#my brain is on a high apparently which is weird because I'm so tired all the time

[sirfrogsworth]

Very personal question so I understand if you don't want to answer. Did your diagnosis feel like a relief, socially? Mine isn't the same, but on one hand I feel relieved to have an "excuse" for being so friggin tired all the time. Society can't "morally" call me weak or lazy anymore. I can actually get some of the rest I need, without people judging me as harshly for it. No one's going to smack a chemo patient and tell me to be productive at all times... I find it sad that I have to have a justification for being exhausted. Nothing's really changed besides a label, but I'm suddenly allowed to feel like shit when I wasn't before.

I have a weird relationship with my diagnosis.

CFS doesn't have a blood test. It doesn't have a genre of specialists who are trained with a specific diagnostic protocol. The only CFS specialists are doctors who took it upon themselves to learn more about the condition and then self-label as specialists. Which unfortunately means there is a high rate of CFS quacks.

To get a diagnosis you have to go to every doctor you can think of, in every specialty you can think of, and gather negative diagnoses like Pokemon. And once you have ruled everything out, you have to find a doctor that kinda/sorta knows what CFS is, and they will officially declare you have tried everything and *probably* have CFS.

And even though most people with CFS are 99.9999% sure they have CFS, there is still that anxiety in the back of our minds that can't help but doubt.

Then there is the social stigma (which is improving) where new people you encounter, doctors, and sometimes even close friends and family, will very much doubt you have the illness. They might think you are being dramatic. Or you are exaggerating. Or they will think you have depression for years and shock your brain. They will think "Well, I get tired too." Or they won't believe there is nothing you can do about it. They still have that mindset "If I had that, I could get better." Or they will think, "If I had that, I could push through it with my epic constitution and boomer work ethic."

So, honestly, I am still kind of waiting for my diagnosis in a way. Every year or so an article will drop saying "The CFS blood test is almost here!" and then no further details. That damned blood test has been coming every year for like 15 years now. It's like cold fusion.

But I will say, when something else is wrong with me and there is a definitive test or a firm diagnosis from a proper specialist—that definitely feels like a relief. I am so tired of my body manifesting medical mysteries that even when something is terribly wrong with me, if I know exactly what it is, I am almost chuffed about it.

Doctor: The blood tests came back and you have life threatening sepsis. We will need to perform surgery to remove a giant piece of your back skin.

Me: Neat!

True story. (Warning: Very gross)

When I took my sleep study nap test and they were like, "Yep, you got narcolepsy as well." I was so happy that I had a "real" illness that I could use to convince doubters I was sick. Unfortunately everyone thinks narcolepsy is just falling asleep at weird times and they don't understand it much beyond that. So that wasn't as helpful as I initially hoped.

Now that Long COVID is causing serious cases of CFS, I have noticed a few people taking it a bit more seriously. But I have two uncles who think I am weak and lazy and was just mooching off my parents for 20 years. And apparently I have been disowned from that side of the family because of it.

But if that blood test ever actually happens I will come back to this post and let you know.

I'm sorry you required a diagnosis for people to take you seriously. But I hope your treatment is successful and you can just be healthy and not have to worry about stigmas. I'm rooting for you. Get that rest and take care of yourself.

[luffyrose]

Dc x Dp Blurb #3

It's late, I'm tired and on my phone so it's weird writing here but I must share this one instantly.

So, I saw a Trans Danny AND Trans Jazz thing earlier and I lost it. The idea that they both are is so good to me, and I have so much angst for it.

Just, neither of their parents even REMEMBER that they're trans. Like Danny's their son, Jazz is their daughter....but only because they know they have one daughter one son and clearly that was correct, not because they remember they're both trans. Acceptance through negligence basically.

Also side note but totally an au where the kids at school know and are like "Hell yeah you go!" About the trans stuff. Dash will push Danny into a locker but if he hears someone deadname his nerd friend he's taking a note from the ghosts and breaking shit.

Now the crossover aspect that's been invading my brain. Danny is visiting Gotham temporarily for something and is just like not hiding that he's trans, he's got a lol pin of the flag on his bag. Class trip with the Fentons being some of the supervisors, they came along to see if Batman was a ghost, and Danny us just very tired at this point. He's king of the realms, come to a midpoint with his 'rogues' after realizing it was more a ghost thing than a hate thing for 99% of them, and finally become friends with most of his class even if Dash still liked to mess with him.

Walking through the museum they're touring with Lancer, and a class from the local high school, Danny ends up near the edge of his classmates group next to the other school group. They're not avoiding one another but also not really talking, but this one kid just goes, "nice flag pin," before showing off the bisexual and polyamorous ones they have.

It's Tim. Because he saw the flag and went :O friend time. And also no one he talked to was with the group he was in, so he'd rather talk to this stranger who probably won't treat him differently since he doesn't know him.

The two talk as they are going, some of the other Casper high students chiming in since hey if a kid is nice to their weirdest classmate they're pretty okay in the books. (50/50 if the class know Danny is Phantom but they totally know he's different from all the osha violations in his house and most of them are so worried after really paying attention after they became friends).

Randomly Jack and Maddie come out of nowhere and grab Danny talking about something to do with ghosts, much to the apparent tiredness and even slight distaste on their kid's face, which they didn't even notice. Tim is unsure what is happening but seeing the dislike on the whole class's faces and some worried looks Danny got he's now wanting to go all detective on him because hey Danny's fun to talk to! Totally not because he's very very gay-

So after they leave, he causally tries to learn more about the two and why the class seemed to hate them, even why Danny himself didn't seem to want to be anywhere near his parents. Of course he tries to be subtle.

"So you're parents seem pretty accepting of you being trans, that's good!"

Maybe not so subtle, in his defense, he hasn't slept recently. Danny tried to smile at it though but completely failed, just giving up and slouching as he shrugged.

"More like they don't even remember."

So now Tim is concerned and confused, but much to his luck, the tour is over and the Casper students are leaving. He's worried about his new friend, even if they exchanged numbers, so he goes down a rabbit hole. Not only does he find suspicious stuff about this small town that was heavily deleted from many things, but he finds that Danny has a sibling. It's evident to him they're also trans from the few pictures before and after but the sibling's name isn't anywhere to be seen so he tries to dig deeper.

He pauses before going further down though to respond to some of Danny's messages. But his sleep deprived brain decided 'let's just ask'. So he asks a bit of questions about Danny. Like what's his town like? Any other family? Are they fine with you being trans, because he'll totally beat anyone who's not, etc. Danny answers them and in turn asks about the Waynes, mainly because Danny is not entirely convinced Bruce himself isn't weird like Vlad, but he does acknowledge that he's at least not evil.

Eventually Danny offhandedly mentions Jazz is trans to, and Tim being the detective he is is like "huh..." and asks if his parents were accepting of Jazz too. It's a while before he responds but Danny just says;

"They don't remember we are trans...so no problems or anything with it..."

Tim doesn't get the chance to say anything about it as Danny asks about something about him being poly and what his dad and siblings thought. Of course he replied but his mind was also reeling from the fact that Danny's parents literally don't pay attention to their kids enough to not realize both kids are trans.

They keep in touch and Tim puts investigating on the back burner some since while kinds neglectful they seem to be decent enough parents.

He regrets that though as Danny doesn't message him for nearly a month. It worries him enough to put that investigation back to the forefront. Of course he finds osha violation city in the Fenton's house, as well as the actual paranormal activity happening. What concerns him the most is that apparently the town hero, a ghost boy, is missing...from around the same time Danny stopped messaging.

It's a week into trying to find Danny that he gets a message from his number, except it's not Danny. It's Jazz. She asks Tim if Danny had gone to him, she was trying everyone since no one knew where he was. This sparks a big ol search.

Danny meanwhile ended up with a hero (any but Clark or Bats cuz we want some rarer family dynamic, the good juice) after crash landing, most literally, right by em. The hero, I'm thinking Hal or Barry idk, is too busy trying to help this random powerful teenager who was bleeding way too too much to not have some regeneration ability.

After some drama of trying to find Danny, and Jazz, Tucker, Sam, and Tim knowing identities(Danny's included) because Tucker accidentally hacked around and found out, hero parent of Danny shows up with said boy closely in tow to a meeting after their surprise break from league work and Tim just jumps up and doesn't even remember that Danny doesn't know his identity.

Danny panics initially but quickly realizes it's Tim and finally gets back in contact with Jazz and all of his friends/classmates who had most definitely stormed a GIW lab in his absence. The league is confused and it's a whole mess before Danny trauma dumps on em and Tim as RR just admits this all started because he saw the trans pin.

My brain is rambling too much for this now, but basically lotta trauma, the league appalled and Danny getting a good family after everything is settled. His classmates so visit him and Tim, Kon, and him date because I feel like Danny would meet him, learn he's a clone (after being very gay for a moment) and just be like "heck yeah, my younger sister is a clone" which also caused more panic but like gay trio.

I'm gonna go sleep now, enjoy the angst and randomness this blurb is-

Remember these are free to take and do whatever you please with them, it's just random ideas/thoughts that I have but don't plan to do anything with for the foreseeable future!

#danny phantom #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny fenton #dc comics #ghost king danny #dc #dcmultiverse #tim drake #dash baxter #jazz fenton #jasmine fenton #I just think that their parents not remembering because they still have one son one daughter and not realizing it swapped is so angsty #like #that's almost worse than them not accepting because hey #they just don't care enough to even notice nor remember #they use the right names and pronouns sure but only because they already sometimes forget their kids names when they've been focused #tim is horrified by this #and he hyper focuses on stuff so he KNOWS you can still pay attention to others #it's like a bare minimum and they still failed it so he's baffled #then Danny goes missing #and Tim is like “welp- fuck” and chaos ensued #meanwhile Danny was crying in a blanket with a cup of hot coco with his resident new parent rubbing his back #it's the spiderman meme when Danny shows up with hero #and the whole halfa thing was already a mess to explain #so he just trauma dumped instead if explaining it to the league #didn't help much but hey at least they couldn't all adopt him #tim and kon dating him was just a lil spice and happy to the idea #also the class being chill with danny was some good spice #cuz I love dash having standards and just befriending danny after a bit because it was just teenage angst things

[furysreign]

perhaps a 16,000 word outline is excessive bUT the outline for TDAB book one is now complete!! no idea what the actual word count for the first draft will be but so far the book will be 37 chapters long, and hopefully between 70,000 and 90,000 words. excited to get started! 

#I already have like 60-ish percent of book two figured as well which like... never happens so #my brain is on a high apparently which is weird because I'm so tired all the time #wip: the dead are bitter

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @claraxbarton donated $50, and requested Dean Winchester & Bucky Barnes. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

Curfew to get back to their bunks is 2200 hours but Carlisle's still trying to prove something and so Bucky's still out, too, because hell if he's going to let some jerk from Long Island out-drink a Brooklyn boy. "Think you're gonna fall asleep soon, punk," Carlisle says, grinning wide and loose and his eyes real red, and Bucky raises his eyebrows and knocks the next shot back. He doesn't rise to the punk thing even if he wants to sock the jerk one. See, Steve, he wants to say, but of course Steve's not here. Bucky sucks the inside of his cheek, not feeling the burn anymore after this much—maybe a bad thing—but he waves to the girl leaning against the bar, signaling for another. Becky, is her name, which caused some comment from Carlisle too. She's in a too-short skirt and Bucky knows from when Carlisle got a hand on her ass that she's not too worried about keeping the hemline down, giggling as she leans over and puts the next round on the table. Carlisle pulls her in by the hand, murmuring something in her ear that Bucky can't hear over the jazz from the jukebox but that she hears perfectly well, from how she giggles and leans in, her bosom squishing up and catching Carlisle's attention just fine. Bucky sighs, sits back. Maybe the competition's over, after all. He sips at the next shot instead of downing it, actually tasting the whiskey—crap, but better than he used to be able to afford back home—and ignores how Becky's showing off the top of her stockings, the peek of white thigh above them, and looks over the top of Carlisle's head at the lawyer-type who's been sitting toward the back of the jazz club, this whole time, watching them.

Hat on the table, a beer half-sipped at his right hand. A paper pad open, at his left. Doodling something. Bucky sips at his shot again and Becky's now in Carlisle's lap, her arms around his neck. The bar's emptying out, most everyone from boot camp gone home, and Bucky's maybe got a point to prove but he's tired of this. He knocks back the rest of his shot and then reaches out and takes Carlisle's, and kicks him under the table for good measure. "Hey!" Carlisle said, distracted from sweet Becky's plump white throat, and Bucky said, "Sorry, pal, you forfeit by way of boring me to death," and gets up from the table in a scrape of the chair on the wooden floor, and Carlisle starts to stand up but of course Becky's weighing him down and she says, "Hey, slugger, you're gonna leave me all alone?" and Carlisle's distracted, soothing, long enough for Bucky to walk away, toward the back of the bar, the shot still heavy in his hand. He wants to drink it but he wants something else, too.

Jukebox, in the back. He leans over it, flipping through. Glenn Miller, Gene Autry. He wonders who put on the run of Louis Armstrong—fourth song in a row, by his count—and in the corner of his eye he can tell that the lawyer-type is watching him, from the table right there, and doing a good job of pretending he isn't.

2200 hours. Bucky checks his watch. Ticking closer. He's not the most rule-abiding guy at the best of times but he knows he's been pushing it, with his sergeant, and if he's found out to be back late again then—well, it's latrine duty for sure, if not a full ten miler with all his gear. He sucks the inside of his cheek. Worth the risk? If he's thinking of going to Europe to fistfight Hitler, then what isn't?

"Hey, pal," Bucky says, turning, with this feeling in his gut like running into a fight in a back-alley in Brooklyn—but the lawyer's up, leaving his beer half-drunk on the table, walking past him to the hall where the WCs are. Bucky licks his lips. There's a doodle left on the table, a torn-out page from the guy's pad: some weird symbol that Bucky doesn't recognize, in heavy pencil-marks, sketchy and strange. He frowns, looking over his shoulder, but the door's swinging, and he's—sure, almost. He's gotten that kind of look, before. He's given it.

The hall's empty, but there's another door at the end, frosted glass, EXIT in reversed letters, just closing. An alleyway—well, hell. Bucky's done worse in worse places but the danger of it is leaping in his throat, now. The chances that someone might see, might catch his uniform in the dark, might—but he's a real knucklehead, it turns out, and he's pushing through the door, the glass of booze still clutched in his other hand, and then: the alleyway, and whatever's waiting, and… the lawyer nowhere to be seen.

He turns around, squinting in the mostly-dark. Trash bins, and a cat racing away out toward the streetmouth. Bucky steps forward, looking—wondering if he was seeing things he wasn't meant to be seeing, wondering if his stupid heart was manufacturing things that weren't there, like always—and—there, on the other side of the wooden gate, a glow. A candle? No: a… circle, somehow drawn on the alley wall like with fire. Strange symbols that he can't make out as he gets closer. They're bright but slowly fading and he reaches out, caught by the strangeness. No heat, as his fingers hover over the coal-flames. In the center, one of the symbols looks like a star, and he licks his lips and takes a deep breath and like an absolute knucklehead presses his hand flat against it and then –

*

"Of course I'm—look, I'm the one who had to haul his ass into the trunk, okay? And he's heavy as hell. So, thanks for sending me out here solo, by the way."

Bucky keeps his eyes closed, trying to keep his breath even. He's waking up slow, not like from a bad dream but from a deep, long sleep, and he hasn't had one of those since before basic—since before Joe moved back into Ma's house—since before he slept over at Steve's, when they were younger and Steve's mother was at the hospital, and Steve was snoring on his half of the bed but Buck was—well, it hardly matters. His head feels queer, memories close to the surface and hurting. He's laying on something soft.

The man starts talking again: "Dude, for the last time—yes, Sam, I'm sure. You know how many History Channel docs I've watched about Cap and the Commandos? There's some kind of federal law that it's all they show at noon on a weekday. Check the insignias from the uniform, I'm telling you. This ain't a reenactor, it's the real deal. Plus there was that Thule sigil still burning on the alley wall." A pause. Bucky doesn't know the half of what this guy's talking about. Thule? What the hell is a history channel? "Yeah. Hey—look, he's—okay. Call me when you find something."

Another pause. There's a shift, fabric rustling, and then a creak of bedsprings. "You want to stop faking? You're not that good at it."

"Says you," Bucky says, but he opens his eyes.

A room, like a hotel or something. Nighttime, from the dim, and a lamp making a pool of light between the two beds. He's on one, laid out on his back, and on the other, when he turns his head: a man, older than him, sitting on the side of the mattress, watching him. Bucky presses his lips together, looking. Not the lawyer type who gave him the slip in the alley and not anyone he's ever seen. The man's looking right back at him, studying his face, and then his eyes go skipping down Bucky's body, and Bucky's still wearing his uniform but he feels—"What's a Thule sigil?" he says, to cover up his reaction, and the man's eyes jump right to his and he grins, like Bucky's some circus pet that just did a trick he didn't expect.

"I think we better start with 101," the man says. Generic accent. Where are they? "Name's Dean. I'm a hunter. Sorry for kidnapping you, but you were passed out in an alleyway and I wasn't sure the cops would know how to handle a guy from 1943 who's—uh, you." He scratches the corner of his jaw—hasn't shaved in a few days, apparently—and then shrugs, and nods at Bucky. "Your turn."

"James," Bucky says. He surprises himself and blinks at the man. Dean. "James Barnes. Probably AWOL from my unit at this point, depending on what time is." Another grin, but this one more natural, and Bucky decides he probably doesn't want to sock the guy one. He starts to sit up but his head—ah. Woozy, the world tilting some, and Dean reaches out quick and grabs his arm, helping pull him upright. It hurts but not like getting punched, or the one time a guy coshed him over the head in an alley fight and he woke up to Steve grimly holding his brains together. More like a hangover but he didn't even have that much to drink. When he's up, boots on the floor, Dean sits back and just looks at him again, all over, and Bucky looks down at himself too like maybe there'll be something interesting to see. It's just him, though, in his uniform a little worse for wear for eating dirt in the alley, but Dean keeps looking at him like…

Dean's spinning something in his hand—a metal rectangle with a shiny glass face. He sees Bucky looking and grimaces, and tucks it into his jacket pocket. "Sorry," he says, "not sure we're ready to do the whole Back to the Future II thing, here," and Bucky doesn't know what that means, either, but then Dean says, "Here's the thing: it's 2013," and Bucky blinks at him and says, "Bullshit."

Dean's eyebrows go high. "Wow," he says, under his breath, "okay, so it really wasn't like the newsreels." Bucky stares at him. "Um," Dean says, and then says, "Shit, Sammy doesn't know everything, hang on—" and he picks up something from the bedside table between them and points it, and then there's a flashbang of color and light and… a man, talking about the stock market, in brilliant color and as vivid as Dean sitting across from him. "Don’t tell your pals in the unit about Wolf Blitzer, I don't want to create a time paradox or something where someone doesn't get born," Dean's saying, but Bucky just sits and stares, frozen on the bed. It's like… a marvel, from that World Fair they went to, something that Stark genius would think up. He gets up, finally, and Dean's quiet, and he reaches out and touches the glass and it sparks against his fingers, static, against where there's a box that says February 15, 2013, 9:57 pm. "Yeah, it's an old one. A television. I can't remember if you have those yet or not."

"Who are you, pal?" Bucky says, not turning around. The light hurts his eyes, it's so bright.

Dean sighs, behind him. The sound from the television goes away and Bucky touches it again, shaking his head, and Dean says, "James Buchanan Barnes. You go by Bucky. You're from Brooklyn." Bucky looks over his shoulder and Dean's looking at him—looking older, looking tired. "You joined the service in 1943. You're in the 107th and, from what I can tell, you haven't shipped out to Europe yet, because you were in an alley in Georgia, instead, and you haven't—" He gestures vaguely to Bucky's side, eyes dipping, but Bucky doesn't know what he means, and he's got this vague panicky feeling stuttering up in his chest. Like being caught at something only this time he hasn't done anything wrong.

Dean stands up. They're the same height, same build. Dean's dressed like a farmer, in denim pants and a plaid shirt untucked, but he doesn't carry himself like one. A hunter, he said, and Bucky braces himself. Hunting what? The door's too far away for him to lunge and make it before Dean could get there.

"I'm not here to hurt you, man," Dean says. He laughs, lightly, shaking his head. "Like, that's the last thing I want to do. You're Bucky Barnes. I can't—tell you what that means, I guess, but… It means something. But you're not supposed to be here."

"Where's here?" Bucky says, tightly.

"Well, seventy years out of place, for one thing," Dean says. His mouth curls up on one side. "Though I gotta say, you're hot for an old guy."

Bucky takes a breath, while Dean grimaces. "I feel like I just hit on George Washington or something," he mutters, eyes dropping to his boots.

"Even if you add seventy, I'm not that old," Bucky says, after a second, and he can tell he's coloring up but he's not—men don't—he's never, even in alleyways and in dark rooms and in the one dance club he ever got brave enough to go to, one night when Steve was staying up with his mother and Bucky was so strained in the heart he thought he'd crack in half, he never—out loud, he never.

Dean looks up. Calculation. He's a looker. Even back in the unit among all the guys, Bucky could say that and not have anyone question it. Brownish hair, green eyes, freckles like a kid from a sodapop advertisement but he sure doesn't look like a kid. A man, carrying himself like one, his muscles obvious in the blue plaid, his hands square and sure. Bucky looks at them instead of into Dean's face. He's never sure but now he's very not and he doesn't want to—so there are Dean's hands, on his hips, and his knuckles, and his clean neat nails. Safer to focus on than the insanity of what Dean's telling him—the future, Bucky thinks, again, the world wheeling off its track, where somehow some man in some hotel in Georgia knows who he is, and says he's hot. Howard Stark's World of Tomorrow couldn't possibly.

He steps forward. Dean's hands lift, low, cautioning, and Bucky licks his lips and walks into them, lets Dean catch his hips. "Whoa, sailor," he says, and Bucky says, "I'm in the Army," and then he picks up his head and kisses Dean, square on the mouth, heart leaping into his throat.

Brief, hard. He grips Dean's shoulders and they're—oh, shocking, hot and firm and real in a way that he's turned over by, half-convinced that it's a dream, but all his dreams have been insubstantial as air, gossamer that slips away when he tries to hold it. There's a burst of air, Dean exhaling hard through his nose, but his lips are—soft, his chin scratching against Bucky's, and after a second of stupid clenched-eyed hope Dean's hand slides up his side and he readjusts his head, tilts, makes the kiss… softer, easier, and Bucky gasps in air he didn't realize he was holding onto and Dean's mouth follows his, closing over his bottom lip and sucking very softly, and Bucky thinks out of nowhere without his brain having any say-so Steve, and he pulls away then, jerking so hard that Dean says, "Whoa, whoa, buddy—" and Bucky almost hits him but turns away, puts his hands over his face, breathes out hard and quick and tries to ignore how his lips feel oversensitized, burning.

There's a strange metallic sound while Bucky's heart is trying to beat out of his throat. It cuts off mid-racket and Dean says, "Great timing, Sammy," full of sarcasm, and Bucky drags his hands down over his cheeks, covers his mouth. Turns around, to face his stupidity like a man. Dean's holding the metal thing to his ear, apparently listening, but his eyes are fixed to Bucky's. "Oh, just traumatizing a war hero," Dean says, and then his attention shifts and he rolls his eyes, holding the thing away from his ear with this expression so what are you gonna do?, like a guy from the deli taking a call from his henpecking wife, that Bucky snorts. Dean smiles at him, easy, and puts it back to his ear in time to respond, "Yeah," and then, "Got it, okay—look, text it to me, I left my pen in Kansas," and takes it away and holds it in front of himself—another whirling flash of color, a picture of some man, and then Dean pokes a red circle and it goes quiet.

"So," Dean says. "Sammy knows how we can send you back. Gotta do it by midnight but that's no big deal, I've got the stuff in the trunk. Scary adventure's gonna be over soon, soldier. You'll have to worry about the AWOL thing on your own."

He's poking at things on the rectangle again. His thumbs move very quickly. Bucky's watching his face, downturned, apparently casual, except that his ears are bright blushing red.

"War hero," Bucky says, finally.

Dean's cheek sucks in on one side and he looks up under his eyebrows. "Can we pretend I didn't say that?" he says. Bucky shakes his head and Dean bites the corner of his mouth. His mouth. Bucky looks into his eyes instead. "Yeah. Look, I can't—tell you this stuff. I don't know if they had sci-fi in the 40s but you just… can't tell people their future, okay? It's a bad idea. You might change something, or do something, and you'd screw up time, and then, I don't know, giant vampire robots might take over Manhattan as soon as I send you back."

"Vampire—?" Bucky says, bewildered, and Dean groans.

"Forget that, too," Dean says—fat chance, Bucky thinks—and Dean shakes his head, sighing. "Look, all this… time travel crap is new for me, too. Didn't even know it could really be a thing before a few years ago, and I didn't know regular people could just smear some stuff on a wall and speak some mumbo-jumbo and just make it happen. And so—we found this record that an unexplained event had happened, on this day in Georgia, and Sammy—that's who was just on the phone—he said, well, go check it out, and he's faking like he's not sick so I just let him send me out on the errand, and then it turned out to be you, and I'm… babbling, this is embarrassing, but you're you and I gotta say, whenever we were kids, Sammy was Superman and I was Batman but when we played Commandos he had to be Cap because I always wanted—"

Dean cuts off, and now the red's in his cheeks as well as his ears, even if Bucky doesn't know what goes there. "So. I'll send you back, but." He lifts a shoulder. "I wish I didn't have to."

He looks real sorry. Bucky leans back against the dresser, with the silent television flashing colors by his shoulder. He tries to imagine it. Boys in some hazy, magic-screen future, playing at being him, the way the kids in the neighborhood play being Flash Gordon. It's too big to fit into his head. He says, instead, "So… we win, then." Dean frowns. "The war. We win? If… me and the commandos and whoever the Captain is, we all get to be heroes. We must win."

Dean licks his lips, and looks… guilty, as all hell. "Yeah," he says, voice strange. "Yeah, you win."

Oppressive, to hear it. Not relief but responsibility. Bucky nods, takes a deep breath. "Well, all right, then," he says. He smiles at Dean, his very best. "Then I think the big hero deserves another kiss."

Dean startles, and laughs, and Bucky grins until Dean's head drops. He swallows. The future, settling onto his heart; the past, roaring up to meet it.

#ffcc #dean winchester #bucky barnes #my writing #-- hey i hate to be that guy but i gotta apologize #this is less a story than a collection of paragraphs #but i feel like i forgot how to write at all #this doesn't match up to the donation #but i hope it gives you some mild entertainment #imagine bucky barnes watching cnn #that could be funny at least right?

[witness-protection-official]

Today’s chapter art is actually fanart made by Amiy_trash on Instagram! Check her out, she’s really good!

Warning; contains heavy swearing in some parts. Song mentioned in chapter will be linked at the end

Witness Protection- An Eyeless Jack x reader

Chapter 3

"So why do you look so uncomfortable?" You tilt your head. He remained silent. "Hey, come on, after what just happened I deserve to know something about you,"

"What just happened doesn't matter," He stated, back to using that monotone voice. You huff.

"We kissed!"

"You and I both know it meant nothing,"

"But still-!"

"Dropping the subject now," he shut up. You groan and smack your head against the window. You mutter an ow, sitting up properly.

"Does the radio work?" He shrugged. You reach over and try to turn it on, only met by static on all of the channels before it shut itself off. "Great," you grumble quietly to yourself. You pat a small beat on your lap, the silence driving you mad.

"Stop that," your head rolls back against the headrest on the seat, rolling your eyes and glaring at him.

"Well then do you have any idea what I could do to entertain myself? Don't get me wrong I'm really enjoying these 'chats' of ours where I try to strike up a conversation and you completely ignore me, but I'm kind of going insane," you groan loudly. "There's like nothing for me to dooo,"

"Play a road trip game or something,"

"You need two or more people for those, and you're highkey too boring for them,"

"I'm going to pretend I know what highkey is and tell you to figure out how to do it yourself," You groan again, leaning forward to smack your head on the dashboard space right above the glove box.

"I spy with my little eye, an annoying bitch," you huff, crossing your arms.

"You?" Your eye twitches. "No? Damn. Ok, my turn, I spy with my little eye an annoying little cunt that is going to be gutted and left to bleed out in a river if she doesn't shut her fucking mouth,"

"Lemme guess. You?" He made a 'wrong' buzzer sound.

"Wrong, try again,"

"Me?" you sigh.

"Bingo, now shut up," You grumble some unheard curses and lean your elbow on the weird arm rest thing on the side of the door, resting your head in your open palm. There was a long silence. It felt like it must've been half an hour, at least.

"I'm still bored,"

"It's only been 10 minutes since you told me that," he stated.

"Feels like longer, now entertain me,"

"In case you don't remember, I kidnapped you and am in no way obligated to entertain you,"

"Can't I like, borrow your phone or something?"

"I would be an idiot to let a hostage use my phone," It's becoming painfully clear that he is not going to cave anytime soon. You sigh and stare out the window, watching other cars pass by with a half lidded expression. "Eat or something,"

"Bored eating is how I get fat,"

"Then suffer in silence," Another silence washed over you, the uncomfortable humming of the vehicle becoming the only thing you could use from drifting off into insanity. The car stopped after a long while, and he climbed out.

"Where are you going?"

"To eat," You raise a brow.

"Why would you need to get out to eat?" He smiled at you, condescendingly. The effect of the meds had worn off by this point, revealing sharpened teeth. You gag, remembering what he had eaten back at the hotel. "Yeah, please do that far away from me,"

"Planning on it, I don't need puke in my truck," He slammed his door shut. It is only five minutes after he's left the truck that you are even more bored than before. Yet another heavy groan leaves you. Patting a small beat on your legs seemed to help, but only barely. You glance behind you, seeing him in the back of the truck. Well, you could only see his back, as he had it facing the cab section of the truck. Should you go out and bother him? One on hand, there was a strong possibility of you vomiting up your lunch from earlier. But on the other hand, he was your only source of entertainment. Your boredom won over your common sense and you unbuckle, trying your door. Child locked, of course. Your gaze flicked to his door. Glancing back out the back window, you sneakily climb onto the drivers side seat, trying the door handle. The door popped open and you felt like cheering. You wouldn't though. If he was gonna be mad about you sneaking out of the car you might as well spook him too by surprising him.

A small tune hits your ears as you step out of the truck, closing the door quietly. Your footsteps fell silently on the dirt as you approached. Granted, the heels made walking uncomfortable, but you'd rather suffer through the curse that is your work shoes than walk around barefoot. Random thought aside, the tune sounded like quiet singing. It was barely audible, barely above a whisper, but pleasant sounding. Your brain caught up with your ears and eyes and quickly came to the conclusion that Jack was singing, very softly. The song was unfamiliar to you, but his voice did sound nice, so you quietly hop onto the bed of the truck, next to him, all while ignoring the empty freezer bags that used to hold what you knew to be some poor man's insides. He paused for what seemed to be an instrumental break, as he nodded his head a little to the rhythm in his head.

"For a murderer, you're pretty good at singing," you comment, breaking the silence. Nothing will ever compare to the joy you felt as Jack's eye sockets shot open, and he squeaked loudly, standing in an apparent flight reflex before almost tripping over the rim of the bed in his shock. However, you did not laugh, for you were no fool. Although it was increasingly tempting as his grey face grew to be a bright red, non existent eyes widening in pure shock, terror, or embarrassment.

"How much," he muttered, blinking with a gulp.

"What?"

"How much did you hear," he elaborated.

"Not much, I've only been here for maybe a minute or so,"

"Too much," he took a shaky breath.

"What?" he repeatedly shook his head.

"Too much," he muttered again before muttering something very quietly to himself.

"Truck. Now," he vaulted himself over the edge. You raise a brow and climb off the bed of the vehicle. He gripped your arm and guided you to your side of the truck, opening the door. "In," You scurry in, clicking the seat belt into place. He seemed… stressed. He climbed in a little bit after, seemingly having cleaned up the remnants of his meal.

"So uh-,"

"Don't- don't talk,"

"But-,"

"Shhhh," he whispered, holding a shaky index finger to his lips to signify silence. With a deep breath, he strapped in and turned the car on, getting back on the road. Despite the radio not working, the clock did, and you stared at it. For an hour. You knew because you had watched an hour pass on the old digital display. Finally, he sighed.

"You can talk now, I guess,"

"What the hell was that?"

"Probably a nice mix of anxiety and embarrassment smooshed together to create a hellish combination of wanting to die,"

"You have anxiety?"

"I don't want to talk about it," you nod slowly.

"You're singing was nice," you murmur.

"Uh, thanks," he muttered. "I don't uh- I don't typically like people listening-,"

"That would be totally understandable if you weren't that good at it,"

"If you think complimenting me will make me let you go, you're wrong," he visibly tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the black fabric of his gloves pulling taut.

"Wasn't what I was going for, but ok,"

"Then what were you going for," he sighed heavily.

"Could you sing something? Like, louder than a whisper?"

"No," his response was immediate. "Absolutely not,"

"What? It's not like I'll be able to tell anyone," he did a small leg bounce.

"Will you shut up about being bored if I sing one song?" A hum and a nod from you give him his confirmation. "Shit…," he sighed under his breath. "Did you have a song in mind?"

"No," he groans quietly.

"Not a single one?"

"No," you shake your head. "Hadn't planned on you saying yes, so just pick one you like," He threw his hand up in what could only be exasperation.

"Fine, fine," he took a deep breath, looking about ready to start. "Do I have to do this?"

"If you want me to shut up," He whined under his breath.

"But-,"

"Stop stalling and you can get it over with," You lean forward to see his face, which is still beet red with embarrassment, but this time with pursed lips.

"Gah, fine," he huffed, defeated. With another deep breath, he began. "I can't get a hold, hold on myself, tossin' and turnin' and screaming' for help. So much to say, so many words, but sometimes, you're lookin' so good that it hurts,'' You blinked slowly, eyes slowly widening. He'd probably stop if you said anything, so you remain quiet and avert your eyes from his head, leaning your head in your open palm again as you listened to the song. It wasn't a very fast paced or high energy song, making it sort of soothing to listen to. Mixed with his strangely superb singing voice, it melded together into a calming melody that was slowly making you relax and be ready for a nap.

"I know I'm not right, I'm messed in the head, so hurt me, desert me, just leave me for dead. I'm thinkin' 'bout thinkin', now my sun is shrinking'. I know I can float, but I'm sinking' instead. I don't wanna lose you, glad that I knew you, don't wanna be in my own head," he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as you were, except he wasn't dozing off like you. As he neared the last few sound effect things that were in the song, you had closed your eyes, breathing slower. In your half asleep state, your brain registered that he had finished singing, but it didn't matter to you as you slipped into unconsciousness, willingly this time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She was out cold and he sighed in relief, leaning his head against the back of the seat. Never again. Never again will he sing like that for someone else. Too much pressure on him to make it sound good, even if he didn't give a flying fuck about her opinion of him. Her sleeping form made him realize just how tired he was and he yawned. He'd gotten a max of two hours the night before, and even then they were the suckiest two hours of his life. This just meant he needed to get to his next hotel set up. He pulled the car over again and pulled out his phone, scrolling through nearby hotels. The closest was two hours away. He groaned silently and checked the bookings for it anyway. There were also no double beds. Peachy. Just peachy. His bottom lid twitched before he smacked his forehead on the broken horn again, sighing heavily in exasperation. No doubt she was going to bitch, but he really didn't have a choice. He needed proper sleep and she'd have to deal. He booked one of the rooms and took a breath to recollect himself before shutting his phone off and stuffing it back in his pocket. If he was lucky this place would have booze or something, it would be great to have a nice bottle of whiskey or something when dealing with this woman. The drive was obviously quiet, her soft snores the only noise to drown out the sound of everything wrong with his truck. In the silence, his mind wandered, as it usually did, which led him to the question of what the hell was this woman's name. It had been on her name tag, probably, but that had been stained with blood and removed earlier that day. Damn, he didn't even know what it began with.

Regardless, he drove in complete silence. Fastest two hours of his life, if he was being honest. With how tired he was, the promise of a nice bed and possibly alcohol made him a little giddy. The parking lot of the hotel came into view and he cheered quietly.

"Yes!" he sighed in slight celebration, pulling into the lot and quickly finding a place to park. He shut the car off and got his pills and took two. He liked to call them 'normal pills' because they made him look, well, normal. Anyway, he climbed out of the car and walked to her side, opening the door and climbing up on the step. The button clicked once he pushed it, and the seatbelt came up to go back to it's weird resting position against the side of the cab. He scooped her up bridal style. He was going to have to sell the dating thing again, not wanting to risk the weird look his mind guaranteed would be sent his way. He shook his head, removing the thought from his mind and hopping off the step, using his shoulder to push the door closed. With a quick grip adjustment, he headed for the door, barely making it through the sliding doors, as he was too impatient to wait for them to open fully. He did the usual checking in process, the person at the front desk only glancing at the sleeping woman in his arms.

"Girlfriend?" They hum. He nodded. "Keep any noise you make tonight to yourselves,"

"What?"

"Be quiet," They clarified. He flushed up at what they had implied, and began to stammer over some of his words. They snort. "Calm yourself down boy," He swallowed.

"S-Sorry," They shake their head.

"Anyway, the pool is that way, the exercise room is right next to it, there's a bar over by the breakfast area. Pool hours are 9 AM - 11 PM, same with the exercise room. Bar is open from 7 PM - 6 AM," They hand him his key card. He nods a thank you and hurries to the stairs. It's more than a few floors up, but he didn't feel like going to find the elevator just yet. The woman stirred in her sleep, but he was too absorbed by his thoughts to notice.

"Jack?" He almost dropped her down the stairs in fright.

"Yeah?" he shook his head, resuming his climb.

"Where are we?"

"The next hotel,"

"Oh… what city are we in?"

"Only a fool would tell his hostage what city he's moved her to," he huffed. "And I am no fool," She grumbled.

"Dammit,"

"Don't pout about that, I've been fairly decent to you so far," She glanced up at him, brows furrowed.

"Yeah, but why?"

"You're more obedient when you're well taken care of,"

"Oh really? And what proof do you have for that?"

"You didn't tell that woman I had kidnapped you," he hummed.

"Because you were right next to me,"

"You've listened to my orders, more so when I'm not being violent,"

"I-,"

"You aren't resisting now, either, especially since you have the chance," That one was a test. He just told her she had a chance to escape. She remained still, cradled in his arms. "You aren't going to even try?"

"The stairs are really steep, I don't wanna risk falling," He nodded.

"Fair," He glanced down. "But I would fall too, wouldn't I?" More testing. He had to be sure she wouldnt run off on him if he had to leave her alone in the room for something.

"Just because you kidnapped me doesn't mean I want you to fall to your doom on a hotel staircase," she crossed her arms, huffing.

"Ok, Ok," he stopped talking. She continued to pout while he made his way up the rest of the stairs, onto their floor. Their room was at the end of the hall. He grunted as he shifted her onto one arm. She grew a bit flustered, probably because she was being held on one arm and that was kind of weird. He pulled the key card out of his pocket.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ok ok ok, yeah, he's pretty cute when he's 'normal' looking. But now he's holding you on one arm. He's fucking strong. Like, really strong. 'Lord give me strength,' You think to yourself. He slides the card into the slot and opens the door, shifting you back so he was using both arms to hold you. He walked in and threw you on the bed.

"Why- why is there only one bed?" you tilt your head.

"There weren't any double bed rooms available when I booked it,"

"So we'll be sleeping on the same bed?"

"I don't care if you sleep on the floor, or the bed, or even the bathtub," he shrugged.

"Bed sounds comfy,"

"Then sleep on the bed, I'm too tired to care," he flopped back first onto the bed, sighing in relief.

"What if we accidentally spoon though?"

"Oh nooo, physical contact, what ever will we dooo??" Sarcasm was evident.

"You know for a guy who panicked when I saw him singing you're awfully chill about straight up cuddling me," He shrugged.

"I'm tired, and tired me just does not give a shit," he rubbed his eyes. "Besides, human bodies are cooler than demon ones, you'd be like the cold side of a pillow,"

"What the fuck," He let out a strained laugh.

"Sorry," he sat up, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm gonna go get my stuff, you gotta promise to stay here,"

"I make no promises," you cross your arms.

"I could always lock you in the bathroom with no means of entertainment, or you can stay out here, in a decent, air conditioned room, with a tv. Your choice," You sigh.

"Fine," a quiet grumble leaves you.

"I'll bring the clothes and toiletries up first, so you can take a shower,"

"Are you saying I need one?"

"We both need one, I'm just saying yours will probably take longer," You mull it over.

"Fine," He gave a thumbs up and stood.

"I'll be back," He left the room. You sigh and crawl onto the bed fully, closing your eyes.

(Song is Alonely by Public)

(I also use this song as a voice claim for Jack)

(Here’s the link)

https://youtu.be/b-MsOr5LCHI

#Youtube

[cawcawpeasants]

I'm in holidays, yessssssssssssss ! Moreover, i was thinking of my two sweeties and do you think you can do a scenario, if you haven't to much to do, of Fuegoleon who is over jealous for some reasons ? I can see Nozel joking with this, and it's not helping. But, a lion over possesive and jealous, i want to read what you can write with this ! I'm sorry to bother you if it's to much ... ^^

This was fun! huehuehue

Poor Mailman, somebody better stop Nozel and Leon. When they are Jealous they can become so damn unpredictable. 

Well, here goes, enjoy ;) 

Jealous Leon escalates:

A knock on the door interrupted the two men’s conversation.They were In Nozel’s office in the castle, as it was that time of the year werethe captains had to evaluate the budget needed for the following year, so theythought they could be pretty much undisturbed. They were just discussing whatto have for dinner, when they were startled by the knocking.

‘Lord Silva?’ asked a young voice from the other side of thedoor, ‘May I enter?’

Nozel seemed to recognize the voice, as his posture relaxed.

‘You may, Philippe.’

Leon shot him a weird look.

Since when does Nozelcare for the first names of others? And why does he look so…happy?

He decided to keep a close eye on whoever was coming throughthat door.

A young man, probably in his late teens or early twentiesentered. He was well kempt, nice stature, pretty blond hair and a face thatstill had some baby fat on it, which, in combination with his big green eyes,made him undeniably cute. He was also dressed in the royal post uniform.

‘Good evening Lord Silva, oh, and Lord Vermillion. I hope I didn’tinterrupt you. I have the documents you have ordered yesterday, Lord Silva.’

He smiled kindly, innocence was dripping from his well-manneredwords. Usually Leon would like an upright young fellow like him, but seeing thesmall smile on Nozel’s face, which wasn’t for him but the other male in theroom. He squinted his eyes slightly at the young man.

‘Oh, that was fast Philippe, thank you very much. I didn’t evenexpect that they would come today.’

Nozel grabbed his pen, ready to sign off the confirmation ofreceival which Philippe handed him. These two had a routine already, and Leon hada hunch that the boy had been spending more time with his man in the last weekthan he had.

He also saw the now slightly red ears of the fellow, whichhad turned that way because of Nozel’s small compliment.

‘O-oh, that is because I had some business to do in the areayesterday evening, so I was able to pick them up after work already.’

Nozel looked him in the eyes and smiled again.

‘Is that so? Then thank you very much for doing this for mein your free time.’

‘It’s nothing, Lord Silva. We of the royal post would go toevery length possible for our customers happiness.’ A wide smile, as bright andbeautiful as the sun lit up the room.

Leon felt like punching someone. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation,but he had a feeling this guy was flirting with his lover. And that his Nozelwas even flirting back!

It took years for himto call me by my first name! Let alone to even smile at me.

He was positively pissed and maybe he did glare a bit at theyoung man, because Philippe’s smile seemed to become a bit strained afterlooking at him. The guy excused himself quickly, nearly fleeing the office.

After the door fell close, Nozel sighed while scooting overthe papers he had just received.

‘What did the poor guy do wrong to receive such hostility fromyou, Leon?’

The question was simple, but Nozel’s tone of voice and the particularlook full of mischief told Leon, that he already knew what had riled theredhead so up.

Leon leaned forwards across the desk, bringing his head onone level with Nozel’s and glared back.

‘You know exactly why!’

Nozel out the papers down and answered with a fake-cluelessexpression.

‘Oh, I am afraid not, Vermillion, I was kind of too busy checkingthat cute guys stunning little butt out to pay attention to your jealousy.’

Leon basically sprung out of the chair, now leaning overNozel, who still coolly met his angry stare.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said that Philippe, the nice postman, has a nice butt,and believe me, he is a very cute, nice and disciplined young man. I saw himfor the better part of the last week, so I can promise you, he is very…pleasingcompany’

The tone was teasing, and somewhere in Leon’s tired brain washis usual voice of reason calmly telling him that Nozel was just messing withhim, that the Silva for sure did NOT have an affair with the mailman, but therewas a louder voice, that told him to get rid of the love rival and then throwhis mate over his shoulder. To show the Silva all over again who he belongedto.

He stood up and left the room, the loud bang of the doorclosing behind him drowned out the ‘Leon?’ behind him.

He strutted down the hallway, looking out for the oh soperfect blond hair that apparently was set to seduce his Nozel.

A familiar voice saying its goodbyes in a close office caughthis attention. There he was, leaving and smiling as brightly as before.

Apparently Nozel wasn’t the only one the boy was out to get.

The moment the door closed again, Philippe found himself be draggedby his collar into a smaller adjoining hallway and then pressed up against awall.

Fearful green eyes in a pale face met angry purple.

‘What are your intentions?’

Leon’s tone was deep, nearly a growl, too. Philippe never hadmet a real Lion before, but he had the feeling, he now knew exactly how anantelope felt 5 seconds from being eaten.

He tried to answer, but the Vermillion held him pretty highand by his collar, so no air reached his panicked lungs. He held on to his bagwith the documents and letters he was yet to deliver, while trying to get on histip toes so he could breathe.

The lord grew impatient, so he repeated the question, this timewith more emphasis.

‘What. Are. Your. Damn. Intentions.?’

‘I- I intent to-to deliver the P-Post, sir’ came the choked-outanswer.

Phillipe tried to stay calm, like he learned in that seminarabout how to react when you are being attacked by a client’s dog or otherpossible dangerous pet. He should probably inform his bosses, that they shouldalso offer courses on how to deal with possible dangerous human companions ofclients, too.

Leon was clearly not satisfied with the young mans answer,so he yanked him up even higher. Philippe, now completely dangling in the air, puton his customer service smile in a try to appease the obviously angered man.

‘You know damn well kid, that I don’t care about your letters.I want to know what your intentions are concerning Nozel!’

‘Lo-Lord Silva? Well, I intent to deliver him his letters,too, Sir.’

Poor Philippe was confused. Had he done something wrong? Heloved his job, so probably not he was quite a stickler to the rules. He alwaystried to be punctual and had his whole routine planned out, so his customers wouldalways know when to expect him. Hell, his bosses had refined their protocolbased on his performances.

He winced at the thought of lagging behind in his schedulealready, and also because he heard the doomed sound of bursting seams. He likedhis uniform, always took care of it with pride, as it was what he had alwayswanted since he first saw someone from the royal Post wear it as a kid. EvenLord Silva had complimented him on always looking professional, which had been quitea surprise, as he had heard of the other being quite cold and detached. Theybonded a bit over their mutual work-a-holic attitude with a good helping of perfectionism,so Philippe wanted to help him out a bit by getting him his documents earlier.

Always 110%, was his motto. Applied to both work ethic andpaycheques.

The interrogation had turned into a staring contest, withFuegoleon glaring into the blond one’s soul and Philippe smiling as bright ashe could with a panicked look in his eyes.

As Nozel entered the scene he couldn’t help but raise aneyebrow at this ridiculous display. He went over to the enraged redhead and puta hand on his shoulder, effectively ripping the two out of their match.

‘Leon, let the boy go. Philippe, I am sure you still havework to do, so you better get going.’

Then he turned around and left again.

Disgruntled, Leon did as Nozel told him to and turned to goafter him, but not without sending one last angry stare at Philippe who hastilybrought his uniform in order again. The message was clear.

Stay away from my Man!

Leon caught up with Nozel halfway to the office, and was metwith a cold shoulder and some choice words.

‘What the hell was that, Vermillion? Do you really think Iwas into him? He definitely did not deserve that, and you acted completely out.’

‘Its not my fault that you were basically slobbering all overhis cute butt, Silva. I had to show him that you are off limits before he triessomething.’

‘Excuse me, that was just playing. Honestly, you shouldprobably take a nap when you are so tired that you don’t understand sarcasm andteasing anymore. If you don’t stop making such an ass out of yourself you mightas well find me in the close future not being “off limits” anymore, understood?’  

They had walked next to each other while having their spatin hushed tones so as not to inform the whole castle about their fight and hadreached the office door. There Nozel looked at him for the first time duringtheir fight and Leon saw him being pissed at his behaviour, but the redhead couldn’thelp but still be angry. Then he remembered the second part of his originalplan.

He cornered Nozel against the door, looming over him like apredator.

‘Oh, teasing it was? Well, my dear tease, if it makes youhappy, I am glad to inform you that that just worked alright. And I think Ihave a good idea on how to recompense your words’

Andmake sure you forget all about that Mailman’s ass when I amdone showing you who yours belongs to!

#Caw caw #Braidshroom braidshroom falalala #I fell halfway in love with my mailman #he is just adorable okay? #he just wants to deliver post and one day become the post emperor #the king of mailmans #the postkage #He aint got no time to flirt #I wonder if there is a mail system in Black clover #and how far they deliver #also if they recruit based on the utility of certain magic types #like warp magic? you are so friggin hired #fire magic? uhm no sorry there are no job offerings in your general are #*area #anyways really dont mess with Leon when he is jealous AND tired #Nozel probably had issues sitting down for a while

[popculturedruid]

How would you recommend finding out more about an entity when the source material is very vague, limited, and not very popular? I'm trying to figure out a pantheon based on the Great Ones from Bloodborne, but information about pretty much all of them is few and far between. Also, I have trouble meditating due to literal ADHD, do you have any ideas for how to concentrate better? Thank you so much, your blog is lovely!!

Aww, thank you so much! That means a lot!

This is such a good question. I wanted to take some time here again to really answer this one to give you a proper answer. That’s why it took me a bit to get back to you.

I understand your frustration here. It is very frustrating to look for information about your desired entity and find little to nothing. I looked up Bloodborne just to see what we were getting at, then quickly realized I was going to give myself spoilers because I probably wanted to play this game. :)

From the bit that I let myself get a look at, the Great Ones pantheon immediately reminds me of the Daedra from the Elder Scrolls games. Not in such basic terms as good and evil, but simply from the scope of multiple forms, alternate planes, and just generally screwing with people. There is a fairly large group of Tamriel PCPs on Tumblr, it might be worth a look to check into see how they structure their relationships for ideas to maybe start your own. I’m going to refer you over to @popculturepagan who has a tag on Elder Scrolls PCP. Not saying you need to go that way at all, I’m just trying to show you another pantheon that’s a bit more established that might give you some ideas to help you get yours started!

It appears the direct reference for the Great Ones is H.P. Lovecraft and his “Great Old Ones.” You have undoubtedly heard of Cthulhu. Cthulhu is just a high priest to one of them. Many folks make Cthulhu and the Great Old Ones out to be chibi, but if you read the stories, they’re actually quite terrifying. If you haven’t read the stories, and you’re still itching for more Bloodborne, the best place to go would be for the inspiration for the Great Ones: Lovecraft’s stories. He wrote many, but you can get the stories that just contain the ones with Cthulhu. I think they would also mostly include the Great Old Ones in those as well. His stories are just great in general, however. From these stories of the GOO (I got tired writing that out :P), you could probably pick up a bit more on the general characteristics of your GOs.

I would also encourage you to search through fanfiction. I have called fanfiction our weird version of Shared Personal Gnosis. If the community in general kinda feels a certain way about a character, they generally might be on to something.

For instance, everyone is probably going to say that Luke Skywalker seems like a pretty swell guy. He’s not likely to go nuts anytime soon (I would though, all alone on that planet, let’s be real). If someone writes a version of Luke that runs around murdering all the things for the lolz, people are generally going to disagree.

(That’s not to say you can’t end up contacting a different version of that entity, but that’s getting into something different, and that’s where the theory of multiverses comes into play. And how @octomantra and I have two different Eds in our heads.)

You might point out again that this is a small community still, and a character being out of character this early on is not going to be as obvious as Luke running around killing all the younglings. But I hope you would start to see a trend in how others are viewing this world as well, even if they aren’t viewing it in the exact same way. It’s still getting built.

Here’s the link to the Archive of Our Own Bloodborne Tag: https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Bloodborne%20(Video%20Game)/works

Fanfiction.net:https://m.fanfiction.net/game/Bloodborne/

I also noticed there is a huge crossover community at FF.net. Not sure if that really would mean much to you, but here you are:https://m.fanfiction.net/crossovers/Bloodborne/12234/

As for your question about ADHD and meditating, I feel your pain here. I have this, and it takes a lot for me to focus. To get my brain even in the mindset I say the Jedi code about 3 times until my brain realizes we’re going to just STOP for a second. And this takes a sheer force of will to get it to stop and focus. For a moment. It’s fine if you can’t, I’m lucky if I can for about 30 seconds before my brain is on to whatever else I thought I needed to do next.

In answering your question, however, I realized that for me if I truly want to meditate and reach out to my entities I have to create a place in my head where I’m going. It can’t just be “breathe in, breathe out.” Then my brain starts going, “wait, am I doing the breathing right? Wait, is my mind wandering? Wait, I’m still the only person in this room, right?” Even though I know damn well I’m the only person in the room because I would have heard it, but my brain just thinks, “ooh, shiny!” And I’m gone.

If I want to actually talk to my people for more than 10 seconds I have to create a place in my head for me to actually be standing in. You would think it’d be more distracting, but apparently once I’m out of how distracting this world is I’m fine. The other place can’t be too detailed either though, otherwise I’m like, “hey, I got to get closer to that countertop because I don’t know what color it is EXACTLY, and if I don’t know right now, I may literally die.” Forget the fact I’m talking to someone, nope, I’m gone.

You will fail sometimes, and it will be fine. I do it frequently enough. I usually don’t go into meditation to talk to my entities, I just talk out loud. I suppose this could be a talking meditation if I’m focusing hard enough. This doesn’t always work. I have a particularly amusing memory of trying to pseudo meditate/talk to tell Colonel Mustang “happy birthday, Colonel” and “it is good to meet you” in Japanese on his birthday. I’d only been learning the language for 3 days. I had worked fairly hard to get to this point, so I was fairly proud of myself. Colonel Mustang had been grumpy all day, and I had a fairly good idea why. So I thought, “hey, let’s try to greet him in the language his original materials were printed in to see if it will cheer him up.” It did, for about 30 seconds, until my brain completely derailed because I knew one of the words wasn’t translating properly. I spent the next at least 20 minutes tracking the problem until I somewhat figured it out. By then though, the damage was done. He was back to being irritated, and I got the distinct impression he wouldn’t even look at me. At the time, I was disappointed. Now, it’s funny because I realize he was throwing a hissy fit. (The chaos in my head, right now.)

So, as silly as it sounds, make a happy place. A field in the middle of nowhere, a snowy plain, your favorite movie, a library, the actual area your characters are from, wherever. Create the starting place, but let the world build itself. That’s what I do. I don’t build it. I let it happen. It’s less stressful, and less distracting.

It sounds insanely difficult, but it’s not. We don’t let our imaginations run free anymore, but when we do, it’s beautiful.

Besides building your happy place, I also try to minimize distractions by going into a room where I won’t be disturbed by someone for at least a fair bit of time. I have to make sure the room is straightened first. It doesn’t have to be absolutely cleaned, but just tidied first or I can’t concentrate on anything other than, “did you just invite your friends over to a pig sty?” I turn off the lights. I get into comfortable clothing, which for me is just sweatpants and a hoodie. I get into a comfortable position, it doesn’t matter if it’s sitting or laying down, hell it can be standing if it’s what works for you. Just make sure you can stay in it without having to move. I like lighting a candle, because candles. I pull up my hoodie and just start zoning and talking. I focus on a place right behind my eyes, oddly enough. It actually slightly hurts, but I’m assuming it’s because I have strabismus, and I’m making my eyes go straight. I actually caution against falling asleep in this state. I have done it a couple times, and it’s like you bring things back from whatever gate you didn’t close. I have had the oddest dreams while falling asleep mid-meditation. That’s just me. Maybe you’ll find something else. :D

If and when you decide to get your practice started, whether with the Great Ones or whomever, and if you create a Tumblr, please let me know. Or even if you just create anything let me know so I can have a link for the next person who comes asking. This community only gets bigger when we reach out to each other! I am super happy to see new universes get people everyday. It’s super exciting!

Best of luck! I hope I helped a little, and please, please, please let me know if you have any more questions!

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