#this is catharsis in its raw state

[aliceindaisychains999]

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU Moodboard💅🏻✨✨

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#maddie’s stimboards #joke stimboard #violence tw #tw explosives #tw explosion #chaotic #chaos #anger moodboard #gremlin mode #gremlin moodboard #this is catharsis in its raw state #tw murder #tw attempted murder #fire tw #wrath #angy #meme moodboard

[userpeggycarter]

@lgbtqcreators creator bingo 💖 animation.

PEGGY WEEK 2024

day seven — birthday extravaganza 🥳

OMG its Blorbo Bleebus!

[in ● sp] [id under the cut]

gifset about Peggy Carter from the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

gif 1 of 7. two close-up shots of Peggy are blended together. at the middle, there's a static image of Peggy with her arms crossed. the text says, "OMG this motherfucker is Peggy Carter".

gif 2 of 7. two gifs of Peggy are blended together. there are stats bars at the bottom of the gif. the pairings (extremities) are:

just some guy - the protagonist of life head empty - too many thoughts awful company - ray of sunshine hated by all - loved by all trauma 3000 - untouched by history sadistic for fun - helps others for fun stupid as shit - scary-smart 1000 weapons - 1000 tools enemy of god - at peace with life break the rules - change the rules

gif 3 of 7. two shots of Peggy are blended together, one of them being of Captain Carter. the text says, "evokes" and the options are the following:

spontaneous gushing powerful violent urges raw, unbridled affection the horny meta-posting on main creative drive defensive feelings distraction delight symptoms of projection absent-minded doodles on tabletops the most godawful takes known to mankind

all options have a checkmark next to them.

gif 4 of 7. two close-up shots of Peggy are blended together. there's a chart at the center of the gif, titled "subclass". the subclasses are:

angst lady enemy of the state friend shaped girlboss soft and sweet brain cell haver just like you fr aspirational character chew toy

the angst lady, enemy of the state, girlboss, brain cell haver and aspirational character options are marked with a circle.

gif 5 of 7. two shots of Peggy are blended together. at the center of the gif, there are three stats (intense, complex, and fruity) with 10 points each. Peggy has all 30 points. while the intense and complex points are green, the fruity ones have the colors of the bisexual flag (blue, pink, and purple). at the bottom left corner, there's a big asterisk with the following text next to it: if you or a loved one is attached to a character that fills all of these boxes, you may be entitled to financial compensation.

gif 6 of 7. two close-up shots of an animated Peggy are blended together. the text says, "you want them to have...". the list is the following:

a better time less trauma more romance more friends catharsis revenger sympathy a better situation more healing more sex The Realization and a trademark symbol next to it.

all options have a checkmark next to them.

gif 7 of 7. two shots of Peggy are blended together, a close-up and her silhouette entering a room. "select all that apply", the text says. the list is the following:

tragic backstory? orphan? frequently violent? divorced? has enemies? sidekick owner? no friends? pets stray animals? chronic insomniac? murderer?

there's a checkmark next to "tragic backstory", "frequently violent", "has enemies", "sidekick owner", "pets stray animals", and "murderer". each checkmark has a color that corresponds to a small static image at the bottom of the gif. the tragic backstory one is an image of Peggy crying. the frequently violent one is an image of her holding a gun. has enemies: a picture of Dottie. sidekick owner: a picture of her and Jarvis. pets stray animals: a picture of Peggy holding a puppy. murderer: yet another picture of her holding a gun. end ID.

#* #marveledit #peggycarteredit #peggy carter #agent carter #peggyweek2024 #marveladdicts #womenofmcu #usergif #ladiesofcinema #femalecharacters #cinemapix #moviegifs #filmgifs #filmtvtoday #fyeahmovies #televisiongifs #cinematv #tvarchive #usertiny #userelysia #userpegs #usereme #userrin #usertreena #userlaro #userarwen #useralien #uservalentina

[dapg-otmebytheballs]

Someone mentioned in the tags of that post the times when it was taboo to write fic treating Dan's depression branding as serious and how those fics actually helped this person come to terms with their own mental health struggles (not adding the tags for privacy) and I think that really exemplifies why all these taboos around fiction are just causing repression and harm.

Others in the fandom have already talked about their experience being fic writers getting bullied off of platforms, and it's something we should hope not to repeat. Fiction is fiction at the end of the day, including rpf. It's meant for just a way to project some story that you want to or need to hear onto some characters. And every story out there, no matter how much you might personally hate it or think it's "romanticising" something awful, it still has an audience of at least one (the author) and possibly many more, for whom that story can work as anything from solace, to a safer way to deal with something that's too scary and intimidating in its real raw form, to much needed catharsis over bad shit happening in someone's life.

Fics on ao3 have tags and ratings, and most authors I've seen post even on tumblr take care to put ratings on them. If you have trouble with any of the tropes or with the sex or the kinks or the dark themes etc etc you can skip out of it, but to go seeking them and then saying "this causes harm to people who don't heed the warnings and still read it" is just being obtuse.

People are talking about how fucked up the wave of 'romanticising depression' was, but too many of us didn't have the language to be allowed to take our struggles seriously. Too many of us were too repressed, or surrounded by people who wouldn't be supportive, and sometimes you need that distance that comes from fiction and exaggerated themes and kind of unrealistic portrayals of mental health issues because that distance enables you to explore something about yourself that's too taboo to even consider outside of depressive jokes and fucked up fiction. Not just mental health either, a ton of horrible inhumane things are very real experiences that people have and they're too taboo to deal with head on for many of us.

Dan talking that openly about not being okay - even if it was framed as a joke - was one of the earliest outlets I had to think upon my own mental state. It's understandable that a lot of people are very uncomfortable with those jokes now, and that people were uncomfortable with certain kinds of fics (and probably still are). But repressing our expression and telling people they can't post something because it makes us uncomfortable is only going to take away some safe options of exploring really tough personal issues that might be the only thing helping someone face their struggles.

If it's not for you, it's not for you. Let's not repeat the mistakes of acting like it's not for anyone and can't help or mean something to anyone at all. Mind the ratings, mind the tags, and as always, mind your business ✌🏻🌸

#fic stuff #phandom #dnp #dnp rpf

[dustedmagazine]

Blue Ocean — Fertile State (Slumberland)

On three previous releases, Oakland, California’s Blue Ocean busted out rollicking lo-fi guitar jams, chugged through chilly post-punk and occasionally clanked and warbled out something a little haunting and more experimental. The sense one got was a band with wide-ranging tastes and the chops to pull them together. Listening back to their 2021 self-titled compilation of EPs, the ability to shift from one reference to another — say Joy Division to Black Tambourine — without sounding derivative is notable. Their proper debut album, Fertile State, takes that dexterity with musical dialects and expands its horizons while retaining a great deal of raw exuberance and, if anything, turning up the volume. Songs alternately rollick, chug and warble here, too, and they’re given the space and higher fidelity to explore an even wider pool of precedents.

But whether they’re rendering scythes of guitar opulent enough to recall Stereolab on the opener, “Ode,” or bringing to mind the buzzy romanticism of The Pains of Being Pure at Heart on songs like “Fertile State” and “Syncnine,” there’s a consistent emphasis on melody under the roar. Knowing how thickly to layer the fuzz over your pop song is not a groundbreaking skill, but it’s no less impressive when musicians successfully pair the beauty and the noise. Fertile State doesn’t lack for examples of this marriage, but two songs stand out. First, “Take a Care,” a jangly guitar gem that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Dick Diver record with its wistful sing-song harmonies and classic Flying Nun-style strumming, and then immediately after on “The Radiant Edge,” which doesn’t match “Take a Care” for catchiness, but outstrips it in grandiose, fist-raising catharsis.

What makes Fertile State not just a satisfying record but an interesting one, however, is that the band doesn’t stop at bright, driving, or even just loud. Scattered across the album’s 41 minutes are several examples of their experimental side. Tracks like “Neutron Mob,” “Sulfur Jacket” and “Deorbit” divert the stream of guitars into post-rock tributaries. Alternately jazzy or industrial bursts of drumming run into rhythmic amp feedback and synth blips. When lyrics do appear, the vocals lurch and gurgle in contrast to the more straightforward songs, where the voice is steady if often shrouded in echo. It’s to Blue Ocean’s credit that these odder excursions weren’t lost in the move to a more generous recording environment and amid a generally more accessible set of songs.

Load Fertile State into your music app of choice and the given genre is “Shoegaze.” With the muted vocals, big opaque drums and waves of dramatic guitar, the shoe fits, so to speak, but a band that has the breadth to convincingly approximate Panda Bear (“Ion Drift”), U2 (“Elude”) or The Jesus & Mary Chain (“Elated Prose”) track-to-track reminds me more, spiritually speaking, of Yo La Tengo than My Bloody Valentine. While that may not bear out sonically (though there are moments, like “Present” where the taut beat, wavering guitar squawks, and sense of loping melancholy sound plucked from Painful) Blue Ocean have a similarly eclectic appetite and a rare aptitude to incorporate the music that seems to inform them into a unique and vibrant sound. Fertile, indeed.

Alex Johnson

#blue ocean #fertile state #slumberland #alex johnson #albumreview #dusted magazine #Bandcamp

[rainydawgradioblog]

Catharsis by proxy

Makthaverskan, Grauzone 2023

By Caroline Carr

Located 40 miles outside of Amsterdam, the festival began at sundown in Paard, an expansive venue inconspicuously tucked away on a main road in The Hague, Netherlands. Grauzone Festival, a 3-day music and arts event, was celebrating its 10th anniversary beginning on the 10th of February. Though performance art pieces, movie screenings, and live music would go on throughout the early evening, the main event, in my eyes, was not for a few more hours. 

A group of now twenty-somethings are laughing in the green room before their performance as they recount the band's origin, as teenagers who met in the schools and skateparks of Gothenburg, Sweden. Since 2009, Makthaverskan has been assembling a cohesive discography that transcends their commonly ascribed genres of post-punk and indie synthpop. Over the last decade, they have managed to maintain a relatively consistent style and distinct sound that is dreamy albeit commanding. “It’s a natural change,” said lead singer Maja Milner. “I’m not 15 anymore, I don’t have the same things to scream about". 

The 2021 release, “För Allting,” was the group’s most recent and most polished album yet. With a producer and a more narrative structure, the album was elevated without sacrificing rawness or passion. “We wanted to develop a more coherent album [rather] than a collection of songs,” said bassist Hugo Randulv. Coming in with the neat studio album top of mind, I was eager to see how the group would recreate the power and melodrama of it all onstage. 

Below ground, on Paard’s cafe stage, the group transformed the space effortlessly and immediately. An absolute powerhouse, Milner embodied the sentiment of the band’s name which loosely translates to a feminized version of someone who holds power. The performance evoked a hazy dream state, with the atmosphere driven by the synth drawing out Milner’s notes into mystical wails that stick to the walls of the listener’s mind. 

Throughout the evening, members’ gazes were fixed on their instruments and each other. Milner spent much of the set facing away from the crowd, singing to her bandmates and hitting a tambourine against her leg. An outside onlooker may have mistaken this as a lack of connection with the crowd, but from where I stood, it was patently more indicative of the bond and history the band shared. The group moved with a seamless cohesion, presumably born out of decades-long friendship, performance, and collaboration.

Though they operated as one, do not mistake their synchronicity for homogeneity. Members have explored outside projects in different styles that bring productive friction to the group’s creative process. “There has to be some tension to it otherwise it wouldn’t be interesting,” said Randulv. With each person contributing different perspectives and specialties, Makthaverskan is a genreless pastiche that synthesizes the best of each member’s musical stylings and lyricism. 

Onstage, Milner’s melancholic lyrics hide in plain sight, disguised between drawn-out, siren-like notes that pull you in with their beauty and force you to reckon with the weight of the words. “No matter what I write, it gets melancholic,” said Milner. “I can’t write happy [songs].” From “In my Dreams” to “This Time,” the set brimmed with cathartic autobiographies that lull you into bliss with their melodies and shake you awake with their lyrics. 

Even on tracks like “Maktologen” and “Tomorrow” which might strike a passive listener as optimistic with peppy intros, the lyrics are soaked in misery. Tracks like these further the plot of “För Allting” as well as predict the band's general trajectory, respectively. With “Maktologen,” the album ends on a surprisingly high note as the preceding tracks spoke of woes of black-and-white thinking, wasted time, and struggling with others and one’s own selfishness. “Tomorrow” with similar themes, and juxtapositions between lyrics and sound, foreshadows the band’s future projects. If the title did not already give it away, Randulv selected this song that he was specifically happy with that could serve as a compass for the forthcoming album that is still in an early creative stage. 

In the interim, the live performance rejuvenated earlier favorites from previous albums and left me with a new top pick: “Outshine.” Compared to the album version that echoed as if it were recorded in a vacant stadium, Milner’s vocals were at the forefront of the live rendition. Her voice, seasoned and matured over the years since the song’s release in 2013, perfectly contrasted with the youthful longing that guided the lyrics. As the evening wrapped up neatly with the yearning belting of “Leda,” a standout from “III,” the room still hummed with the leftover energy and rambunctious audience members reeling from the set. Though the show had ended, the fond memory would linger, keeping me enticed and tuned into whatever might come next for Makthaverskan. 

#Makthaverskan #Grauzone

[4me4you]

As we navigate through the enigmatic landscapes of DZHUS AW24, we encounter a narrative that speaks to the human condition in its most raw and vulnerable state. The collection serves as a testament to the power of creativity as a transformative force, offering solace and catharsis in the face of adversity.

#fourmefouryou #4me4you #art #fashion #magazines #2024 #gallery #ai #film #DZHU

[badarchitectrecords]

Listen to this new track by Point of Memory "Most of a Murder" Here’s a quote from the artist!  Void Pusher is acoustic computer music; combining digital cut ups and live ambient noise with raw organic qualities. Inaudible super-bass frequencies pumping through a room filled with acoustic instruments and electric guitars set to quaver and rumble sympathetically. Then record the result; a cacophony of resounding snares, harmonizing drones and the subtle rattle of shakers, bells and tambourines. Most of the time you can't hear the bass, just the reactions to it. Sometimes the bass didn't create any rattle at all. By passing the source sounds through amplifiers at their original frequencies and mixing them with their reactive acoustic counterparts, each moment assumes its own physical logic, a sense of movement and consequence, accidentally adhering to Newton's third law of motion: for each action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The intention behind this project was to create an album that, despite undergoing extensive manipulation, emanates a sense of human warmth and soul. All the source sounds were recorded live or processed through reamplification and manipulated live in a studio setting before being edited at home. The recording sessions took place during spring, summer, winter, and fall, capturing a broad spectrum of moods without deliberately seeking catharsis. The aim was to remain emotionally open and avoid excessive direction, in a superstitious attempt to capture something of the human condition writ large. Rather than pursuing personal emotional release, the goal was to embrace the human experience more generally and avoid individual emotional states. The logic is that creating music that resonates with universal feelings and sentiments is more challenging than producing work that is solely introspective and self-referential. In this way, the artist sought to be a conduit of the human condition rather than a "writer." In both method and aspiration, the artist seeks to listen for what is already transpiring within us, between us, around us, rather than risk drowning it out with an idea of what should be. Unknowable. It is hoped that through Void Pusher, something of the human experience has been captured. --- Point of Memory

#youtube #Point of Memory

[musicarenagh]

Finding Direction in the Ethereal Vibes of Indie-Pop: Paulina's "Sin Rumbo" In the sprawling panorama of music, new stars emerge ready to chart their own unique paths. One such rising talent is indie pop newcomer, Paulina. Her soul-infused pop single, "Sin Rumbo," leaves an unforgettable impression and creates a space for listeners to dwell in relaxation and catharsis. https://open.spotify.com/track/3EjHanytclRONf7UNjWb8j?si=644f69b4310b4a67 "Sin rumbo," Spanish for 'without direction,' is more than just easy listening; it’s a potent emotional journey wrapped in melodic tranquillity. The song’s captivating narrative is sprung from the heart-piercing struggles between societal expectations and personal insecurities—an alternative pop gem crafted to guide one towards the beacon at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Paulina delivers her soothing vocals with a finesse that matches seasoned artists within her genre, reinforcing her status as not just another melodious voice but a talented singer-songwriter from Puerto Rico. She brilliantly mirrors fragile emotions through her serene tonality. There is something off-kilter yet incredibly alluring about how she delves into delicate narratives using her calming voice. Musically, "Sin Rumbo" marries elements of soul and rock into its indie-pop framework, resulting in a composition that pays homage to local Puerto Rican indie scene influences while carving out its distinctive groove. While Paulina may have drawn inspiration from these artists, let there be no confusion; she stands distinctly in her stylistic sphere. [caption id="attachment_52127" align="alignnone" width="768"] Finding Direction in the Ethereal Vibes of Indie-Pop: Paulina's "Sin Rumbo"[/caption] The track’s abstract instrumentation summons an ambiance resonant with independent spirits while concurrently exuding comforting familiarity. It absorbs listeners into its world—soothing them like a lullaby yet exciting and engaging them simultaneously—not unlike two sides of Paulina's musical persona that coexist harmoniously. Lyrically potent and emotionally raw, "Sin Rumbo" sheds light on personal anxieties underlying themes of envy and disorientation—a depiction of the titular 'rudderless' state one can find themselves in. Yet, rather than sinking into desolation, Paulina leverages her music as a beacon of hope and solace, transforming her vulnerabilities into a universally relatable anthem of resilience. "Sin Rumbo" not only marks Paulina's second single but also emphasises her artistic growth and solidifies her foothold within the competitive indie-pop sphere. With a soulful vibe wrapped in tranquil ambiance, this single proves that Paulina is not just breezing through; she’s charting her course earnestly. Paulina's "Sin Rumbo" is truly an invitation—an open door to existential discovery set to the rhythm of soul-rock infused indie pop. It's about navigating uncertainties and finding comfort amidst it all. Relaxing yet stirring, the song emits a glow that one cannot help but bask in—an amalgamation of struggles, hopes, and dreams that shapes Paulina's captivating musical voyage. Follow Paulina on Website, Facebook, YouTube, Instagram and TikTok.

#Music #FindingDirectionintheEtherealVibesofIndiePopPaulinasSinRumbo #INDIEPOP #newsongSinRumbobyPaulina #Paulina #PaulinadropsSinRumbo #PaulinaoutwithSinRumbo #PaulinareleasesSinRumbo #PaulinaSinRumbo #PaulinawithSinRumbo #SinRumbo #SinRumbobyPaulina #SinRumbofromPaulina #SinRumboPaulina

[icefang100]

Used @/bitegore’s character sheet template for some of my OCs!

Notes:

Some of the art’s a bit outdated, but they all work well enough.

Most responses are based on how I view them, but some (ex. “the most godawful hot takes known to mankind”) are based on how I think other people would interpret them.

I felt bad marking down "chew toy" considering Darkeye's death, but. Well. It's true

Image IDs below the cut (be warned, they’re long).

[Image ID for base: Character development sheet which is titled “OMG its BLORBO BLEEBUS”. The space to add a name is labelled “This scrungly motherfucker is:”, and there’s a box to add an image. There’s six other sections to fill in, three of which have headings; these headings are “Sub-Class”, “Evokes”, and “You Want them to have:”, and all are noted with “select all that apply”. There are severity scales for “Intense”, “Complex”, and “Fruity”, along with gradient scales for “just some guy” to “the protagonist of life”, “head empty” to “too many thoughts”, “awful company” to “ray of sunshine”, “hated by all” to “beloved by all”, “trauma x1000” to “untouched by history”, “sadistic for fun” to “helps others for fun”, “stupid as shit” to “scary-smart”, “1,000 weapons” to “1,000 tools”, “enemy of god” to “at peace with life”, and “break the rules” to “change the rules”. The Sub Class section has the options “Angst-lord”, “Enemy of the State”, “Flavor Container”, “Himbo”, “Soft and Sweet”, “Braincell Haver”, “This Is A Kink”, “Just Like You FR”, “Chew Toy”, “Friend-Shaped”, “Aspirational Character”, and “Little Meow Meow”. Under the Evokes and You Want Them to Have sections, and a third unlabeled section, are boxes to check off, which read as follows. In the unlabeled section, “Tragic backstory?”, “Orphan?”, “Frequently violent?”, “Divorced?”, “Has enemies?”, “No friends?”, “Sidekick owner?”, “Pets stray animals?”, “Chronic insomniac?”, and “Murderer?”; in the Evokes section, “spontaneous gushing”, “powerful violent urges”, “raw, unbridled affection”, “The Horny”, “late-night thoughts”, “meta-posting on main”, “creative drive”, “defensive feelings”, “distraction”, “delight”, “symptoms of projection”, “absent-minded doodles on tabletops”, and “the most godawful hot takes known to mankind”; In the You Want Them to Have section, “a better/wose time”, “more/less trauma”, “more/less/different romance”, “more friends”, “painful isolation”, “a family”, “catharsis”, “revenge”, “sympathy”, “a better/worse situation”, “more/less healing”, “more/less/different sex”, “different friends”, “freedom”, “justification”, “The Realization™”, “consequences”, and “a satisfying ending”. /End ID.]

[Image ID for filled-out base: Character sheet for "Darkeye (He/Him; OC)". A digital drawing is displayed; he's depicted as a white, gold, and silver cat. The Intense and Fruity meters are close to center, while the Complex meter is slightly past that mark. The unlabeled check-off list is marked for tragic backstory, no friends, and chronic insomniac. The gradient scale markers are closest to "the protagonist of life", "too many thoughts", "ray of sunshine", "beloved by all", "trauma x1000", "helps others for fun", "stupid as shit", "1,000 tools", "enemy of god", and "change the rules". Of the Sub Class section, "Chew Toy" and "Friend-Shaped" are marked. The Evokes section is marked for meta-posting, creative drive, doodles. The "You want them to have:" section is marked for a better time, less trauma, more friends, catharsis, sympathy, a better situation, more healing, different friends, and "The Realization™". /End ID.]

#My Post #My Characters #Story: Fool's Chariot #Darkeye

[stokesnymand56]

Making A Sacramento Cannabis Oil

Hemp is efficient and cost-effective source of fiber, and biomass-produced (pyrolysis) fuel and. History shows us that even the oil from hemp seeds can make fuel. It may other crops thrive, and makes belly rope, clothes, insulation, fiber, and considerably more. Hulled hemp seed is probably of probably the most perfect nourishment. Its amino acid profile is complete in that running without shoes has all twenty-one known amino acids, including the nine essential ones the adult body cannot produce, in adequate enough quantity and ratio meet up with the human body's needs. Usual more protein than meat, milk, eggs and soy, and excellent for vegans and raw foodists. Hemp is eaten as seeds or converted to hemp milk, ground hemp flour, hemp ice cream, hemp protein powder, and hemp necessary oil. One tablespoon of hemp oil daily easily meets essential body fat (EFA) human requirements with its proportions of linoleic acid and alpha-linolenic acid. Nevertheless the Hemp Plant, even for food purposes, remains illegal to grow in the United States, with most organic hemp seeds sold here being grown in Canada.

Your body should get about 30 grams of protein each lunch. If you attempt to get your protein from meat or dairy sources, it could set you back. Animal products are higher in sodium and fat. Trying to get your protein that way will undoubtedly cause extra weight from extra fat. Fruits and vegetables have at least one gram of protein in every one of them. Chicken, turkey, tuna, eggs, natural peanut butter, are typically other samples of protine. If you've to it's totally fill in a void using in a whey protein shake. Pot farmers, as they affectionately to be able to themselves, call their plants "babies", and they do this until full maturity, just like I'm still my mom's baby at 57. Reducing in the deep, moist, dirty soil is corresponding to changing diapers, especially you treat as well as the with fish emulsion vitamin supplements. This is what catches most newbies off-guard, the living aspect of your garden of cannabidiol. Yes, it's great that you'll benefit within a medicinal way, exhibiting pride in your accomplishments symptomatic journey, nevertheless the intensity and catharsis from cultivation- could easily push your new found passion, into a syndrome. Orders large quantities can provide the oils of tuna, salmon, krill, and cod. The supplements can be purchased for people who are not capable to take fish oil and these contain an algae based Omega some. If you like, perform also acquire a good amount in flaxseed oil, olive oil, soybean oil (organic), Hemp Legal, (Organic), and pumpkin seed oil (organic). Check substance quality. As with Wellness Farms CBD Gummies Ingredients , some cannabis you find at a dispensary are exceedingly what you entirely expect it to become. Some are not perfect. So beware. The Us has managed to make it illegal to grow the very crop in order to as hemp. Hemp is a part of overuse of plants which produce THC (tetrahydrocannabinol), which is the ingredient in marijuana liable for creating a "high," or drug-induced feelings and doesn't go far enough. Industrial hemp production uses strains of cannabis that produce only miniscule amounts of THC nov 16 0.5% or less. Typically, strains of cannabis grown for marijuana, or drug, purposes produce at least 6% of THC which enable produce even 20% additional of that. However, because video games produce a little amount of THC, nation classifies all strains of cannabis as illegal to grow, except for in a couple of locations. The US does produce products with hemp that's been imported to your country and grown everywhere else.

#Wel

[luuurien]

Rachika Nayar - Heaven Come Crashing

(Ambient, Progressive Electronic, Drum and Bass)

Expanding on her guitar-driven ambient work with flashy amen breaks, foggy electronica and even wilder song structures, Rachika Nayar's sophomore album is an improvement on every front. Heaven Comes Crashing strikes the perfect balance between ambient music and dance music, tempting you with the euphoria of a dancefloor while keeping it just out of arm's reach.

☆☆☆☆½

Heaven Come Crashing is in a constant state of flux, but that's precisely what makes it so enchanting. Brooklyn's Rachika Nayar has been putting out some of the most intriguing and serene ambient music in recent years, her background as a guitar player giving way to projects like 2021's Fragments that spun stunningly textured ambient pieces out of layer upon layer of electric guitar, while her debut that same year Our Hands Against the Dusk embrace anxious drones and nerve-wracking distortion that proved she could make heaven just as detailed and dense as she could make hell. But from that debut, the range of her music expanded tenfold, proving Nayar could spin the foggy air of dense, dreamy ambient music around her masterful guitar work and explore new avenues of electronic experimentation, but her sophomore album Heaven Come Crashing is unlike anything she's done before. Enamored with the overwhelming power and communal bliss of dance music and the club's fluorescent atmosphere, Nayar incorporates a myriad of new ideas into her misty ambient tunes - amen breaks, M1 piano stabs, warehouse rave synthesizers - and it makes for an experience that is utterly euphoric and incredibly emotive without a single word. Her deep and intuitive knowledge of what can make a song pull from a certain feeling - what guitar effects can make it feel weightier or radiant or anxious, how layering different synth pads onto one another shapes the progression and emotional journey of a piece - are the key to Heaven Comes Crashing's absolute mastery of electronic rapture. Call it melodramatic if you'd like, but the size and scope of Nayar's raw emotional abandon throughout Heaven Comes Crashing means she's able to reach a speed and velocity few others can manage to keep a grip on. There's an undeniable magic to how the opening track Our Wretched Fantasy uses sputtering keyboards like a beacon to pull you towards before she dips into pure ambient delight, her shivering guitar melody bubbling under a buoyant synth arpeggio that grow and grow and grow until they're forced to retreat, and every subsequent track takes that structure and does something completely unique and thrilling with it - Death & Limerence is my personal favorite off the tracklist, with its dimly-lit electric guitar layers and shimmering synths drenched in reverb, but the quicker pace of Promises or Sleepless and its bouncy, almost mechanical melody reach the same levels of goosebump-inducing catharsis without treading the same ground Nayar has before. It helps that Nayar has an incredible control over the tension and release of her music, the ten-minute masterpiece Tetramorph that pops up early on the tracklist an incredible display of what she can do on an even wider scale: faint, blurry synths set the initial scene with her distorted guitar tremolo acting as the catalyst for what's to come next, and the slow build into the first half's crescendo is so long and well-paced it's hard to recognize it's happening at all right until Nayar pulls the rug out from under you. When she starts incorporating nervous, jittery drum programming into the mix, it never takes away from the immersion and atmosphere of the song, instead acting as a boost of energy she can use to her advantage as she pushes her music to the brink of exhaustion again and again. It can feel like an emotional overload listening all the way through, but being able to pull that much feeling and heart out of Heaven Come Crashing means Nayar achieved her every goal with it. And when she injects those more potent aspects of club music into the mix, the results are even more electrifying, positioning Nayar as not only one of the best at creating atmospheres but one of the best at blowing them up, too. It only happens a few times across the album's 10 tracks, and their rarity makes them even more special: The title track is nothing short of perfect, starting off with mellow but sentimental guitar work that blends perfectly with Maria BC's wistful vocals that get chopped and wrapped around one another to fit Nayar's vision - it's the closest thing on Heaven Comes Crashing to the kind of passionate and tender-hearted compositions that ruled Our Hand Against the Dusk, but everything changes when she kicks the song into high gear. Crushingly dense yet absolutely magnificent, Nayar throws a fast-paced amen break into the mix, the high-octane pulse of drum 'n' bass forcing her music to move with more agility and haste than ever before, a searing electric guitar solo practically built to be screamed out on a stadium stage surrounded by massive synths that cover the song with blinding neon lights. She's still an ambient composer at heart, the start of finale Our Wretched Fate utilizing the same dreamy electronics as Our Wretched Fantasy did nine songs back but metamorphosing them to be part of a glossy breakcore tune, but the little detours her music takes now that she's comfortable playing around with rhythm and tempo, comfortable looking away from the fretboard and towards the dancefloor's luminescent glow, let Heaven Come Crashing become her most expansive and excellent body of work to date. Rachika Nayar has been on the furthest edge of ambient experimentation since the start, and despite its more approachable dance fusions and gooey melodrama, Heaven Come Crashing is an elegant extension of her previous releases while bringing a whole new experience to her discography. None of her past songs sound anything near like what the title track does, or find as many different ways to morph themselves in one go as Tetramorph, or to pull so much color from just a few instrumental elements as Death & Limerence - she's still getting better and better at what she does: the only thing that has changed is how she goes about bringing those worlds to light. No matter where her heart takes here, Heaven Comes Crashing finds a way to incorporate it into her music and make the album her loveliest to date, always in pursuit of the pure ecstasy of a 5AM warehouse rave and the blurry comedown from it as you walk back home in the dead of night. Heaven Come Crashing refuses to keep itself in the dark of Nayar's previous work, her music grasping at the sun as she both surrenders to desire and tries to escape it again and again. Contrast is the driving force of her music, but her ability to tie it all together and create a singular, tight embrace around you as every drum machine and synth pad shatters the ground beneath it is nothing short of extraordinary.

#rachika nayar #heaven come crashing #nna #ambient #breakcore #dance #drum and bass #electronic #post-rock #progressive electronic #2022 #9/10 #album review #2022 albums

[after-witch]

Rest Your Head (Baby Mine Part 2) [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Rest Your Head (Baby Mine Part 2) [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: You’ve given Overhaul a lot to think about since your attempted escape. He owes it to you--and your daughter--to help you recover. 

Word Count: 1311

Notes: Yandere, kidnapped, abuse, Overhaul POV 

Well, you stopped screaming. That was a start.

Although he had to admit, it was likely due to your throat turning sore and raw from overuse, rather than you actually calming down. He mentally added honey and tea to the list of things to give you, though not right away. You needed to know that he was upset, and that this wasn’t something he was going to brush over with gracious leniency like your complaints about homeschooling and your defense of a (dirty, disease-ridden) sandbox in the back yard.

You disappointed him.

He loved you, he protected you, he provided you with a home and a family and structure--and you disappointed him so severely that for a few brief moments after confronting you, he’d hurt you.

It was a blip. Nothing more. A base physical instinct, borne out of his line of work, clearly--it vanished as quickly as it came, as quickly as his hands tightened around your arm. It brought him no catharsis to hurt you. But he can still feel the way his fingers tightened, feel the reverberating thrum of anger that rushed through him when you said words that hadn’t crossed your lips in years: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

You meant it. No, he corrects himself. You think you meant it. Something had obviously been growing inside you over the years, undetected sticky layers of residue that coated the love you had readily embraced, until there was nothing left but nonsensical hatred and a desire to leave.

To leave him--and to take his child, your child, our child--away, too. A double blow. A cruelty he didn’t think you were capable of, a cruelty clearly borne not out of your real self but this false, selfish double of you that had been slipping under his covers unnoticed.

He can’t imagine even looking at those covers right now. The office was more than a necessity in his early steps for planning your recovery--he’d pulled the sofa bed out, intent to sleep on it for the time being. The idea of sleeping alone in that wide bed, your marriage bed, seemed daunting. The thought of rolling over in his sleep and not feeling you there brought prickles to his skin.

He wishes you were here to wipe the ghosts of tears from his cheeks, as he’s so often done for you. But you’re in no state, emotionally or otherwise, to take on any additional emotional burdens.

He taps on the tablet screen and zooms in to get a closer look at you. It was important to monitor you after such a traumatic, dramatic event, after all.

You’re curled up on the narrow cot he generously provided you with, arms tucked in close to your chest, face staring and vacant and tear-streaked. You need to brush your hair, but it will have to wait; the room is bare and minimal, not only for its intended usage (punishment) but for your safety as well. There’s no telling what you might do in such a hysterical mindset.

The sight is upsetting, to say the least.

You look so much like you used to, when he brought you home (your first home with him, the little suite and not this suburban place, a sprawling palace by comparison) for the first time. Bitter and sad and empty. You would curl up in bed and cry and feel sorry for yourself, until that became too tiring and you started to pick yourself up bit by bit. Reading a book. Doing some exercises. Asking for entertainment in hushed, clipped tones, because you were bored-thank-you-very-much.

And then, later on, as you recovered your senses, as you recognized that what he did was for the best--talking to him, sitting down with him at meals, and eventually meekly asking to stay in his office. And up and up, until you were finally who you were meant to be. His.

You’d had your setbacks over the years, of course. Melt downs and regressions. Clenched fists and arguments. You could be so hysterical, sometimes, so out of sorts. But it was nothing he hadn’t been able to help you recover from. Nothing he couldn’t pull you out of, his hands on your shoulders and wiping your tears, offering his better judgement when you’d lost your way. You were a fragile thing. You needed reminders. You needed correction. You needed him.

Yet… you’d tried to leave him. No, not just leave him. Sever him in half. Sever his heart and body and soul, taking what was his away like it was nothing.

This was no petty setback, no insignificant trip-on-a-rug stumble in your journey. Could even he help you recover from this?

It was more complicated, now. His mind flits to your daughter, curled up in her bed, clenching her teddy bear with a furious energy. She took hours to fall into a fitful sleep, which came as no surprise after the turbulent events you’d put her through. Were you even thinking of her when you’d put this harebrained scheme into motion? Again, his brain flashes to the insidious selfish double that your mind had created over the years. You would never put your delusions above your daughter. You would never try to tear her away from her father. You would never try to leave him. You appreciated him. You deferred to his better judgement. You loved him.

Clearly--unfortunately, so very unfortunately--he needed to remind you of all that.

He sighs, and his duties and your needs and the years of cultivation all weigh heavy on his shoulders. The key he’d retrieved earlier is pressed into his palm, leaving a sharp imprint. Would he use it? It was something he’d considered doing ever since his daughter told him about your plans, fidgeting with her shirt and whispering, tears rolling down her little cheeks as she confessed your wrongdoings but-please-don’t-be-mad-at-mama.

He’s not mad at you. No, he’s just sad.

After hearing the words leave his daughter’s lips, he wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, truly he did. Wanted to see if you were just having a bit of mania, a bad day, a wild dream. But as the days waned and your daughter brought up every detail, everything you’d told her with a finger hush-hush to your lips, it became clear that it wasn’t going to subside on its own

He would have to stop you. He would have to step in. As he’s done before, when you faltered.

You’d never fallen this far, however, and he can’t deny the way his stomach churns at the loss of years.

With reluctance, he slides the key into the drawer and turns it. The lock clicks, soft from lack of use. Inside lay the needles, the syringes, all waiting in case you needed to be sedated through more intense treatment. In case you were frenzied and wild, unable to think rationally.

He hadn’t used them on you in a long time. He would need to weigh you again, to make sure the dosage was correct after all these years. He hated to do it. He really did. But if you wanted a chance at recover, if you wanted a chance to better yourself, if you wanted to reunite with the child you’d created together and take those little steps out of the room and back into your life, then he needed to make the tough decisions for you.

He knew what was best for you, in the end.

#yandere overhaul #yandere chisaki kai #overhaul x reader #yandere x reader #afterwitch writes #just a lil interlude with his POV

[hansoulo]

cold when you hold me (warm when I cry)

pairing: din djarin/reader (gender neutral, no y/n, could be platonic)

warnings: cursing? mild angst, crying, hurt/comfort oh ye boiiii

word count: like a cute 1.5k

a/n: may i offer you some catharsis in these trying times?

Today... today just… sucked. Like, really really sucked. What was that law? Anything that could go wrong, will go wrong?

Maker, it wasn’t even anything that bad, y’know? It was just.. Frustrating. The kid was frustrating. Mando was frustrating. Everything was just…

Fuck.

You’d been in a fit the entire day, hating how shrill your voice sounded when you became short with the both of them. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t want to. It’s just that everything managed to become incredibly too much for seemingly no reason  at all, enough so that just the sound of the Crest’s controls was enough to bring you near tears.

One of the subjects of your ire spoke up.

“Are you- alright?” his words were stilted, halting and unsure but edged with soft concern. You let out a laugh, the sound watery.

“Yeah, yeah I’m-” you swiped your knuckles across your eyelids, tracing the sunburst dust that follows the pressing on your vision before the shine of his armour came back into view. “I’m good,” you finished with a small sniff and a bobbing nod, trying to convince yourself more than him.

A few seconds passed in silence. You wiped at your eyes again. Tasted one roll of dripping salt. And turned away.

The Mandalorian’s hands curled around the ship controls. He was still, ever-stoic save for one slight turn of his head. “Do you want to… talk about it?” he asked when you only breathed, the sound rattling a wheezed hollowness in your chest and against the cockpit walls.

You smiled - or tried to - and shook your head gently, feeling the pool of crackling tears before you willed them back down. “No, it’s okay,” you answered after a moment, quiet. “Thanks, though.”

The hem of your shirtsleeve caught in your nails when you fiddled with it, drawing out a loose thread and watching as it piled around the skin of your wrist. It was white. The thread, that is. Which was sort of strange because the fabric was black, so it really didn’t lend itself to blending into the rest of the- oh, shit you were crying again.

“I’m gonna go, uhm-” you swallowed, ducking your head with a cough as you stood up from the copilot seat. “Check on the kid. Maybe nap.” You offered up a vague  wave up towards your head in half-hearted explanation. “Headache.”

The Mandalorian nodded. “The Mandalorian” felt… impersonal, though. Mando, you called him sometimes. Nerf-herding hunk of fucking metal, other times. None suited him very well, you thought before you turned to go, the goosebumps rising on your arms from the chill of the air vent above your head. You knew better than to ask for his name, though. Maybe one day, you could call him something else.

The ship’s filtered air washed over you in waves, trickling down your neck and through your sleeves like recycled water, soothing some of the raw sting still settling in the base of your stomach. One breath. Two breaths. In. Out.

No tears. No fuss.

No one to witness when you do.

You shook yourself out of your shallow stupor when you heard a voice, deep and rasped in  modulated timbre. “Sorry,” you said, your hand curled around the edges of the entrance. “What was that?”

“I said ‘try to sleep,” he repeated.

Oh.

That was… not what you thought he’d say.

In all fairness you didn’t really expect him to say anything, but that was… considerate. Sweet, even. Maybe.

“Thanks,” you whispered, fighting down the thick notch in your throat. “I- I will.”

-------

You coudn’t fucking cry in peace.

You only heard a slight shift, one barely audible step, before the glint of beskar took up your entire field of view, looming dark and sudden above your seated figure.

“What happened?”

“Fucking- oh, for Maker’s sake,” you cursed under your breathe, burying your face in your hands with a hiccup. “Don’t- don’t sneak up on me like that, okay? Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“You look close to it anyways,” he responded.

You glared at him through the spaces between your fingers, mumbling dryly. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Groaning, you let your hands fall beside your legs until they dragged limp over the threadbare covers. “Why are you here?”

The Mandalorian took another step forward. “It’s my ship, isn’t it?”

“You know what I mean,” you rolled your eyes, drawing your knees up to your chest. The stiff rod of the bedframe dug into your heels when you shifted, scooting sideways with a pat of your hand to the space next to you. His shoulders stiffened and you managed a soft smile. “It’s your bed,” you parroted. “Isn’t it?”

He conceded, tilting his helmet as if to say I guess, and your knees jostled against metal when he sat down, apologizing. You tucked your legs underneath you. Told him it was fine.

It’s hard to tell what time of day it is. In space, everything looks the same. Cold and sterile, a vacuum of glittering crystalline set against empty, empty air. You’d been traveling in hyperspace for hours. Still had hours left to go. A long ways for a good bounty, you supposed. Wasn’t really your area of expertise.

“You can tell me,” he offered quietly, careful not to press close. Professional, huh. What was this, then? Emotional insurance? Preemptive therapy so he wouldn’t have to go find someone else to drag across the galaxy? “If you want to.”

“Tell you what?”

Maker, you were a horrible liar. As if he couldn’t see your puffy eyes and your nose rubbed raw with his stupid, fancy high-tech heat vision sensor-thingies.

The Mandalorian didn’t say anything. If you could see it, you think he’d be raising his eyebrows. “There’s nothing to tell, honestly,” you said after a moment, leaning to rest your chin on your knees and looping your arms around your calves. You stared ahead at the far wall, following the dingy metal plating. “I just… had a bad day.”

“A bad day,” the man beside you said, his arms braced on his legs as he sat.

“Yeah,” you sighed, tucking your chin and letting your eyes shut. “A bad day.”

“I know the kid-” he began, “ I know I can be… difficult. And I’m sorry-”

You shook your head, turning to look at the sharp metal of his visor. It was always so strange, hearing him disembodied. Only to face its source and find a mask.

His voice sounded human.

He wasn’t wearing gloves.

“It’s not your fault,” you assured him. His armour reflected hazy glints of gaseous blue light and you followed them with red-rimmed eyes, your gaze curious; his, unyielding. A stare-down. Stare...off? There really wasn’t any way you could know he was even paying attention. He could be sleeping right now, for all you knew.

He wasn’t, though. He was looking at you.

“It’s not your fault,” you said again, more to yourself. “It just gets too much sometimes. Y’know,” you gestured vaguely at your surroundings. “Everything. Anything. Stuff.”

The Mandalorian let out something that could possibly, maybe, in some ways, be interpreted as a laugh. “Stuff, right?”

You squinted, watching him through the sideways vision of your tilted head, and faked offense. “Are you mocking my pain?”

He let out another raspy chuckle, the sound reverberating in your ears and melting in the tips of your fingers. “No,” he said.

“Good,” you replied.

His posture loosened, more slack beside you. A little closer. “You know, you don’t have to.”

“Have to what?” you asked, your question genuine this time.

The edge of your thigh knocked against his cuisse when he spoke again. “Pretend like you’re okay.”

Well, shit.

“I don’t like it,” you admitted as you twisted your sleeves in your palms, wringing the trailing hems until they grew damp. “I don’t like-” you exhaled shakily. “-crying, in front of people.”

Hands that didn’t belong to you, tan and wide and ever-so-careful, reached up to pry the fabric from between your fingers. Then, they pushed the sleeves up, to the slope of your elbows. Then, they traced the skin of your forearms and down your wrists. And then, they stayed there. Pressing two soft thumb circles into your tremoring palms; waiting.

Your vision burned blurry as your chest tightened. “Your hands are warm,” you whispered.

The Mandalorian raised one to the curve of your cheek, over the leaking rivulet trails you hadn’t realized were falling. “Yours are cold,” he replied.

You swallowed, feeling the light callouses. Turned in. “Can you stay?” you asked. His visor revealed little, but if you let yourself slip into a half-state you could almost imagine the color of his eyes. Something dark, to match his voice. Something warm, to match his hands. “Just for a bit?”

He nodded and so you let your eyes fall closed again, your thoughts slow in that tired, aching way that prying something open makes you feel.

When you moved to rest your head on his pauldron, you felt an arm wrap around your shoulders.

#*slaps roof of fanfic* this bad boy can fit so much self-projection #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian/reader #din djarin/reader #the mandalorian oneshot #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin oneshot #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian fic

[carryonmywaywardwriters]

Knot In Love - Alpha!Dean x Omega! Reader

A/N: Part ten is back. Again, where it’s a daily thing? I am not tagging anyone new. 3pm is the magical time, usually. As always, feedback is incredible. And, I hope you all enjoy one of my favorites <3

PSA: I am NOT a minor friendly blog. If you are below 18, please come back when you’re older. I don’t want to lose my blog because you were too eager to grow up. If I discover you, I WILL block.

Series Masterlist

Series Warnings: Forced mating. Knotting. Alpha/Omega dynamics. Witchcraft (more based on real craft than Hollywood). Angst. Etc. Read at your own discretion.

Word Count: Roughly 5,200

Dean sat on the far end. Sam to his right. Jack and you at the other end of the room. Split in half as if you were going to battle. A hell of a dysfunctional family if you'd ever seen one. However, they'd done it. Gotten you into the office for grief counseling after the second victim had been found.

Jack's solemn answer regarding his mother's death was more than enough to draw the counselor in. Sam had jumped in, claiming it was everyone's mother. Ensuring to list you as Dean's mate when he made the introductions. Dean had tugged you and the other newbie to the back of the line. A threatening tone emitting as he insisted that you two didn't speak unless he said. As if you'd follow such an order. You couldn't stay silent if you tried. Your eyes alone spoke for you.

The gaze that looked over you all was unnerving as it traveled over the group. Taking in every detail. You had no doubt that the body language spoke volumes. It was odd being on the receiving end of an empathetic gaze. But, you wouldn't argue. You simply held Jack's hand gripped into yours.

“So...um, how does this usually work?” Sam asked, leaning forward a bit. Tangling his hands together as he talked. Dean rested in the back, as closed off as ever. “You know, with your patients?”

“Usually,” She began slowly, “they just start talking about the person they've just lost.” She had an open smile on her face, waiting for someone to begin.

“Alright,” Dean stepped up mulishly, “Well, mom was great. Now, she's dead.” It all came out in a rush as his hand slapped against the back of the couch. “What's the deal with catharsis?” Your eyes shot to him in disbelief. He'd been cranky. You'd known as much, but the open hostility in the room meant for peace was surprising. He was all hard edges. Then, you understood as his emotions leaked into you. He truly was afraid of talking about his mother.

“I'm sorry?” Her brows slammed together. Her green dress lost all wrinkles as she tensed.

“Uh...” Sam spoke up, trying to draw attention away from the scene Dean was fast on his way to making. “We...we were wondering what it is.” It was the only way to try and salvage the situation his brother had thrown everyone into. “Um, a patient of yours: Gloria Simon.” He got a tiny nod at the name. “She referred us.” His large hand gestured to the group. “She's a family friend.” A silent warning was shot Dean's way.

“I don't talk about my patients,” Came the strong answer, “and Gloria wasn't supposed to talk about me.”

“Sure,” Sam looked properly scolded. “Um, got it.” However, he couldn't drop it. “But, your process-”

“My program is a range of things.” Her tone was high as she redirected. Your eyes trailed over her as she talked. Finding the first warning bells you'd been given from her. She was withholding something. “Talk therapy. Meditation.” Jack sat curious beside you. Almost wanting in nature. “You ever journal?”

“Our dad did.” Sam spoke up, a small chuckle leaving his lips at that. As nervous as she was.

“I do.” You spoke up, drawing eyes your way. “What? It's normal. You don't have to look so surprised.” And they were, so you sighed and continued. Turning towards the Grief counselor. “I started after I lost my parents in a car accident. It was easier to write than to talk.” Dean's eyes locked on your face as you explained. The gaze was enough to draw the attention to him.

“Dean?” It took him a second to re-guard, but he did it right before everyone's eyes. “You journal?”

“Ever since I was a little girl.” Was his cocky response, grin and all. Making you glare a hole through his chest.

An unimpressed grunt was his reply before she continued, “You think this shrink stuff is a load of crap. Am I right?” She was. You knew as much. However, you didn't interfere.

“How'd you guess?”

“Then, why are you here?” His eyes flickered back at you before he spoke. The action so small that you almost thought you were imagining it. Until you realized her eyes followed it. You shrank backwards in your chair. You were willing to talk about everything but the mating.

“Because, uh,” Sam was unnaturally loud as he yanked the attention back to himself. “We all agreed we'd give it a shot. Right?” His eyes turned to you and Jack. You nodded carefully, while Jack was just slightly more firm in his answer. Following Sam's lead in a way that you couldn't. “Right?” He turned to Dean. A fake, brow lifting smile was formed on Dean's face. She saw right through it. “My brother...he's not, uh...” Sam struggled to find the words to explain it. “he's not processing his grief.” You knew it, then. That it was becoming all too real. She hummed out at the accusation.

“Really?” Dean shot out. Taking the bait. “No, I'm,” His hand stabbed his own chest harder than he'd meant to. A short, sarcastic chuckle as he gave his brother a look that said he understood the game that was being played. “No, I'm good, actually.” He looked haunted as he talked. “With death, closure, whole freakin' bottle of Jack.” The Jack was the truth, at least.

“Are you?” Sam turned to Dean accusingly.

“Yeah, because I know that mom is Dead.” He snapped out. Eyes turning that shade of dark that made you uncomfortable. You could feel his anger digging in.

“Dean-” You tried to derail, but it was a failure. The hunt had turned into a shit show.

“And that I know she's not coming back.” He waited for Sam's answer. Ready to pounce. Fight to the death over it.

“Okay,” Sam's voice was soft as he responded. “I hear what you're saying. I just wish...” Your heart broke at that. You knew what he wished. That his mother hadn't taken the leap at Jack's father. That she could come back from the dead. Again.

“You wish that he'd be more open to therapy?” Mia Vallens, you remembered her name. She was smart, but even she couldn't comprehend the depth of the men in front of her.

“Sure,” Sam stated after a pause, deciding against explaining. “Exactly.”

Dean's eyes rolled to the back of his head. His tongue coming out to rest against his lip as he thought about resisting. He didn't have it in him. “Alright,” Dean whipped forward. “This is a safe place, right, Doc?” She opened her arms, before returning both hands to the cup she'd been holding. Gesturing him to let loose. A mistake if you'd ever seen one.

“Not anymore,” You muttered under your breath. Jack's lip twitched ever so slightly. If anyone else had heard you, they didn't show it.

“Okay,”  Dean got ready to launch. “My brother's delusional.”

“Dean.” Sam's head rolled as he turned back to him. Jack and you just watched the interaction. You in sadness at what it had come down to between the men. And, Jack? He was learning. Something you wished he didn't have to.

“You said you wanted to give this a shot, right?” Dean challenged. “Here we go.” The eyes went back to Mia. “He won't even admit that mom's dead.” Your heart sank at the lowness of his actions. “Won't even admit it.”

“Stop.” Came Sam's soft command. His eyes growing hard for the first time. You genuinely felt that a brawl was on the horizon.

“Because if he admits it, then it's real.” Dean was on a roll and wasn't going to just end it. No, he let the festering wound seep into the air. Strangling you in the process. “If it's real, then he has to deal with it.” A grin lined his face as he turned to his brother. “And he can't handle that.”

“Guys, I don't think-” Once again you were cut off.

“Right,” Sam bit out. “Because this is so easy for you, huh?” In a way, the truth could be liberating. But, in this case, even though the words were hitting the air, nothing more than weight was being added to each brother's shoulders.

“No,” Dean's teeth gritted. “It's not easy.” Once again, his eyes hit you. Making your stomach twist. He wasn't just talking about his mother with that statement.

“Yeah,” Sam threw out. “But, at least you had a relationship with mom.” There it was. The jealousy rearing its ugly green head. Dean seemed taken aback for the first time. “I mean, who would she always call?” The anger and bitterness saturated every word. “Who did she look to for everything?”

“Okay.” Dean wasn't listening as his brother's finger stabbed through the air. But, you were.

“You had something with her that I never had.” The rawness on Sam's face tore through you. “And, now I'm just supposed to accept that I never will have it?” His eyes were all over the place. Unable to look in one spot as he realized what he'd said.

Silence filled the room as everyone took in the words. The emotions. Sam got to his feet, needing some air. You squeezed Jack's hand, whispering in his ear that you'd be back. Dean's eyes narrowed as you were on Sam's heels. Right out the door.

“Sam,” You called out. You didn't catch up with him until he was gulping down the water to cool off. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” He sounded anything but. “Believe it or not, what was said in there wasn't the worst thing we've said to each other.

“It doesn't make it okay,” Your voice was gentle as your fingers wrapped around his arm. His nostrils flared at the touch.

“You should go back there.” He took a step back. Distancing himself in a hurry. “Your mate is going to tear Jack to shreds.”

“What about you?” Your hand fell back to your side, awkwardly at the rejection.

“I'll be fine,” His eyes looked past you, landing on the sign. Your head turned, looking at it with interest. “Go check on Jack.” His hand clapped your shoulder before he moved away stealthily. Finding his chance to bury everything in his work.

“Oh look,” Dean was screwing the lid back onto his flask when you pressed open the door. “She's back.”

“You can be such an ass.” You huffed out, settling in next to him. “I get the why,” The counselor simply watched the exchange with interest. Jack, however, was gazing at the way you two interacted in confusion. Your words were harsh, but there was softness inside the angry tones. Dean opened his mouth to retaliate. He didn't get anywhere with it. You were on a mission and gave him a look that had him slamming it back shut. “Is it so necessary to make everyone around you hurt as much as you do, you big idiot?” He accepted the way you shoved at his shoulder before curling in against your better judgment. Trying to turn him into the gentle man you'd caught glimpses of.

“Welcome to the show, sweetheart.” He murmured, no longer focusing on his audience.

“It really sucks.” You muttered back. But, again, no heat was held inside of the words. Staring into his eyes. Begging him to see the hurt he was causing inside his own home.

“Problem?” Dean turned to the counselor, realizing that she was shaking her head.

“You just upset your brother so much that he had to leave the room.” She stated calmly. “Before now, your mate chose to comfort you last.” Your body stiffened at that. Eyes turning towards her warily. “And Jack? Look at him.” He shifted awkwardly, refusing to look up. Dean's orders hanging in the air, as he sat alone. You started to move towards him, but were held down. “He's terrified of you.”

“Nah,” Dean's voice gained back the hard edge. “No, we're simpatico. Right, kid?”

“We're simpatico.” Came the flat, simple answer.

“His name is Jack,” You muttered, earning a small pinch to your hip, “and you're lying through your teeth.”

“What was that?” Mia asked. Turning your way. Your grim face turned back to your mate. Unwilling to cause a war, but needing him to see where you stood on the issue. Dean gestured to the both of you before planting one on your lips. You yanked away, giving yourself space. Jack tensed at your response. As if he'd jump between. “Convincing.” He mouthed 'yep' before turning his unimpressed gaze to the ceiling. “You're angry Dean.”

“And?” He asked. As if it would change anything. The response so different from the one he'd given you that she couldn't help the satisfied little smile on her face. He was an open book.

“And if you don't want to do anything about it, that's your business.” She was laying down an ultimatum. You could feel the tension in Dean at that. He hated them. “But, you're aiming it at everyone in your life.” Her eyes on you made him look down at your drawn face. “And her? She's feeling the pain from everyone because of it.” You didn't respond. Simply gazed back at the resolution in them. “You're hurting them all...but, you're hurting her the most.”

He didn't get to respond. The door slammed open as Sam moved in, gun raised. “She's a shape shifter!” Jack jumped behind Sam. Dean yanked you to the place at his back so hard you almost landed on the ground. Raising his own weapon.

“No! No,” She waved her hands in front of her, as she jumped back. Terrified. It coursed through to you.

“I found hair,” Sam threw back. Snarling. “And teeth.” Dean's gun cocked. Not needing anymore. “You must have shed your skin, what, a couple of hours ago?”

“And here I thought she was just being annoying.” Your mate tsked. All too gleeful at the idea of having a kill so soon.

“What's going on?” Jack sounded scared. He had trusted her, you realized. And although you weren't a fan of having your own psyche evaluated, you had trusted her, too. The panic in her eyes held you captive.

“Doc's a monster.” Dean bit out. “She killed her patients.”

“No!” She forced out. “No. No.” You didn't realize you'd stepped forward until Dean's arm was thrown out, trapping you against him. “I am what you say, but I have never killed anyone.” Her words rang true. To your ears, mostly.

“Then, what are you doing here?” Sam demanded, willing to at least let her speak rather than shoot first.

“I'm helping people!” She answered quickly. Eyes turning to you. Begging you to help. “My patients.” Her voice settled as she talked. Looking you in the eyes. No longer the men. It felt safer, you were sure. “I shift into the person that they've lost, so that they can see them one last time.” Your throat tightened as you listened to the words. “So that they can say goodbye.”

“Well, Wes Bailey...Gloria Simon...they're both dead.” Dean stated coldly, causing a shiver to trail down your spine. You jerked in response, but he held tight. “Gloria was killed by her son, or at least someone that looked like him.”

“Three nights ago, Wes was killed by somebody that looked like his dead wife.” Sam added simply.

“So, you want to tell us how you're innocent?” Dean demanded. Prepared to fire.

“Okay, um...” Her fear soaked into you so much that you could no longer feel your mate's emotions. “I have an Alibi, “ She paused to try and get the words out, “for Wes.” She kept her gaze low, trying to look unassuming. To not make them react suddenly. “I volunteer at the women's shelter down town. I was there that night. You can call them.” No one moved. “I know you guys are hunters. But, please,” She begged. “I am telling you the truth.”

“It wasn't her, you morons,” You struggled harder. Trying to break free. Failing. However, Dean did lower his gun in the process.

“We have to check,” Dean grunted in your ear. You were past listening. Jack, however, wasn't. He understood what path the Winchesters had carved.

“Then, check. But, let me go in the meantime.” You spat. When he didn't, your teeth sank in against his arm that was wrapped around your chest. Making him hiss and drop it. You had earned a glare for that one, and he stomped off. But, you were free to move. “Sam...” He shook his head, unwilling to lower it until there was evidence. “I'm sorry about this,” You sent her way. Even Jack was poised, ready to fight with everything he had. “They mean well.” She nodded tensely, moving slow enough to take a steadying drink. You edged closer, only to be pulled back by Jack.

“I'm sorry,” He whispered when your look of betrayal hit him. “But, Dean...”

“I'm not mad at you,” You returned, lowly. Refusing to let him believe you could think anything bad about him. Instead, moving to try to make him understand. “I can feel it, Jack...she's not bad.”

“You feel things in the moment, Y/N.” He returned. Schooled by Dean in a way that made your stomach dip.

“Not always, Jack.” He stared into your eyes. “I knew you were good.” He turned away, then. Not quite able to believe it.

“Alright,” Dean walked back in after half an hour. “Albi checks out.”

Everything was dropped, and her story came out. Piece by piece. An abusive ex was hunting her down: Buddy.

“I need to leave,” You told Dean, as Jack remained with Mia. Wanting to run, as far as you could. And this time? You were willing to. Not for good. You couldn't run from those who needed you so deeply. But, they'd be okay for an hour. Just long enough for you to regroup.

“Y/N-”'

“I can't do this, Dean.” It was everything in you crying out, only for nothing in the end. You went against your instincts time and time again on the hunt. Your system couldn't handle anymore. “I don't need the facts to know. I don't need you holding me down, because I see what you can't. I can't watch Jack repeat after you like a parrot, so that he feels less hated.” Your eyes watered angrily. The bitterness inside boiling to a head. “Do you have any idea how strong everything feels? I have everything you hold inside blasting all of the time.” A wince followed that. “But, not only that, Dean. I feel everyone else's shit, too. My shielding has gone to hell, because I lost all confidence in it the second I felt your presence.” The guilt in his green eyes tore at you. “I have had so much thrown at me, and I took it. But, god, I can only handle so much.” Your eyes begged him to let you go. “I need to breathe, Dean...just for a minute.” Your voice cracked. “Please...just let me go.”

“So go,” His hand trailed over your cheek. “I won't stop you.” What he didn't understand was that he already had with the gentle action. Your eyes closed as you let the contact go through you. Then, Dean's body hit the ground. You didn't have time to react before you were knocked unconscious, yourself.

--

“I'm not going to kill those people,” An unfamiliar voice stated darkly when you came to. “You are.” Your eyes opened weakly. Trying to focus on the scene in front of you. “You end them, or you die.” The gun aimed at Dean. Who was awake and ready to brawl. You could sense the malice from the shifter. It was dark and greasy. Lingering in the air like a cloak. “Courtesy of Tweedledee's silver bullets.” Dean's eyes stared into yours. Begging you silently to be quiet as he yanked at the restraints again. Jack was beside him, still out cold. You had the overwhelming urge to vomit. Somehow, you repressed it, working your own wrists inside the zip ties. “So, what's it gonna be, princess?” You watched as Mia's arms came up slowly. Instantly, you froze.

“Shoot me,” She stated. Looking so damn resigned that your heart felt as if it was going to stop. She stepped forward, pressing the barrel against her body. “Shoot me!” She'd do it. Without a second thought. Your admiration filled you.

The sound of a car door closing drew everyone's attention to the window. Ending the confrontation. Sam. You could see him coming up the steps in the security camera.

“Look,” Came the evil chuckle. “Baby brother.” Dean's eyes grew more crazed at that.

“No.” Mia cried out. “No!” Chasing him as Buddy aimed the gun at the door. “Stop!” She shoved into him. But, he didn't waiver.

“Like shooting hunters in a barrel.” He hissed out, pushing her back as he waited.

“Sam! No,” Dean yelled out. Unable to stay silent for a second more. All the negative energy from before forgotten as his brother faced death, once again.

“Sam!” You screamed out his name. Hoping the higher pitch would make it further. The gun swinging knocked Dean back out. Then it cocked in your direction. Making you freeze, once again. As you stared at Dean's limp body, you grew brave. Taking on the strength Mia had exhibited moments before. “Do it,” You hissed out, tears snaked down your face as Buddy took your mate's form for a second time. “He'll be back if you gank us...and you'll be dead. Slowly. Painfully. Leaving you in agony for as long as he can...” You were so sure. Your throat bobbed as you faced the barrel, but you didn't turn away. “Stuck in purgatory, with no escape when he finally tires of the game-” A sound punch made your head jerk. A bit of blood trailing down your nose was the end result.

Your mouth was stuffed with a piece of cloth that had come from your flannel shirt before you could continue. He wrapped it tightly around your head, as Jack came to. He wanted to let you watch, as punishment for your smart mouth. You tried to yell when Sam called out for Dean. Nothing worthwhile happened. He was walking in blind.

“Sam!” He called back to the younger Winchester, “We're in here.” Then, he tore off the flesh, once more. A bloody, gore fest that slank to the floor with a plop. Pleased as could be as you sputtered uselessly into the material. Trying to jerk free and shove the cotton from your tongue.

“Stop,” Mia sobbed. She was yanked against his side. Her mouth covered with his hand to muffle her noise. As the door opened slowly, Jack reacted. Finally freeing the pieces of him that he hadn't been able to let out before.

“No,” He yelled deeply. Every protective instinct rising to the surface.

His eyes grew to a shade of honey as the energy sprang out. Surging from him in waves. Mia was thrown to the ground as Buddy was lifted into the air. He was suspended, and in shock, for a few beats before the monster reacted. The bullet went flying. Jack curved it with apparent ease. Not letting Sam come to harm. The shifter hit the wall before Jack grew weak. He ended up passing out momentarily from the expense.

As Buddy rose to his feet, the Winchester was back in control. A bullet straight to the heart. Dean's gun went off in his hand, but no one else was hit. You stared at the panting boy, before wilting. Your body slumping against your mate's in relief.

When your hands were freed, you found yourself at Dean's side. Cradling his head against your body while you waited for him to come to. Jack's head rested against yours as he tried to gain back his strength. Sam helped Mia to her feet, holding her as she cried in relief. It was over.

–

Dean spotted Jack as he walked into the kitchen after you'd gone to bed. The bunker leaving everyone feeling more secure. The boy froze when he realized who it was. Refusing to look his way.

Guilt coursed through him. The shrink, as much as he hated it, was right. Jack was afraid of him. In some ways, it made him feel powerful. In others? It left him feeling like a heel.

He walked to the fridge slowly. Deliberately picking up two bottles in a single hand before he closed it. Dean twisted the top before moving towards the kid- Jack- who looked like he wanted to run.

“Hey,” He finally looked at Dean, knowing confrontation was unavoidable. He looked away just as quickly when the Winchester stalked forward in his predatory gait.

“Hey,” Dean was no better. Needing to look away as he popped the second top. With purpose he moved closer. “You did good today...Jack.” He let his eyes move over the nephilim's body language. Feeling worse by the second. And, it had nothing to do with the steri-strips covering the wound on his cheek. Dean nodded, before walking away. He couldn't bring himself to say more. Missing the small little smile that played on Jack's face as he moved to take his brother the peace offering. When he found Sam in the library, he sighed. His brother sat, feet pulled up as he lost himself in the pages. Looking so much like the little boy that Dean had raised, that he couldn't stand it. He offered the brew over his brother's shoulder. Sam took it warily, and Dean couldn't help but to sigh before clearing his throat. “Look, man...back at, uh, Mia's...” Why is it so hard to get out? He leaned against the table, his own beer still in hand. “I was out of line.” His little brother set aside the peace offering. “I'm sorry for being a...” He tried to find the word, but none were quite strong enough. So, he settled for the next best thing. “A dick lately.”

“Thanks,” Sam still couldn't stand to look at him, directly. Every word he'd thrown out stood between them.  His fingers bounced against his leg. He was stewing over each syllable, Dean was sure. “And maybe you're right.” He pushed further back, turning to look at his little brother straight on. “About the kid.” The words felt like acid, despite them being the truth. “I mean, he tries. I'll give him that.” That gave Sam a second thought about the direction of the one sided conversation. “And, he tapped his powers, saved our ass, so that's a win.” He was really trying. If Sam could just give him some kind of confirmation that exposing himself was worth it...

“Yeah, I guess.” It had been the wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as Sam pushed back, pulling the book up before slamming it on the table. Rubbing his brow in the exhaustion he was feeling.

“What's up?” It was his way of making his brother talk. To let him get his pound of flesh.

Sam didn't answer for a moment. Choosing to stew over where his mind resided. Then, it left him. “What if you're right?” Sam sat up as he threw the invisible punch at his older sibling. “About mom.” It was haunting Sam in the worst way. “What if she is dead, and I'm just in denial?”

Dean stopped for a moment. Trying to choose his words. His own heart falling at the doubt he'd created.

“Don't say that.” He finally stated. Sam's head jerked up at that.

“What?” The younger brother looked both hopeful and broken all at once. “You've been wanting me to admit that since it happened.”

“I know I have, but don't say that.” Dean closed his eyes for a second. Hating the pain he caused in the people he cared the most about. He could still see your pleading eyes behind his lids. Begging to be let go. If only you realized he was trying to in the safest manner. For good. To give you the relief you needed from his world before it destroyed you like it had him. His eyes were red and itchy as he talked. “I need you to keep the faith...for both of us.” He looked at his brother. Finally putting it out there. “Cause right now, I...I don't believe in a damn thing.” The admission hurt. He had to turn away from his brother's concerned eyes. “So, keep the faith, Sammy...please.” At his brother's sympathetic gaze, he took another swallow. Excusing himself to leave for bed. His beer resting on the table, forgotten.

He told himself to go to his room. To be alone. Instead, he crawled into your bed.

“Hey,” You breathed out, blinking awake at the dip of the mattress. “You okay?”

“No,” His voice broke as he laid beside you. Not touching. Simply needing the proximity. “No, I'm not okay.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” You sat up, looking down at him in concern. It was hard in the dark, but you could make out enough of the details.

“If it's just the same, sweetheart, I'd just like to lay here.” It was a simple request. “I won't touch you, anymore.” The deep crack made you wither. He'd noticed your withdrawal more than you'd hoped for. “I won't talk. I just need...” He couldn't say it. And you didn't ask him to.

“Okay, Dean,” You whispered, quietly. “Is...is it okay if I touch you?” His tear filled eyes met yours as a single drop fell down his cheek, disappearing in the shadows. When the nod came, it sent another down a similar path. “Okay,” You moved in closer, pressing your lips against his forehead. A light press against his lips in comfort followed before you curled into his side. Pulling his head against you. “I've got you.” Your fingers ran through his hair gently, as he tried not to give in to his urge to grip against you. When he finally did, you didn't acknowledge it. Afraid that he'd retreat if you did.

After he drifted off, you kept up the actions. Staring at the wall on the other side of the room. Wondering if either of you would ever have the strength needed to actually make the cut...

Forever: @dean-winchesters-bacon @supernaturalginger @lilulo-12 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @michaelneedssomemilk @lemondropirwin @fanfictionismydeath @neii3n @surmya1907

Dean/Jensen: @akshi8278 @screechingartisancashbailiff  @woodworthti666 @coldmuffinbanditshoe

#supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #supernatural reader insert #spn reader insert #Supernatural angst #spn angst #supernatural smut #spn smut #dean #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x you #dean x y/n #alpha dean x omega reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester reader insert #dean reader insert #dean fanfiction #dean angst #dean winchester angst #a/b/o #alpha dean winchester

[ttttaehyungie]

sincerely, but no longer yours | chapter 1

sincerely, but no longer yours | ex!kim namjoon x reader

☘  genre | angst, exes au

☘  summary | It started as a coping mechanism as getting the words out provided a form of catharsis. But now you can’t stop writing these love letters, even with the knowledge that they’ll never get sent. After all, who writes love letters to their ex?

☘  word count | 4k

☘  rating | PG-13

☘  warnings | some fairly heavy angst, breakup

☘  a/n | ok SO I’m finally working on a multi-chap for the first time in forever :o and ofc this is the first series that i’m working on in this blog! alsooo am kinda ashamed to admit that i’ve actually NEVER finished a series ever 🙈🙈 sooo this is a challenge from me @ myself 🤭 so yes come along with me for this ride hahahah and pls kick my butt if i leave this series as another one in the unfinished pile

You can have Manhattan, ‘cause I can’t have you -- Sara Bareilles, Manhattan

Pulling your jacket around you a little tighter to keep the bite of the night air at bay and hitching your duffel bag a little higher up your shoulder, you board the bus. The bus conductor asks for your ticket and you let go of it for the first time since you bought it, giving him the flimsy paper that’s now imprinted with the shape of your thumb under the stress of your tight grip as you held onto it like a lifeline. After a quick inspection, he passes it back to you and you take it from him wordlessly.

“Hey.” You look up at the conductor in surprise, gaze finally torn from where it had remained on the ground all this time. “You alright?”

You don’t allow yourself to consider the question lest the tears come and you cause a bigger scene than you already have. With a tight-lipped smile that probably isn’t fooling anyone, you nod at him, and traipse to the back of the bus before he can probe any further.

The comfort of the back corner of the bus brings you the tiniest smidge of relief, especially after you place your duffel bag on the seat next to you, creating a barrier between you and the rest of the bus. Not that there would be many people, if any at all, at such a late timing. Nonetheless, the little bubble created by your makeshift barricade brings you some security as you settle into your chosen seat gingerly, as if you would shatter to pieces if your movements were too rough. Your emotional state sure feels that way, fragile and on the brink of falling apart any time now.

You’re not sure how much time passes before the bus doors finally shut and it begins pulling out of the bay. It carries a sense of finality. You’re really going home. The cityscape, drenched in the black and orange hues of nightfall, goes past as you watch through the window- slowly at first, then becoming a blur as the vehicle picks up in speed. The plans you had for the weekend are now truncated and left behind with the city.

The emptiness hits you once again when the bus pulls onto the freeway and the city sights are completely gone. Only the inky black of the night sky accompanies you now. You are alone. On this bus, yes, but in more ways than that too. You let that fact sink in.

It’s too dangerous to let your thoughts overtake you right now, so you occupy yourself by playing Sudoku puzzles on your phone, which has strategically been placed on airplane mode. The methodical problem-solving that the puzzle requires of you submerges your mind in a sea of numbers. Which is your intention. And before you know it, the bus is slowing down and you look up from your device to the familiar scenery of your hometown. On any other day, it would fill you with warmth, but right now it doesn’t.

Now having arrived at your destination, you gather your belongings and alight from the bus. It’s just a daypack and your duffel bag which is bursting at the seams with how many items you crammed into it. You would have brought a suitcase if you knew, but how were you to predict the events of tonight? Though, you surmise, you should have seen it coming and could have prepared yourself better.

You’re trudging home and you’re maybe ten minutes away when it begins raining. Great. As if this day could get any worse. It makes your clothes stick to you in that cloying way and the chill from the night has you shivering almost violently now. But you plough on home, only focusing on getting one foot in front of the other and repeat, repeat, repeat.

Finally at your front door, it’s a struggle to get the key in the door with how badly your hand is shaking. Whether it’s from the cold or something else, you’re not sure anymore at this point. After countless tries, you finally manage to jam it in and turn it quickly so you can just get into the safety of your home.

The noise that results from the way you throw your duffel bag and daypack down, your rain-soaked jacket quickly following suit to form a messy, wet heap in the middle of the entryway, announces your arrival. Hoseok pops his head out from the archway that leads to the living room, the sounds probably interrupting his late-night Netflix binge.

“____?” You can hear the concern in his voice, and you refuse to look at him, instead focusing on wrenching your sodden shoes off of your tired feet. “Where’s Joonie?”

The mention of his name causes something like a switch to flip in you. Your brain finally, finally catches up with reality, and the numbness you lulled yourself into for the past few hours dissipates just like the pricking of a balloon. It leaves you gasping in pain, the way the emotions suddenly come flooding through you. The hurt viciously demands to be felt.

With a shaky exhale, you look Hoseok in the eye. The gravity of tonight’s events finally cements itself in your brain and the tears you’d been holding back come spilling out uncontrollably as you mumble your next words out brokenly.

“We broke up.”

It’s been weeks since you and Namjoon broke up. The constant cloud of desolation that plagued your every waking moment in the immediate aftermath of the breakup has finally eased up somewhat.

Being a high school senior turned out to be a lifebuoy in some ways, giving you solid things to cling onto in the midst of your emotions of loss and confusion. It’s not healthy, you know, but the academic content provided a sense of constancy that you sorely needed and the rigor of it all kept your mind from wandering too far into the depths of your sorrow.

Yet you knew this could only go on for so long. At some point, these emotions will eat you up from the inside out if not acknowledged and sorted out. Pain is just like that, it will gnaw at you with subtlety but with certainty. Repressing the feelings is just simply unsustainable.

You’re really lucky to have an older brother like Hoseok. That first night, when you finally broke down and let the tears turn into sobs that wracked through your entire being, he’d quickly gathered you up into his arms and had given you a shoulder to cry on. God knows how long you spent in that state bawling seemingly endlessly, but Hoseok had let you just get it all out without asking any questions, the immensity of his patience and quiet strength of his presence lending you a pillar of support that you desperately needed at the time. Later that night, when you were showered and tucked in warm under the covers, you watched through puffy eyes as he unpacked your belongings from your duffel bag and carefully wiped them dry or chucked them into the laundry basket as was appropriate.

When he reached for your daypack, you stopped him. You were barely able to croak out your opposition, your throat raw and wrecked from the earlier barrage of emotions. Still, Hoseok caught it, and nodded empathetically. He respected your wishes for privacy and only wiped the exterior of your daypack down before leaving it in the corner of your room.

And in the corner it remained. Aside from your absolute necessities, which was really just your keys and your wallet, you’d procrastinated unpacking your daypack. Till now, that is.

Not that there was much to unpack anyway. Most of the possessions you’d retrieved from Namjoon’s dorm room that night had been hastily dumped into your duffel bag in the single-minded mission to get out of there as soon as possible. You know exactly what items remain in the daypack- a bottle of water, a pair of shades, some chapstick, surprise tickets you’d bought online to a movie from that fateful weekend that went unused, and an envelope tucked away safely in the inner pocket of the bag.

The daypack and its contents weighed on your mind the same way it sat in the corner of your room- silent, untouched, yet unbudging. It’s plain silly how afraid you’ve been to confront these items, items that are inanimate and void of meaning apart from what you yourself have ascribed to them. In an attempt to hold off the full brunt of your misery, somehow you’d deluded yourself into thinking that leaving the daypack as it is would preserve things as they once were. You lived in self-denial, as if the breakup had not happened. As if the weekend trip just had not taken place at all, and was waiting to happen instead. The daypack was waiting for you to sling it over your shoulders as you head jovially out the door to the city and to the arms of your boyfriend.

But no. You heave out a sigh. Things have changed. You and Namjoon are no longer together. Holding onto a delusion is ridiculous, and you need to move on. And the first step to doing that is to get rid of this centerpiece that your fantasy revolves around.

The items in the bag get dumped onto the carpeted ground of your room unceremoniously as you unzip the daypack, turn it upside down, and shake out the contents. Whatever mystique you’ve built up around these simple items is now shattered as they lay scattered on the floor. The shades and chapstick return to your dressing table, the bottle of water and expired movie tickets get dumped out. And the envelope… you throw it into your desk drawer and slam it shut before the temptation to tear it open overtakes you.

That was the first of many letters that were written, but never got sent.

You never intended to make it a thing. It just… happened one day. Staying focused on school and college applications could only provide so much distraction from the whirling emotions bottled up inside you. No matter how tightly you attempted to keep a lid on it, wistful nostalgia still crept up uninvited.

And naturally so. This neighborhood, your high school, heck even your own house is filled with the ghost of the memory of him. Namjoon had been a significant presence in your life before he was even really yours. You still remember the day Hoseok brought his newfound friend home, Namjoon’s lips pressed tightly together in his attempts to keep his sniffles and tears in, his knees scraped, bruised, and bleeding from what looked like a pretty hard fall on the playground.

“Mum!” Hoseok had called out. “I need band aids!”

“Hello,” Namjoon mumbled when your mum came hurrying out of the kitchen to see what was wrong. “Sorry to be a bother.”

Namjoon had always been a klutz, but it was his clumsiness that had birthed the close friendship between him and Hoseok. After one too many accidents on the playground, Namjoon had been too scared to go home to face the inevitable reprimanding that would come. Hoseok had offered to patch him up at yours instead, and the camaraderie that arose from that incident had sealed their friendship as an unbreakable one. Unfortunately, as big as Hoseok’s heart was, his little seven-year-old hands were not the gentlest. From your spot at the top of the staircase, peering through the grills, you saw how Namjoon winced at Hoseok dabbing antiseptic on his knees, and you came bounding down the steps to rescue the stranger that sat on your family’s sofa and that had somehow wormed his way into a soft spot in your heart with his teary pout.

“Hoseok,” you demanded, your tiny hand outstretched and waiting, voice tinged with petulance. “Give me.”

Hoseok relinquished the first aid items to you and watched as you cleaned his new friend up, your brow furrowed in careful focus, little hands fumbling but your touch delicate. After you applied the twin band aids on both of Namjoon’s knees with all the meticulousness that a five-year-old could muster up, you patted his thigh and smiled at him.

“All done!” you declared. And you’d never forget the sight of his dimpled smile beaming up at you in response.

If only you could. You shake your head, as if it would shake the memories away. The paper before you on your desk remains as blank as it was twenty minutes ago when you sat down to get started on revision. But having known Namjoon for over a decade made it too easy for you to just get swept away by the deluge of memories of him. You tried to keep it in, but it kept leaking out. And perhaps that’s what you need- to just let it out.

The first touch of the pen to paper has you pausing, wondering how you were even supposed to start. But the moment you begin- Dear Namjoon, - everything comes spilling out in prose. Hardly having to pause what with the way your thoughts just keep flooding out onto the paper, the inked words flowing out in streams, you finally let go of the firm grip you’d kept on your feelings up till now and express your frustration, your loss, your confusion all out in one huge cathartic spew. You write till you feel emotionally dry, but in a satisfying way, chest feeling lighter than it had in weeks. But as your ballpoint pen swirls the complimentary closing- Sincerely Yours- you can’t help but laugh at the sardonic humor embedded in it. The sincerity in your words is irrefutable. But you’re no longer his.

Folding it up and sealing it away in an envelope, you chuck the letter into your desk drawer where it joins its predecessor. Now with a clearer mind, and a renewed focus and vigor, you’re finally able to set to work on the mountain of revision materials that await you.

The first letter was a gushing myriad of feelings. But the subsequent letters solidified into one obviously discernible emotion- anger.

Once you came to terms with the fact that he’s not coming back, and that he basically threw away the relationship, it had you boiling mad. How much had you sacrificed for this relationship?! You’d basically shuttled back and forth between your hometown and the city almost every other weekend to visit him on campus, juggling your family and your grades and your friends back home and college applications just to make your long-distance relationship work. And how did he repay your efforts? By withdrawing from you and refusing to talk things out despite your gentle, persistent probing. You’d heard that he’d been in a slump and confused about the future- Hoseok, while his best friend, was your brother after all- but you’d never imagined he’d be confused about you.

And so you took your rage out on paper once again, your words harsh as you wrote candidly. It’s not like he’d ever get to see it anyway.

But anger is tiring. After penning a few letters full of scathing lines you’d never have the guts to actually spit out in person, your wrath was quelled and soon gave way to grief.

In the same way with your anger, you chose not to deny your sadness, but leaned into it instead. The end of your relationship was something worth mourning, you decided, and you let yourself embrace the sorrow fully and deeply. It was especially difficult knowing that he was still in contact with Hoseok, while you had been completely cut out of his life. But you can’t blame either of them- you can’t demand that they revoke their friendship over what happened between you and Namjoon, nor would you ever desire for that to happen. Hoseok, on his part, managed it to the best he could, taking his phone calls in a room separate from you. But you can’t control the wave of dejection that runs through you whenever you spy Namjoon’s name on his caller ID.

You’re used to the routine by now. Whenever the emotions get too overwhelming, whenever there’s just too much that you want to say to him but that you can’t, you engage in the therapeutic act of writing your letters. Then you seal them up, and chuck them away, out of sight and out of mind. The grief gets easier to deal with too, especially with the excitement of receiving college acceptance letters and your high school graduation date that’s drawing closer and closer.

Of course, that in itself brings its own strand of sadness too, as you imagine having to separate from your friends and family and leave your childhood home behind. But the notion of getting to carve out the path to your future leaves a giddy anticipation that overshadows all other feelings.

And in that strange, paradoxical way that time seems to pass in- every hour ticking by so slowly, but the weeks whizzing by in the blink of an eye- it’s just as your five-year-old self had once proclaimed, “All done!”

Your life now packed into boxes that are piled into the car, one last check of your room to ensure that nothing important is left behind, a final look at the place you called home for all your life up to now, and you’re off to college. As you watch the sight of your neighborhood through the rearview mirror pull further and further away till it disappears entirely, you know you’re leaving tons of memories behind. Memories of Namjoon, yes, but also memories of your growing up years with your family and friends who have made you into who you are today, able to venture out and face the world with courage and confidence.

Maybe it’s that experience of individuation that has you finally accepting it. No more whirlpool of emotions, no more anger, no more grief, no more emptiness. Just peace. You’re single, separated from Namjoon. And you’re ready to take on the world and live your life like the boss woman you are.

“____,” Hoseok wails, pouting as he approaches you with outstretched arms. You barrel into him, relishing the warmth of his embrace and stowing it away for the days ahead. His eyes rove over you as he holds you at arms length so he can take you in for the last time in a while. He sighs. “My baby sister is all grown up and going to college and away from me.”

You laugh. “I’m still in the country, Hoseokie, it’s not like I’m halfway across the world. You can come and visit anytime.”

“But you’ve never lived further than a minute’s walk from my room. How am I supposed to deal with you being hours away from me now?”

“You’ll get over it soon, you big baby.” You duck out under his arms and slap his butt with the playful affection that’s always characterized your sibling relationship. Your parents are waiting by the door of your dorm room and you go over to give them their share of goodbye hugs.

“Thank you for all the help with moving and unpacking today,” you say, voice muffled as you speak into your dad’s chest. He strokes your head and you lean into his touch and savor it.

“You’ve got one more box there, you sure you don’t want our help with that?”

“No, it’s fine, I can handle it.”

It gets increasingly hard to hold the tears back and the difficulty only spikes tenfold when you turn to see your mum holding back tears of her own. Her perfume and her own natural scent that lies underneath that that you inhale as you hide your face in her neck while the two of you hug very nearly pushes you over the brink. But you manage. Knowing your family, it’s a given that someone will shed tears at some point, and you’re all (barely) holding it together for each other.

Hoseok comes up to hug you from behind so that you’re now sandwiched between him and your mum, which only prompts your dad to envelop all of you in his arms too.

“If it ever doesn’t work out- not saying that it won’t, because you’re super smart and the most driven kid I’ve ever known- but just, IF ever,” Hoseok rambles into your hair, “you can always come home and teach at the dance studio with me, ok?”

“Thanks Hoseokie. But you know I have two left feet, so I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“They’ll make an exception for you. I’ll make them make an exception for you.”

You laugh and extricate yourself from the group hug through a series of wiggles that only provides further proof of why you’ll never make it as a dance instructor the way your brother has.

“Ok, it’s getting late and you guys still have a long drive ahead of you.” You shoo them out of your room. After your final goodbyes, you return to your room quickly, knowing that the sight of their figures leaving would be unbearable.

Needing a distraction, you busy yourself with unpacking your last box of belongings. It’s nothing too difficult- your family had spent the afternoon helping you with the major to-dos like wiping things down and setting up your larger decor and lighting fixtures (read: copious amounts of fairy lights strung everywhere) just the way you liked it. All that remains now are some photos with friends, the few pieces of jewelry you owned, your humble make-up collection... and a shoe box stuffed full of letters that you didn’t dare to leave back at home where it would be at risk of being discovered by prying eyes in your absence.

Finding a place for your various items was a simple task to complete. Within ten minutes you were done unpacking, washed up, and tucked into bed for your first night ever living apart from your family. You roll over onto your side- your sleeping environment may be different, but your side-sleeper habits will never change.

As you peer out the window and take in the campus sights that seem foreign now but that you know will become familiar in time, you’re struck with a funny thought. What a turn of events your life has taken.

This is not the dorm room nor the campus you thought you’d be attending all those months ago when you were making your way down to the city. You’d embarked on that trip in gleeful anticipation at being able to deliver the good news to Namjoon, only to have that trip abruptly cut short, and the news remained in an envelope that never got to its intended recipient.

That weekend triggered a rerouting of your life, setting you on a new path that had brought you here to this campus instead. Not that you regret it, or feel like you settled for something less, not at all. You’re at peace with your decisions. It’s just an intriguing thought that things could have turned out so differently if that one weekend hadn’t happened, is all.

On impulse, you clamber out of bed to retrieve the shoe box that you’d shoved into the corner of your closet. Rifling through the stack- wait, did you really write this many letters?- you finally find the envelope you’re looking for.

Tearing it open gingerly, you pull out the sheets of paper contained within. It’s a rueful kind of feeling that washes over you as you skim over the words that you’d written back in what feels like an entire lifetime ago. The excitement you had felt at the prospect of the long-distance aspect of your relationship finally coming to an end after two long years was blatant in your letter.

But when it became obvious that Namjoon had gotten tired of trying to make things work, what you’d initially thought of as the golden ticket to saving your relationship turned out to be fool’s gold instead. You pull up the second sheet of paper- a photocopy of your acceptance letter to the same college your then boyfriend was attending- and you can’t help the ‘what if’s that fill your mind as you run your thumb over the college emblem.

Guess your dreams of a future where you lived in the city and where Namjoon was still in your life would remain just that- a dream.

Or so your naive college self believed.

#btswriterscollective #btswritingcafe #btsbookclub #btswritersguild #ficswithluv #bts fic #bts angst #bts exes au #bts x reader #namjoon fic #namjoon angst #namjoon exes au #namjoon x reader #knj fic #knj angst #knj exes au #knj x reader

[gusu-emilu]

seven nights to turn: author's meta

Symbolism & Parallels

Time to be self-indulgent. Am I significant enough to be posting about my own fic lore? Probably not, but here I am. Blame @eldritch-elrics and @qi-ling for telling me I was allowed to do this.

I also want to journal for myself about this story before I forget my thoughts months later. A little fic diary, if you will.

I'm going to talk about the meanings of:

counting nights and days

pruning plants

branding and insignia

kneeling

Counting Nights and Days

Jiang Cheng's state of mind in Chapter 1 is very different from Chapter 4. In the beginning of the story, he is bitter and restless. His memories haunt him. He counts time by nights—has for years—because the nights are harder to make it through.

By the end of the story, he is openly grateful in his narration for Wei Wuxian and Jin Ling's safety, and he has gone from calling himself selfish to giving to Wen Ning out of something more than just guilt. The shift from counting nights to counting days reflects this.

I also played with this concept in the titles and section headers. As a refresher, the chapter titles are 1) from first to fifth night, 2) from sixth to seventh night, 3) turn, 4) from first to fifth day. And of course, the story is called Seven Nights to Turn.

Jiang Cheng "turns" in multiple ways. The surface level turn is from counting nights to days. The emotional turn is how his perception of Wen Ning changes. The physical turn involves kneeling...and I'll talk about that soon.

Wen Ning also has a turn of his own, as he realizes that he isn't as repulsive as he thinks, that he isn't as responsible for the past as he thinks, that Jiang Cheng didn't give him the talismans and tea for the reason he thinks. That he is allowed to express negative emotions once in a while. He can have some catharsis by confessing things to Jiang Cheng that he feels like he can't say to Wei Wuxian or Lan Sizhui. And at the very end of the story, he "turns" to travel to Tanzhou and meet Song Lan, starting a new direction in his life as he can begin to heal and grow on his own. Before coming back to Lotus Pier, of course *wink wink*

Now for the section headers. If you didn't translate them while reading, I'll do that now. Until the "turn," the nights are marked 第一晚 (First Night), 第二晚 (Second Night), etc., and the days are marked 白天 (Daytime). Wen Ning's POV in Chapter 2, aka his breakdown, is marked 未知 (Unknown), because the reader can decide for themselves when that scene happens. It also represents that Wen Ning feels lost in that moment. After the "turn," the night is marked 晚上 (Nighttime), and the days are marked 第一天 (First Day), 第二天 (Second Day), etc. So, the shift from counting nights to days happens on several levels.

Pruning Plants

In Chapter 3, after Jiang Cheng and Wen Ning reach some form of peace, if not a full reconciliation, they sit at the tea table in Wen Ning's cabin, talking about their families or sitting in silence. Wen Ning brings over one of his plants to prune while they sit together.

Snipping away the leaves represents how, throughout the entire story, they bring up moments from the past and find a way to release them. Before they were able to reconcile enough to sit at Wen Ning's tea table (without Jiang Cheng wanting to flip it over), they had to go through explosive confrontations about the past. But finally, some of those grievances are addressed. They can trim away those leaves, and new shoots can grow, because at last they are talking without animosity and beginning to bond.

Trimming away a few leaves doesn't change the plant. Its base is still the same. They can't change or fix anything, but they can make what they have a little less messy.

Actually, I was originally going to have Wen Ning show Jiang Cheng how to prune the plant, and they would trim it together. Now I'm regretting not doing that lol.

Branding and Insignia

I'm just going to pull quotes for this one to show everything in one place. Half of these ideas came from my beta @lady-of-the-lotus.

He wonders if Wen Ning is trying to leave a mark of his own, to carve another scar, to sear a brand of the lost Wen Clan into his skin. (Chapter One)

Jiang Cheng thinks about receiving another permanent mark of the Wen Clan during the hate sex...

A pendant in the window casts a sun-shaped shadow on his face; a faint circle, spoked and distorted. He doesn’t look in the mirror again after that. (Chapter Two)

And the morning after, there's the mark of the Wen Clan, if only in his imagination. Yet another thing to haunt him.

Wen Ning saw. Saw the guqin brush, with its red handle, its black rim and golden tassel. The exact colors of the Wen insignia. (Chapter Two)

But by the end of that chapter, Jiang Cheng begins to empathize with Wen Ning and come to terms with his guilt, and he consciously selects a symbol of the Wen Clan to give to Lan Sizhui as a gift.

The design on the bottom of the cup has burned the red outline of a lotus flower into his skin. (Chapter Four)

By now, Jiang Cheng understands how much Wen Ning sacrificed and suffered, and he wishes he could take away the pain. He heals the burn wound, removing the brand of the Jiang Clan from Wen Ning's skin, and later thanks Wen Ning for saving his family.

As he follows the path of the veins, he realizes how endless they are. Jiang Cheng’s own scars have a clear start. A clear finish. Where does Wen Ning’s suffering end? (Chapter Four)

Wen Ning's black marks are the brand of death.

The rest of the scar/vein symbolism is pretty clear in the story, I think, so I won't discuss it much beyond that.

Kneeling and Parallels

Here's the physical "turn." I didn't intend for this to happen while writing, but it actually has a connection to a scene in CQL.

One of the most emotional scenes in The Untamed is in Episode 36, after Wei Wuxian pulls the nails out of Wen Ning's head to restore his consciousness. Wen Ning, overcome with guilt, kneels at Wei Wuxian's feet. Then Wei Wuxian kneels.

This is a beautiful moment in their relationship. Ningxian (you can interpret that romantically or platonically) always has this...slightly uncomfortable power dynamic? as much as I love them, but in that scene Wei Wuxian physically shows how much he appreciates Wen Ning. That he is sorry. That they are both indebted to each other, but the past wasn't Wen Ning's fault, and they are equals as they kneel in front of each other.

Back to Seven Nights, where there is a lot of kneeling going on, and the meanings are a bit similar.

This story was a challenge to tell mostly from Jiang Cheng's POV, because there is so much in Wen Ning's head that I couldn't put on the page since Jiang Cheng just doesn't know what he's thinking. The reader gets to learn about Wen Ning through Jiang Cheng's eyes, and speculate about the rest of what they don't learn.

But during the hate sex scene, it's significant that Wen Ning is the one kneeling. Despite how much resentment he holds toward Jiang Cheng, he still feels guilty! (He really isn't to blame, but he feels like he is.) He killed Jin Zixuan! That caused Wei Wuxian and Jiang Yanli to die! He's a corpse, what is he doing touching someone? Expecting that Jiang Cheng would've reached out to him to make peace? Wen Ning is very confused about how he feels about Jiang Cheng, has a complicated relationship with his own humanity and self-confidence, and that leaves him kneeling even when getting revenge.

There's also the attraction element, of course, the classic trope of "enemy sexy," but we're not talking about that right now lol

The next time somebody kneels, it's Jiang Cheng. His guilt toward Wen Ning used to do nothing but torment him. Now he is taking action, physically showing the change in their relationship, kneeling at Wen Ning's feet and healing his hand. The talismans and tea in the first chapter were nice (if misguided) gestures, but he didn't kneel to present those, did he? The sentiment in the first chapter is very different from his treatment of Wen Ning in the last chapter. He understands Wen Ning much better. Admits to himself that he cares about Wen Ning as a person. He's not just caught up in the concept of "unfinished business." He's not held back by his ego.

And then we come full circle, an inverse of the hate sex in the first chapter. This time Jiang Cheng drinks the tea, kneels, and gets to work. And Wen Ning orders him to, which I find very satisfying.

But once he finishes...Wen Ning kneels, too.

They go through both versions of the power structure, and by the end they are stripped, raw, honest, kneeling in front of each other and wrapped in each other's arms. They both had to knock down barriers to get to this point, and it broke them both a little in the process, but now they can start again and move on to something more hopeful.

Just to be clear, this was not planned from the beginning. Wen Ning was never even going to go to Lotus Pier. And once I decided to add that chapter, I only decided to add sex to it a week before posting. So this just kind of happened on its own.

...And I think that's it. I wish this story was longer lol. Seven Nights was supposed to be a 6k oneshot, turned into a near-30k multichap, and I still want to write more. T.T

I might post again about planning/conception for the fic, another diary entry so I don't forget what was going on in my head months or years later when I look back at this story. Idk. Anyway, thanks for reading!

#seven nights to turn #emilu creations #emilu fics