head above water this year boys


4x01 “Lazarus Rising”
On the Aspect of Objectification and Invasion of Privacy

So I re-watched this episode the other day and I felt the need to type this up after this scene rolled around, because imho it is actually quite a disturbing moment as it is one incident of many over the course of the show in which Dean as a character gets objectified (yes, he partially joked about just that in S3 when he has his “She’s All That”-moment with Bella and yes, it is also one of the few incidents outright playing with the notion of Dean on SPN being framed with typically female associated stereotypes such as prettiness, being emotional, etc.) or rather downright harassed.

As I said before the list of Dean having his privacy - physically as well as mentally - invaded is a long one. Think of Meg force-kissing Dean without his consent or how Amara got way too close into Dean’s personal space and overrode his agency. Azazel is another good - or well, horrifying, example - but there sure are many more incidents in which characters either comment on Dean’s good looks in a defaming/degrading fashion (you could even count Bobby’s “princess”-comment here, but for the moment I’d file that under parental loving teasing even though of course there are a lot of problematic things that could be said about this) trying to ridicule Dean or catch him off-guard or physically get way too close to be considered in any way appropriate.

The reason why this scene makes me so deeply uncomfortable is due to how a) it is embedded into the narrative and b) how it seems to be supposed to be perceived by the audience.

So let’s take a deeper look at this scene, shall we?

We start into this scene with Dean having just returned from Hell and being plagued by his experiences there as the flashbacks clearly indicate. It’s just mere days after he dug himself out of his grave and the first few minutes the audience meets Dean after the last it seen him was one season prior when he was strung up on chains about to be pulled apart in Hell by meat hooks. And yes, Dean’s Hell is sadly rather descriptive of Dean’s entire life in which he was the one desperately trying to keep a family together that was drifting apart with him smack in the middle and therefore ending up being the one hurt most. He was pulled apart alive figuratively speaking, in Hell - as we know - he was pulled apart literally. From everything that we can gather from Dean’s flashbacks and later on the confrontation with Alistair who is probably the prime example for the abuse Dean suffered mentally and physically in Hell and what he continues to reveal to Sam over the course of S4, it is not too crazy to assume that Dean has been subjected to torture and abuse of any kind and in ways unimaginable.

Keep that in the back of your mind when looking at this scene play out and also keep in mind why Dean after Hell proceeds to sleep only fully clothed (I’ve written about that topic, about protective layers last in my “Dean Wearing John’s Old Leather Jacket” before HERE). That’s telling you a lot without Dean having to say a single word about what happened to him in Hell. So yes, keep all that in mind and now look at this moment again. The reason that Pamela throughout the show and the few times she pops up is framed as “a friend/good person” might be why people don’t pick up on it immediately, but what Pamela does here is wrong and disgusting on so many levels and checks all the boxes for harassment/non-con. Sure, her and the boys have joked about a threesome before, but this right here is never in any case okay.

And it gets even worse when you know that the only people he was touched by with “loving hands” after 40 years of torture were Bobby and his brother - and I bet even those hugs must have been somewhat difficult at first (even if they then were very cherished). Now he is back, but barely with head above water and trying to find out who saved him from Hell and they go see a stranger and then that woman proceeds to just grab him between the legs. There is nothing remotely normal or funny about that and when you look at Dean’s face you can tell how freaked out he is about the whole incident. He is fragile all over in this entire episode and scene (the whole season really, and frankly who wouldn’t be after returning from Hell) and so self-conscious about the handprint alone. Just showing that bit of skin to someone he doesn’t know you can see is a task for him and then right before this happens.

And then there is the question of how the show intended for this scene to be perceived. I’d argue many casual viewers would not recall this as an extremely problematic moment at all and that is exactly what unsettles me tbh, because similarly as “Yellow Fever” - and yes, I can understand Dean being afraid of a cat may seem funny, but really the whole episode is not - I feel/fear most casual viewers would probably smirk or even laugh. Now tell me, would they do that if the roles were reversed..?


When Shiro was ten-years-old, he lost his right arm in a boating accident. It happened three miles or so off shore. He was alone in the little motorboat he and his dad used for fishing in the waters off Agate Beach. Normally he wouldn’t have been foolish enough to be there on his own, since even as a child Shiro had an overinflated sense of responsibility, but he wasn’t feeling particularly responsible that day.

That was the day they’d buried his dad.

The funeral had been that morning, the skies above the cemetery as gray as Shiro’s mood. He was in the front row of course, which meant there was nothing to hide behind. His mom sat stoically beside him, blinking tears she refused to let fall. There were a lot of people there as well. It seemed as if the entire town came out to pay their respects, along with about five-hundred relatives Shiro barely knew beyond the occasional Christmas card.

When it was over, Shiro’s mom made him shake the reverend’s hand and thank him for the lovely service, though how adults could find any aspect of death “lovely” was beyond him.

They’d walked back to the long row of parked cars in silence, his mother barely looking at him, as if one look at his stricken face would break her resolve. She was trying to be strong for him, but somehow it just made him feel all the more guilty about not being able to keep his own emotions in check.

As soon as they’d returned home, Shiro had slipped away, feeling stifled by the house full of chatting strangers. It was nothing to them, he’d suddenly realized. The following day they would pick up their lives exactly where they’d left off. It hardly seemed fair when <em>his</em> life had changed so irrevocably.

Still dressed in his Sunday best he’d gone down to the jetty behind the house and untied the motorboat. He’d carefully guided the small craft away from the landing. Then he’d taken off, throwing the throttle wide open to speed away before anyone could notice that he was gone. He kept one hand firmly on the rudder handle, just like his dad taught him, and quickly guided the small craft further down the coast.

The further he traveled, the more his eyes seemed to fill with tears, His breath catching until he was gasping with great heaving sobs, he clawed at the tie knotted at his throat, loosening it as if it were cutting off his air supply. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, though he knew his mother wouldn’t approve, and turned the rudder until he was headed for open water where there would be few people on such a gray day to witness his breakdown.

“We have our memories to comfort us,” his mother had told him, and maybe for her it was some comfort, but Shiro couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he would spend the rest of his life missing his dad instead of being with him. Memories, even good ones, were cold comfort when they were the last ones you’d ever have.

A light rain began to fall and the sea turned choppy, dark waves sloshing over the sides of the boat. Shiro barely noticed, his eyes cast unseeing at a fixed point on the horizon until something suddenly caught his eye, a luminous spot in the water. 

His brow knit as he watched it slowly gliding towards him; a lavender glow just below the choppy surface. It veered off at the last minute to glide alongside the boat, and Shiro tracked its movements with fascination. Whatever if was, it wasn’t very big. Maybe roughly his size, though most of its length seemed to be made up of a long and powerful tail.

He watched the softly glowing creature dive beneath the keel of his boat then come up along the other side, wheeling beneath the waves the way dolphins sometimes played in the wakes of boats. Perhaps that’s what it was, though Shiro had never heard of a purple bioluminescent dolphin before. He found himself smiling a little despite himself at the creature’s antics. It circled the little craft playfully, never quite breaching the surface of the churning water.

The dangerously churning water, Shiro noticed for the first time since heading out. The glowing sea creature forgotten, Shiro had looked up to find the rain smeared horizon ahead of him being quickly engulfed by looming black clouds. “Crud,” he murmured, mostly because his mom frowned on swearing.

The skies chose that exact moment to open up.

Shivering, Shiro gripped the rudder handle, his teeth chattering as icy sheets of rain beat down on his head. His tiny boat began bouncing unsteadily atop the churning waves. He’d been struggling to maneuver the bucking craft through the aggressively cresting water and back toward the shore when the rogue wave hit, crashing into him from behind and sweeping him into the water.

Immediately his body seized up from the cold, his arms and legs barely able to move as he’d fought against the undertow that was trying to drag him further down into the depths. A second wave hit him sending him tumbling head over heels into the propeller of the boat. The spinning blades cut deep into his face and chest and sheared his right arm off just above the elbow.

He’d screamed, his lungs filling with water, before something abruptly grabbed him around the waist and propelled him straight back up to the surface. Shiro gasped, choking on blood and sea water as his head hit the stormy air.

The last thing he saw before crumbling blackness robbed him of sight was the frightened face of a boy perhaps a year or two younger than him. His hair was long and dark, framing elfin features of pale lavender and delicately pointed ears. His wide eyes were an unlikely shade of violet that seemed to shift to indigo then back to violet again, and his skin was softly glowing with bioluminescence.

Six days later, Shiro woke up in a hospital bed, his mother asleep in a chair by his side. His face was completely numb and his chest felt tight. There was a breathing tube inserted into the notch at his throat, maybe it had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t breathe through his nose at all.

A tentative touch with his left hand told him why, it was completely packed with gauze. For some reason he couldn’t move his right hand at all. It was hard with the breathing tube, but he managed to shift his head slightly to the right to find his arm was gone, swathed in a tangle of thick white bandages that ended several inches above where his elbow used to be.

He must have made some sort of sound then, a groan of dismay, because his mother was suddenly awake and running her fingers through his hair. He’d whimpered, sloppy tears sliding down his cheeks as she’d murmured soothing words to him, telling him that everything was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.

The surgeon had already been in to see him. The robotic replacement for his arm would be just as functional as the real thing. He’d barely even notice the difference. Shiro had closed his eyes then, embarrassed by his own stupidity. He wished he could wipe the tears from his eyes instead of having to rely on his mom to do it for him.

He wished his dad was there.

Apparently he’d been found laying on the shore near the tide pools of Agate beach. His wounds had been tended with seaweed poultices and the tie he’d been wearing had been used as a tourniquet to staunch the flow of blood from his severed arm.

As for the accident itself, Shiro had no recollection of it, something the doctor later told him was common in traumatic injury cases. The identity of his rescuer remained a mystery as well. Shiro never could remember exactly what happened that day, which was frustrating, because somehow he just knew that he’d forgotten something important.

BL Summer Bingo 2017: “Sharks”

Rhys knew that his parents would be mad if they knew he was taking things from the fridge, but that didn’t stop him from stuffing a little plastic bag full of lunch meat from one of the plastic drawers. He grabbed a little carton of cheese crackers and a box of juice as well, because it was hot out and it was a little bit of a walk to get where he was going.

Rhys was getting to the age where his parents were more willing to leave him alone, especially since both of them worked even when the boy was home for the summer. So no one was there to stop Rhys as the boy grabbed the spare key, clumsily locking the door behind him before trundling down through the crude path in the greenery surrounding his house. Much of the homes in the area were surrounded by lush coastal forest, thankfully preserved despite the development of the area.

Rhys carefully continued walking even the the ground started to get loose and muddy, his little tongue stuck out in concentration as he did his best not to slip. Slowly, he could hear the sounds of his destination—a little stream that cut through inland from the nearby ocean, full of swirling, brackish water and fish that often traveled from the saltwater up inland for spawning and hunting.

Rhys crouched down by the edge of the pool, eyes scanning the water as he opened the cartoon of cheese crackers and carefully setting a couple afloat in the gently turning water. He watched the crackers for a few moments, and just as disappointment started to set in, something broke the surface and snatched the crackers in a whir of clawed hands and teeth.

“There you are!” Rhys proclaimed happily, grin reaching from ear to ear as the small, sleek head popped above the surface of the water, stuffing its face with the orange crackers as it blinked wide, green and blue eyes up at Rhys.

The boy had discovered his new friend only a few days ago, while he was trying to catch toads at the muddy banks of the stream. The creature in the water was sort of like him, looking like a young boy maybe a couple years older than Rhys from the waist up, if you ignored the gill slits and unnatural eyes and really really sharp white teeth. But where his legs should be was only a smooth, sleek gray tail that looked like the sharks in Rhys’ picture books.

Rhys hadn’t told anyone about what he had found, too worried that his new friend—who he’d named “Jack” after his old fish—would be taken away. So for the past couple of days he had been sneaking food out to him, watching as his friend slowly regained his strength. Rhys had asked him questions about how he got there or where his mommy and daddy were, but Jack wasn’t really a conversationalist….or didn’t know how to speak English.

“Yeah? You like the goldfish crackers, huh? Almost as good as real ones.” Rhys stated as he upended more in his hand, before setting them down into the water. He was careful to keep his chubby little fingers away from his friend’s snapping jaws, giggling happily as Jack greedily gulped down the food before swimming closer, looking up at Rhys with slitted, expectant eyes.

Rhys barely had the cold cuts out of his bag before Jack was snatching for them, shoving the meat into his ravenous mouth with tiny, claws little fists. His tail splashed with delight at the food, quickly emptying the bag before going in to nuzzle affectionately up against Rhys. The other boy giggled, ruffling his fingers through his friends damp hair as he relaxed in his lap.

Rhys was sad the next day when he went back to find that Jack was no longer there, no matter how many goldfish crackers he sent adrift in the water. Though loneliness tugged at his chest, he tried convincing himself that Jack had merely been reunited with his parents out in the open ocean. A balm to his sadness was the little, ivory shark tooth he found half buried into the mud at the bank of the river, which sat in the drawer by his bed for months before he had his mother fashion it into a cute little necklace, a constant reminder of the strange friend he’d met on those sunny summer days.

Rhys had been so sure that he was about to die.

He had felt his consciousness, his fight to live, struggling underneath the inky pull of the ocean as the cold, suffocating waves had pulled him under. He remembered seeing silvery bubbles burst from his lungs, remembered the fear that had seized his heart at realizing this was the end, that there was nothing he could do and that nobody could save him now. He’d clawed at dark nothingness, screaming out the last of his air as he’d started to black out, and then—

And then out of the dark he’d felt something firm and surprisingly warm grab his hand and yank him up towards the surface. His head had broken the water as whatever had grabbed him had pushed him up, supporting his bulk with its own to keep him afloat above the surface. He’d taken several painful, hoarse breaths, colors popping in his eyes as he’d felt whatever was holding onto him slowly moving him in the direction of the surf. Waves had crashed over the top of his head as he’d slowly been urged to shore, his knees finally hitting the rough sand as he fell on all fours, still gasping and choking up burning saltwater as he tried to get back to breathing evenly.

He’d eventually collapsed onto his side in exhaustion, inhaling heavily as his vision slowly swam back to him. It was a couple more moments before he became aware of something heavy shuffling and moving behind him, still a mere dark fuzzy shape to his recovering senses. He’d jolted when he felt something trace over his heaving chest, his hand snapping up dumbly to grasp a smooth, warm wrist.

Rhys had nearly lost his breath again when his vision had finally swum into place, letting him see the creature that was hunched over him. Rhys saw the teeth first, exposed and brilliant in the moonlight behind a downturned lip, followed by the wild, wet hair slicked down in places while stuck up in others. Slits in the creature’s neck pulsed. Something wet and smooth flopped against Rhys’ side, drawing his sight to see a glistening tail twitching up against him.

A scream started to build in Rhys’ chafed throat, his hands digging into the sand and ready to fight, when suddenly he noticed the creatures eyes.

An inhuman blue and green, almost glowing in the moonlight—but wholly familiar.

“I…” Rhys began, his own eyes widening, but anything that he wanted to say was cut off as a clawed, strong hand slid under the shark-tooth necklace still hung around Rhys’ neck, lifting it off of the young man’s heaving chest.

“J….Jack…?” Rhys croaks, staring up at the powerful merman who had just saved his life. Jack closes his hand around Rhys’ necklace, expression so oddly contemplative as his eyes flick up to the young man’s face. When the merman’s lips move, his voice is as deep and rolling as a deep sea current, sending shivers up his spine.


thanks to the bingo discord for helping me with this prompt! i think it turned out well enough, and i love shark mermaid jack a bunch…..

Killian Jones Imagine- Pirates Life for Me

When Killian asked you to marry him, never in a million years would you imagine yourself on the Jolly Roger sailing the oceans in search of the fountain of youth. As much as you didn’t want to go, Killian didn’t want to go either. He wants to keep you as far away from the pirate lifestyle for as long as he could but when he was commissioned to do this job, he couldn’t refuse such an offer. Being just married you begged to tag along, a honeymoon of sorts you complied. 

“Captain, we have eyes on another ship.” one of the crew members calls up. 

You and Killian are standing on the top deck overlooking the entire crew. Mostly consisting of young men whose lives are indentured to servitude, your crew is attentive. Killian extends his telescope and looks at the other ship which is gaining ground. 

“We wait ‘till nightfall. Savvy?” he answers his crew. 

Turning to you, he looks intently at you trying to decipher what your thought are. He knew at first that the prate life wasn’t to your liking, but little did he know that it was growing on you. You love the fancy costumes and the constant adventure. It isn’t every day that you get to order around a whole crew of people and search for a hidden treasure. As every day passes he feels more guilty for dragging you out here. 

“What do you think?” 

“You made the right call. From the looks of it they are heading southwest and we want to be going,” you pull out the compass that is chained to your leather jacket  “ Northwest.” 

“Aye.” his jaw clenches. 

Returning back to the open waters as the sky starts to diffuse into radiant colors, you walk down the steps towards the slovenly members of the crew. Whenever you approach on of them they straighten up and refuse to look you in the eye, in fear of upsetting the captain. 

“Boys get some rest, we move at sun down. Higgins please keep an eye out for me. “ you order. 

Turning on the heel of your leather thigh high boots you grin as you trail back up the stairs. Upon entering the wooden doors of the captain’s quarters you sigh and close the doors tightly behind you. When you peer up you see your husband slouched in a chair, swirling a glass of rum with his hand and a distraught expression evident. 

“What’s the matter dear?” you walk over to him and lightly sit on his knee. 

“We have been out here for so long. I never wanted it to be this way.” His pours the liquid down his throat. 

The candles flicker softly as the boat rocks back and fourth on the uneven waters. You could tell that he is tense and worried, nothing that was out of the ordinary. Delicately you snake one of your hands on his shoulder and gently begin to knead the tension away. 

“No need to be so tense Killian, I don’t mind really. I kind of like it honestly.” you place a soft kiss to his jaw. 

He removes the hat that rests crookedly on your head, his calloused fingers brushing against your cheeks bone as he moves a stray strain of hair from your face. He would never admit it but his favorite part of you is you eyes. He sees a fire in them that he has never seen in anyone else, a fire so strong that it could warm the heart of anyone you look at. You feel the cold air hit your shoulder as hook slides down your jacket. His soft lips connect with your warm skin, he gently trails up to the back of yours neck. 

“Hook.” you grin knowing that he secretly loves when you call him that. 

You spin around on your feet, taking his hand in yours. His vehement eyes stare back at you behind smudged eyeliner. He follows in your footsteps and stands up right, his gaze never breaking yours. When he kisses you its like an electric spark, all the tension is released the moment your lips lock. You hand firmly rests on his chest, your fingers curling against the trimmed hair. 

“Captain.” you whisper in his ear.

“Yes m’lady.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too (y/n).”

The two of you go back to your from activities. Your chest begin to rise and fell rapidly as you two kiss desperately. Not since you wedding night have you two had a moment alone, and this served as a perfect time to be alone. The floor boards creek underneath your feet as you shift your weight a little. Running over to the bed you bounce on the silk covered sheets, tucking your feet under you as you giggle. Killian dominantly strides over to you as takes another good look at you. Taking in your beauty, he finds the genuine happiness in your life together. His fingers swiftly unbutton the top three buttons of your shirt. 

“Captain!” someone pounds on the door. 

You sigh as he hangs his head in disappointment. He turns around and heads out of the cabin, strapping on his sword on the way you. Collecting yourself you  swing your coat back onto your shoulders. once you open the door you see Killian hunched over a map underneath a burning lamp. The crew awaits orders from their eager captain. Buttoning up your frilly blouse you stand next to Killian pressing your hip into his leg. 

“Where to next captain?” you read the map. 

“You tell me love.” he hands you the map. 

Looking at it you examine the delicate drawings that are printed on the map. Only a few of the details of the terrain could be made out. You rack your memory as to where this could be, that is until you recognize one of the points on the map. When you and Killian first started dating, you met in Neverland. Your first kiss was on a high cliff overlooking a cave. 

“Hook, it’s Neverland!” you gasp. 

“Off to Neverland! Hoist the colors!” he grins, places a kiss on your lips to your surprise.

The crew busies themselves with work as Killian takes his spot behind the wheel. The same fire in his eyes that you saw when you first met is now blazing as he fixes his gaze on the path to Neverland. You stand next to Killian who is steering the ship, you watch out for any other ships that would impede your trip. The stars gleam down upon you lighting up the way. 

“Welcome to Neverland boys!” you call out to the crew. 

Upon entering the island of Neverland, an eerie silence falls upon the crew, Many of them have been lost for years, you could tell by the absentminded stares which ones could hear Pan’s flute. 

“Watch out lads, Peter is bound to be near. Remember, a dead man tells no tales.” 

You stick close to Killian knowing what kind of power Peter has. You were once a lost girl, saved by Killian who is our home. Killian has proved time again that the home isn’t a place but rather a feeling. You grasp the metal hand guard on your sword tightly as you make you way through the dense forrest of Neverland. 

“You have the chalices?” you ask. 

“Higgins has them in his bag.”

“What about the mermaid’s tear captain?” a young boy asks. 

“(y/n) is an old friend of the mermaids.” Hook answers back. 

The lagoon is calm, almost too calm for the shores of Neverland. When you swam here years ago, the waves would always crash above your head. Softly singing, you place your hand into the salty water. Your melodious voice beckons the mermaids to the shore because no matter who is singing, they can’t resist the sound of music. It acts as a universal call for them. The crew quivers in the back as mermaids start to swim up to the shore. These girls ave long hair and shiny tails and scales litter their alabaster skin. 

“(y/n) what brings you to the lagoon?” your friend asks eyeing one of the sailors in the back. 

“Aqua de Vita.” 

“Say no more. “ 

The mermaid disappears back into the foamy water, the sound of the gulls echoing in the distance. The smell of salt fills your lungs as you await the arrival of your friend. You peer back at Killian with assuring eyes, and turn back to the water as you hear a splash. Your friend hands you a little vial and gives you a stern look. 

“Don’t waste it.” she flips back into the water and swims away. 

Returning the vial back to your hopeful husband, he smiles looking at the cloudy liquid. He signals for the rest of the crew to head forward but then stops as he hears muffled whispers from behind the tall palm trees. 


“Everyone quiet.” he calls out drawing his sword from his belt. 

You also draw your sword from the inside of your jacket and told your hat back so you have a better view. Everything is silent for a few seconds before Peter emerges out of the brush. He has his eyebrow raised paired with a cocky expression plastered on his face. 

“Greetings. Hook what a surprise. (y/n) always a pleasure to see you love.” he walks past you. “So what brings you to my island?”

“Can’t a man enjoy an island with a few of his friends?” he jokes. 

Out of the corner of your eye you see one of lost boys inching up to you, a knife tucked away in his hand. Trying to to make any sudden movement, you move your sword toward him signaling him to back off. When he doesn’t get the memo you step closer to Killian who now is clued in to what is happening. 

“Back off the lass would ya!” he points a finger toward the boy. 

After that all hell breaks loose as the sounds of swords hitting each other fill the air. You are faced with your long time foe Felix, and to your back is Killian dueling Peter Pan. 

“1″ you call out.

“2″ he answers.

“3″ you both say as you switch places.

You swipe you sword at Peter nicking his side which causing his to grab the wound. 

“I don’t fight invalids.” Killian sighs shaking his head at the lost boy. 

Hitting his with the butt of the sword he knocks the boy down to his feet and concentrates back to Peter Pan. 

“(y/n)!” she says, concern laced in his voice. 

“Yes?” you huff ducking from a sword that was song above your head. 

He grabs your hand and pulls you into his body, colliding his lips with yours. 

“What was that for?” 

“Good luck.” 

Peter limps off back into the brush leaving your crew mostly unharmed and intact. You open your compass and it points toward Killian, exactly what your heart is looking for. 

“Forward boys!” 

[Author’s note: Hey guys! I thought I would write one that is a little bit longer. I hope you like it! I might do a part two I haven’t decided. Let me know what you think!]

Stranger Twins pt 3

Inspired by the Doppelganger episode. Tagging @today-in-fic and @fictober. Read Part One and Part Two

Part Three

They tailed Visser to the park where he sloped through the playground equipment and beyond to the stand of trees. He was fleet and Mulder felt his years. Scully huffed next to him and he couldn’t tell if it was old age too, or if she was pissed that her body wouldn’t do what she thought it should be able to.

           “Why are we following him, Mulder? I thought we were going to look around his apartment?” She sucked in a huge breath and pulled her hair back out of her face.

           “I just wanted to see where he was headed, make sure he’s out of the way. He doesn’t seem to have a car nearby, so maybe we’ve got some time up our sleeves.”

           He went to turn back and put his hand on her lower back to guide her away. But as they spun round, Visser was standing in front of them.

           “What the hell?” Scully managed to spit out while grappling for her gun.

           Mulder stepped forward just as Visser lunged and they tangled together, falling to the ground. He could hear Scully yelling, “Freeze, FBI,” but he couldn’t stop Visser from rolling away from him. And he knew he wasn’t going to freeze. But when Mulder looked up Visser was being gripped around the collar by Walter S Skinner.

He paced, pausing every fifth step to stare them down, before starting again. Mulder opened his mouth every time Skinner stopped but there was nothing suitable to say so he just slumped back in his chair.

           Scully pulled open the curtain from around Visser’s bed and let a stethoscope slide off her neck. She hung it on a hook on the wall and stood between Mulder and Skinner.

           Without warning, Skinner launched himself at her, pushing her to the ground and wrapping his meaty hands around her throat. Mulder’s mouth fell open as he processed what was happening and he sprung from his seat issuing a deep-throated roar. His hands connected with Skinner’s thick shoulders and he dug his fingers into the muscle mass. He couldn’t shift him. Skinner was yelling, barking out indecipherable words. Scully’s legs were kicking and scratching across the floor, her shoes flipped off and her muffled gasps spurred him on. He grabbed Skinner again and managed to lift him high enough to dislodge his hands and Scully slithered away, rolling onto all fours and catching her breath. Two orderlies lunged in to help, pulling Skinner away and shoving him face-first to the floor, arms pinned behind his back.

He was raging. “They’re on all sides, they’re coming.”

           “Are you okay, Scully?” he lifted her up and she felt heavy but warm in his arms. To hear her coughing and heaving for breath made his eyes sting with tears. “Just…take it easy.” He shifted her to a chair, helping her to settle as the orderlies still struggled with the AD.

           “He just snapped.” Scully said, her voice ragged. She held her throat and looked up at Mulder. “Why?”

           He squeezed her shoulder and let it linger for a beat. “I don’t know. But he needs help. I’ll find a doctor.”

           Stepping around Skinner, one of the orderlies lost his grip on Skinner and skidded back into Mulder. Mulder side-stepped him just as the AD launched the other orderly off him. In one swift motion he was up and had his arms at Mulder’s throat in a second, pushing him back so he couldn’t get any traction. He was vaguely aware of Scully trying to call out. He was vaguely aware of the orderlies pulling Skinner back. But he was hyper focused on the look in Skinner’s eyes as he barked out, “I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

He drove Scully home and she spent the entire journey with her head against the window. The skin on her neck was marred with red bruising. He’d been luckier, with only a few scratches at his throat. He made coffee.

           “This is Visser,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch. She shifted away slightly and he blinked away his disappointment.

           “But how does he do it?” She blew the steam away and waited for an answer he knew he couldn’t give yet.

           “I think Skinner was reliving his Vietnam experience. He was possessed by the soul of his younger self, trapped in the jungle when his entire company fell.”

           “Possessed?” she said. “Is that what you think I am?”

           He shrugged. “Maybe possessed isn’t the right word, but somehow Visser has been able to access your memories, cut them off somehow.”

           “But that still doesn’t explain how he defrauded those people – two of them weren’t even in the country when they withdrew their savings, Mulder. That’s not accessing memories. There appeared to be more than one of them. Did the police look into the possibility of twins? The way Visser surprised us in the park – he was in two places at once, so…”

           “Scully,” he said, cutting her off. “This man is not a twin. Well, not in the widely understood definition of that term. What if Visser has the ability to double people, himself even, but somehow, with you and Skinner, it didn’t fully work? It’s like his capacity has been diminished somehow and you’ve both been reduced to a younger version of yourselves.”


           He reached out and gingerly placed a hand on her thigh. She looked at it, biting her lip, but he didn’t move it away. “I’m sorry, Scully. I don’t mean to make you feel that you are in any way less of a person, but for me, you are not the whole Scully that I came to love. Your life experience, these past years together, they’ve been a journey and they shaped you into this…this…”

           She covered his hand in his and frowned lightly. ”This what?”

           “This beautiful, heartbroken, tough, vulnerable, resilient, dynamic woman who somehow loves me. And I guess I want that version of you back. You make me feel whole.”

           The way she looked at him, the blue of her eyes, the straightness of her shoulders, the set of her jaw, the way she contained herself before speaking, he saw a glimmer of the old Scully and he held his breath waiting for her to come back to him. He longed to fall into her and to make love to her. To lie in the dark and whisper about the dreams they have for their son; to wonder about the length of his hair, the colour of his eyes, whether he loved the stars or football or Tolkein or driving.

           “What are we going to do, Mulder?”

           “We have to talk to Visser. Find out more about him.”

           “And Skinner?”

           “I don’t know. He’ll be out of action for a while, I’d say.”

He slept on the couch. He was too old for it now and 3am seemed like the pits of misery instead of the hour where his brain found its rhythm. He envied Scully and her youthful mind. Those long days and nights on cases, spouting theories and counter-arguments, poring over files or slides or photos. He heard her soft footfalls creaking down the steps.

           “You couldn’t sleep either?” he said, pushing himself up and running a hand through his hair.

           She laughed lightly. “You look a lot like you do…did…back then.”

           His stubble caught under his nails as he rubbed at the fatigue. “I’ll take that as a good thing, Scully.”

           She sat down and the sofa cushions bounced. “Good, because I meant it. I probably shouldn’t tell you this but when I first met you, when you turned in your chair wearing those round glasses, with the reflections of the slides of the dead teenagers you were looking at, I felt an instant attraction. I remember being quite startled by you. I was expecting someone…”


           She shook her head and her hair fell around her shoulders. “Less good-looking. It was unsettling, seeing you there, all grinning arrogance and smarmy intellect.”

           Her giggle made his cock twitch. He shifted on the seat. “Smarmy intellect. Wow, Scully, that’s a huge compliment. Don’t stop. You’re making me feel so good.”

           “And that sort of deadpan delivery, Mulder. That kept me interested too.”

           “Did it now?” he said, leaning forward. “And there was I thinking you hated me and my sarcasm. You never laughed at any of my jokes, Scully.”

           She laughed now. “I just didn’t want to give you the wrong impression. I was desperately trying to keep my head above water and be ‘one of the boys’. God,” she said, pulling her hair back off her face, “this all seems like yesterday.”

           He sighed. “Even for me, it doesn’t feel like 20-odd years have passed.”

           “And you still haven’t told me anything about those years, Mulder.” She looked down at her lap, wringing her hands. “But I’ve had some dreams – maybe they’re more than that – dreams about my parents, my sister…”


           “It’s okay, Mulder. I think I know. I just…it’s all too much at the moment. We need to see Visser. I think I want my life back.”

           “I know I want your life back,” he said quietly.

           “How did we really…end up together, Mulder?”

           The lamp cast a shadow on the ceiling, edges fading out. He gathered his thoughts before turning to look at her. “It was inevitable, Scully. From the moment you walked into that basement office, our lives were being slotted together. It was just a matter of time.”

           A single tear tracked down her face and she lifted herself forward, tracing a hand down his cheek and across his jaw. “I always wondered what it would be like to kiss you, Mulder.” She pressed her lips to his and he breathed her in, recalling all her shapes and sounds over the years. The essence of her remained and he deepened the kiss, pulling her onto him as he lay back on the couch. He shouldn’t do this. She was a young woman. He was an old man. But if he squeezed his eyes shut, if he just went with the flow, he…

           The door flew open. Scully jumped off him, her hair wild around her. “Oh my god. Mulder?”

           He stood up, scrabbling for his gun as the figure at the door stepped through. When he moved into the light Mulder saw who it was. He was staring at himself.


1x03 “Dead in the Water”
♫ Step by step, heart to heart, left right left
We all fall down like toy soldiers
Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win
But the battle wages on for toy soldiers ♫

“Dead in the Water” is probably one of my absolute favourite episodes and of course to a good extent that is due to how Dean heavy it is, how in the third episode of this show ever you already have such a beautiful and complete grasp on who Dean Winchester is and what shaped him most. Through Lucas the show tells Dean’s story of loss and trauma and fear too. Where for Lucas it was the element water that took his father away while he only helplessly coud stand and watch leaving him traumatized suffering from PTSD and unable to talk, for Dean it was the element fire that took his mother from him, which deeply traumatized Dean and as he himself reveals in this episode had him not “feeling much like talking”. Through helping Lucas, Dean a teeny tiny bit, has the chance to work through his own tragic story and heal a little bit because in the end he was able to save Lucas and being saved even back then already - pre Hell, pre Purgatory, pre the apocalypse, pre the mark - was something Dean had long gave up to ever just be a possibility for himself.

What struck me most though when re-watching the episode the other day was the use of the toy soldiers that I of course had taken note of before, but had never made this connection before. Right from the beginning when Dean goes to speak with Lucas for the first time it is established that Dean used to play with these toy soldiers too - and of course sure enough 4 seasons later one of those very toy soldiers would play a major role in averting the apocalypse and equipping Sam with the energy to overpower Lucifer long enough to jump into the cage. Throughout the episode almost every time we see Lucas he us surrounded by these toy soldiers almost like he thinks of them as a protection. And they do their job for a while, but not completely, because in the end it is the one toy soldier that fell into the lake that endangers Lucas’s life and with that does the opposite of what Lucas may have hoped to achieve with having them around. BUT of course Lucas gets saved and not by anyone, but Dean Winchester, the boy who has experienced similar trauma as Lucas did. Dean Winchester, the boy who was referred to as “daddy’s good little soldier”.

And while this is breaking my heart when thinking about how all of it falls together, there is a sad but beautiful poetry about Dean, the boy who had to grow up way too fast himself, ending up being the true protector as “toy soldier” for Lucas here and maybe, just maybe, even though he himself wouldn’t ever think of it that way, saved himself too in that moment, saved the four year old boy who lost his childhood in the night of november 2nd, 1983. Judging from Dean’s facial expressions when he pulled Lucas’ head back above water, the pain written all over his features imo reaches deeper than Dean worrying he may have come too late to save Lucas or Dean’s general immense ability of empathy, to me it is pain felt due to memories being shaken loose and wounds starting to bleed again, because they had never truly healed…

jasperzilla  asked:

Tell us about your sona!

omg i just saw this ask 

i’m sorry friendo tumblr mobile doesn’t like to notify me about ANYTHING since it updated for me.

buuuut i guess kris is the closest thing to a sona i got, so…

my boy.

my SON-

i harp on and on about kris a lot tbh. ya just followed me like today so you haven’t seen it yet but i love love love this dumb cat so much.hd him around for about a year or so i wanna say? sounds dumb but writing/drawing him and his friends has really kept my head above water the past couple months.

but he’s great. he’s cute and he likes donuts and coffee. he’s prone to be sleepy a lot coz that’s literally me irl all the time but he still will go out and wreck shit with someone if they ask.

fun fact: kris came from a joke my brother made about some stupid shit called “carl kitten” (I DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS) and i just thought, “i want a cat character tbh. It’d be cute as fuck.”

he also went through like ten different iterations before just being a pop punk donut cat. i originally wanted him to be a weird genetic experiment kinda like rocket raccoon from gotg. then he was a douchey guy who had a small man complex. but ultimately i decided he’s a good thing for me to project myself onto. i have a whole thing planned for him (i post shit about that a lot too, ignore my trash writing, buddy) and it’s pretty cool i guess.

so he’s me, in summary, but in the form of a tiny, stupid cat. and i love him. :D


baby!jily. Thank you eternally to Dee (bobandsmallbob) for beta-reading! 

“So you’re a Muggleborn?” he asked, pushing his too-large-for-his-face glasses up the bridge of his nose. They were standing outside the Potions classroom one scorching afternoon. Professor Slughorn was obviously running late, and Lily was standing outside with the rest of her classmates, waiting with the other Gryffindor girls, because Severus had somehow ingested some Doxy droppings, and was not in class. And somehow, Lily had ended up leaning against the wall next to James Potter.

Immediately, Lily tensed, her fingers fumbling on the clasp of her bag as she went to snap it closed. At thirteen, there were still a few things about the magical world that were relatively new to her. About to embark on her third year at Hogwarts, she still considered herself to be learning, but she still knew enough to know that being a Muggleborn these days was not exactly anybody’s first choice.

She nodded slowly, eyeing the boy warily. By second year, James Potter had a reputation that preceded him, but he was okay, thought Lily. He was close with the nice girl in the year above, Marlene, and Marlene McKinnon had a good judge of character. Despite being in the same house, Lily didn’t have too much interaction with James Potter, except in big groups. But in her head, that didn’t count. She still knew enough about him to know that his blood was as pure as a spring of fresh water, and that girls liked his hair.

But, even as she waited for a dig at her blood (even a relatively soft one, like a snort or a sympathetic pat on the shoulder), the boy started grinning like she had just told him he’d won his own ice cream truck.

“So you grew up with the … uh,” he paused, his eyebrows knitting together.

“The what?” she prompted, not knowing whether to laugh, or to press her books protectively to her chest and march away.

“The box, you know the box, with the pictures,” he chattered, tracing a rectangle in the air with his fingers. Lily looked at him for a few seconds in silence, gobsmacked, just long enough for him to look uneasy. Here was a well-respected Purebood – from ancient, wealthy lineage – who didn’t seem to care that her blood was tainted or ‘impure’. She didn’t know where he was just playing with her before making a rude comment, or if he really was interested in the ‘picture box’. Lily smiled weakly, allowing herself to hope.

“The television?” she supplied quietly. To her surprise, he nodded so enthusiastically Lily thought his head would pop off any second.

“Yeah,” he chirped, grinning. “How do those things even work?” he mused, and Lily, who had limited knowledge of the exact way electricity worked, merely shrugged.

“You just plug it in.”

He looked at her as if she had spoken another language, but was delighted that she had done so. Lily took in his bewildered expression with a small inkling of excitement. As much as she loved the castle, and she did adore it, occasionally she felt a pang for her home, for the simplicity of her Muggle sanctuary. Sev, who hated his home, spoke of the ‘mundane’ Muggle aspect of their lives with disdain, something like a myth, or at the very least, something that made his stomach turn. And most of her friends weren’t Muggleborns, or lived a very different Muggle life to hers. So she had no one to help her bleed out the pangs of homesickness when they did strike her.

Except James Potter, she thought to herself, with whom she shared nothing but a cordial relationship – friendly, pleasant, but hardly a deep one by any means – and he didn’t seem to mind standing with her and asking her about a television, a contraption most wizards would have found dull and far from illuminating. His whole face seemed pretty illuminated as she explained as best she could how a television worked. It felt nice to talk about something she was absolutely sure of, and James listened, rapt.

He seemed like an entirely different boy from the one she saw around Severus.

“Do you think I could build one?” James asked her, drumming his fingers on his leg as his eyes darted around.

“I’m not sure,” Lily admitted, her cheeks going pink as she laughed. “You could always try, I suppose.”

“Ah, I reckon me and Sirius could figure it out. We’re looking for a new hobby…”

Lily shook her head, smiling at him. “And then, of course, there’s the cinema.” He motioned for her to elaborate. “Well, those pictures that you see on the television, the programs?” He nodded. “Well, sometimes people make much longer ones, and they’re called films, and whenever a new one comes out, they put it on the cinema – er, it’s sort of like a theatre, but instead of a stage, there’s a massive screen where the picture plays.”

He was looking at her now like there was pure gold flowing from her mouth instead of words. “How do I not know any of this?” he hissed, more to himself than to her.

Lily smiled timidly, nudging his elbow. “The Pureblood is lost.”

He blinked at her for a second, and then broke out into a brilliant grin – a smile made of pure sunshine, that somehow had the effect that made everyone feel warm and accepted and cheerful. “Hey, let’s not start with that, yeah? I don’t have much time for that start of thing. Blood is blood. The only thing you really need to worry about is not losing too much of it.”

He didn’t seem to think that much of what he’d just said, but to Lily it was a miracle. It was sweet, and it was said so simply, as if that should have been obvious. He’d probably not contemplated the differences in bloodlines late at night when he couldn’t sleep. He probably didn’t think about it all. Because to him, there weren’t any differences. It brought her a little faith, somehow.

James had already moved on. “So can you help me with my Muggle Studies homework? I don’t know why, but there aren’t a lot of books in the library about it, you know? They keep telling us, “Go find Muggle inventions and do a report” and “Explain the circus culture” but how am I supposed to do that if there aren’t any books on it?”

Lily blinked over at him and grinned. His eyes lit up with fascination. “Yeah. Yeah, I can help you.”

“And you know what me and Sirius really love? Motorcycles! We found some magazines this summer, and they were so wicked!”

Lily just laughed quietly. “Yeah, they are pretty cool.” She sat back, happily listening to James jump from topic to topic, Muggle contraptions the focal point of most of them. Here was the real difference, she thought, between the people in the wizarding world. She’d never been more proud. In years to come, she’d remember that moment, before James Potter had grown his head too big, when he would babble on with her about things from the Muggle world. She saw more and more of that James Potter in later years, and it was that moment that reminded her just how much she liked that boy, the one who liked motorcycles and couldn’t care less what blood she had. This James Potter was someone she liked to have around.


Captain Canary AU: They grew up in the rougher part of town together. Since they were in diapers one could not see Sara Lance or Leonard Snart without the other. Both had mothers who left and fathers who drank their pain away and took it out on their kids with fists (Leonard) or words (Sara). They worked together to keep their heads above water, running scheme after scheme, promising each other that when they could they’d leave. 

When Sara is old enough to go, she begs him to go with her. He can’t. He has his little sister and their father is worse than he ever was so he can’t leave Lisa behind. So at eighteen, Sara leaves, and it breaks Leonard’s heart.

When Sara’s father gets sick ten years later, she returns to help Laurel with him in his final days. When she sees Leonard for the first time he isn’t anything like the sweet boy she remembered. He was harder, colder, and had a reputation that rivaled his father’s when it came to being cruel… And yet, a small part of her still loved him, and still hoped that maybe he loved her, too.

The global community is witnessing - or is involved in the biggest mass exodus and movement of refugees from modern day war-torn countries since World War 2. All of these fleeing human beings have unshakable faith and desperate hope to simply to be safe and migrate to our western countries, and yes, we really can afford to support them. Yet, the western world looks away, in the most colossally destructive, compassionately redundant, heartbreaking way. The cringe inducing phrase ‘Not In My Back Yard’ is back, bigger and fiercer than ever. The NIMBY’s who self-censor their own view of the difficult to watch TV news reports: “oh why must they put this on during our dinner. It really does put me off eating.” They live among us, from every socioeconomic background, every faith, every family, every village, town, city, country. They’re everywhere, and it’s starting to feel like it’s becoming everyone. This must not happen. We need to heal our hearts of the hardness, educate our stale & engrained viewpoints and be aware of journalistic misinformation. We can all do more, and it only starts with one.

The photo above shows a Syrian mother trying to hold her baby, engulfed by a life jacket after swimming in the Mediterranean Sea, all the while holding her little boys head above the water for gulps of air, before mercifully being rescued. Tens of thousands more do not make it.

Imagine this is your little boy - he’s no different to any 8 year old anywhere.

According to the UN, the vast majority of refugees have fled from Syria, where an estimated 220,000 to more than 300,000 people have been killed during its appalling and escalating war. The lack of compassion from many westerners that have been dumbed-down by xenophobic narratives in the mainstream media has been appalling. For once in your life, think for yourself! These people are human beings, our brothers and sisters who are in a perilous and desperate situation (largely caused by imperialism) that require urgent assistance!!

Refugees don’t hide their taxes in the Cayman Islands; Refugees don’t privatise the National Health Service; Refugees don’t influence government cuts to spending; And Refugees don’t scrape together their life savings, leave their loved ones behind, bribe and fight and struggle their way onto the undercarriage of a train, or into a tiny hidden compartment of a lorry with forty other people, watch their friends and loved ones die or get raped, all for the express purpose of bragging about earning £67.46 a week.

Imagine waking your children in the morning, feeding and dressing them, pulling a little girl’s hair into a ponytail, arguing with a little boy about which pair of shoes he wants to wear. Now imagine, as you are doing that, you know later today you will strap their vulnerable bodies into enveloping life jackets and take them with you in a rubber dinghy - through waters which have claimed many who have done the same. Think of the story you’d have to tell to reassure them. Think of trying to make it fun. Consider the emotional strength needed to smile at them and conceal your fear.

Try and envisage how it would feel like when that experience – your frantic flight from war – was then diminished by a vicious, dishonest media that crudely labelled you and your family “migrants,” as if you were a scourge on society. Imagine having little to no voice in countering this description of you so commonly used by governments and journalists.

[photo credit: Associated Press (before editing)]

anonymous asked:

Number 38 pleaseeee

38. “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Louis tugged at his collar underneath his choir robe, wishing he’d gone up a neck size on his dress shirt and squinting into the horribly harsh stage lights.  They seemed to be grower harsher by the moment.      

“All of these kids have worked so hard this semester, we’re so proud.  And the whole department wants to say thank you to all the parents out there who helped… “

Mrs. Kiepert, the Orchestra director, was droning on and on about how excited the whole music department was to be putting on a concert that included a piece for full symphony with a chorale arrangement this year, and Louis just wanted to get the show on the road already and sing the Hallelujah Chorus so he could get off this fucking stage already.    

Should have at least had some water. 

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15 Mind-Blowing Facts That You Should Read (Part 158)

1. In 1912, Franz Reichelt, an Austrian-born French tailor, jumped to his death from the top of the Eiffel Tower while testing a wearable parachute he had designed. The impact of his fall was so great that a 5.9 inch crater was created on the ground where he fell.

2. “The Future Library Project”, established in 2014, aims to collect one story by a renowned writer every year until 2114, after which they will be published. Until then, these stories will be stored in a specially designed room in a library in Oslo. One thousand trees have already been planted in Norway, which will be used to print the stories in 2114.

3. Scientists have found that living near trees can benefit your health to the extent that if you have 10 more trees on a city block, it can impact your health in a similar way that a $10,000 increase in personal income or being 7 years younger would.

4. Women tend to have lighter skin than men to allow for an increased synthesis of Vitamin D from sunlight, and a higher absorption of calcium - both of which are crucial during pregnancy and lactation.

5. Freddie Mercury once snuck Princess Diana into a gay bar in south London. The princess, who was disguised as…

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lala-kate  asked:

He couldn't take his eyes off of her, how she looked in her red one piece, how how she jumped right into the water with her son without worrying over her nails or hair like so many other of the mothers sitting on the sidelines, how she laughed when Roland splashed her, even though she didn't know his boy from Adam. "Apologize, son," he instructed, but she waved off his concern. "It's a birthday party," she mused, standing so bloody close to him in the pool he wanted to kiss her on the spot.

send me three sentences worth of fic and i’ll finish it as a one-shot

But he refrained. Because he was a gentleman, and gentlemen never kissed women without so much as knowing their names, let alone their permission. He smiled at her instead, wading water with his hands as she cocked her brow and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. 

“Regina,” she said, as she sunk back in the water. Were they any deeper, she may have gone under, but Roland couldn’t swim where he couldn’t stand, and the water barely reached her shoulders. Robin caught his son around the waist as he made an attempt at jumping forward, slinging him under his arm and carrying him like one would a ball, before grinning at her and giving her his name, like she’d given him hers.


From under his arm, his son piped up as he kicked his little legs, squirming in his father’s hold. “Roland!” And Regina laughed, cocking her head to the side, her eyes flicking from Roland’s to Robin’s and back. She bent forward, moving in the water so she was eye level with his still squirming son, and she stuck out her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Roland.” 


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#2: You Have an Anxiety Attack at School and He's There

Luke: It was Monday, the first day of a week of finals, and you’d been feeling jittery and nervous all day. You and your best friend, Y/BF/N, were walking in the hallway to get to math, the first class of the day, which you have together. The closer you got to your classroom the more anxious you got. You were shaking so badly you dropped your books, earning you stares from people around you, which caused your breathing to quicken and your heart to beat faster. Your books lay scattered at your feet as your best friend looked at you worriedly, knowing what was going on. “Y/N… you’re sweating really badly. Do you need some water?” “I…no…” your breathing turns into rapid panting. “I—let’s just get to math, we have finals, and—,” you stop talking to bend down and get your books, but you’re so sweaty and trembling so badly that you can’t hold onto them. Suddenly a boy who you recognized but had never talked to before bent down to get them for you. You stare at him, eyes wide, as he offers you a small smile. “I’m Luke. You look like you could use some help carrying your books. Can I carry them for you?” “Yes,” your best friend answers for you. You return Luke’s smile with a weak one of your own, answering for yourself this time. “I’d like that, thank you.”

Ashton:  “Alright, boys and girls,” your English teacher says, pacing the classroom with a stack of papers in her hands. “I have your recent test scores. Some of you did well, and others not so well.” When your teacher gets to you, you excitedly flip your paper over, revealing a 71 circled in red pen. Your parents were gonna kill you. I’m doomed. Literally doomed. You already had a C in this class, and now you probably have a D. You begin to get scared and develop a knot in your stomach. “Um, Y/N?” a girl who sits next to you asks. “You look like a ghost or something. Are you okay?” “I just—I just need to, um, go.” You get out of your seat and dash out of the classroom, putting your back to the wall and sliding down it to the floor. You try to focus on slowing down your rapid heartbeats, but all you could think of is going home and your parents finding out that you got a 71 on your English exam. “Um, are you alright?” You jerk your head up and your eyes lock with a kid you’d never seen before who was most likely a year above you. “Oh, um, I—,” you stand up, wiping your eyes. “I just—my parents—.” You look at him, as he stands there patiently waiting for you. “I got a 71 on an exam in a class I already had a C in. I’m having an anxiety attack, I think, but my parents are going to be so mad at me, and—” Suddenly the boy cuts you off. “Do you want some water?” You nod your head; you can feel sweat trickling down your face. He hands an unopened bottle out to you, and you take it and chug it. “Impressive,” he smiles. “Thanks…” you start, not knowing his name. “Ashton. I’m Ashton.”

Calum: You were walking in the halls after having just parted ways with your friends, going towards your physics class, when out of nowhere you tripped and fell, dropping your books and sending your papers flying. The students around you stared and snickered, not a one of them coming over to help you out. You begin to get nauseas at the attention, and you tremble as you gather your books and papers. Just as you’re about to get up, some guy trips over you and almost falls. “Freak,” he spits at you, turning and walking away. “Whoa, who are you calling a freak?” Calum, a kid in your history class that you barely talked to, interrogates. “The bitch that tripped me, what are you gonna do about it?” the guy asks, folding his arms over his chest. “Leave her alone, man.” You look on in awe as Calum defends you; nobody’s ever stuck up for you when you have your anxiety attacks and cause a mess. “Whatever, asshole,” the guy says, knocking Calum with his shoulder as he walks past. Thank you, you mouth to Calum. He smiles, mouthing back anytime.

Michael: Tonight you were babysitting for a new family and you were freaked. You wanted them to like you because a lot of the families you used to babysit for dropped you for other sitters. You and your friends were sitting at your table at lunch, and you were totally out of the conversation. You had a headache and your stomach was churning, and the last thing you wanted to do was eat. “Hey, Y/N?” your friend Y/F/N asks you. “Are you okay? You don’t look so well.” “I’m just anxious,” you say. “I’m going to the bathroom.” “I’ll come with you,” Y/F/N says. You get up from the lunch table and speed-walk toward the bathroom. You turn a corner hastily and accidentally run into somebody, and you start to fall back until the person catches you. “You okay?” the boy, his light brown eyes staring into yours, asks. “I—um—,” you stutter, at a loss for words. “She’s fine,” your friend says. “Just not feeling well, that’s all.” “It’s Y/N, right?” the boy asks. You nod. “I’m Michael. I hope you feel better, and I’ll see you around?” You keep nodding. “Her name’s Y/N,” your friend calls as Michael walks away, “and she says I hope so!” 

A/N: This sucked so bad, I’m sorry haha but I wanted to get this up for the anon who requested it. Keep inboxing me with preference or blurb requests, and I’ll get them up as soon as I can(: xx