#‘no good comes from concealing your true feelings’ you HYPOCRITE

[eri-pl]

A fic in need of a name (I'll be grateful for ides, not necessarily will use, but I'll be grateful) and maybe some proofreading

<2k words. No TWs, very fluffy. Lúthien and Finrod talk about art.

One warning: IDK how to explain, but: my friend dfw and everyone else who sees Lúthien as unfairly treated well by the narrative: I do kind of admire this unfairness in this fic. Also, she has an …intense personality here. Read at your own discretion.

Lúthien looked at Finrod with her strange, Light-filled-but-not eyes. “Why are my songs so boring to you?��

They stood under the stars and the new moon, in a small glade, now filled with nightingales that looked at the princess of Doriath and whistled, as if pleading her to continue.

“I would not call them boring.”

“You do not say it, but they seem dull to you. Dear cousin, you don't need to speak in courtly lies with us. Never. We are not— hypocrites.” She almost said “Noldor”, he could feel it from her. So who was the hypocrite there? The princess continued: “I simply seek to know how to sing better.”

Despite being born from an union of an elf and an Ainu, she was in many ways like a child. All the Sindar were so. Finrod smiled, but didn't try to conceal his thoughts about the conversation. There were some secrets he needed to keep from her keen mind, but if his feelings could be revealed without enraging anyone…  “They are beautiful, but there is never any conflict in then,” he said gently, observing Lúthien's reaction.

It wasn't anger, but surprise. “Why would a song need strife to be good?”

This gave Finrod pause. How could she have questioned something as obvious as one of the fundamental laws of art? But indeed, the ancient songs — from the Journey, and even the early ones from Aman — did not have any strife in them. Just like hers, they were about things and people simply …being. 

He pondered about it for a while, until the answer came to him. “Without conflict, there's no change. No progress. No clear point to end the song.”

“You end the song when you don't want to sing anymore. Or when you want to sing a different one,” said Lúthien in a tone that was half curious and half patronizing. “Besides, we didn't really have time until recently. At least we didn't have anything to measure its passing. Maybe except me and Daeron maturing. Hey! This is a change. Cherries blooming, bushes growing — that's progress. Walks in the woods—” she put the last idea into action, leaving the glade.

Finrod joined her and they went between the tall beeches, on the forest floor filled with violets and niphredili. “A song about nature never really reaches any destination. Flowers grow and die, and then new ones come to life. It's not a true change.”

“You can't simply replace a rose with another, or a yesteryears’ snowdrop with the next springs’ one. Hmmm, you're a Noldo, you do not know flowers well enough to notice them, so maybe you could. But even then: we do change. We grow. I was a child and now I'm a woman.”

Finrod didn't reply and for a while they just walked.

“You need songs that are about sorrow, don't you?” asked Lúthien softly. “Due to— your king and all that.”

“And all of that… Yes. I think we do. We do need art which promises a change mightier than just the turn of seasons, which tells us that the darkness may one day end and makes it almost— makes it possible to believe. And to achieve this, you do need to start with the darkness.”

“I was born in darkness, dear cousin. Under the stars,” she said, gesturing at the sky, but the moon’s narrow crest peeking between the branches spoiled her reference. 

“I mean a different kind of darkness, sweet child of the stars. Deeper. Not a darkness that never saw light, but darkness that saw light and—” Finrod shivered. “Darkness that comes after the light is gone, not before it's born. Darkness without a single star to break it.”

“I don't think I can imagine it. Still, I'm sure there is a way to sing interesting songs without making them all about violence.”

“Not all conflict is violence.”

“But it's all— you, Noldor, absolutely love to argue. We try to understand each other instead.” 

“So do I.” 

They awoke a sleeping deer at a distance, but it didn't run away like most beasts of Beleriand used to, it only watched them cautiously.

“Well, this is true, you don't argue that much. Anyway, maybe that's it. When people meet and get to know each other more, it also grows in time. And it means more than flowers.”

“Maybe. Is that how you see art here in Doriath?”

“No. As Daeron sees it, the supreme art is: you see a thing. Then you see another thing. Then you see them together in a way that awakens new meanings in both of them. And then you weave all that into words with enough alliteration. The same with music: you play a motive, then another motive, and then you marry them to each other. This makes the verse, the chorus and the ending.”

They entered a denser part of the forest and now walked a narrow path, surrounded by blackberries, bushes and ferns.

“What if the motives don't fit together?”

“He would say it means you're a mediocre musician. But… I think if they don't fit you need to find a way to force them. Or, rather, help them. Change one or the other into a different mode. Or change the tuning. Or keep playing the harp but add singing to it and tell everyone that it had been your plan since the beginning.”

“You can't change the rules of art.”

“What force is going to forbid me?”

Finrod laughed. “I don't think it's that easy, but maybe you are right. Maybe there is a way to reconcile both of our ideas. To create art that is not boring, but not violent either. But I do not know where to even start looking for inspiration.” Right now, the bushes clinging to his clothing and pulling on the delicate embroidery weren't particularly inspiring. 

“You always seek something, wandering here and there. I'm sure you will find a lot of wonderful inspiration.”

“Don't you want to travel?”

“Oh, I love to travel!” said Lúthien in a laughing voice. “But in Doriath you can discover wonders too! Maybe the same answers that you seek far away I'll find in here. Or maybe we'll both find sorrow.”

Finrod blinked. That had been a strange turn of the conversation, but not the first of them. “I don't think beauty can exist without sorrow.”

“Then should I wish sorrow beyond measure for both of us?”

“That would be a very Noldorin approach to art, wouldn't it?” he asked half-jesting, but curious.

“Sorrow and strife aren't the same.”

“How are they not? Sorrow is born from loss, and loss is born from violence.”

“When I was a child, I cried about clouds disappearing, because I knew I'd never see any of them again. And yet nobody took them away from me by force. And I wouldn't fight for the clouds, as that would make no sense. So I remembered them. But it's not really the same.”

As Lúthien spoke, they entered a small clearing and, as if responding to her, a small cloud hid the moon and hung above them, backlined with silver. A few others passed nearby: fuzzy dark shapes, but not as dark as— Finrod looked away from the sky, back at the princess.

“You could see clouds in the starlight?”

“Of course. Can't you?” She looked back at him with wide eyes.

“Not with enough detail to miss them. I never looked much into the sky anyway, not back then.”

They left the clearing. The forest was even darker now, but there was a peace to it.

“You Noldor are so strange. I wish I would know you better.”

“I wish I could understand you better too.”

“I have an idea.” Without saying more, Lúthien led him to a small grassy hill, not even as tall as the surrounding trees. A narrow path went upwards. “I'll show you another way in which we entertain ourselves here—well, I do— but first tell me, cousin, what would you want if you could wish for anything?”

“To meet my loved ones again,” said Finrod quietly. “I'm not sure how this would happen, unless— but even then… I'm sorry. You deserve better than hearing about any of that.”

“Only so little?” Lúthien laughed, though it felt forced. “I want everything! I want a love like my parents’, but let it be even more so. I want songs to be sung about me— not only by Daeron — songs that even to you would sound interesting. I want to behold the most beautiful treasure in the world. I want to be free and to fly. I want to sing a song mightier than my mother’s. I want to seek a star and wear it as a trinket. I want—” She paused as they reached the top. “No, now it's your turn. What would you want if you could ask for anything?”

“I want there to be a solution to all that.”

“All what?”

He looked away. “All the darkness I won't trouble you with.”

“If you won't, surely someone else will.”

“Even so, I shall not.”

“Then try not to trouble yourself with it either, at least for now. Only look.” Lúthien lied on the hillside and tumbled down, like a log, if logs could laugh loudly. 

She rose from the grass at the bottom and began walking back. “You are humble and I do ask for so much. But it's alright if I can't have any of that. I'm not stubborn. Well, I am not as stubborn as some believe. But if I can, I do want all of my wishes to come true. And I want to travel. To see strange lands beyond stormy seas, cities both old and young and alien, new countries my mother never knew, never dreamed of… To have my home there. I hope I will not miss her too much.”

“You know such places may not even exist. Except maybe one—” Finrod shivered at the very thought, even though they were miles South from there and under Melian’s Girdle. “—but nobody would ever go there of their own will, especially not someone like you, sweet princess. And about all other lands your mother could surely tell you. After all—” 

Lúthien waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, she saw the world before it was born and sang it into being. It's boring how everybody keeps reminding me about that. But she is also my mother. Of course I desire to reach beyond her, that's how it is with mother's and daughters. Also, how would you know there's no place unknown for her, Noldo? You've barely seen any of Beleriand, and yet you try to tell me how the world is?” Her words were a challenge, but her tone was friendly.

Finrod bowed his head. “That is true. Neither of us have seen much yet. But if you ever find such a place…”

The princess stood next to him again, picking leaves of grass from her hair. “I will surely show it to you. Though you could probably wish for a better guide.” 

Finrod smiled, remembering the chaotic string of excited tangents that the last few days have been. “Many things could be better, your guidance isn't by far the first of them. And anyway I am really glad to be here with you, Lúthien. You are very kind and fascinating. And I'm honored to learn the customs of your people.”

“Like tumbling from tops of hills? It's not a very Noldo—”

“That's the point.” Finrod lay on the grass and let the steepness of the terrain pull him down. 

It felt only half as bumpy as he'd expected, and in its strange, wild way liberating.

[riszellira]

Memorial of Saint Peter Claver, Priest

Reflection: Huli Ka!

There is rising action in today’s short Gospel passage, a continuation from two days back. The tension grows. The dynamic duo of the scribes and Pharisees are more eagle-eyed than before, “watching closely to see if he would heal on the Sabbath.” They are obviously looking for a smoking gun evidence to pin Him down on the serious matter (or so they claim) of ritualistic rules associated with the holy Sabbath day.

Ironically, the investigative group is busy “working” on their case. They are “seeking for an accusation” to make on Him who is busy saving lives and making people whole, quite apart from making them holy by teaching in the synagogue.

The whole dramatic scene reminds me of children playing hide and seek. The “it” dutifully does his or her job looking for other players who hide themselves in every possible way. With a tone of triumph, the “it” invariably cries, “Huli ka!”(You’re caught!) when he or she succeeds to ferret anyone out of the hiding hole. But this is innocent child’s play that has no moralistic undertones.

But I am reminded, too, of games adults play—games associated with intrigue, envy, manipulation, and willful defamation and destruction of other people���s good names. To be honest, there are times when we play such games all done with avowed good intentions, or on account of high moral principles, like that of safeguarding the sublime sanctity of the Lord’s day.

But we, so-called adults, are often crafty and wily. We can ostensibly act in the name of good intentions, while expertly concealing our sinister evil motives, and do everything with a straight face, and still come out heroes in the eyes of unsuspecting observers. Now, it’s my turn to use the phrase against us, hypocrites: “Huli ka, balbon!”

Enough of these games, pharisaical me! Holy ka ba talaga? (Are you really holy?)

~Fr. Chito Dimaranan, SDB

When it comes to your relationship with God, do you still try to conceal your true feelings and thoughts from Him?

Lord, You know my innermost being. You know all my thoughts—there’s nothing I can hide from You. May my love for You be paramount in all that I do each day. Amen. 

Prayer

… for a deep and profound respect for life, especially for the unborn.

… for the strength and healing of the sick.

… for the healing and peace of all families.

Finally, we pray for one another, for those who have asked our prayers and for those who need our prayers the most.

GOD BLESS!

[intothenoise]

Thanksgiving Ambivalence

“Do not judge others, and you will not be judged. For you will be treated as you treat others. The standard you use in judging is the standard by which you will be judged. And why worry about a speck in your friend’s eye when you have a log in your own? How can you think of saying to your friend, ‘Let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,’ when you can’t see past the log in your own eye? Hypocrite! First get rid of the log in your own eye; then you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend’s eye. —Matthew 7:1-5

Thanksgiving, as a holiday, inspires feelings of ambivalence.

On the one hand, such holidays are deeply appreciated. Intentional time to gather together and celebrate with family and friends—against the daily grind of life as uprooted and atomized individuals always pulled on by the centrifugal forces of our “late-capitalist” society—is essential. And, even if political tensions within families are at an all time high (and we mustn't diminish the ethical, real-world consequences of our often contradictory positions), it is important to move beyond hashtags and experience one another as whole, substantive persons rather than political opponents. Finally, a posture of thanksgiving and gratitude for all of the good in our lives is indispensable if we are to live authentically as persons committed to radical generosity and restorative justice.

On that note, I am incredibly grateful for you and the many friends of Sabeel within North America and around the world, our dear friends and partners in the struggle to liberate religion from those who misuse it to justify oppression and dispossession. This coming Tuesday is Giving Tuesday, a day rooted in radical generosity, as well as the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People. I encourage you to give joyously of your time, talent, and treasure to the cause of justice.

On the other hand, as a holiday, Thanksgiving is deeply problematic. Even as many recognize the mythological nature of the traditional Thanksgiving story, not everyone recognizes the ongoing impact such destructive narratives continue to have. Constructing our “primordial myths,” and therefore national identity, on the basis of such contrived stories of goodwill, between native and needy settler, works to dismiss and justify the settler-colonial violence upon which our nation was built and by which it has been sustained to the present day. A persecuted minority of religious pilgrims finding freedom and opportunity in the “new world” is a lovely American dream. But, it must not be used to conceal or excuse the ethnic cleansing, genocide, and racial apartheid so central to the true history of our nation from its inception. Rather, these national mythologies try to convince us that colonial violence was never inherent to our national existence, but merely a temporary aberration, and that today the situation has been pretty much resolved. As such, to perpetuate such narratives uncritically is to diminish, sideline, and silence the voices of our indigenous and dispossessed neighbors with whom we live side by side.

For those of us familiar with the struggle indigenous Palestinians have endured in the face of settler-colonial violence for the past 140 years, we know how infuriating and heartbreaking it is to hear time and again the self-serving and self-justifying mythologies surrounding the state of Israel, its origins and its contemporary conduct. This is particularly true with regard to the denial of and/or justifications for the Nakba, military occupation, settlement expansion, and even the very identity of native Palestinians. Jews are very real victims of horrific European bigotry and white Christian supremacy. Nevertheless, none of this can be used as an excuse for the open bigotry, settler colonial conquest, apartheid, and ethnic cleansing that has continued apace in the Holy Land.

So, what does it mean for me, the child of European settlers, to stand in solidarity with the people of Palestine? In truth, it could mean a lot of things. But first, it is for me to examine my own national, familial, and personal narratives and self-justifying mythologies and to acknowledge my own complicity in the dispossession of indigenous Americans. This isn’t merely an abstract acknowledgement, however, for my own family history is entwined with one “celebrated trapper” responsible for carrying out pogroms of expulsion against the Mescalero Apache and Navajo peoples of the American southwest, as well as numerous campaigns in California. At one time, his military orders were as direct as:

All Indian men of that tribe [Mescalero Apache] are to be killed whenever and wherever you find them: the women and children will not be harmed, but you will take them prisoners and feed them at Fort Stanton...

This is not a history I can afford to ignore.

Second, it is for me to commit to hearing the stories and narratives of the dispossessed, in their own words and on their own terms, while allowing these stories to challenge my own received mythos. As emotionally challenging and psychologically destabilizing as such a process can be (and has been) with regard to my own identity, it is necessary and ultimately results in a more rich and authentically human experience. And, it is a never-ending process of growth. It means: 

Centering indigenous and other marginalized voices, be they Palestinian, Native American, black, or any other; 

Elevating or amplifying indigenous voices when they are otherwise silenced; and, 

“Running defense” when such voices are confronted with retaliatory violence by those who would seek them harm, most especially from those within my own community.

Finally, it is not to infantilize, but to respect the complexity and diversity of voices, opinions, and allegiances that exist within marginalized communities, as much as they do any community.

Sure, from persecution to poverty, some might say there were very valid reasons for Scotch-Irish, Huguenot, and later Italian emigration (looking to my own heritage). But, this certainly doesn’t justify or excuse settler-colonial violence and indigenous genocide. Although understanding multiple narratives is incredibly important, it is also true that not all narratives are created equal. For some have been constructed explicitly to justify injustice and the exploitation of others. We so easily and so often construct self-serving narratives and ideological, even theological, justifications to espouse our own imagined innocence. At the same time, we promote the “fully-justifiable” mistreatment of others, leading to the rationalization of violence in a multitude of contexts. And, as innocuous as the Thanksgiving story might seem on the surface, this is precisely the effect it has had. This also is the effect Zionist mythmaking has had in the silencing and sidelining of indigenous Palestinian voices.

Ultimately, acknowledging one’s victimhood neither justifies nor excuses one’s victimization of another, nor should it blind us to our own complicity in that victimization. Theologically, the Exodus has long proven itself a powerful metaphor for liberation. The genius of Palestinian Liberation Theology, however, is in how it forces us to ask to the critical question: what happens next? What happens after the exodus? After the revolution? How do we reconcile stories of liberation with the lessons of Canaan and of conquest? Is it even possible?

So, we are challenged to remove the logs from our eyes, to critically examine our own self-justifying narratives, to repent, and to reimagine the true meaning of liberation. For my own liberation cannot come at the expense of another’s, as we are inextricably bound one to another. Nor can it be found in the blind acceptance of an unjust status quo. I close, therefore, with a recent paraphrase I read of indigenous activist and academic Nikki Sanches, from her talk Decolonization Is for Everyone: “Whether our ancestors were colonized or colonizers, trauma is in our bloodline and we are in desperate need of freedom and liberation. ‘This history is not your fault,’ she tells us, ‘but it is your responsibility.’”

Happy Thanksgiving.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

(reader RP)

"And to think I thought you were JUST an awful tease" you snort, feeling tightness in your chest as you press your hand down onto raven's head in some semblance of a pat.

...it was softer than you thought, and with a hard swallow you press down harder in an intentional ruffling of hair to take pleasure in his startle squawk before your irritation and buried distress can wane.

different yet the same. the man in front of you is raven, but not your raven that you miss, even if some parts of them feel the same and bring you some sense of comfort.

homesickness leaks from the quiet panic you feel as you slump gingerly against a wall, legs aching as you ignore raven's complains. exactly how much time has past? would you have to beg him for a favour to use his bed?

"Hey," you ask weakly, trying to hide the wobble in your throat. "im feeling peckish. do you have anything to eat here that isn't something spicy?"

[Referencing this post!]

***Art is by tinyfantasminha!***

“I’ll have you know that I am an awful tease—and more. In fact, I’m the absolute worst,” Raven smirked, shaking off your hand.

He expected his witty jab to land harder, but his smugness couldn’t seem to penetrate the dense fog of uneasiness that lingered about you. It was a quiet sort of panic, the kind that no one noticed until it was too late and had you by the throat. Choking, choking... stealing your breath away as you leaned your back against the wall.

A poor attempt to steady yourself, both your physical body and your trembling voice.

Raven noticed.

“... Hey. If you’re scared, then let yourself be scared. No good comes from concealing your true feelings.

“Hmmm, to start with... It would be a good idea to put some hot food in you to ease your anxieties. Since it seems you do not care for spicy dishes, please inform me what you would like to have instead. I will so graciously prepare it for you, so you’d best be thankful.”

[princeescaluswords]

Taking the Risk

@mimi-dracula I wanted to answer your comment, but someone had flooded that post notes with a lot of the standard Stiles-stan perspective and I didn't want to add fuel to the fire.

You're right. Stiles had a lot of reasons not to take the Bite, not the least was the chance it could kill him. That's not the problem that @bigskydreaming and I have with his actions in that scene. I want to start off with stating that I understand that Stiles is not being presented as a rational actor in that scene. I know this and accept it. My problem goes beyond that scene to the rest of the show, where I can point out to many instances where Stiles holds Scott to a standard of behavior that he refuses to hold himself to or to even try.

In Lies of Omission, Stiles states the case that he can't be held responsible for what he did with Donovan. For the purposes of this post, I will completely set aside the situation with Scott not knowing what actually happened, which is absolutely Stiles's fault. You can't lie and conceal the truth about an event and then hold someone to whom you lied and concealed accountable for not knowing the truth. Logic doesn't work that way.

My problem is that Stiles is claiming incompetence -- he can't be held responsible for what happened because he doesn't have the ability to deal with it. In this case, it's true. This isn't the first time that Stiles has made this claim, examples of which can be found in Lunatic (1x09), Omega (2x01), Battlefield (2x11), The Overlooked (3x10), and More Bad Than Good (3x14). He even does this to humorous affect in both Muted (4x03) and Codominance (5x13).

On a certain level, this is fair. Stiles recognizes his limited resources, his neurodivergence, his insecurity, and his physical limitations. In any other situation, I would consider this self-awareness a virtue, but it is Stiles's concurrent behavior that spoils it. I don't mind him not being BAMF Stiles; I mind him being a hypocrite about not being one (and by extension, the way the production and the fandom celebrate this hypocrisy).

He claims the right to dictate to Scott (and others), to judge Scott (and others), to punish Scott (and others), without extending the same right not only to Scott but to his own father. He never acknowledges to anyone else (there are plenty of scenes, I feel, where he understands his own failings privately) that he screws up, and both the production and the fandom are content to let him get away with that.

Think about Ouroboros (5x08) when he tries to confront Scott about his actions surrounding Corey (which, before anyone gets their undies in a wad, I am not defending Scott's violation of Corey). He scolds Scott and then Mason for acting rashly, while he's hiding someone's death. After demanding Scott be better, he'll go on to sabotage their investigation to protect himself while doing so and never see the problem.

It's not fair to Scott that Stiles can hold his friend to a higher standard while simultaneously excusing himself from any standard at all. They're the same age; they have the same life experiences. Scott's an alpha werewolf but that comes with disadvantages like increased aggression and being targeted by indestructible steam-punk mad scientists. The full moon affects Scott just as much as it affects Liam. That Scott has managed to successfully resist it doesn't mean he doesn't struggle to do it and it doesn't abrogate Stiles's responsibility for his own actions.

To be fair, Stiles isn't the only one who does this. My friend @momentofmemory in a brilliant insight called it the Pedestal Problem, where the members of the McCall Pack and their allies confuse Scott's achievements with manifestations. When Stiles bitterly reproaches Scott with "I know you wouldn't have done it. You probably would've just figured something out, right?" he's acting as if it just happens because of who Scott is rather than something Scott has to work towards at great personal cost.

When Stiles screams "Some of us are human!" at Scott, it bothers me because not only because it is extraordinarily cruel -- Stiles above all others knows Scott's fear of being the monster; to use it like this makes Stiles no better than Theo -- but it's also an excruciatingly dubious moral dodge. There's nothing about being human that prevents Stiles from telling the truth at the moment or previously. There's nothing about being human that prevents Stiles from recognizing that this is his mistake, and that Scott's lycanthropy doesn't shift the blame one single inch.

My frustration is, and I think I share this with @bigskydreaming (though I don't want to put words in his mouth), is that the production turned around and said that it does. That Scott's role as leader means he must "get them back," which includes taking responsibility for what happened between Stiles and Donovan. Fandom takes his one step farther and blames the entire situation on Scott, to the point of absolving Stiles of any wrongdoing at all. But the truth is, Stiles killed someone and lied about it, and in any human civilization, that's wrong.

In the end, my dissatisfaction is not about Stiles's refusal to seek the Bite, because there are plenty of reasons not to do so, it's about Stiles's use of the fact that Scott did get bit against his will and yet managed to avoid becoming a monster as a justification for his own bad behavior, and how the production and the fandom embraced it.

[dahlia-coccinea]

So I think @longagoitwastuesday and I have chatted before about Nelly perhaps having a preference for Heathcliff over Cathy? But I saw it mentioned today and thought it would be interesting to look at some of the instances I can remember that perhaps show this. Personally, I think she doesn’t really defend or is biased towards him (I’d go so far as to say I think she sometimes shows prejudice against him) but they do have an interesting connection since in many ways she was a mother figure to him from 7 to 16 years old. My opinion of Nelly is that once she’s made a judgment about a person it takes quite a lot for her to reshape her opinion of them. Her opinions are also very much emblematic of her position as a servant in the house and that has been discussed already by some critics. 

Regarding her biases towards Catherine and Heathcliff, it is apparent Cathy was always the wayward daughter in her mind in part because she caused her master, Mr. Earnshaw, much anxiety and distress. Heathcliff on the other hand inspired sympathy in part because of Mr. Earnshaw’s feelings towards him as we see in Chapter 7:

“I remembered how old Earnshaw used to come in when all was tidied, and call me a cant lass, and slip a shilling into my hand as a Christmas-box; and from that I went on to think of his fondness for Heathcliff, and his dread lest he should suffer neglect after death had removed him: and that naturally led me to consider the poor lad’s situation now, and from singing I changed my mind to crying”

In another scene, a little earlier in Chapter 4, we see where her sympathy for him started to grow while all the children were sick, and after her initial siding with Hindley:

“Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn’t wit to guess that I was compelled to do it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble.”

And again in the same chapter after Hindley throws an iron weight at Heathcliff and Heathcliff mentions that Hindley has given him “three thrashings” that week alone and his arm is “black to the shoulder”: 

“He complained so seldom, indeed, of such stirs as these, that I really thought him not vindictive: I was deceived completely, as you will hear.”

Eventually, she recants a lot of this early partial softness towards him and she shows fear and hatred towards him notably during the scene of catching him kissing Isabella when she cries, “Judas! Traitor!...You are a hypocrite, too, are you? A deliberate deceiver.” Before that, she describes his visits to the Grange and how she decided she must keep a close eye on him, Catherine, and Isabella, saying:

“I wanted something to happen which might have the effect of freeing both Wuthering Heights and the Grange of Mr. Heathcliff quietly; leaving us as we had been prior to his advent. His visits were a continual nightmare to me; and, I suspected, to my master also.”

But there is something the returns to her now and then, that makes her sympathize with him. After Catherine’s death in Chapter 16, she tells Lockwood:

“Poor wretch!” I thought; “you have a heart and nerves the same as your brother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal them? Your pride cannot blind God! You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of humiliation.”

Surprisingly these feelings of sympathy are during his mistreatment of Isabella. A few days later, being aware that he stayed outside of the Grange, she “opened one of the windows; moved by his perseverance to give him a chance of bestowing on the faded image of his idol one final adieu.” He completely does not deserve her kindness - yet since Nelly does seem to make lasting judgments of people she can’t help but feel for him.

The scene that I think is perhaps most representative of her confused feelings towards him is when she informs him of Catherine’s death:

“He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes, howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death with knives and spears. I observed several splashes of blood about the bark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably the scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the night. It hardly moved my compassion—it appalled me: still, I felt reluctant to quit him so.”

Her feelings aren’t always so confused though - there are times when her aversion is clear. In Chapter 11 when she talks to little Hareton and “bade him tell his father that a woman called Nelly Dean was waiting to speak with him.” When Hareton brings out Heathcliff instead, she is so struck by fear and dread that she “turned directly and ran down the road as hard as ever I could race, making no halt till I gained the guide-post, and feeling as scared as if I had raised a goblin.”

I know I’m missing quite a few scenes where she expresses true disgust and hatred towards Heathcliff and his actions towards Cathy and Linton but this is getting quite long lol. I think these are enough to show that she does have a complicated understanding of her feelings towards Heathcliff - at least much less clear than her obvious dislike of Catherine. 

As I mentioned at the beginning, a lot of her judgments are long-lasting, and tend to side with her master. This is repeated with Cathy II who behaves intolerably to Hareton, yet Nelly is quick to defend or only lightly admonish her, compared to how she easily condemns her mother as “haughty,” “headstrong,” and “saucy.” Some critics believe this is because Cathy II is still good to Edgar, who is Nelly’s master, compared to the grief Catherine Earnshaw caused her father...but I’ll leave those thoughts for another time.

[fanimesenseiwrites]

Kidnapped to Hell (pt. 18)

Hoshiko led Lucifer to the library once they got back to the house.

Lucifer opened the concealed passage to his study. "We can talk in here if you prefer."

Hoshiko nodded as they headed into the study. "It'll be more private if we're still talking by the time everyone else gets home."

"My thoughts exactly," Lucifer concurred before following Hoshiko into the study and closing the door behind him.

Hoshiko sat down in one of the wingback chairs and hummed.

Lucifer smiled slightly and sat next to Hoshiko in the other chair. "What is it?"

Hoshiko looked at him. "You know, your study is actually a special place for me."

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "It is?"

Hoshiko nodded. "This is where we made our pact."

"It is indeed, we also shared our first kiss in here," Lucifer added.

"Our first time may not have been in here but we've had some pretty great sex in here too," Hoshiko reminded him with a grin.

Lucifer chuckled and shook his head. "Yes, yes we have."

Hoshiko smiled at Lucifer's grin, glad to see him more relaxed than he had appeared the past couple days.

Lucifer smiled back at Hoshiko and leaned back into his chair.

Hoshiko slipped off their shoes and pulled their feet into their chair, getting comfortable for what they expected to be a long conversation. "So..."

Lucifer perked up, recognizing that tone to indicate that Hoshiko wanted to talk. "Yes?"

Hoshiko looked at Lucifer. "Firstly, I wanted to apologize for how... hostile I've been towards you these past couple days. I've also been pretty hypocritical in regards to you and that wasn't fair of me, and I'm sorry."

Lucifer nodded. "I accept your apology. I understand now why you acted like that."

"I'm glad that you do. For as mad as I was at you, I was even more terrified that you didn't love me anymore," Hoshiko confessed.

Lucifer frowned. "Whatever would give you that idea?"

"Well, you didn't save me. And then you didn't even go down to the eight circles to get me, and then you just seemed so... distant, especially compared to your brothers."

"I'm sorry you felt that way, but I assure that everything I did was in your best interest... at least, I thought it was."

Hoshiko nodded. "Can you explain to me your perspective? Because I need to understand too."

Lucifer nodded. "Of course. I assumed that there would be time later for comforting you, I needed to do what I could to make sure you were safe first."

Hoshiko sighed. "Not that I don't appreciate that, but you could've taken a little time to come talk to me. I think that would've saved us both a headache."

"Well, why didn't you come talk to me? It's obvious that you were holding in your feelings for a while now," Lucifer asked.

Hoshiko puffed out their cheeks and looked away.

"See? It's not so easy when you're the one under the microscope," Lucifer teased.

Hoshiko sighed. "... we're more alike than we care to admit sometimes," Hoshiko's accent came out with their last sentence.

"Hm, I was wondering if that was going to rear its head," Lucifer commented on the appearance of Hoshiko's accent.

Hoshiko looked at him. "I'm so sorry," they told him sarcastically.

"I didn't mean that to be derogatory, I just know your accent tends to show face when you're upset."

"Yeah, I know you know."

"Is it so bad to know and be like each other?" Lucifer asked, sensing Hoshiko's growing annoyance.

"It is if you're not going to use that knowledge to your advantage," Hoshiko argued.

"We," Lucifer corrected.

"Excuse me?" Hoshiko asked, genuinely confused.

"We should use the knowledge that we are like each other to both of our advantages. If I am willing to admit my faults in this incident to you, then you need to do the same to me," Lucifer bargained.

Hoshiko shifted in their seat, uncomfortable with Lucifer calling them out and him being right about it.

Lucifer watched Hoshiko, waiting for them to respond.

Hoshiko sighed and looked at him. "You're right... I apologized for not treating you right, but I had a inkling of how you'd act and I used that to make things harder rather than make them easier."

Lucifer nodded. "Thank you for saying so."

Hoshiko sighed. "Yeah, yeah..."

"But why would you self-sabotage like that?"

"Why would you assume you had a nightmare about me being in danger and then worry about me anyways? But then still not do anything about it?" Hoshiko counter asked.

Lucifer opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself.

"Uh huh," was Hoshiko's only comment, obviously feeling vindicated.

Lucifer huffed. "I thought you wanted to talk in order to make things better," he reminded them.

"You would've done the same thing," Hoshiko pointed out.

Lucifer sighed.

Hoshiko sighed as well. "I'm sorry..."

"I forgive you," Lucifer replied.

Hoshiko got up and walked over to Lucifer and sat down in his lap, straddling him and taking his face into their hands. "Let's try again."

Lucifer nodded and grabbed Hoshiko's hands with either of his.

"I love you a lot, Lucifer," Hoshiko started. "I... I got really scared when you didn't come save me, especially once I knew you did get my message. I thought you didn't love me anymore, I was afraid you didn't care... and so I immediately retreated away from you, even when I so desperately wanted to be comforted by you."

Lucifer moved his hands down to Hoshiko's waist and wrapped his arms around them.

"Then Solomon told me what you had assumed and I saw your text and I got so mad," Hoshiko continued. "I thought that you were either an idiot or you had let your pride come before me. Either way, I thought it was cowardly."

Lucifer grimaced at that.

"Yeah, I know. But that was how I felt. I understand that I probably could've saved us both some heartache if I had just talked to you, but... I just couldn't. I didn't want to, I wanted you to suffer like I had suffered. Which, I know is so fucked up but..." Hoshiko sighed. "I dunno."

"Yes you do," Lucifer goaded gently.

Hoshiko half-heartedly glared at him. "Don't you go sounding like my therapist."

Lucifer chuckled. "I want to hear everything. Just keep talking."

Hoshiko nodded. "Speaking of my therapist, I know I do have a habit of looking for trouble..."

"Yes, you do," Lucifer agreed.

"Hush you," Hoshiko told Lucifer as they smacked his chest playfully.

Lucifer chuckled.

"Anyways," Hoshiko continued. "My therapist told me that she sees this a lot in people who have been abused long term. They don't know what to do if they're not dealing with a crisis, so even when they finally get to a good place they may create their own problems because they just don't know anything else... so I guess I do that sometimes. That's why I self-sabotage... and I'm working on it, but it takes more than just a couple therapy sessions to fix it."

Lucifer nodded. "I see."

Hoshiko suddenly got nervous at Lucifer's lack of words.

Lucifer pecked his lips against their's. "Thank you for telling me, and I'm proud of you for trying."

Hoshiko teared up. "Don't tell me that."

Lucifer frowned and reached up to stroke their cheek. "Why not?"

"Because I'll get all emotional if you do, I don't do well with praise," they whined.

Lucifer chuckled. "I know, but you need to get used to it."

Hoshiko huffed. "It's your turn," they reminded him, trying to change the subject.

"Right." Lucifer glanced away, wondering where he should start.

Hoshiko waited for him to start, but when they grew impatient they asked: "Why did you think me contacting you was just a nightmare?"

Lucifer sighed. He didn't look at Hoshiko as he spoke. "... It is not uncommon for me to dream of you in danger."

Hoshiko blinked. "Oh. I didn't know..."

"Yes, though I will admit that this experience was different from my typical nightmares. I suppose I just didn't really think about how different it was until it was already too late."

Hoshiko nodded.

"By the time I had learned that Diavolo and my brothers were anxious and worried as well, we contacted Solomon, and then Barbatos came to tell us where you were. I assumed he had looked into the past and saw you being abducted."

Hoshiko nodded and glanced away, feeling a little uncomfortable at the thought of that.

"And then Diavolo instructed everyone on what to do, he had Barbatos and Satan go down with him to the Eight Circles... and he asked me to stay and keep my brothers calm and prepare for you to be brought back home."

"So that's why you didn't come..." Hoshiko sighed as tears welled up in their eyes.

Lucifer frowned. "What is it?"

"I just..." Hoshiko sighed. "Some times I forget that Diavolo isn't just our friend, he's the crown prince... the future king... your boss essentially. So when he tells you do something and you just do it, I get frustrated sometimes... I feel like you chose him over me."

Lucifer immediately opened his mouth to argue, but Hoshiko cut him off.

"I know it's not that simple, I'm just telling you how I feel... I know, I just have to get over it."

Lucifer nodded and stroked Hoshiko's cheek. "Were this a less dire situation, I would have insisted to go with him... but I didn't want to delay your rescue any more."

Hoshiko nodded. "Yeah, I guess that was a good idea..."

Lucifer smiled slightly. "What else can I do to ease your mind?"

Hoshiko looked away. "So, earlier... ya know, when we were fightin' and arguin', you implied that I... when I die, I'll..." They were obviously very uncomfortable with saying it out loud.

"I shouldn't have said that, that was out of line, even if we were already heated. I'm sorry," Lucifer promptly apologized.

"That's fine, but is it true?" Hoshiko asked, suddenly concerned about their fate.

"No... at least not anymore," Lucifer assured them. "That did used to be the default when the Devildom and celestial realm were actively at war with each other. But that was one of the first things Diavolo changed when he started working to foster peace between the three realms... though I never felt the need to verify it until now."

Hoshiko nodded and glanced away.

Lucifer stroked Hoshiko's cheek.

Hoshiko leaned into his touch and looked back at him.

"I'd be lying if I said I was just a hundred percent better and okay with everything's that's happened, but I am better."

Lucifer nodded once. "That makes sense, I think I understand."

Hoshiko smiled slightly. "I'm glad, thank you."

Lucifer kissed the top of their head. "You're welcome."

Hoshiko yawned. "Okay, I think it's time for bed."

"I agree." Lucifer stood up, and carried Hoshiko.

"Oh!" Hoshiko wrapped their arms around Lucifer's neck. "Thank you."

"Anything for you, Starlight," he told Hoshiko as he carried them to their room.

Hoshiko hummed quietly.

Lucifer took Hoshiko into their room and straight to their bathroom and set them on the counter.

"Why didn't you put me in bed?" Hoshiko asked with a small pout.

"You need to take off your makeup first," Lucifer insisted as he grabbed a cotton ball and the eye-makeup remover.

Hoshiko sighed. "I don't want to but you're right."

Lucifer smirked. "Yes, now close your eyes."

Hoshiko just did as they were told.

Lucifer gently and methodically removed all of Hoshiko's makeup for them.

Hoshiko looked at him and smiled when he was finished. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. If you'll take off your dress, I'll hang it up for you," Lucifer offered.

"You just want to see me naked," Hoshiko teased as they stood up off the counter.

Lucifer chuckled. "While that is always a delight, I do not intend to act on that tonight."

"Good. Because I need to sleep tonight," Hoshiko reminded him as they took off their dress and handed it to him.

"I know you do," Lucifer replied before taking the dress and going to hang it up.

Hoshiko walked into their bedroom and put on their night gown before climbing into their bed.

Lucifer walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. "Is there anything else I can do for you to help you sleep more comfortably?"

"Don't let any of your brothers wake me up," Hoshiko commanded.

Lucifer chuckled. "No one will disturb you, I promise."

Hoshiko nodded and got comfortable in bed.

"Alright," Lucifer started as he stood up. "I'll leave you be."

"Thanks. Good night."

"Good night, sleep well."

"I think I actually will tonight," Hoshiko told him as they snuggled further into their blanket.

Lucifer chuckled softly as he turned off the light. "Good night," he reiterated before walking out and closing the door behind him.

Hoshiko hummed quietly to themself and closed their eyes. They didn't take long to fall asleep, and for the first time in a few days they stayed asleep.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18

[painted-starlight]

Frozen: Love As Transactional and Contradictory Themes

Warning: LONG POST, Anti-Frozen, Anti-Kristan//na, Anti-Agdu//na, swearing, discussion of colonialism

Tl;dr/Summary: The romantic pairings of Frozen, which are meant to drive the theme of unconditional love appear less romantic and more transactional. Love is something that is owed if you do nice stuff for the person you love. 

The romances feel convenient for male characters and give them what they want at the expense of Anna and Iduna’s agency or against their best interests. This convenience isn’t even beneficial in the long run for either party, because it actually hinders the male character’s growth by making them the lesser of two evils rather than good characters with likable personalities of their own. 

Both Kristoff and Agnarr are meant to be ideal love interests, but they are very underdeveloped despite the former being Anna’s true love and the latter being the center of Iduna’s character motivation. 

Introduction

Frozen’s interesting in the sense that I completely understand what it’s trying to do, but that doesn’t mean it does it well. 

The story itself is constantly contradicting itself an it’s own themes. The theme of Frozen is that love should come with no strings. Unconditional love is the right way to love someone, either romantically and platonically. Iduna and Agnarr’s love for Elsa came with strings while Anna’s didn’t. Which is why Anna’s act of love was the cure, while Elsa suffered under them. 

Kristoff appeared to have a conditional relationship with Anna but then it turned unconditional, while Hans’s love appeared unconditional but in the end was conditional. 

However, upon examining Frozen and it’s sequel, it’s themes become...muddled at best and hypocritical at worst. Especially when it comes to it’s romantic pairings. 

Kristoff and Anna, as well as Iduna and Agnarr are one of the biggest issues that threaten to undermine the very themes of Frozen and it’s views on unconditional love. Note that I think it’s views on platonic unconditional love are...OK to an extent (at least in the first film), but it’s romantic pairings are just plain awful.  

Kristoff/Anna: The Transactional and the Unconditional 

My huge problem with Kristoff and Anna’s relationship is that it feels like the story (through Olaf) pressures her into returning Kristoff’s sudden feelings for her just because he helped her. Their relationship was already very transactional and it really felt like they couldn’t stand each other for a majority of the movie.  

Kristoff goes from hating her spontaneity (”You don’t tell Sven what to do!” while throwing her on Sven) to suddenly loving this side of her on the flip of a coin. I could pinpoint the scene too, when she jumps into his arms after failing to scale the mountain by hand. Her incompetency is played for comedy while he watches her. Then, like a switch, he likes her. Seriously, when did he start liking that side of her?

And Anna doesn’t even appear to feel that way towards Krisotff until Olaf basically tells her Kristoff did all that nice stuff for her, so the implication is that she HAS to return his feelings. If she weren’t dying at that very moment, I don’t think that would be an option for her. 

They Helped You, You Owe Them!

This theme of “they saved your life, you owe them!” also applies to Iduna and Agnarr, no matter whether or not the latter remembers this because it’s a narrative implication. The person who sacrifices their life for you or does nice stuff for you, should be your true love/or platonically they love you without strings. But only if they have no ill intentions. 

As if people in general are somehow mind readers who can tell when people are fooling them. As Hans character proves, this is a very faulty line of thinking. You shouldn’t owe someone love because they do nice stuff for you, and you might never know what someone’s motivations are until it’s too late. 

It feels like this notion of romance is very skewed in favor of what the story wants. Iduna can give away the only life she knew for someone she just met, but not Anna. Iduna is portrayed as selfless because she did it for Agnarr, while Anna is selfish because she did it for herself, a child neglect and in a lonely environment. 

Convenience for Male Love Interests To Their Detriment and The Preservation of “Good” Royalty

I find it strange that Frozen and Frozen 2 seem to be centered on what’s the most convenient for male love interests, regardless of whether or not they are fully rounded or compelling. 

And this doesn’t even mean that it’s to their benefit, but to their convenience because it actually does way more damage to be given things by the story rather than making them fully fleshed out characters. 

Kristoff’s Convenience Destroyed His Character

Kristoff likes Anna, so the story is twisted in a way that benefits him so he is the one Anna ends up with. 

Consequently, because his story arc is considered done he is reduced to comedic relief to keep him relevant, even when he’s not needed. Both Kristoff and Agnarr are given superficial amounts of “background” through the barest minimum, but only because it is a means to an end to convey a point. 

Kristoff and Anna go through the basic boyfriend introducing girlfriend to family, (even though she is already engaged to someone else) bit. They interact with Rock Trolls, have banter with them in a wasteful song. And he talks to his reindeer. These points are necessary within a modern dating context, but they do very little to provide a deeper insight into his character that would him a better option than Hans. Things like who he truly is as a person is stripped to what is needed by the story because we are already supposed to like him by virtue that he isn’t Hans. 

In fact, because we know so little about him, his characterization can change on a whim from a gruff loner to perfect boyfriend who’s entire identity is “I’m Anna’s Fiancé, look at me do goofy things!” as demonstrated by Frozen Fever and Frozen 2. Frozen 2 actually tells on itself when they include lines like “Who am I if I’m not your (Anna’s) guy?” And that is a good question. Who is Kristoff without Anna? Who is he really?

And I know that the story uses Krist*nna as a way of perpetuating the idea of not diving into a relationship with someone you literally just met, but it’s obvious that Anna does EXACTLY that, just with someone the story approves of. She and Kristoff are making out within probably a day of the end of the movie.

You can’t tell me they let Hans and the Duke of Weasleton stay for weeks between their attempted assassination of royalty. Kristoff and Anna moved WAY too fast.

Agnarr’s Convenience and Position as “Good Royalty”

Like Kristoff, Agnarr’s position as the good successor to his idiot father Runeard, is considered essential to his characterization. Good, of course, being relative. He was “slightly less of a bastard,” and therefore, better.  

But you can’t make a character by saying who they AREN’T. You need to show who they ARE. And saying  “well, he could’ve been worse to Elsa” is no excuse. And Runeard in a league on his own, being the stupid dumbass he was. 

Agnarr, by the definition of the story, needed to live so he could be the good king. And meant that Iduna had to sacrifice herself for his convenience.  

Out of both parents, Agnarr is given the most screen time and dialogue. His convenience and inability to love Elsa correctly motivates him and Iduna to force her to conceal her powers.  All the problems that arise in the story are due to him introducing the gloves to Elsa, and he and by extension Iduna are the basis on the conflict. 

I say an extension because she almost a complete nonfactor of a character in the original Frozen movie. She is given maybe two lines, tops. She is still accountable, though, for the hot mess that is called Elsa’s upbringing. 

But it’s also worth noting that the second movie expands her character and background. She is given more screen time, dialogue, and songs relating to her character. And it’s still very centered on her love for Agnarr, which is portrayed as a positive influence on her despite him being the main source of her leaving her community and keeping her identity as secret. It doesn’t really feel romantic when she basically has to live in fear to keep him on the throne. 

Iduna and the Boy She Just Met

Iduna’s character is motivated to leave her people for a boy she just met. This goes against the very themes of Frozen, but not really upon closer inspection. It’s mostly about the convenience of “good” royalty, and he’s Agnarr so he’s special. 

Not special enough to give him a fully rounded character, but special in the sense that he is considered a better alternative. As I’ve said before, his characterization is mostly based on the idea of him being the lesser of two evils. 

His convenience is placed above Iduna’s safety. The questions of where she lived during her time in Arendelle, who took care of her, how she navigated this life as a child and still felt comfortable being with the person who is the prince of colonialistic nation is considered almost a nonfactor. It is meant to evoke sympathy, but not outrage at her circumstances that left her basically without a support network. 

She is praised as sefless for saving Agnarr at the expense of herself. And she is rewarded with his love, which apparently totally worth losing so much.

Final Thoughts

I’m not really sure how Frozen will navigate it’s themes in future installments. However, without significant changes and a reevaluation of what it wants to say, it’s ultimate impact on audiences will leave them questioning if Frozen’s desire to convey unconditional love actually comes with strings attached. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.  

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

[inspired-by-the-music]

For You: Stand By Me

Taglist: @jineunwootrash​ @angels-from-california

If you would like to be added to the taglist of any of this blog’s works, please ask!

Recommended Reading: For You: 4 O’Clock; these works have separate, independent, but deeply interwoven timelines.

Chapter 7: The Girl Who Cried

Sehun POV

Lei had no idea how famous she was just a year after debuting. Somehow, she didn’t seem to feel all of the eyes on her. She danced like nobody was watching. 

I guess I shouldn’t blame her. It wasn’t until everyone performed together at the SM Town concert that I realized that nobody saw her as a nine-year-old gap-toothed kid anymore. She wasn’t that kid anymore. She wasn’t just the little girl who liked me too much anymore. She wasn’t just my friend anymore. 

I feel like an idiot writing these things down because it always should have been obvious that she wasn’t ever just any of those things. She, like everyone, was a complex person. She was always more than my perception of her. I just didn’t realize it before she became an idol, too, and— although this is wrong— I wanted to close my eyes and keep her as the figure in my mind and memories that I was content to never understand. 

Suddenly— overnight, it seemed— this girl who I always thought was special because of our connection was special to everybody. Not just to me. Not just to Super Junior. Not just to the sea of roaring audiences who, at least, would never know her and see her and care for her away from the stage like I did. Other idols were taking an interest in Lei, and they didn’t care to be quiet about their budding admiration. 

Baekhyun was not least among that growing group of admirers. In front of everybody, he knelt before her, and— giggling stupidly at the surprised smile that spread across her face— he kissed her hand and addressed her as “Your majesty,” into his microphone. 

Of course, the audience screamed, and everyone around them cooed because (although Baekhyun looked like a moron) Lei was adorable. For the briefest second, I couldn’t control any muscle in my face, and I could only passively hope that nobody filmed the grimace that preceded my forced smile that didn’t come close to reaching my eyes. 

I would have to talk to Baekhyun later, I decided while walking backstage. Lei was only fifteen, so his behavior was not appropriate. It wasn’t right to kiss her— not even on her hand, not even to amuse fans, not even to make her smile the way she did. 

Everything was changing. Nobody likes change. Even when it’s necessary or the result of growth, change is hard to embrace fully without fear. And I guess if you want to know the truth that I never wanted to admit even in the darkest, quietest recess of my mind, I will admit it now that enough time has passed: I was afraid that Lei was right that day at Puroland. I was afraid that one day— probably soon— she would find herself unable to look at me the way she had every day in the past. 

Don’t ask me why it was so important for her to love me when I didn’t love her back. I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter why. 

Lei didn’t follow far behind me. From where I stood secure in the stage’s wings, I heard Jongin, who rarely complimented people he didn’t know well, cheer, “You have really good stage presence, Lei!” I heard her giggle. 

My shoulders tensed, and although there was no hint that any eyes were on me, I tried to conceal my reaction by crossing my arms over my chest. I should have been happy to witness her receiving the praise she deserved, but I wasn’t. I was uncomfortable. 

Was I worried that she would also look to me to compliment her only to be disappointed when, despite the desire to uplift and encourage her, I could say nothing? Was I worried that as she met more people like Jongin and Baekhyun (who followed Jongin’s compliment by boasting, “You were so cool out there!” and giving her a high five), she would altogether move on from me? 

Yes and yes. 

I know that I’m a hypocrite and an idiot. Every time I’ve held Lei’s attention,  I’ve wished it away. Then, when I think that I’ve finally succeeded in convincing her to look elsewhere, I swear that I would do anything to turn back time. It’s a foolish cycle. Even if I should turn back the clocks, I would never find a time when we appreciated each other in the same way at the same time. 

Our entire relationship— even still— has been one mistake, one misstep after another, and somehow I have always felt that I am the expert on how to treat Lei properly. Stupid. Immature. Clumsy. Hypocrite. 

If ever you’re frustrated with me, just know that I was almost always aware of the fact that I was being stupid. I just didn’t know how to break the cycle. I didn’t know how to break the habit. And as much as I liked Lei— as much as I wanted her to be happy— as much as I wanted to somehow be a part of that happiness— I almost resented her for making me reflect on myself so often. I almost resented her for making me think about feelings, which— I’ve told you before— never mattered much to me. 

That’s not true. People can easily develop the habit of saying, ‘That doesn’t matter,’ when they really mean, ‘I don’t understand. No matter how hard I try, I can’t understand.’ I am somebody who would rather say, ‘That doesn’t matter,’ than admit a shortcoming. I don’t like that about myself, but I don’t know how to change it. 

That’s my problem. It always has been. It was never fair to blame Lei for any of my discomforts, but I often thought that if she wasn’t always trailing so closely behind me, then I wouldn’t always have to monitor the nature and extent of my attachment to her, and then my headache would have gone away. 

Of course, the headache never could have fully subsided when Chanyeol was so determined to speak into my ear. After Lei joked on some variety show that I was her ideal type, Chanyeol developed an annoying habit (which he has not shaken to this day) of calling her my girlfriend. 

Evidently oblivious to my tense mood, Chanyeol laughed while driving his elbow into my ribs. “Here comes your girlfriend!” The veins in my temples throbbed. “She’s really growing up, huh?”

His jokes— especially the ones about Lei— were never funny, so I cut my eyes at him. “No.” I shook my head. “She’s not that grown up. She’s only fifteen.” 

Because I had never before bothered to respond to his jokes, Chanyeol blinked his widened eyes at me. He probably would have told me to lighten up, and — despite feeling all too aware of my overreaction— my scowl would deepen, but neither of us had the opportunity to resolve our conflict. 

Blissfully innocent, Lei approached me with her smile that wasn’t dim even away from the stage lights. She would have looked nothing like the child who was my first friend at S.M. were it not for the dimple that formed in her chin as she rose her hand to wave at me. “Hey, Sehun.”

I wanted to say that she had performed well; that I wished we spoke more often (and less frequently in these dark, stiff, professional settings where I couldn’t quite breathe or feel much like myself); that I was proud of her for becoming a star who demanded everyone’s appreciation; that I was honored to share a stage with her because (aside from being a star) she was my friend; that I, somehow, deeper than words could ever convey, regretted how much had changed— even if change was inevitable, even if change was only temporary, even if these growing pains would someday be forgotten. 

I couldn’t say anything over the lump in my throat except something stupid that I wish I had never said at all. “You can’t keep following me like this, Lei.” My arms were still crossed over my chest. I must have looked like such a jerk. 

Lei’s smile didn’t fade at first. Maybe she was too shocked to understand what I said. Maybe she couldn’t quite hear me over the backstage chatter. Maybe she was too willing to forgive me even when I hadn’t apologized. 

“What?” Her tone was still bright, and I could have pretended that I said any of the many praises I held in that innermost— or was it outermost?— part of my mind. 

I probably justified my cold tone with the thought that I was teaching her an important lesson. “You can’t follow me here. Somebody is always watching.” 

That was true enough. I should have bit my tongue then. Her jaw dropped just slightly, and I could make out the formation of her blush in the dark, but Lei nodded as if she believed me. As if she trusted me. 

Although it wasn’t true, and I had never once felt this way, I tore my eyes from her and said again, “You can’t keep following me. It’s annoying.” 

That’s when she wheezed, and Baekhyun pouted, and Jongin’s brow furrowed, and Chanyeol’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, and I dropped my jaw. I couldn’t understand why I said that. I couldn’t understand how my voice could so easily say something that I didn’t mean. 

All I can think is that I was somehow trying to illegitimize Chanyeol’s stupid joke about her being my girlfriend, but that’s stupid. This is one of those cases where ‘why’ really doesn’t matter. No reason would have been good enough to justify the look I put on her face. 

Instantly, I wanted to apologize, but suddenly— too late— I couldn’t speak. My throat was too tight. I couldn’t even look at Lei; with each glance, my heart plunged deeper into my stomach and knocked my breath away. 

Selfishly, I prayed for her to break the silence. Without considering her discomfort, I was content to let her cross most of the distance between us if that meant I didn’t have to hurt myself to learn how to say sorry. 

Seconds that felt like eternities passed. So quietly that I almost thought I was imagining her voice, she said, “Okay, Sehun.” 

I wished she would have argued like she always did because— then— I probably would have crumbled and said anything I thought might set things right. It wasn’t right to expect her to break my pride, but I was disappointed that she only bowed without saying another word.  

It made me sick to realize that Lei bit her tongue (at least in part) because she knew that somebody is always listening. Somebody is always hoping to catch us at our most vulnerable. Her lips trembled, and that dimple in her chin deepened, but she said nothing to convey her wounded emotions, and I— 

I couldn’t tell myself that I taught her something she didn’t already know unless I wanted to start believing lies. 

Slinging an arm around her shoulders, Baekhyun steered her away. His voice was softer, kinder than usual as he cheered, “Come on, Lei! I hid some snacks in EXO’s dressing room!”

And she didn’t flinch from his touch, and she didn’t look back at me, and I don’t know why I was dumb enough to expect that she would. 

I tried to release my remorse through a sigh, but no matter how many times I filled and emptied my lungs on the aimless walk through backstage halls, I could not forget the way Lei sounded so— so unlike herself when she, for the first time, accepted my words without argument. Why had she chosen then, of all moments, to be obedient? Why, when she had every right and reason to debate, had she turned her cheek with no fight?

Nothing was her fault, yet I explored every avenue of thought that would deny me accountability until the nagging desire to apologize became an urge, a compulsion, a dire need that sent me running to the dressing room where I wouldn’t find her. I only found Baekhyun sitting at his vanity with earphones plugged into his phone. 

Never before had I succumbed to the boyish instinct to throw things in rage, but I — at the adult age of twenty— yanked a metallic round brush sitting atop the nearest vanity and hurled it at a mirror. Miraculously, the mirror hadn’t shattered, and Baekhyun didn’t look up from his phone or flinch at the crash.

I could have pretended that moment never happened had Chanyeol not burst into the room right then, bulging eyes burning through me as he demanded, “What the hell was that about?”

Whether he was talking about the brush incident or the Lei incident, I had no answer. I didn’t worsen matters by stuttering excuses. I just shrugged. 

“That kid liked you!” Chanyeol said— past tense— as if I hadn’t known. “And I thought you were friends or whatever, so why the hell would you put that look on her face?” Tugging at his hair, he dramatically cried, “God, I’m going to have nightmares about her sad face for weeks!”

“You’re really not the best person to lecture me about how to treat Lei.” I glared at him. “You’ve put that frown on her face more times than I can even count—”

Chanyeol yelled, “That’s not the same thing!” and he was right. “I get it. I’m not nice to that kid. I never have been. Maybe I should be a little nicer.” I nodded my head, and he jabbed an accusatory finger at me. “But I couldn’t turn the light off in her eyes like you just did even if I tried. You know why?” 

Turning away from him, I shook my head because I didn’t want to have this conversation. I knew exactly why I could influence Lei more than Chanyeol ever could. I just didn’t understand it. 

“Because she doesn’t like me! She likes you!” Chanyeol’s voice cracked. “She probably thought— like I did— that you would protect her feelings even though you can’t return them!”

I stared down at my hands pressed flat against the vanity, careful to avoid my reflection. “Why are you so invested in something that isn’t your business?” 

As if he had always been Lei’s protector, Chanyeol roared, “You made it my business when you humiliated her in front of me! It’s not okay, Sehun! Even if you were right about people always watching, what’s wrong with them seeing that you’re kind to a kid who, for whatever reason, thinks the world of you?”

Never in a million years would I have wanted to discuss my feelings— especially the ones about Lei that, for some reason, seemed far too private and deep and tangled— with anyone. I especially wouldn’t have wanted to discuss them with Chanyeol, who didn’t even like her, while he was angry. I would have said or done anything to end the conversation. 

I rounded on him and raised my voice. I hated raising my voice. It was exhausting. “You’re the one who made shit weird and awkward by calling her my girlfriend! I don’t even want to be around her anymore because of the weird shit you say!”

“Well, that’s bullshit,” Chanyeol retorted instantly. “If you’re having some kind of issue with your friendship, don’t pin that shit on me!” Then, when I faced him, he softened his voice. “I don’t know why you’re being so weird about a joke—”

“Because it’s not funny!” My face burned as I tried to make him understand, “My feelings for her are nothing like that! Lei is a sweet, innocent kid, and everybody is forgetting that because she’s getting more famous and more beautiful by the day, but I—” I swore— “she will always be that funny, honest, gap-toothed kid to me.” 

Unsure of what to say as my gaze dropped down to my feet, Chanyeol blinked once and then twice. He probably wanted me to explain why it was so important for Lei to remain the child in my memory, but I wouldn’t have told him even if I understood it well enough. 

“If you love her so much,” Chanyeol said, “then why would you ever say anything to hurt her?”

I couldn’t answer. Instead of admitting that I didn’t know— that I was an idiot— that I was sorry— I lashed out at him. “I don’t love her! I just— I care about her a lot.” I sounded like such a moron. 

Chanyeol’s eyes narrowed, and I squirmed because I knew that he was seeing me clearly, flaws and all, for the first time. He looked away, picked at a button on his shirt, and probably felt like the wisest guy on the planet as he said, “I’m not sure who told you what love is or how they convinced you that it’s bad or wrong or scary, but they lied.” 

Making my way to the door as my pulse quickened, I lied. “I’m not afraid of love.” 

Maybe I didn’t know it then, but I was afraid of intimacy. I was afraid of needing somebody. I was afraid of wanting somebody. Maybe I didn’t know it then, but the reason why Lei couldn’t grow up was because then— then what would I say when she looked at me and told me that I was handsome? If she grew up, and she still wanted to hold my hand in the dark, I could no longer push her away, saying, ‘You’re too young. It’s inappropriate.’

Lei couldn’t grow up because, once we stood on even footing as adults, I knew that she would realize that I wasn’t special. I had never been special. Once I disappointed her by admitting that even when she was old enough, even if we felt the same thing at the same time, I wasn’t good enough, everything she ever thought of me would be chalked up to some childhood imagination. 

Once or twice or every moment of those days, I almost managed to convince myself that the best choice was to stand some ways away at least until I learned to be okay with the inability to live up to her daydreams. I almost believed that, to preserve the memories that were too precious to tarnish, it would be best to part ways before I could disappoint her. It was too late to enact that plan, though, I realized as I again walked through the halls. 

All my life, I told myself that it didn’t matter what others thought of me, but it always mattered what Lei thought. Even when she was nine and I was fourteen, I didn’t really want her to stop liking me. Did it matter because of who she was? Or was I— like everyone— too afraid to wonder what happens when she, who always admired me, changes her mind? 

Something in my chest deflated when I found her leaning into Max outside of TVXQ’s dressing room, rubbing at her eyes. I understood by then that she knew everybody, so I wasn’t shocked to see her with him. I just couldn’t quite breathe because I had always been the one she ran to. I had always been the one she trusted with her feelings. And being as stupid as I was, I understood then that she would probably never again trust me so fully, so innocently, because a.) she was no longer a child, and b.) I had broken some facet of our bond. 

Nobody wants to believe that they have broken something beyond repair, so I told myself that our friendship was indestructible. I don’t know if I ever believed myself again after that. 

Something like rage coursed through my veins when I heard Max ask, “Now, are you going to tell me what made my little wife cry?” He smiled at her, and she mirrored his expression. 

Rather than embracing my guilt— rather than feeling grateful that somebody kind had been there to lift her spirits when I couldn’t— I decided to glare at Max for calling her his ‘little wife,’ knowing well that it was a harmless nickname and that he had known her longer than I had. 

Still grinning, Lei lifted her head, and— unable to budge from my place around the corner— I braced myself to hear her new opinion of me, but she said nothing. Graciously, she shook her head, and Max didn’t press her for information. 

Even after I had been cruel and careless enough to publicly scold her in front of my group members, Lei wouldn’t privately paint me in an unfavorable light. I think I might have felt better if she had told Max that I was the most insensitive person on the planet even if she didn’t believe it— even if she was just speaking from embarrassed anger. The fact that she stood from his side, bowed, and walked away, forcing a smile even as she passed by me— tears refilling her eyes as I met them— made me feel worse. 

I still can’t understand why I didn’t follow her. I guess I didn’t want to see her cry. I know how selfish that sounds, but you should believe me when I say that I wouldn’t have been able to say anything to dry her tears. If anything, I would have made matters worse. 

While I lacked the courage to follow Lei, I somehow had the nerve to storm up to Max, my senior who I swear I respected. I somehow had the nerve to tell him, “You shouldn’t talk to her like that,” as if he hadn’t tried to clean up my mess. 

Max’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” His head went aslant, and his eyebrows met between his eyes as he noted my short tone. I still think it’s a miracle that he didn’t knock me out the moment I opened my mouth. 

This might sound stupid, but I think I almost wanted Max to beat my ass. It seemed that maybe a few slaps would knock some sense into me or that my guilt might subside if somebody would punish me for being an idiot. 

“You shouldn’t call her your ‘little wife,’” I said, using air-quotes, earning a pointed stare from Max. “She’s very impressionable, and she’ll get the wrong idea from things like that. You have to be careful with young girls’ feelings, especially when they trust you.” My voice made me want to vomit. I was really one to talk. 

After drawing a deep breath and carefully studying me, Max nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said even though I wasn’t right; I was an idiot. “I should be careful about what I say, but sometimes— sometimes you’ll say anything to get someone to stop crying. Sometimes, you’ll say anything to make someone smile.” 

Doubting that I would ever be willing to say anything to make Lei smile, I sank. 

Max flashed his teeth, smiling as he patted my shoulder. “I’m glad Lei has somebody like you looking out for her.”

Somebody like me? What did that mean? 

“She deserves every happiness, you know?”

I nodded because I did know. 

That day planted the seed of a realization that dawned on me slowly over the years and then— suddenly— all at once when I sat alone on a frozen December night: I was the worst person for Lei to entrust her feelings to. 

A selfless person would encourage her to find somebody who could warmly embrace her every joy and pain. Somebody who could easily string together the words she longed to hear. Somebody who would boast to the world that they loved her instead of running and clinging to privacy in the dark. Somebody who wouldn’t be too embarrassed by romantic gestures to give her flowers. Somebody who would watch the moon and stars with her while gently dispelling her every fear. 

I knew well that I would never be anything like that person. Daily, I told myself that it was foolish to be jealous of somebody who didn’t exist, but—

He did exist. The issue was just that, even as years passed while I held my breath, she had not yet met him. The day when she would find everything she wanted in him was the day I dreaded most because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to him. 

And I— I wasn’t a selfless person. I was selfish enough to pray that day would never come. 

[alchemicalterror]

Self-implemented Parole

[ Below is a transcript of an RP between @askanarky​ and ol’ Jonny boy, involving Anarky’s breakout and aftermath. WIth special guest @riddlesandqueries​ and @echoandquery​

Trigger warnings: Adolescent Homelessness, swearing. ]

Fuck. Shit. God dammit. Fuck, Lonnie swears to himself, couldn’t stay hidden for two days, could he?

Here he is, leaning against the wall of the dentist’s-office-turned-failed-comedy-club-turned-pirate-radio-station-slash-hideout he’d been spending the day at. Beside him’s a wooden baseball bat, blood-red paint dripping down the business end, three posters, and an overfilled olive drab backpack absolutely covered in patches and safety pins. In his hands, a box of old clothes and records.

Bitterly, Lonnie wonders how much weight he’d lost. Six and a half months was a lot longer- or maybe shorter?- than he’d fully realized.

God, why’s he even humoring the old man? Ten bucks and he could already be gone. He’d find another shitty landlord to blackmail for an equally shitty studio apartment, and life’d go on like he never left.

...But then again, that wasn’t him. And plus, he owes Jon a lot and did kinda call him ‘dad,' and plus, he couldn’t feasibly cut him out entirely unless he left Gotham for good, and why would he do that, he’s got work to continue-

”Fuck.” Lonnie mutters under his breath, shifting his weight to his other leg.

"Fuck." Jon mutters, pulling his coat in tighter. He doesn't know jack shit about hijacked radio towers, and while his car is an unremarkable, beat-up old junker that he's had for years - it runs fine, there's no noises or weird smells, but the body has seen better days - why run into a headache with traffic, gas mileage, potentially being seen at an intersection with a recently escaped convict...?

'Course, nothing could hide how tall he is. And god damn it, it's April, it's supposed to be warm....

Jonathan mutters against the cold in vague irritation, gravitating towards the next set of charity drop-off boxes in vain hopes of actually tracking down the runt. Jesus, he should've asked for directions. At least he's in good shape.

"Me an' my motherfuckin' ide--" Pause. Squint, at someone who fits the stature in a beat up black hoodie, with a box.

"....Kid?"

The good thing about oversized hoodies is that, if you’re drowning in them enough, it can almost conceal how high you jump when something calls an epithet that can apply to you. Immediately, Lonnie crouches to quickly, but gently place his box down and grab his baseball bat in his place, then raises himself up into half of a batter’s stance at the source of the-

Wait. Tall man, absolutely orange hair, in a thrift-store jacket and blue jeans. Of fucking course.

”Jesus Christ,” he half-mouths. He lets his stance relax and his arms hang limply down in an exaggerated 'I-don’t-wanna-be-here' stance. “‘Ay.” Lonnie’s stage voice is remarkable, if a bit higher than his normal growl.

Jonathan grins, a bit, despite himself. Baseball bat? Good lad.

He lifts a hand in a wave, chuckling. "Nice to see you ain't without means, boy." Jon murmurs, nodding at the weapon. "Half kickin' myself I didn't get directions when abouts I could, I been walking around back alleys all afternoon."

"Legs could use a break, and I saw a beaten-down dive up the block some, folks don't glance at your face even when you're ordering in places like that. You wanna coffee or somethin' before we ship out?"

“....” Lonnie turns away for half a second, letting a puff of air escape his clenched teeth. “Hey, you said you didn’t need them.”

Hypocritical, coming from him. He’s at least trying to be a little friendly, through the obvious voice crack and the constantly-correcting tone. “...Fine, I guess? I mean, I’ve got what...” He backs away and unzips the front pocket of the backpack on the ground. A cheap leather wallet spills out (along with six separate embroidered circle-As in various shades of crimson.) He unfolds it and squints between the pockets, “....twelve...? Dollars on me? That’s enough for, like, a sandwich.”

"Come off it kid, I got paid yesterday, you ain't gotta spend what little you got on a sandwich. Save it, s'good to have bus money." And with that Jon turns, and waves Lonnie follow him. Tall as he is, he's long ago adopted a sort of ambling gait to make it easier for other people to keep up with his long stride.

The diner is, as estimated, utterly apathetic to the arrival of both Jonathan and Lonnie, save for the motions of seating them both. No odd looks are given to Lonnie's box of things, nor -- if he brought it along -- his bat. He was half-heartedly offered the opportunity to drop it in the umbrella rack, if he wanted to.

Jon takes a booth with a high back, and turns his attention toward the menu.

Lonnie, in fact, does put his baseball bat in the umbrella rack (only in Gotham,) and swings himself up onto the booth, squishing himself into the corner and placing his box under the table. His backpack’s placed right beside him.

He’s already small- especially compared to Jonathan- but he seems determined to make himself even smaller. Lonnie hunches over the table and scrutinizes the menu with one exposed eye, rapping his free hand on the table. Jonathan receives the occasional upwards glance from him.

Coffee. And a sandwich. Jon picks both, mentally placing his order, and sets the menu down.

"...After we order, I got some things to ask, arright?" He murmurs, keeping his voice low; the staff might not care, but patrons could. Best keep mumbly.

"Dinner's on me whatever you got to say, upfront. Ain't contingent on you givin' me answers you think I'm gonna wanna hear."

(The waitress does drift by, uninterested and unimpressed, to take their orders.)

Watching the waitress approach means Lonnie didn’t have the space to answer Jon in full; Instead, he flashes a thumbs up his way.

BLT, cherry Coke. Lonnie deserved something sweet, he thought. His menu comes down after Jon’s, and he doesn’t fully turn to place his order. He does, however, have the common sense for manners; “I’d like an egg BLT and a cherry Coke, please.”

"And I'd like a tuna sub and a black coffee, please, miss. Thank you kindly."

Their orders are noted down, and she drifts on to her next engagement - and Jon leans on the table, looking Lonnie over. Where to start. "....You got a place to stay?"

“I’ll get one.” Lonnie murmurs, implying that the answer’s actually no. “Old landlord probably won’t let me back in, not like I was actually paying for my old apartment anyway...” He murmurs as he passes the saltshaker between his hands. "...Right." Jonathan says, nodding slowly. "...If you need a place to crash a li'l while while you work him over, y'know - I got a guest room. Ain't got much more than a bed and a couple boxes and a desk, but it's dry an' the door locks." "...And like, if puttin' out on your own for a place don't work, I don't mind if you stay, right?" .... Hm. The saltshaker rests in his left hand.

“...You’re serious? C’mon, your job’s probably already batter-fried as is, if anyone finds out-”

Lonnie doesn’t trail off, per se, more than he just lets his throat close a little. “...Really? You really don’t-“

He’d be an absolute idiot to decline, but there had to be some kind of catch - ? - but Jon’s not that much of a jerkass.... "Kid, much as I'm sure you could find someone whose arm you could twist for a place, it don't sit right with me to just leave you in an alley to do that. I got the room, and - well, Arkham can just deal." Jonathan’s tone is flat.

"What they don't know ain't gonna hurt my career." Lonnie puts a fist to his rapidly-splitting mouth and exhales sharply. “‘Guess that is true,” he answers, then shakes two fingers at Jon. 

“...Shit, thanks, I guess? I didn’t... really expect you to show real concern, holy shit...” "What, you think it was just for appearances?"  Jon chuckles, genial. "Naw, son, I try to actually care 'bout the folks I work with, didn't get into this business on accounta I don't care about people."

"Look, after Dinner I'll help you carry shit, since I left the car at home." “Okay.” Lonnie doesn’t particularly feel like pushing it any more, so he doesn’t. 

“...How’d I not notice this place before?” He asks, mostly to himself. Or maybe he had, and he’d forgotten about it. Was it even worth forgetting?  Ech, everything was so overwhelming. As their food and coffee comes around, Jonathan turns his attention to the rogue chat, securing something, before starting to eat. Tuna melts are truly the mac and cheese of the sandwich world, and hard to get wrong.

[ Dr_J_C ] - Hey, Eddie, you on. [ E?Nygma ] - Yes? [ Dr_J_C ]  - You got a cab company you trust to keep their yaps shut [ E?Nygma ] - My henchwomen. [ Dr_J_C ]  - ...Think they'd be willing to come pick up me and a runaway? Wound up cross town and the kid's got luggage [ E?Nygma ] - Only one way to find out, really.

[ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: Ladies? ] [ DM  E&Q to E?Nygma: [Q] You need something, Ed? ] [ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: Yes, if you have the time tonight. Dr Crane is asking me about securing private transit that doesn't talk too much, if you catch my drift. Since you're both the pair I trust most on the matter, I thought I'd ask if you'd be willing to go fetch him and cart him wherever he needs to go. He's not in a stabbing mood, so it shouldn't be risky. ] [ DM  E&Q to E?Nygma: [Q] Not in a stabbing mood? Color me surprised.. but sure thing, Boss! [E] Dr. Crane requires transit? We aren’t busy, so we’ll be glad to pick him up, when needed. Anything that’s said will stay in the car, don’t you worry. ] [ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: Peachy. Make him buy you dinner, huh? I'll forward the address: you know what to do if he starts giving you trouble, and where to send the bill. Thanks so much. ]

[ E?Nygma ] - Good news, Jonny, they'll do it. Have an address? [ Dr_J_C ]  - Yeah, hangon.... Down town, Eighth and Tuppence. The shitty diner.

[ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: : Eighth and Tuppence, the "shitty diner", as he put it. ]

[ E?Nygma ] - I told them to make you buy them dinner. 

[ Dr_J_C ]  -  Yeah, sure, doesn't have to be from here. We just got our food, so - give it an hour? [ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: He's asked for you to come in an hour, so you have time to get ready. ]

[ E?Nygma ] - Done and done, don't leave them waiting.

Before eating, Lonnie removes the top slice of bread from each sandwich half and salts the (perfectly over-medium) egg on top, then slides the salt to the other side of the table. He almost chokes on his first bite. God, he missed real food. "...Arkham food, huh." Jonathan chuckles, humorlessly. "Shit, every time I've gotten outta there, pizza boxes have looked appetizing."

"Eddie's henches are gonna be givin' us a ride. They ain't snitches, and I fancy our chances in one'a their cars than on foot."

“...Tall punk one n’ a short one?” Lonnie clarifies through a mouthful of BLT. Gulp. “Nice.”

“...Spent his ketchup money on Walgreens eyeliner and a burger. Should probably get online and tell ‘im once I get home, huh.” He pauses, putting down his sandwich for a second. “I told you the ketchup thing, right?”

Jonathan grins, lifting his coffee in a weird sort of salute. "Sure did. Bet you made with Eddie, right? Eyeliner and a bite's a good cause, then. He chomps down half his sandwich before turning his attention properly to coffee.

"...Good-ish news, the Asylum is pretty sure I didn't help you break out." "So they prob'ly ain't gonna assume I came got you, neither."

“Thank god,” Lonnie comments. “Like, not just ‘cuz your job’s still safe, that’s great, but god, I didn’t spend three weeks figuring out like, 80 million people’s schedules for a friend in a high place to get the stick, it’s my damn credit.” He pauses for a sip of soda. “...Is that the right metaphor? Doesn’t matter. ‘S.... nice y’aint in that deep shit.”

Another pause. “Jesus Christ, I just said ‘y’ain’t’ in complete earnest, what the fuck are you doing to me?” Lonnie laughs, leaning his head back and pulling down one eyelid. Jonathan barks a cheerful laugh, and even that is ignored by the utter apathy that is a back-street diner in Gotham. He shakes his head until it trickles down to a snicker and, grinning, drains the rest of his coffee before his attention returns to the perfectly adequate tuna melt.

"Naww, they had me doin' damage control, after talkin' to me a bit and nosing some at my notes. Shit, I didn't know a damn thing about your plans, and it showed, son, so oughta be fine."

"New's being shitty about it anyways, though, m'sorry about that." “I~’m aware,” Lonnie chimes rather sardonically, waiting to swallow this time. “Eh, GCN’s a bunch of corporatist bullcrap anyway. They don’t think I’m a real dude, I know they aren’t a real news station, cancels out.” It really doesn’t cancel out, but the shrug indicates either he’s actually fine or he doesn’t particularly want to talk about it.

Jonathan slowly nods, and makes a mental tick to get a tee-shirt made inviting people to physically fight him if they want to call Lonnie a girl. That's a dadly thing to do, right?

"...So,” Jon starts, slowly, “Y'all called me dad."

Groan. “Uh, I’m sorry?” Lonnie shrugs to accompany the nonapology— not like it was worth applogizing for. “Slip of the tongue, like callin’ a teacher ‘mom,’ y’know?”

He sucks the rest of his Coke down and sets the tall plastic glass back on the table. Jon laughs, sitting back himself and uncrossing his arms. "Dunno where all I said I was upset about it, son." His grin is lazy and easy, and he just shrugs.

"Y'all see me as a father figure?" ... Does he? ... “I mean— you’re what, two and a half times my age n I’ve seen more of you  in the, what, three-ish months since you took my case than anyone else, not to mention you’re like...” Lonnie cycles through various expressions as he speaks, apparently directing his explanation at his fingernails. (Note the lack of a solid answer.) 

He doesn’t mention what Jon’s like. Soon, he throws his forehead into one hand, rubbing his temples.

“I mean—- no, but also not no?” "...So, solid maybe." Jon suggests, wiping crumbs off his hands with a chuckle. "Right, well that ain't somethin' you gotta come up with an answer to today, son. Right now, priority's makin' sure you don't get picked up by the cops two days after a breakout."

"And,” he adds, “Not leavin' you to find a half-comfortable Alley to try an' make a sleeping spot from."

“Mmh,” Lonnie affirms through his last bite of BLT (emphasis on the L.) “In my defense, I spent like... the first third’a my sophomore year doin’ that, I’ve got practice.” He jokes, sending finger-guns Jon’s way. “But yeah, let’s leave that for later, ‘kay?”

"Sounds good." Jonathan pulls out his wallet, leafing through it and leaving the bill in cash, with a generous tip. No, the bill hasn't actually arrived yet, but he's pretty good at math. Something about being a Chemist, maybe. 

"Ed's girls oughta be here in a nother couple minutes, so - you wanna hit the washroom or anything 'fore we head outside?"

[fatefulfaerie]

Hindsight: Part Six

Hi, this is it, the last part. I’ve got out all the ideas bouncing around in my head. Now I can move on to different things.

Thanks for riding along this rocky journey. Mind the bumps.

Part One: https://fatefulfaerie.tumblr.com/post/611223241986621440/hindsight

Part Two: https://fatefulfaerie.tumblr.com/post/612674469072338944/hindsight-part-two

Part Three: https://fatefulfaerie.tumblr.com/post/613130181855543296/hindsight-part-three

Part Four: https://fatefulfaerie.tumblr.com/post/613206006943629312/hindsight-part-four

Part Five: https://fatefulfaerie.tumblr.com/post/613587613903945728/hindsight-part-five

Part Six:

Link clutched her as the desert of Gerudo whizzed past them, Zelda’s breath becoming shakier and less consistent.

Through blurry slits she saw his face, from an angle slightly downward, his gaze on the horizon.

“Link?” She asked. “What happened?”

“Nothing, Zelda,” He said. “Conserve your energy.”

“But…” she tried. “Are you okay?”

Link couldn’t help but smile.

“Everything is okay,” he said. “Relax, I’ve got you.”

They were finally coming up on Gerudo Town, Link practically hopping off his shield as the sand seal bounded away.

He ran to the entrance with panted breaths.

“Hey!” he exclaimed with what little energy he had. “It’s the Princess! She needs a doctor!”

The two Gerudo guards hurried to her aid, one of which taking her in her arms quite easily.

Without even a thank you to Link, they hurried off into the town. Link was glad that they didn’t pay attention to him, his red Yiga garb only concealed by the darkness of the night.

He knew he needed to stay back, but his heart compelled him to mindlessly walk forward. He tracked her with his worried and melted eyes before two spears crossed in front of him.

“No voe allowed!” two new Gerudo guards boomed.

Where did they even come from?

Link nodded silently, trying to look over their spears to the distance beyond, but she was gone.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zelda blinked her eyes open, her head tipping over on her pillow to see two Gerudo women in conversation.

They were both quite old, shortened by age, but even then they were still taller than her.

She furrowed her brow as she tried to focus her mind on what they were saying. Zelda was only able to pull the word “castle” from their whispers before she was spotted.

“Your Highness,” one of them said calmly, only barely turning herself to her.

“What happened?” Zelda asked as she sat herself up. She had no idea why she was in bed, as she felt completely fine.

Suddenly there was a sharp soreness in her stomach, Zelda wincing as she shut her eyes tight.

“You were attacked by a Yiga,” one of them explained. “Lady Urbosa herself is beyond glad that we found you. Your father will be pleased that you are safe as well.”

Zelda looked around the room quickly, remembering with a panic.

“Where is--!”

She stopped herself.

For goodness sake, she still didn’t even know his name.

“Where is who, Your Highness?”

“The...the guy who brought me in. Where is he?”

The two Gerudo exchanged glances of confusion.

“You were brought in by the front guards,” one of them said. “There was no guy.”

Zelda looked away with a sharp inhale.

So that was it? She was back in the clutches of Hyrule and nothing else mattered? She was safe, sure, but did he, what, drop her off? After everything?

Maybe it wasn’t anything.

“Even if there was someone, Your Highness, we would have no idea. You were brought to us by a guard. He must have left.”

“Left? What...what...how...how could he?”

“You forget, Your Highness, no voe are allowed in the town, he may not have had a choice.”

“Oh,” Zelda said as her eyes sank, drifting to a table at her bedside. “Right.”

She wondered if he’d ever come back as she looked to the white fabric covered in splotches of blood, the arrow that had created the fatal wound in the first place.

Her brow knitted as a piece of parchment caught her eyes, with the letter “Z” inked upon it.

“Your Highness?” she heard. “Would you care for anything? Water, perhaps?”

“Uhm,” she said as she tore her glance away from the parchment, looking at the women.

“Yes please,” she said with a nod. “Thank you.”

One of them left, the other staying as she took a seat.

“You’re on the road to recovery you know,” the woman said trying to make conversation. But Zelda had grabbed the parchment, her eyes studying the other side. “You’re lucky you made it here in time.”

‘Back of GT ASAP’ she reread, as she let out a smile. The giddy expression and coloration on her cheeks was not lost on the Gerudo.

“What’s that?” she heard, Zelda’s head popping up at the reminder that someone was still here.

“Nothing,” Zelda said, throwing it back to the table like it meant nothing. “Just some trash.”

“Let me see,” the Gerudo said, standing up and grabbing it off the table before Zelda could even think of a way to object.

The woman, to Zelda’s surprise, snickered when she read it.

“I apologize, Your Highness,” she said. “This must be some note I wrote down and forgot the meaning for. I’ll dispose of it quickly.”

The Gerudo sauntered out, emptying the room.

Zelda immediately thought to take the opportunity, running out of the room and the town whilst ignoring her pain.

She looked to her left to see the corner that, if turned, might lead her to him.

Or to complete disappointment, she thought as her back met the wall next to it. To no one being there, to the conclusion that he had taken the opportunity to run from his problems and leave her to her own.

She couldn’t blame him, of course. Just being in the desert as a disgraced Yiga was suicide, not even considering his red garb making him an enemy to the rest of Hyrule as well.

So she told herself it was okay as she turned the corner with closed eyes and anticipatory breaths. It was okay if he wasn’t here, in the back of Gerudo Town as soon as possible.

Her eyes squinted open, peering for any silhouette.

Her heart leapt when she saw one, a sigh of relief opening her eyes.

Obviously, he didn’t she her, sitting casually against the wall eating a banana.

She inhaled to call after him, shout his name and signal some fairytale reunion to take place.

But Zelda didn’t know his name.

“Hey,” she said instead, striding towards him casually.

Link looked to her quickly, scrambling to standing and incidentally dropping his banana to the ground.

His sigh of relief was heavy.

“I don’t know what god or goddess to thank, but I’m so glad you’re okay.”

They had never hugged before, but the way Link took her into his arms was so intoxicatingly familiar that Zelda didn’t think it awkward at all.

“Link,” he said, as he let her go.

“Huh?” Zelda retorted.

“That’s my name, Link,” he said, Zelda smiling. “You’re Zelda, right?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Zelda said, stepping back and offering her hand.

“Yeah,” he said with a chuckle, shaking her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Zelda let out a small laugh as well.

“I don’t usually meet people like this.”

“Oh,” Link said teasingly, closing the distance. “You don’t.”

Zelda brought a hand to the back of his neck.

“Usually the greeting comes first, then the introductions,” Zelda started to explain, her voice becoming a whisper, Link’s arms settling along the small of her back. “No kidnappings, no trickery, just conversations.”

Her body was now flush to his.

“So you talk,” Link said. “Get to know the other person for who they truly are, and then…”

Their words were breathless, and so were their lungs. Their lips were brushing against each other.

“Then,” Zelda finished. “If you’re lucky, you fall in love.”

Their kiss was as the greatest relief, them sinking into, enrapturing the other.

“Are you so inclined,” Link asked, their point of connection changing from their lips to their forehead. “Your Highness, to love me like I do you? For that luck to fall upon both of us? I know it’s only been a few days, but...I feel for you everything I’ve never felt before.”

Zelda nodded quickly.

“You are the freedom I seek,” Zelda said. “I will always be inclined.”

Link closed and opened his eyes with sigh, the weight of his forehead releasing from hers.

“How are we going to do this?”

“That’s the one question I didn’t want you to ask.”

“I think it needs to be addressed.”

Zelda bit her lip in thought, looking at him as she considered the options.

“Run away with me,” Zelda implored. “We can leave all this behind, all this history. Just us, our future.”

“Zelda…”

“Please.”

“Hyrule is here. Your future is here. I’m not a part of it. You have obligations.”

“Screw obligation, I love you. I want you, nothing else. They can elect someone else, they don’t need me to birth an heir.”

“Look,” Link started. “I can’t tell you to go back there without making myself a hypocrite. But, I don’t want you resenting me for this choice.”

“I won’t,” she insisted. “Link...this is all I’ve wanted. I’m not a Princess and I’m not who they think I am. You get to flee from your past, so please, let me come with you.”

“Where?”

“I’ve read books...books of people who studied the stars, people...people who thought our world was round...that other lands exist beyond our own.”

“And you think that’s true?”

Zelda nodded.

“We could sail away,” she implored, her eyes deep in his. “Away from everything.”

Link chuckled with glee, his thumb caressing her cheek as he brought his forehead back to hers.

“And...if we fall off the edge…”

“Then we will greet that horizon together.”

[tawakkull]

Spirituality in islam: The Horizon of “the Secret” and What Lies Beyond

I am aware that I am not able to write and speak about this topic as it should be written and spoken about. My pen and words also tell me this. I suffer from keeping silent and not writing anything, while writing or speaking about a matter that is beyond my capacity of perception and expression is a venture that I take on with trepidation. However, I have been able neither to keep silent nor be relieved of the anxieties that my writings have generated in my spirit. Having always regarded my inability and neediness as a call for God’s help, and my venture as a signal to incite people of endeavor and devotion whose hearts dominate their tongues, whose tongues translate their “secret,” whose “secret” is open to their horizon of “private,” and whose “private” is connected to their “more private,” I have uttered “In and with the Name of God,” and “from God,” and “toward God,” and I advance asking for God’s extra grace.

For those who can understand, I have always admitted that I am not a person who is able to write or speak about this profound topic and similar, other simpler ones. But I am convinced that these topics, which have so far formed three published volumes and will possibly form a new fourth one, should be discussed. During all my daring attempts to write about them, I have wept with my pen, sometimes with yearning, and sometimes shuddering. While my pen has breathed with the ink it pours forth, I have breathed with my tears. It is the Creator Who knows my heart and has perfect knowledge of my “secret;” it is again He Who knows the truths of “the private” and “the more private,” and Who makes them known by whomever He wills, and it is He Who graciously protects and helps those who narrate what they read and hear.

Literally meaning something kept hidden, sir (“the secret”), which was discussed before, is a heavenly faculty belonging to the heart. The secret has the same meaning for the heart as the spirit for the body. Meaning something concealed and imperceptible, khafi (“the private”) is another deep dimension of the heart which is turned to the realms and truths beyond those to which “the secret” is turned, and another observatory from which we can look on the truths. As for akhfa (“the more private”), which literally means something more hidden, more obscure, and more profound for perceiving, it is a window which is open to further and further realms and truths and through which God’s gifts pour.

According to some friends of the Ultimate Truth, “the spirit” is an element through which one loves and has a relationship with God Almighty; “the heart” is a storehouse of the knowledge of God; “the secret” is a system with which we can observe more abstract and profound truths by His grace, while “the private” is a design or map of Divine mysteries, and “the more private” is a mysterious key with which to open the Hidden Treasure. Without God’s grace and assistance, it would not be possible to know the true nature of these faculties. Although with his secret, private, and more private every believer has the potential to have certain knowledge of the Attributes and Essence of God, as well as the Divine mysteries and the Hidden Treasure, it is not possible for human free will to set these faculties in action without Divine leave or help. Human beings are able to see by God’s causing us to see, to hear by His causing us to hear, and to feel by His causing us to feel, and are not able to do any of these actions by themselves; in the same way it is impossible for a human being to say anything concerning the Attributes, Essential Qualities or Characteristics, and Essence of the Divine Being without God’s help or grace. God Almighty has perfect knowledge of every human being, including their spirit, heart, secret, private and more private. He has perfect knowledge of everything, be it of particular or universal character. He enables whomever He will to know whatever part of His knowledge He wills to be known, while He keeps unknown whatever part He wills to remain unknown. Concerning His Knowledge the Qur’an tells us: He knows whatever is in their hearts (48:18); Surely I know all that you do not know (2:30); I know well all that you reveal and all that you have been keeping secret (2:33); Know that surely God knows whatever is in your souls (2:235) Do they (the hypocrites) not know that God knows what they keep concealed and their private counsels and gossips, and that God has full knowledge of the whole of the Unseen? (9:78). Without His making known, human beings would not even be able to know themselves, let alone know what lies behind the secret.

Since the creation of humanity, it is only with God’s special guidance and assistance that humanity has been able to read whatever is to be read correctly concerning the outer and inner world. Whenever humanity has remained indifferent to His guidance and illumination, it has continuously faltered and been dragged into hesitation, and it has not been able to say a true word, particularly about the Divine Essence, Attributes, and Names. Whenever people have opened their mouths to utter something, they have only been able to utter nonsense.

God Almighty has kept us informed about His Essence, Attributes, and Names by means of His distinguished servants, known as “the perfectly purified, chosen ones, the truly good” (38:47). We have tried to perceive these transcending matters in keeping with their instructions and thereby have been saved from falling into hesitation or conflict. During times when we have remained deaf to the instructions and enlightenments of the true guides, such as the Prophets, saints, and the purified, saintly scholars, we have been neither able to grasp the truth nor preserve the balance concerning the matters of transcending character. It is the Divine Being Who knows Himself, while others can have knowledge of Him only to the extent He makes known. Confirming this point, our master, upon him be peace and blessings, declares: “I know my Lord by my Lord.” This Prophetic saying is of great significance, particularly in respect of teaching us that the Divine Being is beyond our scope of perception or knowledge, and it is the Divine Being alone Who is the unique source of all true knowledge.

Returning to our main discussion, the secret is, as mentioned before, the initial point of observing and studying the truth and what lies beyond it. According to their capacity and the horizon of their knowledge of Divinity, every believer can read, evaluate, and interpret the mysteries concerning the Creator and the created through this depth of their heart by God’s leave and help and with the signs, markers, and signposts that He has laid out.

The private is a horizon of observing the realms of existence and non-existence together from above; it is a receiver for those who are elect for special regard and favors, and a particular depth of the heart that will enable them to look through on the mysteries of Divinity and the things or beings that have not yet been brought into or have been sent from the physical existence. It is an exceptional gift of the Unique, Eternally Besought One to humans.

As for the more private, as an incomparable gift from God’s grace it is the most important dimension of a heart which is open to the Hidden Treasure, a heavenly faculty.

Those favored with the secret and those distinguished with the private and those honored and exalted with the more private receive the gifts flowing down onto their horizons, the presents offered to their highest point of perfection, and the showers of inspiration that descend to their atmosphere; they consider them and reveal whatever of these and to whatever extent they are allowed to reveal to those who are qualified to receive them; the rest they keep concealed, without giving any secrets to those who cannot understand or keep them. This is what the Prophets and the purified, saintly scholars of verification have done. They are the captivating translators of the Divine will; they depend on the eternal Criterion in all their words and actions. As for those who confuse the rulings and commandments of the Name the All-Outward with the mysteries of the Name the All-Inward, even though they are among the heroes of nearness to God, since they depend on their own vision and unveilings in interpreting the truths, and are content with their own sensations and experiences, and since they are therefore not able to weigh up the results of their visions or observations in the balance of the Sunna, they not only fall but also cause others to fall into confusion; they cause others to make faults by revealing certain Divine mysteries which they are not allowed to reveal due to oblivion and intoxication, eventually losing their life or becoming the targets of severe reprimands or being condemned in the public view.

It is true that God Almighty has sometimes revealed certain mysteries of His Essence, Attributes and Names. But He has done so within the framework of certain causes as a requirement of His Dignity and Grandeur, and He has offered them from behind certain veils. For this reason, what befalls the loyal servants at the door of the Ultimate Truth is not to manifest whatever vision or unveiling with which they have been favored, thus avoiding throwing the masses into confusions and wrong actions. There is safety in silence and respect for the Ultimate Truth in not revealing Divine mysteries. A time comes for one who has reached the end of the path when all Divine Attributes and Names are eclipsed by the lights of the Divine Essence. This is the horizon of All things are perishable except His Face (28:88). Like everything else, the corporeal existence of the servant, which is entrusted to the servant, is also eclipsed and becomes invisible. This transient, death-bound design is completely surrounded by the lights of the All-Permanent Existence and only the signals of the manifestation of the Divine Essence are experienced. This spiritual experience has been described as the Ultimate Truth making the hidden manifest.

The favors that emerge on the horizon of the private depend on one’s freedom from selfhood. For this reason, those who are at the beginning of the spiritual journey are not able to be familiar with the manifestations of the True Existence unless they are freed from their “figurative” existence. Those who see themselves as their own owners can neither reach the horizon of “the private” nor rise to the peak where the mysteries of Divine Lordship can be observed nor receive the fragrance of the Hidden Treasure. The mysteries of the Hidden Treasure are revealed on the horizon of “the more private.” This mysterious realm that is beyond the realm of mysteries is a horizon which is particular primarily to the one who is the nearest of all to the Divine Being, upon him be peace and blessings, and then to the other servants at His door in accordance with their adherence to the Prophetic way. Those who have not experienced the secret or drunk sips from the cup of the private can never rise to this peak. Just as those who have stuck fast to the wording can never discover the meaning, neither can those who only concentrate on the meaning ever attain familiarity with the essence or arrive at the truth. Supposing the impossible, even if they do arrive at the truth somehow, they can never get a glimpse of the Truth of the truths.

The Truth of the truths is the unique source and foundation of everything. Those who feel and experience It have grasped everything, while those who cannot find It continuously suffer tiredness and spend their life in vain. The Hidden Treasure is another title of the treasure of the mystery of Oneness and the absolutely Unseen, which cannot be grasped not only by ordinary people but also by those who have reached the horizons of the heart and the secret, and even for those who are the more advanced in experiencing the private. Everything in the name of existence and favor originates in this all-transcending horizon and descends downward, developing branches until it reaches us. It is the original beginning, because everything ends in It, while humankind, which is the fruit of creation, is the result. This may also be called “the manifestation in the form of descent.” Our horizon as corporeal beings is the start of the journey realized toward the Hidden Treasure through further and further realms; this is achieved by setting the systems of the heart and spirit into action, while the more private is the end or end point. This journeying is the ascent or ascension.

God’s saintly friends usually say: “The womb is related to or has connection with the realm of Knowledge.” This may be interpreted to mean that everything has an original existence in Divine Knowledge, and that these known entities or elements of Knowledge proceed toward external existence through certain, pre-ordained stages of identification or specification in order to function as mirrors of the All-Pure Existence. In other words, everything has a hidden existence that is free of time and space in the Hidden Treasure. In the initial stage of existence, they are individually identified in Knowledge, and then they are honored with spiritual existence. Finally, they are favored with the garment of subtle and corporeal existence. These are roughly the three stages of coming into corporeal existence. This process is described as a favor of descent, while the spiritual journeying upward through the heart and the spirit, or the heart and the secret, or the secret and the private, or the private and the more private is called ascent or ascension.

The horizon of the more private is an exceptional rank or realm that is particular to the way of Prophet Muhammad, upon him be peace and blessings. Those who do not follow this way cannot reach this peak. The final point that they can attain is the secret or the private. This is the end point of their rise that their capacity allows them to reach. Each of the steps at these peaks is also the point where the genuine nature of a Prophet is projected and marks the line of his spiritual journeying. Those who journey along the same line or are favored with the observation of truths from the same horizon seem to be the representatives of some basic qualities particular to that Prophet. It is because of this subtle reality that there may appear among those representatives ones who confuse the original with the representation and therefore claim to have a part in the Prophethood of that Prophet; or some of the followers of those representatives may attribute to their masters partnership in the Prophethood in question. However, how can the light of the moon or the reflection of the sun in bubbles can be compared with the sun itself?

According to the Sufis, the original owners of the highest ranks in question are the greatest of the Prophets, such as Prophet Adam, Prophet Abraham, Prophet Moses, and Prophet Jesus, upon them be peace. According to the Sufis, the sole, unique master of the horizon of the more private is the Seal of the Mission of Prophethood, upon him be perfect blessings and peace. The rise of the Prophets from the beginning to the end was through a sudden, instantaneous Divine attraction. Others have to follow their way, even when they are favored with Divine attraction. Believers advance on the spiritual path in adherence to its disciplines, sipping at knowledge of God with a new observation with every step from the spirit to the heart, and from the heart to the secret, and from the secret to the private, and from the private to the more private. They are cooled by being washed in the most profound and enjoyable of spiritual pleasures; they experience new types of intoxication through the mysteries of Divine Acts; they observe different manifestations in the horizon of Divine Names; they encounter surprise after surprise in the atmosphere of Divine Attributes of Glory; they undergo changes and transformations through the mysteries of Divinity; they ultimately reach the final point in their rise according to their capacity.

The perfections acquired along the path through the realm of the initial manifestations of Divine Commands are preliminary to the gifts and ranks that are to be obtained in the realm of creation. The former journey (which is in the realm of the initial manifestation of Divine Commands) is the path of sainthood, while the latter (which is realized in the realm of creation) is the ascension of Prophethood. This also shows that sainthood serves Prophethood and it was a step toward it in Prophets. A saint advances and rises in order to find a new thing at every step, and thus deepens in what they have found, while a Prophet stands at the intersection of the realms of the initial manifestation of Divine Commands and creation in order to lead others to find what he has found according to the individual capacity. He lays paths from multiplicity to unity and weaves a lace of spirituality from matter. Although his mission encompasses all the peculiarities of the realm of the initial manifestation of Divine Commands, it fundamentally relates to the realm of creation. With the exception of the pillars of belief, which originally belong to the realm of the initial manifestation of Divine Commands, all the orders and prohibitions of Islam, the bounties of Paradise, the punishment of Hell, the happiness of the vision of God in Paradise, and the delight of relationships being established with those near to God constitute the essence of the basic messages of the Prophets and relate to the realm of creation.

All the acts incumbent on the Muslims in the age of responsibility, and all the principles of being advantageous or disadvantageous also relate to the realm of creation and are the fruits and greenhouses provided by the horizon of Prophethood. The regular, optional recitations, and the actions of the heart, such as self-criticism, self-supervision, and reflection, which are regarded as provisions on the way of sainthood, support the basic commandments of the Religion and the essential duties of the religious life. The negligence and failure in the latter is the cause of the deprivation of the blessings of the former, while those who fulfill the latter completely do not make lasting faults in the performance of the former. The nearness to God which the way of Prophethood enables through the fulfillment of obligations is essential, while the nearness obtained on the way of sainthood through supererogatory acts is of a secondary nature. If something essential is fulfilled accurately, that which is of secondary nature is subordinated to it.

O God! Revive us through obligatory acts and duties and make us alive in them. Adorn us with supererogatory acts and duties and make us near to You. Bestow blessings and peace on our master Muhammad and on his Family and Companions, altogether.

[tervacious]

Since Everything is a Feminist Dissertation Imma blog about Shane Dawson’s palette for a minute

Nine times out of ten when you make a statement and end it with BUT, you have outted yourself as a hypocritical ass who should have the ovarios to say what follows the BUT without the opening statement.  Maybe this will be true for me too.

In agreement with most radfems I totally think the cosmetics industry is a clusterfuck of male entitlement and wealth being siphoned away from girls and women to men and male CEOs, etc etc, and I also think the sheer amount of product and time involved in placing thirty-five different products on one’s face to achieve a “natural” look is insidious and a perfect exemplar of what misogyny functions like on a daily basis, BUT

I’m a survivor of an extreme fundie xtian cult that controlled female behavior by emphasizing conformity, femininity, modesty, and lack of adornment/personality.  I did not like this even as a small child because I’m a loner, Dottie.  A rebel.  Which means I was a totally normal little girl who didn’t like being controlled and who fought back at every opportunity.

Which might explain why I’m a goth.  I’m also an artist, and I’m on this planet, as are you, for a very tiny amount of time, and if I want to spend a fraction of that time adorning myself and wearing lots of black eyeliner, by the goddess I’ll fucking do it.  And there’s nothing radical or feminist about that, any more than there’s anything inherently radical or feminist about not doing it.

I have a single small dresser drawer filled with makeup, and I’ve been eyeballing it recently because I should really pitch out and replace about 80% of it for age related reasons alone.

And thus we come to the Conspiracy palette by Shane Dawson x Jeffree Star, and also the mini palette, Lorde help me

Jesus christ, look at that.

I only buy one eyeshadow palette at a time and use it until it is gone or falls apart into dust.  The current state of the beauty industry is such that they are pressuring women and girls into buying palette after palette, some of them enormous, some small, but a grown-ass woman owning stacks of these things is not unusual anymore.  And new ones are coming out constantly-- to the point where there’s a whole part of beauty YouTube devoted to “the anti-haul”, in which people announce which makeup thing they will NOT be buying.  This is a sorry state of affairs, there’s no way around it.

I don’t collect makeup because that’s silly.  It’s a huge waste of money.  I watch otherwise sensible women hoarding vast numbers of eyeshadow palettes, and they use only one or two colors and that’s... just sad?  Apply that to the vast quantities of makeup products, to your lipsticks and glosses, to your pencils and correctors and corrector palettes and concealers and blushes and highlighters and contours and powders and foundations and primers and mattifiers and setting sprays and mascaras and a bunch of others things I forget, add a pile of false eyelashes and I don’t know, eyebrow merkins or some shit, and that’s what a well-appointed makeup afficionado is supposed to have in her arsenal.  And all those things can’t be just one-- you have to have multiples, for reasons.  But I honestly think the eyeshadow obsession is the worst, which is strange coming from me, because I adore eyeshadow.  

And yet in spite of this I have a black stand-alone eyeshadow pan, and one large palette that is cheap, made in China, not great but with a lot of weird colors in it, so I use that one when I bother, and a few pots of glitter.  My plan is to use it up or wait until it’s too old to use safely, and then pitch it/repurpose the case for something (it is literally the size of a laptop with a huge mirror in it so I can think of something), and get a new palette.  I only buy one at a time, and use it until it’s gone.  You know, like a rational person.

At first I’d decided when the time comes I’d get the Jawbreaker palette and mini, by Jeffree Star, because I loved the colors, but now I’ve changed my mind, because Shane Dawson’s not only has a case that matches my aesthetic, it also has awesome colors and, most importantly, BLACK.  I use black eyeshadow alone or to set my eyeliner, so I’m devoted.  And while all of these palettes have too many neutrals for my taste you can always use those for some kinda detail, and the Conspiracy Palette is my jam.  It’s really gorgeous.  Not gonna lie.

The documentary he made about the making of this palette is interesting on multiple levels-- there’s the process itself, which I didn’t know shit about until now.  There was the portrayal of his relationship with Jeffree, which was interesting and often pretty funny, and touching.  And from my chronic can’t stop writing feminist dissertations POV, the way women are the target of this business and yet completely sidelined was a real eyeopener.   Let me just mention this one part:

In the final episode when the palette is assembled, each pan glued into the box and then the box boxed up, there’s a song with a woman singing about how she’ll never be Prom Queen.  Shane is walking through the assembly line, emotional, because this is his project coming to fruition.  Jeffree is with him, and Shane starts crying, and Jeffree comforts him.  The song is clearly meant to be something Shane feels.

But the scene is of dozens of women, none of whom will be prom queen, none of whom are about to make millions of dollars on cosmetics, in white coats and hair protectors and goggles, busily assembling a beautiful object, which one suspects only a few of them will be able to afford for themselves though I can’t swear to that, it’s possible they are paid well, the place is unusual, Jeffree makes all his product in the United States, and I’m not inclined to jump to conclusions.  But they are anonymously and busily working, putting together this thing, meant for women, and no woman really had any functional input into this project at all.  This was, as everyone was joking, Shane and Jeffree’s baby.  A baby.  You know, the thing a man can never have.

I appreciate film making that reveals truth, even if it wasn’t intentional.

So other than that there’s not much to say.  You can watch the epic thing yourself on YouTube, it was entertaining (and good for me because I need to opt out of some of the heavier shit I’m always buried in, yet one more reason I fucking QUIT MY JOB and am now FREE,) but if you want a look into the way the business works on the indy end of the spectrum, not the old timey Cosmetics Corporations but the new one that Jeffree Star basically spearheaded and upturned large chunks of the old business model, I think this documentary is a good one for understanding exactly how marginalized women remain in a business that ostensibly is directed at us.

The reason I think women like watching men like Jeffree and Shane and whoever else do these things is because it aids and abets the lie that wearing makeup is all a choice women make.  The men are choosing, because men have zero pressure on them to do these things.  Women are taught to have affinity with men and to ignore their lack of affinity with us.  These bits of entertainment are a great brainwashing reinforcing device, to get us along for the ride, to hop in the car we never ever get to drive.  And none of it is intentional, which is the best part.  As smart as Shane is, the joy of being male is you just take things, casually, as your birthright.  You’re totally entitled to make a nine-hour epic following your friends and family, unapologetically, put it on the internet, and get accolades, including the one I’m writing right now.  You’re entitled to dictate the facts as if they contain a great truth.  You can be totally unaware of the impact your decisions have for the greater bad.  You can think you’re helping your sister-in-law through her crisis created by the very culture you are responsible for while mocking the women she blames for making her feel bad.  This set of films is a monolithic treat for a radical woman to confront.  And I hope, since there’s truth hidden in plain sight throughout, that a lot of other women and girls will see it too.  Will notice the few females scattered throughout the film, consulted in the most cursory way, knowing they have to perform or they’re replaceable.  I’m an Old, and used to seeing the real world, which has looked like this all my life.  I don’t know what a fifteen year-old will see.

Tati Westbrook also released a new eyeshadow palette last week I think, and since people think if she puts out a forty-five minute video she’s talking too much, she naturally did not film a massive docudrama showcasing her Eyeshadow Palette Journey or whatever I could imagine her saying.  Thus she was very much overshadowed by something that won’t appear for sale until tomorrow.  I have no doubt she’ll do well, but will she make twenty million dollars?  Will she do as well as she could have if she were a man?

Should anyone, off of what is essentially bullshit?   Pretty, gorgeous bullshit?  Of course not.  That’s the actual feminist conclusion, it doesn’t matter if a male or a female is profitting off of, essentially, the insecurities and desires for cool new things and to be hip and liked and looked up to, which all of us have to some extent in some arena.  I’m not immune to it either, ain’t lying again.  It’s always an unseemly pleasure to have someone half my age ask me what I’m wearing and where I got it.  Capitalism has conditioned all of us to associate material things with social acceptance and admiration, and if you are a materialist person like I am, that association comes very easily.

Anyway, that’s it, that’s the bit.  I have no doubt this thing will sell out in approximately two hours, which will happen without me because my old eyeshadow palette still works.  

[scullyy]

Collateral Damage

Title: Collateral Damage

Pairing: Clementine x Louis

Word Count: 1748

Summary: A freak accident ignites a heated argument between Clementine and Louis, leaving the rest of the school kids to try and get them back on speaking terms.

A/N: This one-shot was requested to me by a user on Wattpad! I should also have another request uploaded tomorrow night if everything goes well. 

Enjoy :)

-

As much as Violet hated to see them act all lovey-dovey, she would give anything to stop the fighting. Even her last chicken nugget if it meant Clementine and Louis, her two best friends, would make up.

"Do you ever consider the fact that your actions have serious consequences?" Clementine wore her frustration like a crown with thorns and Louis could feel every stab she took. It grew through her whole body, keeping herself grounded to the earth. Even Marlon had to stand in between them to keep whatever peace he could find.

Louis dug his hands deep into his pockets. "I'm not an idiot Clem, everything was under control," He quickly looked at AJ who was under the attentive care of Ruby. Murky blood stained his little shoes, only further reminding Louis of what could have happened.

Clem's hands fell to her hips, her rough nails dug through her jeans. "Oh really? I told you not to take him to that warehouse and yet you still did-"

"Please, don't fight," AJ spoke up from his spot at the table. Despite his hushed tone, he managed to silence the two. "I'm alright Clem, no bites."

Clementine kneeled down in front of him and wiped some muck from his cheek. "You knew not to go into that warehouse AJ, it's crawling with monsters." Her demeanour quickly changed, her scowl softened and her voice harboured a great deal of care.

AJ felt guilt bubble in his stomach, making him feel groggy. "We thought we could find food there." Supplies had been running low for days, even with the expansion of the safe-zone, animal sightings within the area were becoming scarce.

Louis slowly stepped over to her, wondering if it was safe for him to be in such close quarters. "See? He's alright Clem-"

"I'm not speaking to you."

With that she stormed off into the school, kicking up dirt behind her. Louis could feel his heart wither as she slammed the grand door shut. Angry Clementine was scary enough, but she had never been mad at him before. "Fuck."

Ruby finished cleaning AJ of the fresh blood. "You alright sug?" The answer was obvious, he wasn't making eye contact with anyone. "I'm sure she'll be okay in a tick, sometimes we just gotta cool off."

Even Marlon was a little afraid at the sudden outburst. One minute he was opening the gates to welcome Louis and AJ back in from their one-on-one supply run and the next he was playing mediator. "You really fucked up this time Lou."

"Gee, you think?" Louis threw himself next to his friend and buried his head in his hands. "She's right AJ. We knew not to go into that place and yet we still did." There wasn't even any food left, just a sea of walkers all trapped within those concrete walls.

AJ could still feel the ghost of the monster's hand on his ankle. "I don't wanna leave her alone." He looked at the scratched door, temptation yelled at him to go after her, but what could he say? Clementine was as stubborn as they come, apparently she got it from a man she once knew.

"I'll go talk to her," Violet spoke up. "If you don't hear from me within an hour then she's killed me." She was the first to notice the immediate jump Clementine's mood took once the boys had returned. Her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles had turned white, it was eerie.

"I'll come too, us girls gotta stick together," Ruby got up alongside Violet and together they marched into the school, bracing themselves. "You reckon she'll forgive him?"

Violet felt unsteady in her answer. "Hopefully." Louis could be a big fuck-up sometimes, everyone knew that, but Clementine had an unwavering belief in him. It was the reason he got up every morning, to follow through with that faith. Without it...Violet didn't want to think of what her friend would become.

Louis wished he could have followed them inside. "What am I supposed to do? She doesn't even want to be near me." His teeth were slowly grinding against each other, a bad habit he had since childhood.

"Let the girls talk to her first," Omar suggested. "They'll know what to do."

                                                            ��-

Very few things scared Violet and she had seen Clementine angry before. But this...it was like the girl had reached a secret layer of hell.

Ruby opened the door first and poked her head in, giving Clem a bright smile. "Hey there girl, how ya' doing?"

She was furiously pacing around her room, her nails now digging into her palms. "How could he be so fucking reckless!" Clementine shouted, her footsteps grew louder and heavier with each passing second.

Violet slithered in past Ruby and leaned against the bookshelf, keeping a safe distance from Clementine. She raised her hand slowly, subtly asking for permission to speak. "It wasn't just Louis, he makes a lot of dumb decisions but he wasn't alone on this one-"

"But he was supposed to be looking after AJ! If something had happened-"

                                                             -

"-I don't think I'll ever forgive myself," Louis admitted to the boys. His eyes never left AJ, despite the threat being long gone. Tenn and Willy had taken him to Rosie in an effort to distract him. "I just wanted to help with the food shortage."

"I'm sure Clem knows that, she isn't foolish." Aasim was well aware that Louis was never one to follow directions, especially if the opportunity to impress or assist was present.

Marlon felt shameful giving advice, his friendship with Louis had been rocky since his secret about the twins had come to light. It felt hypocritical to be acting so high and mighty. "Right, it was a mistake, Lou."

"Yeah, a mistake that almost cost a child's life. I have never seen her so-"

                                                            -

"-angry! Even AJ knows how dangerous that place is." Clementine threw herself onto the bed, the temptation to scream into the pillow was all too real. She scooched over to allow Violet and Ruby to sit next to her.

"They had good intentions Clem," Ruby squeezed her shoulder. "Boys are just..."

"Stupid," Violet injected. "We've known Louis for a long time, he'd never intentionally hurt anyone, especially AJ."

Clementine knew that. Deep within her gut, she knew that AJ was never in any true danger. "I just get so worried about-"

                                                              -

"-her. You think I should try?" Louis hummed over the idea of checking on Clem, at risk of having his ear chewed off again.

"It'll do you both some good to talk it out, calmly." Aasim emphasised. He didn't want to hear anymore yelling, it reminded him too much of his old home.

Louis stood to his feet and took in a deep breath. "You're right, time to face the music." He marched up to the brooding school, formulating his words as he got closer. Then again...would getting on his hands and knees to beg for forgiveness work?

"Oh please my darling Clementine! My heart cannot bear another moment where you are in such a state of dispair-"

"Hey, Louis!" He was torn away from his plan by a slap to the shoulder from Violet, some friend she was. "You on your way to see Clem?"

"There's no other option really, is she still mad?"

Please say no, please say no, please say no.

Ruby shrugged. "Just a little I reckon."

Fuck.

Louis tugged on the collar of his shirt. "Well, thanks for talking to her. I hope she listens to me." He pushed himself past the girls and hovered outside her bedroom door. Many a time had he waited out here, but those moments were spent thinking of a grand entrance or something witty to say. A joke wouldn't really help in this instance.

He carefully opened the door and slid himself through the crack. Clementine was still situated by the bed, her eyes focused on the trees outside the school. She appeared to be in a state of deep thought, her lips folded into a bored scowl that sent shivers down Louis's spine.

"Hey, Clemster."

Immediately he knew that his presence wasn't wanted. Clementine slowly turned to him, her eyes burning right into his own. She seemed to be cussing him out without the need to use any words.

"C'mon, don't look at me like that, please." He pleaded.

She turned back to the window, her expression unwavering. "Guess I won't look then."

Louis played it off like it didn't hurt and sat next to her, still leaving a small space between them. "I am sorry, AJ and I should have listened to you."

"Well, why didn't you?" Her voice somehow remained short and distance, the thought of AJ not returning was only fueling the fire in her head.

"We both wanted to come back with some food, surprise everyone. We thought it might cheer you up," Louis wiped away the stray tear that fell down her cheek, knowing that he was the cause of her sadness ate him up inside. "We didn't find shit though, by the time we got inside everything had rotted away."

Clementine turned to face him completely and saw just how guilty he was; no light in his eyes, no contagious smile. "I know you had good intentions, the both of you. It's just scary, the last time AJ was taken from me I thought he was gone for good." Those were some of her darkest days, AJ was her light. A constant reminder that things could be better, that there are good people in the world.

And Louis was one of them.

She slowly leaned her head against his shoulder, surprised at just how much she had missed his touch. "I shouldn't have snapped, just be careful next time, please?"

Louis placed his hand over hers. "You have every right to be upset, I should have listened. I'm sorry Clem."

"I can't lose him Louis, or you," Clementine poured out what pain remained in her heart and buried her head in his coat, concealing her tears. "Seeing you walk out of those gates every day...it scares me more than you know. I never know if you'll come back or-"

"Hey now, listen to me, I'm not going anywhere," He closed the minimal space between them and pulled her in closer than ever before. "It's you and me. Till the end."

Clementine gripped his arms tightly, trying to memorise every part of him. "Yeah, till the very end."

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Good Enough [Part 3] Desire [Madara Uchiha]

Thank you everyone for the support on this story, urging me to get back to work on it. Sorry about the lack of smut in this chapter; gives you something to look forward to.

The next morning Kururi rushed to the main house and urged the caretaker to wake Madara. He was already up, but far too busy to speak with her. She was grateful for this and left the blank note in the capable hands of his retainer while she waited impatiently by the front door for her to return.

Not sure how long Hashirama bought her, Kururi was relieved to see that Madara made this duty an urgency and signed the note. She expected a rude comment, passed between him to her regarding her negligence, however, she was given none. The young retainer passed the scroll back to her, wished her a good morning, and let her be on her way. Kururi, taken by surprise, returned to her main house to get properly dressed, then headed over to the tower.

By noon time, the elders had come to an agreement. Kururi was standing in a crowd at the base of the tower when they announced it. She was relieved to hear that Madara was permitted to run. The two founders stood together, looking out over the village and its people. She was for once in tears, watching them stand as equals. It took a while, but now peace was more than just a thought, dreamed up by three orphaned children. Kururi wiped her damp eyes and slunk back into the crowd.

She had every intention of returning home, but a bitter, dark chakra suddenly covered her, bringing this notion to a standstill. Kururi knew that it could only be one of two people and refrained from visibly shivering as said person moved to stand by her side. She never quite understood why, but the Uchiha had such hostile chakra; it felt like hands of ice taking ahold of her.

"Izuna … please. Try and hold back a little." If she was uncomfortable, she was sure the villagers with little to no chakra control were too.

He did as requested and easily concealed his signature. "My apologies. I forget sometimes."

"It's alright; sometimes I do too. Habit is hard to break when you've been taught something completely different all your life," she explained softly.

Izuna knew just what she was implying. Even so, it was hard for him pull off, since he was an Uchiha. He felt like the people of the village were isolating his clan. Flaunting his power was just a means of protecting himself; survival of the fittest. She had to realize what he was aiming to do, right? Maybe not, seeing as though she just chastised him.

A frown marred his face, but he chose not to say anything. Instead, he glanced up at Madara, as if his brother might be able to support him with this issue. How would he handle it? An alternate route opened up to him.

"If I may ask … why are you not with the council? I assumed you'd be up there."

Kururi felt her face heat up. She knew that he was attempting to rile her up; obviously he knew why. "Neither of them need my support. I've done all I can."

She was being honest; Izuna could hear it in her voice. What she didn't realize was how wrong she was. The fact that Kururi was so unsure about her role made him feel like she was insignificant. However, his brother thought otherwise. Izuna couldn't wrap his mind around it. Why did Madara like her so much?

"I believe this is the first time I've seen you with your hair down," Izuna mentioned, baiting her. She didn't look so much like an adolescent like this.

Kururi puckered her brow. "Yes … well you took my hair sticks yesterday, so I had nothing to use."

He nearly smirked at this. She was too easy. "Madara offered me an opportunity and I took it, but if you wish, I can return to you the inheritances I took. They are at the compound."

She did want them back, however she wasn't sure about going alone with Izuna. Thinking back to what she promised Hashirama, she decided to agree, only if he accepted her proposal.

"I'd like my sister to accompany us. She is rather fond of the Uchiha. I believe she may like someone in your clan."

It mattered not to Izuna, but he agreed in any case. A mock smile lifted his lips. "That's ironic, considering that you too like an Uchiha. You stare at my brother with a fondness beyond friendship. Some would think it's a weakness."

"Who do you watch with such eyes?"

Izuna puckered his brow. He wasn't sure there was someone he actually liked. Not that he was incapable of love; he just wasn't interested in it right now.

"That doesn't matter, Kururi." It really didn't, not while his mind was engaged with something else. But maybe after this. "Come on. Lets get your sister, and I will accompany you both."

Like he suggested, Izuna lead the two back to his clan's main house. He bade Kirino to rest in the back yard as he took Kururi to the work room his brother often resided in. Leaving her a moment, he moved around to the back of Madara's desk and retrieved her hair sticks.

She used the time to look around Madara's work space, intrigued by the naturalness of it. He kept the walls mostly bare, with the exception of a few weapons Kururi was sure he still had use for. She could see nothing that really stood out to her; nothing that yelled tyrant like she had expected.

"This is alarming," she uttered.

Izuna was taken back. "You imagined something different?"

"Less principles," she admitted. "But, I'm not going to cry about it. At his core, Madara is still human." Her fingers traced softly over the clan's crest.

"In a sense, you're right. He is human … but sometimes his actions share no compassion. It's for the sake of our people that he be made a devil in the eyes of others," Izuna explained, while moving closer to her.

He offered back her hair sticks and forlornly added, "At least that's how he wanted it to be. A certain woman has stolen his thoughts, and even I dare think his intensions for the clan have changed."

"I don't think that at all when I look at what all he's done," Kururi rebutted. "He does everything he can for his people. Some may see it as cruelty – his actions – but he's just doing what's best for his clan."

Izuna gave her a gentle smile, "How noble of you, to speak of my brother in such a way." Maybe he was wrong to assume so little of her. Even so, he needed to be sure. Words could only assure him for so long.

"Can I ask you of something?"

Kururi nodded in agreement. "You may ask me whatever you like, Izuna."

"Are you certain that you believe Madara can become the leader of this new village? You spoke up for him against the council. But do you actually believe that he has a shot?"

"Hashirama does … but I do not. I was honest when I said that times have changed, but for Madara, they have not." She never wanted to give him false hope; it was cruel of Hashirama to ask this of her. Dread filled her as she thought it over. "I just want the best for him … I'm sorry."

Izuna was strangely pleased by her answer. "I assumed as much." He already knew that Hashirama thought highly of Madara; this was no surprise to him. "Thank you for everything you've done for him; Madara deserves this. Still, am I wrong to assume a small part of the reason you agreed was because of love?"

"I … I don't know how to answer that."

"A simple yes or no," Izuna said blatantly. He was uneasy with the fact that she couldn't yet give an honest answer.

Sink or swim? Every possible route was circling around to this. She wasn't certain, because she assumed her feelings for Madara were nothing more than desire.

Kururi placed her fingers over her heart; it wasn't beating out of her chest in any cliché way. She feared her belief was true. "I don't think what I feel for your brother is love, and this hold I have over him isn't either."

"Since when did you think you were intitled to speak for him?"

She cringed at this. Honestly, it made her a little angry. He too had no right; he was a hypocrite for scolding her. "This conversation is over. We obviously can't fathom his feelings, so we don't need to argue over it."

Izuna agreed, despite his conflicting thoughts. He felt that if anyone knew his brother – truly – it was him. Madara would never lie to him, and he surely wouldn't have come to him in the first place if he felt like he could handle the situation. Izuna wanted so bad to spoil their scheme, but he honestly felt like his brother should do it.

"Speak with him," he implored. "You won't listen to reason, so at least ask him yourself. That's all I'll say about it."

Kururi curled her hands into a fist. She was so tired of this roundabout; it made her sick. All she wanted to do was forget about the whole ordeal, but nearly everyone she spoke to was filling her head with false information. Even so, she knew what Izuna had said was the truth.

She needed to speak to Madara in person.

"Convey to him that I'd like to meet. Tonight will be fine," she uttered in defeat.

Izuna gently smiled, "Leave it to me."

Kururi so wanted this to be over. She just hoped her desire for Madara wouldn't blindside her to the truth.