent signify?"

Another moment of silence while JARVIS considered his readings. "I believe, sir, that the two percent is evidence of a nuclear-bonding between the armours of the Chitauri Hoard, and their 'flesh'."

That means their armour is really an exoskeleton..

Which again meant he was no closer to understanding their technology or their ability to breathe in space.

Tony wanted to cry but he settled for sinking to his knees and gasping for air. Imagining space without his suit.. imagining floating in that awful, endless void..

He couldn't breathe.

Grasping at his throat, his vision swam.

"Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta. Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta. Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta..."

Code Beta.

Tony's self determined code word broke through the haze, allowing him enough time to stagger to his feet and slump towards his coach. Barely mustering the strength to pull his suddenly lead filled body onto the expensive leather, he never heard had a chance to fight he sleep which wormed its way into his deprived and demented brain.

Burning cinders drifted through the air lazily. Such beautiful hues of orange and magenta glowed behind the thick, black smoke. They danced like peacocks of death.

Plumes of the smoke filled the skies and suffocated him, working its way down his throat and filling him with trepidation.

Her voice chanted above the carnage, "Cinis praecepto cadunt acie retro.."

Screaming metal cut through his dazed thoughts and he raised his head, vision blurred by red, to see a ship leaning to left. It groaned ominously, straining against gravity, but inevitably, it lost. The dull silver wings tipped downwards and the ship fell headlong into a spiralling descent.

"In acie retro faciens iter sonitu.."

He tried to cry out in pain but the sound lodged in his throat. His entire body ached like he had been beaten for all eternity. He had to press on. Desperation clawed at him.

A spindly hand shot towards him and tightened around his throat. He thrashed violently before regaining his senses. Lifting his hand to fire a propulsion, the being was swept away in with a loud bang, landing sickeningly against a stone wall.

Everything blurred together as he fought them. There were so many. Everywhere. They swarmed like roaches, never ceasing, never lessening in number despite the culling blows they were dealt. Slate coloured skin, red eyes, and horrible, repulsive green mouths like moss and mold.

Somewhere far from his vision the Hulk let out an almighty roar, shaking the earth he lay on with a bellow deeper than he had ever heard.

"Rumpitur sanguine filiorum tuorum implebo tympana.."

They were losing. Vision hovered above one of their mother-ships surrounded by an unearthly red glow. Another mammoth beast fell from the sky with an almighty crack as lightening touched from the heavens and split it's skull from it's monstrous body.

Agony seared from his chest and as he looked down he nearly passed out. Luminous green shards jutted from his reactor like pins in a doll. They leaked a foul odorous discharge and his reactor sparked, sending blinding spots cascading across his vision.

He sent another energy charge at an approaching Chitauri goon, before commanding JARVIS to launch a rocket at the mother-ship closest to him.

"Sir, your arc reactor does not possess the energy needed to fire the rocket and continue to power your suit."

He forced JARVIS to do it.

The air in his lungs left him like a swift punch and he collapsed in the rubble, unable to breathe or scream or think. JARVIS said something but it didn't compute and he felt a blissful numbness encompass his left side. In the back of his head, he registered a stroke.

"Errorem suum pure et crucifigetis.."

Inhuman shrieks filled the air but it barely registered to him. JARVIS continued to bleat in his ear. All he knew was agony. Unfathomable and unnatural pain.

As his eyes slid shut slowly, the last thing he ever saw were the rising forms of those they had so valiantly tried to slaughter. They stood slowly, heads tipping back to join in the unearthly shrieks, bodies convulsing nauseatingly.

Darkness filled his vision.

Tony woke with a scream.

Silence. Then his ragged breath.

Another fucking night terror. It had been so real. So clear. But it was just a dream.

They were usually quite similar. It always featured the Chitauri. Plenty of death. The Avengers, naturally.

And that haunting voice.

It was so familiar that Tony was sure it belonged to a real person he had met before. But for the life of him he couldn't think of who. And that drove him fucking mad. Despite his near perfect memory, whoever possessed that lilting voice escaped his stranglehold grasp. He eventually concluded the voice manifested as a distorted version of a real persons voice. He then banished it from his mind before it sent him raving mad, and falling over his already precarious balance on the edge of sanity.

Tony had defied nature most nights but the fatigue had gone beyond his previously known limits, and once something as mere as a thought had triggered his fears, the need for rest wormed in like a disease and wouldn't let go.

Drenched in sweat Tony had summoned his latest suit models frantically, despite being barely conscious. Nine feet tall each, separately colour coded, they smashed through the concrete walls hiding them from any potential intruder. Ironically, when he had woken to tall and menacing figures looming above him, he had once again descended into a panic attack.

Sometimes Tony wanted to die. To kill himself. But he couldn't.

If space held such terrible things, then death.. death would be unimaginable.

He would suffer, and suffer happily as only the truly mad can.

The latin translation from Tony's dream;

"Commandment of ashes, fall in line behind your maker, march to the sound of their cries, fill your beating drums with the blood of your broken children and crucify the pure for their aberration."

Enjoy.

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underwater-elephants · 7 years

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"The Unspoken Truth"

Understandably, I'm a bit hesitant posting my short story on here for the whole world to see. I'm no writer of any sort (obviously) so apologies if the grammar is not 100%. With that out the way, I started this just for myself with no intention other than to be a coping mechanism. However, further down the line I started to realise that this could potentially help other people who go through the same difficulties on a daily basis and most importantly, could raise a huge awareness upon mental illness. Evidently, mental illnesses are not often talked about, but often brushed under the carpet and almost frowned upon. Because of this, this creates a humongous amount of stigma attached to this topic which can result in a person feeling even more embarrassed or ashamed; which of course they should never be made to feel. I hope this gives you an insight into what it's like living with a mental illness on a daily basis, hope you enjoy the read! “It's exhausting having to fight a war inside of your head.” Imagine this. Your heart is racing at what feels like two thousand beats per minute. Both fists clenched into a tight, tight ball. Sweating, from every existing gland in your body. Palms so wet whilst instantaneously losing grip of everything you touch. Confusion, nothing makes sense as thoughts are rushing around in your head from every direction, disturbing your vision as you do everything in your power to see straight. A tight ball like feeling in your throat, so tight that you cannot breath. It’s the feeling you experience when the edge of a crisp gets stuck in your throat, slowly and painfully cutting your glands. A sick like feeling, wanting to let it go but doing what you can to keep it back. Don’t embarrass yourself like this, not if people are watching. Now onto the chest. Feeling so tight and heavy as if someone is standing on top of you, crushing you with every power and strength within them, whilst you pant and gasp for air and catch each and every breath that your body allows you to. Shaking, crying, sweating, tensing, shivering, trembling. And now slowly breathe with every bit of energy that is left in you. You are fine, you are alive and it’s over for now. The brain is a complex thing, just as complex as ones human mentality. The limbic system controls emotions within the human brain, there's no surprise that at the best of times you feel as if you have a complete lack of control over your emotional and mental state. The brain is so incredibly complex that it often even puzzles scientists; the same people who allowed the first human beings into space and onto the moon. The same people who are able to clone living and breathing animals, create satellites for outer space, discover electricity, gravity, evolution, DNA. And yet, they fail to completely understand the human brain and each function that is involved and why they are involved. Many people fail to realise that not everyone thinks in the same way, not one person has the same thought process as another human being walking this earth. What may seem logical and rational to one human being may seem completely and utterly bizarre to another. There is a fine line between feeling lonely and being alone. In the depths of the night when the sun has set and there is nothing to see in the deep sky apart from the twinkling of the bright stars. Hearing the occasional sound of a car passing by, the tree leaves lightly tap-taping against the window due to the slight breeze in the dead of night. The sirens that wake the streets; whilst people question if a life has just been taken from us, or is it that a life is about to enter our world of mystery? At night, when people lay asleep with their heads softly against their pillow, you lay there gazing at the ceiling, unable to sleep, wondering to yourself what you could have done differently that day. Sleep. 7 to 8 hours of sleep they say. But what if you can't sleep due to the constant thoughts and feelings rushing through your head from that day, from weeks, months, even years ago. The mind is a dangerous place, a place that I fear as I know it is stronger and more powerful than I am. Have you ever been surrounded my so many people, so many bodies, but felt so lost. Helpless. Alone. Questioning how the silence can be so loud. Lost in thought, whilst hearing the mummers of those surrounding you. Imagine feeling a prisoner of your own body. The only body you will have for as long as you may live. The body that will grow and cherish into something beautiful at adolescence. The body that will make love to another body, feeling each and every edge and crevice. The body that will see into the eyes of their loved one, touch their hand, smell their recognisable scent, one that comforts them with ease. The body that will taste their sweet lips and the body that will hear their touching and soothing voice gently in their ear. The human body is a remarkable thing, each and every one unique and different in every way, shape and form. But what happens when you start to lose control of your body, the one body that is yours and no one else's. When your bones feel weak and your limbs like jelly. Like you're floating on a cloud, uncertain about those sweet lips you once kissed, those gentle voices you once heard, the feel and warmth of the person you love turn to cold, the smell no longer there and their eyes unfamiliar with fear. You start to lose everything you once remembered, everything you once cared for and everything that your body allowed you to do. Eventually, they all just become distant memories. All the people you have met become lost faces. Time. Time is inevitable. Too little time, or too much time? Should you be too early, or just on time? Time is a concept made up by human beings. The sun rising suggests it is morning time, the sun setting however, you guessed, implies that the day is coming to a close and all is left is the dark night's sky. What if there were no such thing as time? Would people be less stressed, less rushed, less busy? What would people do to insure they are being kept occupied? How would the world go on? When you become lonely, sad, anxious, depressed; time works in two of which ways. Time either stands still or in contrast, goes as fast as lightning and by the time you know it, you lose track of where you are, what you have done, even who you are. On average, it takes a human being 2o muscles to smile and 50 muscles to frown. Yet, why are there so many people spending their days crying, worrying, distressed surrounding themselves in pity and self doubt. If it takes such little muscles to create a smile, how does it become so hard for someone to put one together. Their smile may be imperfect, broken or even jiggered, but it is still a smile that may bring delight into someone's bleak day. A smile has the power to touch someone's heart, touch someone's soul. Imagine, for whatever reason you felt as if you could no longer smile without it feeling fake, like a scam. Seeing another smile, a smile of a friend, a loved one, even a stranger; can bring you so much joy and happiness to someone. Breathing. An essential, necessary part of life. Any life. We all breath, if it wasn't for our power to breath none of us would be here, would exist, the world would be an empty, lonely shell. But what if with every breath you take, your lungs feel like they are filled with water. Like someone is crushing your windpipe, struggling to breath without the aid of another existence. Each breath getting slower, harder, faster, slower, faster, harder. Until you can no longer take it anymore. Until you collapse in a ball, questioning the why's and the what's and the who's. Whoever put me on this earth, whatever is out there, why me? To breath like another human being, that's all that I ask of you. Excuses, excuses, excuses. I can't say I'm anxious, I already said that last week, and the week before, and probably the week before that too. I'll say that I'm ill, yes, just ill. No questions asked, just ill. That way, I won't look lazy to them. I won't have to explain myself, why I'm feeling this way. The reality is, I don't even know myself. How do you explain that to someone when you can't get the right words out? When nothing you say will make sense, when you don't know why you're up and you're down, all day every day. How do you explain that to someone on the outside? That it's a constant cycle of emotions. That, however much you try you cannot leave your bed. That each step you take that day, all you are looking forward to is returning to your room, surrounded by darkness and crawling back into bed. Sleeping. Your safe place, where no one can disturb you, not even the cars outside, the voices echoing the streets, the sound of the metro line, Because you are alone with your thoughts in the darkness, until you slowly drift off into a long sleep. Too little sleep or not enough, there is no in between and no matter what, tiredness always wins. It defeats you, laughs at you and mocks you. Tiredness is a silent killer. It waits until you are energised, finally feeling happy until it creeps out on you from nowhere, like burred treasure among the sands over the blue, clear waters. Panic. What do I do with my day? Slowly awaken, shower to wake up the mind, the body the soul. Get ready and feeling good, quick look in the mirror, today could be a good day. Ready. Panic. What do I do now? When was the last time I ate? Am I eating because I'm hungry, or because I know it's the right thing to do? Because my body needs the nutrients in order to survive. Baby steps. No more routines, I'm free to the world but the freedom is almost suffocating. Procrastinate. Endless hours upon hours doing nothing but everything, trying to eat, trying to breath, trying to be normal. The skies are getting dark and the streets are becoming quieter. Time to sleep, my favourite part. Dreams, dreams about love, romance, the best days of your life so far. Woken up suddenly with what feels like a tonne of bricks hitting against your forehead. Awaken, get ready, repeat. Coldness. It creeps up on you, sending tingles and shivers all throughout your body. From your neck down to the depths of your spine, through your legs, your arms, to the tips of your fingers and your toes until you slowly start to feel like a stray dog, left all alone on a cold winter’s night. No owner, no food, no home, nothing. You are left feeling like nothing, invisible. Invisible to yourself, your neighbours, your friends. Would anyone notice if I were to go? Leave this place, this town, this city, this world and never look back? Who would miss me? No. That isn't me talking, I am fine. I am no longer in control of my emotions; I have been taken over by a rush of coldness and hotness all at one. Confusion. Why is it so hard to think straight, to see straight, to be normal. What is normal, if there is such thing? “Patience is a virtue”, one of my favourite sayings. To have patience with someone shows that you care. You are passionate about what they have to say. Their thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, philosophies. It puts things into perspective, indulges you with new knowledge and education. Feeds your brain in more ways than you realise. You almost start to care more about their ideas than your own, as you analyse in explicit detail their body language, every hand gesture, movement. You start to become at one with them. But what if, however, you have an astounding amount of patience with these people, but not with yourself. Not with your emotions, your feelings, your thoughts, even your movements. You brush them under the carpet, pretend they're not there. I mean, they're not visible to the naked eye, so no one would notice otherwise. Right? Wrong. Emotions matter, feelings matter. However big, small, funny, comical. We are human beings and as human beings, we must come together. But what do you do when you no longer recognise yourself? The person standing in front of the mirror, that isn't the same person from a few weeks, months, years ago. That smile. That smile that once lit the room has been replaced with something bleak. I wouldn't call it a smile, just a crook of the face. Those eyes. Those eyes that were once filled with joy, now filled with emptiness and water from the never ending tears that are wept throughout the night. Those hands. Those hands that would be used to ride a bike for the first time, draw, paint, now tremble at the whirlwind of thoughts, sweat among the constant pit of sorrow and anxiety and continue to tremble. What happened to her? The twinkle in her eye has disappeared. She looks sad, bewildered, as she looks out into the huge, never-ending world before her. I couldn't face people today, what if I mess up? What if I embarrass myself? But why should I care, they are strangers who I will most likely never see again. Oh, but what if I do? Would they remember, would they care? Thoughts spinning round in my head. It's wanting to go out, but not wanting to socialise. Wanting to be successful, but being afraid of failure. Wanting long lasting relationships, but not wanting to show people your real self, your self-pity, self-loathing, sad self. It's wanting to eat, but not physically being able to. It's waning to go for a walk, a run, but not having the energy to. It's wanting to go to a party, wanting to get dressed up, but not wanting to make small talk with people, strangers. It's wanting to be productive, but not wanting to get up on a morning. It's wanting to sleep, wanting to shut down, but finding every distraction you can to stop yourself. It's wanting to be happy, but spoiling it for yourself, knowing it won't last for long as the next thing is always around the corner. The next headache, the next bad news, the next anything. It's wanting to be surrounded by people, familiar, comforting faces and places, but wanting nothing but to isolate yourself from the world, alone in your room. It's wanting to travel somewhere new, but not wanting to risk it in case you feel trapped with nowhere to run, no way to get home, no way to get back to your safe haven. It's finding excuses not to do things, not to go places, not to travel, see the world surrounding us. It's finding it easier talking online, through text, as it is in real life. It's feeling not lonely, but alone, with no way to escape the epitome of darkness. It’s an indescribable feeling. A feeling that doesn’t quite go, doesn’t leave your body and is somehow, always there. A feeling I wouldn’t wish upon anyone, not even the most extreme prisoners. I bet they feel alone, too. Not just a prisoner literally, but mentally. Wishing they could turn back time and be surrounded by friends, family and those closest to them. Instead, they are surrounded by the heavy metal bars that keep them away from society, isolated with only their thoughts. Being a prisoner of your own mind is a dangerous thing. It’s always far easier to just tell people “I’m tired” when they ask how you are, how you are feeling. Because it’s the truth. Physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. It drains the life from your bones, the happiness from your blood and the soul from your veins. You no longer feel human, like a living and breathing being. You just exist, you are just there. Wouldn't it be nice to be young again. To be care free, innocent, knowing nothing but happiness and peace in the world. Cherishing every joyous memory with friends, staying up late watching cartoons. Having no worries, no cares in the world. The only problems we faced were those of the anticipating moments, wondering if we would get our first detention for handing in late homework, or forgetting to underline the date and the title. Oh how clumsy of us! Going home from school wondering if today was the day that the boy from school finally noticed you. Unaware of the evil out there. The violence, the war. The people that were once here, once had families, but lost their battle and couldn't find the light at the end of the darkness. The racism, the religious slurs that leave the mouths of the uneducated, the ignorant. These same mouths that start their day sipping on Chinese tea, getting ready as they put on their Indian shirt and Thai, suede shoes. Wrapping their Swiss watch around their wrist, as time for him is money. Leaving the day behind drinking their Russian vodka, French wine, German beer. Oh the irony. I didn't know about mental illness until twelve years old. Experienced my first panic attack at fourteen years old. Understandably, assuming I was having a fit, heaving a heart attack, dying. What was happening to my body? To my emotions? So powerful and overwhelming that I could not simply control them on my own. If I had known sooner, had a deeper understanding surrounding mental illness; it could have saved me so many sleepless nights. How is it fair that in school, in life, we are only taught about those serious physical illnesses? Broken limbs and body parts, cancer, diabetes, chronic pain, Sclerosis, lung disease, heart disease; the list goes on. However, the views and attitudes towards mental illnesses and disease are not viewed in the same light. Why? Why are they brushed under the carpet so often when they can have such a huge impact upon a person’s life and state of mind? Their ability to enter the real world, form friendships, relationships. Do the simplest of tasks that one with no mental illness would class as the 'norm'. The stigma upon mental illness as a whole is one of the main reasons hundreds, thousands and millions of people are suffering alone, in silence. If I had a broken leg, a broken arm, people would instantly notice me among the crowd. A person's mental complexity is not always recognisable; it can be in any one of us, any 'normal' looking person. Stand a person with a broken limb next to a person with a mental health disorder. Who will get the most empathy, I wonder. The feeling is almost paralysing. It's like learning to walk again, talk again, breath again, live again. I managed to leave the house today. It wasn't for long, but I did it. I managed to eat today, too. It wasn't much, but it filled my stomach and my body later thanked me for it. The feeling is still there, but today as I write this, I feel empowered. I feel positive within myself. Earphones in, ignoring the world. Treasuring every moment I can, as I know it won't last as much as I anticipated. The trembling is back, throughout my whole body. So much so that my whole body is numb, almost as if I have been laid in an ice cold bath for hours, days, weeks. The coldness is almost painful, taking over my body. False persona. We all like to show people how well we are doing. We are all guilty of it without even realising. Sharing our lives with complete strangers across the world, throughout various social networks. It's almost like we seek approval from these strangers, thinking it will someone benefit our character or life after we upload that picture, status, post. When really, we are the same person when we go to sleep that night. We are still the same people. Nothing has changed but our ego. Why do we do this to ourselves? It's like we so desperately crave the attention from strangers when the people who care about us most are surrounded us. But maybe sometimes, that isn't enough. And sometimes, it's almost as if we are all living in a fantasy dream world. I can't do this anymore; I'm giving up, losing hope. I thought people called them happy pills for a reason. So, why am I feeling so low? So much lower than before. I can't sleep at night. I'm scared to sleep at night as I'm afraid of what tomorrow will bring. What if I waste another day? Imagine that, being afraid to sleep, afraid to wake up on a morning. I spent today looking at four walls. In the room I am confined in, cry in, sleep in, and dream in. It's my comfort, but it's also my prison- my enemy. I couldn’t eat today, the lump in my throat was too big, it wouldn’t allow me to. I want to eat, but I can’t. I also want to sleep, but I can’t. “You could be worse” they say. “Just smile” “You will be fine”. Since when was my mental state something to be compared to? Those words are degrading, humiliating and ignorant. Because I am still here, because my scars have healed, because there isn't a noose tied around my neck. That's enough evidence for them. I'm still here. Still breathing, living, showing my face; so I must be fine, right? Oh, they couldn't be more wrong. You cannot simply compare mental illness so lightly, as if you are comparing fractions in a maths equation. We are not numbers, we are human beings. Each person fighting their own battle. Why do we also tend to glamorize mental illness? Why is it seen almost like a new trend? Like they somehow make a person cute, but an awkward cute. There is nothing beautiful about a mental illness. They are ugly, they are evil, they are soul destroying. They keep you awake at night and make you question every aspect about yourself; your mind, appearance, your body. They make you question why you are not good enough. Why you are not like the others your age. I would rather have nothing at all and wake up every morning happy and energised, than carry the weight of a mental illness on my shoulders, weighing me down in all that I do. However, I am not and will not be defined by my mental illness, it is a part of me, my life. Where I go, it will follow, but I refuse to allow it to steal my identity. It makes you fear the world. Fear the future. Even fear yourself; your mind, thoughts, feelings. You isolate yourself from the world, your friends and the people closest to you who you care for the most. It makes you silent. It takes your voice, your passion. Until you are sat there, weak and lifeless. I wonder what it's like. To wake up on a morning, take a shower, put on your clothes and get ready for the day without a thousand and one thoughts whirling around in your head like a never-ending cycle. I wonder what it feels like to wake up on a morning without a headache, without the urge of wanting to vomit. I wonder what it's like to live an ordinary life. One where you don't over think every minuscule detail. One where you are able to leave you house without panic or fear. One where you are able to walk down the street not being paranoid that everyone is staring at you. Do I have toothpaste around my mouth? Food on my chin? I wonder what it's like to be sat in a crowded room, a loud crowded bus without feeling suffocated. Without wanting to leave as quickly and as desecrate as possible. I wonder what it's like to not have to lie. When someone asks how you are doing to not respond with “I'm just tired”, but to tell them exactly how you are feeling. I wonder what it's like to not wake up with eyelids so tired that they struggle to stay open, struggle to stay awake. I wonder what it's like to go about your day, questioning ho much sleep you think you'll be able to have tonight. Will it be 4 hours? 5 hours? Maybe 6 if we're lucky. I wonder what it's like to be optimistic about the future and not dwell on the past. I wonder what it feels like to say you're happy without having to fake a smile. I wonder what it's like to be in love with your body, every curve and edge. I wonder what it's like not crying in the shower, most if not every day. I've forgotten the last time I didn't feel constantly drained, exhausted. To not wake up every day with the same headache, feeling the same as I did the night before. I've forgotten what it feels like to get dressed on a morning, eat breakfast, without it feeling like an accomplishment. I visited my old school the other week. It brought back so many memories. The place I was taught about new ways of thinking, new ideologies. The place I grew, developed and matured. The place I learnt a lot, not just in Maths, Science and English, but about myself. The place I created and developed new, exciting friendships. Friendships that still continue to grow six years later. It's an odd place is school. It's a place where you experience the best time of your life, but to contrast that, the most challenging and difficult times you will face. Isn't it funny how each person is categorised into groups, into status, into 'coolness'. But, in five, ten, twenty years time, the status you once had, the popularity you once gained will no longer mean anything. In the real world, people don't like you for the popular image that you depict of yourself. They like you for being a humble, genuine and kind person. Well, that's how it should be anyway. School can be a challenging time for those who feel alone, feel as if they don't fit in, like the black sheep among the crowd. I remember my first day of my new high school like it was only last week. Year nine, thirteen years old, the age that everyone has already made their friends, already known each other, already knowing the school like the back of their hand. I had never felt so lost. Leaving my friends and family behind. My lovely, beautiful Grandma. Who the next time I would see, would sadly no longer be here. having to start a new life up here, with unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar voices. I hated being the new girl, I never did like drawing attention to myself. What if nobody would like me? What if people were to laugh at my accent and not be able to understand me? A hundred and one thoughts whirled around in my head that morning, as I put on my new white crisp shirt and fastened my long, navy tie. I was lucky. I was treated with kindness, respect and loyalty from these people, these people that had never met me before. For once in my life, I felt apart of something, apart of a bubbly and comical friendship group; I knew it was something I would latch onto. They made my days better, more entertaining. Cheering me up when I would get bursts of anxiety, missing my one best friend back at home who was nearly three hours away; ninety two miles to be exact. One phone call away, that's all it would take. But it would never compare to the comfort of her voice, her being, her warmth. Nine years of friendship to be turned into conversations on Facebook, on text, with just the blur of her photo to be seen. Nothing can compare to the love you have for your closest, dearest friends. Those friends that would do anything to see you happy, see you smile, walk the ends of the earth for you. Keep them close, as their love is eternal and I personally, am eternally grateful. School was going well, my work and understanding of each subject was also going well. But for some reason, there was an unfamiliar cloud of darkness hovering over me, overwhelming me with a mix of emotions that I didn't quite understand. Tears pouring down face at unexpected times, unsure why Embarrassment, as people would show their concern, asking what the matter what, but I simply couldn't reply as I didn't know myself what was wrong. I had nice friends, a support network, great family, a new bigger house with my own huge bedroom, everything I could need. So what was the matter? Why would I come home from school with tears filling my eyes, so sad and confused? What else would I need? What could I do possibly to fill this emptiness in my head, in my stomach, in my life. I was thirteen years old, I knew I shouldn't be feeling like this. I should be out making memories with my friends, not feeing alone, feeling this way. Time passed and my confidence grew. Although I knew at the back of mind something wasn't quite right, I still pushed myself and acted as if things were normal. I didn't want people to see me like this, see me so weak, like a burden to people. I just wanted to be a normal teenage girl, who would go to sleepovers with- friends, eat too much ice-cream at midnight until she felt sick and giggle herself into a deep sleep. I was a joker. Would make people laugh until they could hardly breath. I liked seeing people smile because of me. Laugh at me. Not at me, but with me. I enjoyed bringing happiness into other people's lives, as it made up for the happiness that was absent in my own. While all of my friends would spend their weekends being sociable, visiting cinemas, parks, town, I would spend most of mine alone, in my room. Watching videos, drawing, eating, to pass time. I remember feeling a bitter jealousy inside of my stomach. Jealous of those friends who could go out, into large crowded areas and enjoy themselves without the heart palpitations, the sweated palms or the sick like feeling in the pit of their stomach.

#mental illness #mental health #visual novel #depression #anxiety #shortstory #self help #self care #panic attack #panic disorder #anxiety disorder #the unspoken truth #stigma #mentality #mental heath support #coping #mental health awareness #mental ill health

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