#Acknowledge I have been chasing you. past self. in mirrors and in your shadows for your adult life.... Or deny my existence.

[blackvahana]

Because you know. If Madness is my venom that decays the body and kills you I may as well kill you

[cosmicrew]

Close your eyes, take a deep breath, follow your intuition and choose the pile that calls on you! You can also use your pendulum, whatever works best for you. After you’ve chosen click on read more to read your message.

Disclaimer: This is a general reading so take only what resonates for you intuitively and leave the rest. This reading is for entertainment purposes only and the user is responsible for their own choices and decisions.

Pile 1. Do we need a past and a future to feel joy? Can’t just the present moment be an explosion of eternity? Let’s just be. Let’s just be now. Elsa Khapatnukovski

Pile number one this is such a beautiful reading. Very often the venus retrograde is associated with the return of an ex and for the majority of you, someone is going to return from the past. This venus retrograde is your chance to let go of the past, to let go of the fear that this time isn’t going to work out, to let go of the assumptions and to not overthink that much for the future ahead. This venus retrograde is asking you to start live in the present, to be more instinctual, to forgive the past and to trust your intuition. Try to be more open, to love and to go with the flow. Even if the person that is coming is someone new, the lesson here is to understand that past hurts/mistakes have made who you are today and you’re not going to repeat the same mistakes or have the same toxic experiences because you have learned the lessons and now you are finally ready to have a healthy and beautiful relationship. Just chill and don’t overthink too much. You are on the right path to find the right one. Luck is on your side ❤️

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Pile 2. I was once the person in front of the mirror. And I will be the person in the mirror. I will shed my shadow like a used skin, and I will surge into a light of my own making. Transformation; self love. Elsa Khapatnukovski

Pile number 2 this Venus retrograde is going to help you in your self-love journey. You may have many insecurities and this may have made you isolate from the world or perceive the world like a terrible/chaotic place to live in, choosing to stay in your bubble alone or maybe you feel so comfortable in your bubble that you consciously choose to stay alone missing out on the beauty that the real world has to offer. In both cases it’s important to acknowledge that yes, spending time alone is necessary to fill up your energetic resources but deep down you know that it’s a human need to receive love, company and support from others. You have to go out and explore the real world. This is what venus retrograde is going to bring you, a change in perspective, more confidence and self-love. This venus retrograde is going to encourage you to be more adventurous, more optimistic and to go out more often and to understand that maybe your insecurities have made you see the world more frightening than what it really is. You are going to notice that this transformation is going to bring you so much luck and many admirers. Go have fun 💄

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Pile 3. I have stood here, outside the pouring rain.I have seen sunset and dawn,and then dried my tears. My clothes are my prison. My jewels are my shackles. My compliance is my jailor. Now that I have what I craved, how the pain can still be here? Elsa Khapatnukovski

Dear Pile number 3 this Venus retrograde is going to bring you a tower moment in your life. For quite some time you have chosen to feed your ego and your insecurities by chasing material things. Thinking that what you really need is being successful while hiding your pain with material indulgence. You may have been a little superficial giving importance to things that can’t really heal your soul. This Venus retrograde is going to make you rethink of past behaviors and realize that maybe you have taken the wrong turn. You are going to notice that even if you have everything that you initially craved(success,power, money), you still feel the pain so maybe what you thought that was important for your happiness was just a defense mechanism to protect your heart. This Venus retrograde is going to give you the spiritual insight that you need to start over in a more healthy way. To accept your mistakes, to start asking for help and support , to be more in contact with your emotions. This is your chance to release these toxic behaviors and to start being more in contact with your emotions. You can do this 💪🏻

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Pile 4. Misunderstandings are caused when we don’t open our heart and mind and see things from a different point of view. It's easier to react by second guessing as a reflection of our own wounds than understanding the other point of view. Clarity.

Pile number 4 this Venus retrograde is going to give you clarity about a certain connection. You are going to have the chance to understand their point of view better and this is going to bring you closer than ever. Understanding the other point of view without getting triggered is a huge accomplishment and this Venus retrograde is going to help you with that. For the first time you are going to see each other in the eye without any sorts of masks and this will bring the compassion, passion, clarity and the focus of the relationship that you once had. This Venus retrograde is going to bring so much healing and clarity ⚖️

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Pile 5. When I loved, I was cold. And I was cold when I was loved, as well. I called that coldness by the name love, and I smiled and smiled. That was my worst winter, and it lasted until I found spring. Rebirth, surrender to the sweetness of life. Elsa Khapatnukovski

Pile number 5 you have spent a lot of your time doing something(maybe pursuing a career) neglecting the other things in life or maybe neglecting your loved ones. Venus retrograde is going to restore some balance in your life by giving you the chance to give the right amount of time every aspect of your life because this is the real key to success and happiness.

During this Venus retrograde you are called to go out more with your loved ones, to spend more time with your family, to spend time in nature and to try to ground yourself more. You are called to surrender and to relax. You are going to realize that you have strived so much in building the life of your dream that you have driven yourself to exhaustion. Take a break, go into a spa. Enjoy more your life, sleep. This Venus retrograde is going to give you the pause that you may think you don’t want but your soul and body is craving it. Listen more to your body and go out, have fun. 🏖

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[dontcallmecarrie]

tfw the plot bunny strikes and refuses to let go, here, continuation of this:

.

Loki was torn between chagrin and vague amusement, as he observed everyone else’s reactions to the two Justin Hammers in between herding everyone to one of the safehouses Victor von Doom had somehow managed to get ahold of in this strange world.

At first glance, Victor seemed to be the most unperturbed— but Loki knew him well enough to note the way his eyes had widened when he’d seen the two side by side, couldn’t help but catch the tiniest shift in the way he held himself and Loki would bet anything that if he were any sort of telepath, he’d be hearing nothing but an infernal screeching coming from his corner of the room. 

Ivan Vanko wasn’t much better, but at least he’d elected to hyperfixate on cleaning up the loose ends they’d left in relation to their original mission: from his mutters, some of the security cameras’ footage had been trickier to access than not, and required even more effort to scrub. Loki gave it another five minutes before he was forced to look away from his computer and acknowledge the reality of the situation.

Meanwhile, the Winter Soldiers were an interesting study in contrasts; while Winter was extremely apologetic about the situation and had already apologized no less than five times, Soldat seemed to be content to look on in bemusement as the situation unraveled from there. 

...which wasn’t very different from what Loki’s own counterpart was doing, actually, but at least Soldat wasn’t enjoying the chaos. Visibly, anyway, and Loki was getting a new appreciation for just how irritating that particular smirk looked on his own face. If they all weren’t so focused on calming the jumpier, more visibly frazzled-version of their leader, someone would’ve punched it off his face by now. As it was, though...

.

“Who the hell are you people?!” Justin Hammer whisper-shrieked, in between sharp gasps for air and eyes wide as he cowered away from his kidnappers. “And wh— wh—”

“He’s more high-strung than you are.” Someone muttered to the terrifying figure who had his face—

“Of course he is, he has no idea what’s going on and you guys kidnapped him,” his mirror image replied with a flat look, before turning to face him looking vaguely embarrassed. “Look, Hammer— can I call you Hammer? Wait, no, you can be Justin, I’ll go by Hammer and man this is weird— I can explain. Just. Sit down and take a breather, because it’s, uh, a bit of a long story.”

.

Justin would’ve thought an explanation would leave him with more answers than questions.

He was sorely mistaken.

The headache he had now wasn’t much of an improvement from before. 

.

“So, let me get this straight: you,” Justin jabbed a finger at the dude with the dark grey mask which was just about the only thing differentiating him from his twin, “grabbed me because you mistook me for him—”

“Sorry about that, by the w—”

“—and you’re all from some other dimension and pissed off goodness knows how many organizations trying to figure out how to get home,” Justin steamrollered on, closing his eyes in an effort to take things one step at a time because he was trying not to feel overwhelmed but these guys weren’t making it easy, “is that right?”

“Well...”

“I mean...”

“Yeah.” Ivan— not the bastard responsible for his being in Seagate, another version of him who apparently didn’t actively try and screw people over— replied, and Justin opened his eyes just in time to catch the tail end of his shrug. “That about sums it up.”

“Okay.” Justin nodded to himself. “Why?”

“Why what? You’re going to need to be more specific, here, I’m not a mind reader.” 

“How’d you even get here? Or do you weirdos just go dimension-hopping for fun on a Friday night?”

“You’re not the only one wondering that.” The alien god said airily, toying with a— that was a knife, okay, Justin already knew he was in way over his head, he didn’t need the reminder, thanks. Where did it even come from, anyway? “I would really like to know that as well, Ivan.”

“Oh, nah, this was a freak accident.” Ivan snorted, then gave them all a smirk that gave Justin goosebumps for a second. “As for why...look at it this way: this was weird and stressful for us, and from the start you guys knew what was going on and have me to figure out how to get us back. Now imagine if it’d been the Avengers.”

The silent, broody one— Victor, was it?— made a noise of realization. “That is diabolical. I love it.”

“I know, I was trying to figure out how to temper it when this happened. The ray gun was supposed to be temporary, I’m not sure what happened but the end goal’s a duration of twenty-four hours. Sorry you guys got caught up in the beta, by the way.”

“We are going to be having words about proper lab safety protocols when we get home, Ivan.” Victor said darkly, and something in his voice that had six out of the seven other people in the room freezing for a second.

Justin couldn’t help but notice his...twin was not part of that number.

But first, because this was something he’d been wondering ever since he’d heard of how this ‘Cabal’ operated— 

“Why are you going to this effort?”Justin asked.

“Oh, boy, here we go again,” the guy calling himself ‘Winter’ muttered, but before he do more than start to turn to him in confusion, Ivan spoke.

“Because death is too simple.” He said, not looking away from the computer he’d pulled out. “Because any rando with a gun could do that, if they wanted. No, if I’ve got a beef with someone, I want them to suffer. I want them to regret ever having pissed me off, to curse my name every time they step on a Lego and realize who put it there, to—”

“Yes, I know, we get it.” One of the alien gods cut in. The one who didn’t look like shit, and had a long-suffering look on his face partway into Ivan’s spiel. “If I had a penny for every time you go on that rant...”

“Says the guy who uses my ideas to become the official nemesis of the Avengers.” Ivan shot back, unamused, and the way Winter sighed and Victor pinched the bridge of his nose told him this was a recurring argument. 

“Guys,” Justin’s...twin cut in, and Justin couldn’t help but feel something in the pit of his stomach clench as he noticed the way everyone from his dimension came to attention. “If we could focus on getting home?”

“I know, I know, I’m on it.” Ivan muttered, turning back to his computer. “Trying to throw SHIELD off our trail’s easier here, but it’s still not exactly a cakewalk.”

“Okay. What can we do in the meantime?” 

.

The more Justin saw of this ‘Cabal’, of Hammer and the others, the more uncomfortable he felt. 

Because the more time passed, the more it felt like...he was seeing a better version of himself.

How long had he tried to get people to respect him? How many classes on public speaking and marketing had he taken, how many books had he read in an effort to build his charisma, to be remembered as something other than the cheap knockoff of Tony Stark?

And now...

Justin watched as someone wearing his face walked around, and he was quiet, and fairly introverted, but something about him demanded respect, commanded all the attention in the room when he talked, and... Justin wanted that.

.

Of course, Justin’s...twin noticed.

For some reason, the look of sympathy he got felt even worse than the first time he’d donned prisoner’s uniform in Seagate.

Not to mention the conversation they had, when Justin was ushered into a quiet corner near the safehouse’s kitchen as they had tea.

.

It was. A talk. 

Not a great one. 

Not that there really could’ve been, considering, but.

“I am not you, you are not me, and that’s a good thing.”

Justin didn’t know what he was expecting, really.

Another version of himself, forcing him to acknowledge things he’d thought he’d gotten over— how was he supposed to handle it?

“You were set up for failure from the start, you know. No child should ever have to carry some of the burdens you grew up with.”

Just.

Someone who understood, and how was he supposed to deal?

“You cannot change the past, but you can control your own actions in the future. What do you want to do, who do you want to become? What makes you, you?”

Justin had thought he’d felt tired when he’d finally been brought into the mess these guys were part of, but now his exhaustion felt soul-deep and he didn’t know when he’d started crying but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t stop—

.

Mercifully, the others left him alone for the rest of the day. 

He... needed to think.

.

Justin wasn’t the only one having a hard time, he knew: he’d noticed the way Soldat followed Winter around, trying to mimic his self-confidence, and the Loki of this world looked at the easy camaraderie his counterpart had with a hunger that would’ve made Justin very nervous if that expression were aimed at him. 

Something dark and feral, all jagged edges and brittle smiles and it shouldn’t have resonated nearly as much as it did but—

It made for a good conversation starter, if nothing else. Something relatable to bond over tea, because Victor was a monster who had an irrational disdain for coffee and Justin needed his caffeine fix if he wanted to keep what was left of his sanity.

.

Justin didn’t know what he brought to the table. Not compared to whatever his twin did, anyway, and he didn’t want to go that route either because he wanted to be himself. 

Even if he wasn’t certain what that looked like, anyway, not after decades of chasing after Tony Stark’s shadow, but...

He’d find out. Somehow.

.

“Hey! Guys, I figured it out!” Ivan’s excited cheer woke everyone up early one morning. “Just gotta get my hands on some materials, but we can go home soon!”

[lambourngb]

First sentence: "There is no right answer here."

A million years later - so I ended up using this line in my big bang and 50K won’t fit in this box, so I had to write something else. [Set early season 3]

“There is no right answer here,” Alex replied, peering closely into the mirror as he delicately pinched the cut on his head closed with a fresh butterfly bandage. He caught Forrest’s unamused look in the reflection and sighed. “All I can say is it’s classified.”

“Classified? That’s the story you want to use? You left our date at 11 pm on a Friday night to handle some software emergency, yet here you are, covered in dirt the next day bleeding from your head. So classified is your answer?“

Alex turned the sink taps on midway through, letting the sound of the water drown out the rest of Forrest’s incredulous response. He cupped his hands in the water, to splash his face, letting the shock of the cold chase away the fatigue. He had received Michael’s text after dinner, just as they had arrived at the club for dancing, or rather Alex was ready to be a good spectator while Forrest danced. The simple words “Be careful. He’s dangerous. I’m sorry.” were enough to have Alex out the door with a flimsy excuse. With his head buried in phone as he left the club while he attempted to locate Michael, he had missed the shadow stepping out from the building to intercept his path to the parked Explorer.

One single blow had him incapacitated. The worst case of déjà vu . To have fallen prey yet again was embarrassing. But he had learned long ago, his higher brain functions often went off-line around Michael Guerin to say nothing of his sense of self-preservation.

Thankfully when he had resumed consciousness, he had recognized his surroundings, and by default, his attacker. Three glowing pods, and an empty cave meant he had just been a diverting plaything for Mr. Jones. There was no way to explain that to his boyfriend without revealing the alien secret.

Hiking in the dark through the desert to the access road, using only the faint light from his cell phone, was it’s own version of hell. His leg was a not-quiet agony of pain, radiating into his hip after he had finally made it the mile-marker and was able to call Kyle for help.

Alex leaned on the sink to relieve some of the pressure on the painful cup of his prosthesis, and opened his mouth to reply- except before he could, his front door burst open with a racket.

“ALEX!” Michael shouted, the clatter of his boots through the entry way toward the bedroom.

He pushed away from the sink, brushing past a stunned Forrest, and met Michael in the hallway. Before he could process it, Michael’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him off his feet in a tight hug. “Michael-”

“You’re okay, oh thank god, you’re okay,” Michael muttered quietly into Alex’s throat, his arms still clinging to Alex. The movement of Michael’s lips against his skin as he spoke sent a shiver of pleasure down Alex’s exhausted nerves. That fierce grip, tight enough to leave bruises, was strong enough to support the axis of the planet. Gravitation and orbital spins. “He said it was easy, to take you, and he said he just left you in the desert to die.”

“He?” That was Forrest.

Alex ignored the question as he soaked up Michael’s touch and tried to soothe the anxiety still radiating from him. There would be time enough for half-explanations and fictional accounts to Forrest, this was more important. “He did catch me by surprise,” Alex left out how the faked text from Michael was the effective lure, and continued, ”but he didn’t leave me to die. He left me in a place I had been before, with my phone. I’m fine, just a little tired, okay?“

“I’m sick of his fucking games.”

“Me too, but he’s just trying to drive us apart. Trying to prove some sort of point about weaknesses and attachment.” The superiority of the alien race over the humans was a frequent subject early on with Mr. Jones, before he realized just how deep-seeded the connections were between Max, Isobel and Michael to Earth and their human friends like, Maria, Kyle, Cam, and but especially Michael’s friendship with Alex.

Close, hard-fought, friendship.

Michael pulled back, to look in Alex’s face directly. His honey-dark eyes were blood-shot with worry and lack of sleep, but warm with resolve. “Well he won’t, and he’s wrong. You’re my strength.”

Before Alex could reply, he heard the front door again. This time it was slamming shut. He winced in acknowledgement, the small amount of patience Forrest had was gone and so was the man himself. That would require some damage control of all kinds, but first, Alex allowed himself to be fussed over by Michael, who ushered him back into the bathroom for more first aid. 

[Dedicated to @adiwriting, @haloud, @christchex today ]

[boldly-ho]

Another Life Chapter 3

Pairing: Vladislav x Reader

Fandom: What We Do in the Shadows

Word Count: 2678

Trigger Warning: Brief mentions of domestic abuse

Chapter Summary: You spend a night on the town, but become increasingly frustrated by your lost memories as you almost recognize a place you’ve never been, and a man you’ve never seen. 

A knock at the door.

You ignored it.

You sunk lower into the bathtub, letting the now lukewarm water rise to cover everything but your nose. You liked the way the world sounded from underwater. It sounded heavier. You took slow breaths, careful not to get any water up your nose, wanting to prolong your submersion.

Nothing wrong with you. That’s what all the doctors had said.

Dawn had taken you to the emergency room on that first morning last week. You’d explained your situation and were subjected to a number of examinations, tests, and scans. All had come back fine. Your brain was healthy. There were no indications of physical trauma. You didn’t have problems remembering anything before that year, or since you’d woken up on that morning. There was no medical reason for your amnesia. You were fine.

So, you were referred to a psychologist. You met with her this morning, a pleasant-looking woman with round cheeks and short, mousy curls. She made you feel comfortable when she asked why you were there, when she expressed sympathy at how stressed and frightened you must feel. You were stressed. You were frightened. And she told you she’d help you get to the bottom of your problem. You weren’t sure it would work, but it was something. A solution to move towards. For the first time in a week, you didn’t feel so helpless.

However, you began to feel a lot less comfortable when she suggested that your relationship had ended so poorly, on such emotionally traumatizing terms, that you’d repressed the entire thing. She hadn’t outright asked if you’d been abused, but the question was in the air, being danced around. You were fairly sure that she was going to suggest it outright, but decided to wait until at least your next session after seeing your response to her attempts to broach the topic. You’d shut down, refusing to acknowledge any prompts to take the conversation in that direction.

It terrified you. You felt deep down that it wasn’t true, but you didn’t know why, and so you couldn’t really rule it out. Maybe your gut feeling that you hadn’t been abused wasn’t based in reality but in denial. Still though, you hadn’t found any marks on yourself, and all your exams from the ER had come back fine. There was no evidence that you’d been abused, at least not physically. It wasn’t entirely unfathomable that you had been emotionally or psychologically abused. There wouldn’t be any physical evidence of such treatment. And it would fit with the psychologist’s suggestion that you had repressed your memories of the events since last May.

If you had in fact repressed your memories, you’d asked the doctor, should you try to get them back? If your relationship, or whatever it was, ended so horribly that you blocked the entire thing out, maybe you were better off not remembering? The psychologist told you that was something you’d have to decide for yourself. Either trying to remember or not was fine, so long as you were sure, and willing to accept the outcome of your decision.

So, you were underwater.

Another knock. “Y/N?”

You poked your head up, wiping water from your eyes and ignoring the unpleasant sensation of water sliding down your ear canal.

Dawn’s head peered from around the bathroom door. “You’ve been in there for a while. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

“Well, I am.” Too terse. You softened your tone. “Really, Dawn, I’m okay. I just need some time to relax.”

“You’ve been in there for hours. Get out. Get ready. We’re going out tonight.”

You sunk lower into the tub, the water making a satisfying sloshing noise against the bathtub. “I don’t really feel like it.”

She ignored your protests. “We’re leaving in an hour.” And with that, she shut the door and left, preventing any further protestation on your part.

You pulled the plug from the tub, letting all the water drain before you finally stood up and toweled off. You stood in front of the mirror, looking at your face, inspecting it like you might a stranger’s. You were looking for any difference, any changes that would show you the passage of time. There were none. You hadn’t aged enough, nor experienced enough weight change, nor changed in any way significant enough to render your reflection unrecognizable. You should probably find that comforting, but instead it upset you. It was as if it invalidated the time passed.

Turning away from your all too familiar face, you wrapped the towel around your body and walked across the hall to your bedroom, rummaging through your closet until you found what your were looking for- your favorite little black dress. Laying it out on the bed, you noticed that it had changed. It was slightly washed out. The fade was relatively insignificant, something you likely wouldn’t have noticed if you had your memories. But your last memory of the dress was almost a year old, and you’d clearly worn it often over the past year. You smiled. You might not bear any signs of the passage of time, but at least something did.

You pulled on the dress, then rushed through your hair and makeup. If Dawn said she was giving you an hour, then you had that hour and not a second more. Sure enough, Dawn knocked at your door. “Ten minutes!”

“I’ll be ready!” you called back, blotting your lipstick onto a tissue.

You gave yourself a final once-over in the mirror, and realized you weren’t wearing earrings. You grabbed your jewelry box, but stopped dead in your tracks upon opening it.

There was an unfamiliar plain white business envelope sitting on top of the jewelry within, with three words written on it in a messy scrawl you didn’t recognize. ‘Wear every day.’ You picked up the envelope and stared at the writing. It definitely wasn’t your script. Maybe it was Vlad’s. The thought excited you, though you couldn’t quite tell if that feeling was positive or negative.

The envelope was unsealed, so you reached within and pulled out its contents. It was a necklace. The chain was long, so long that the pendant could be tucked into even a fairly low cut top. The pendant itself was small, but obviously recognizable, a simplistic silver cross. You didn’t own any other cross jewelry. It really wasn’t your taste.

‘Wear every day.’ You wondered why on earth you would even own the necklace in the first place, let alone wear it daily. The message wasn’t even your own. Is this something you used to wear daily? Its ties to your forgotten life of the past year were more appealing than the necklace itself, so you pulled it over your head, tucking the cross into your dress where it couldn’t be seen.

You walked out to find Dawn on the sofa, scrolling on her phone.

“How do I look?” you asked her.

“Perfect. Ready to have fun?”

You nodded, not really committed. If Dawn noticed, she didn’t say anything.

Some of Dawn’s colleagues, including a cute new coworker she blushingly insisted she wasn’t into, had met up at Boogie Wonderland, so the two of you were headed that way to join them. You walked quickly through downtown Wellington, chilled by the cool autumn air. You wished you’d brought a jacket, but knew you’d regret having to tote it around when you got to the club. Dawn was telling you all about this new coworker she supposedly wasn’t interested in, but you were only partially paying attention, too focused on how cold you were becoming. You picked up your pace, glancing behind you make sure Dawn was keeping up, when you spotted it across the street.

The Big Kumara. A small, uncrowded dive bar you’d never paid much attention to in the past. But something about it grabbed your attention now. It was like déjà vu, almost, though different somehow. You didn’t feel like you had experienced this moment before, more that you almost remembered something. It wasn’t that you recognized the place mentally, more like you recognized it emotionally. It made you feel something, though you weren’t sure what. You didn’t know the place; you felt like you should. It was a bit like when you knew a word, and it was on the tip of your tongue, but you just couldn’t get it. It was like that, but with recognition.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” Dawn stood beside you, looking from you to The Big Kumara and back.

You didn’t look at her, still staring at the bar, frustrated by your inability to recall whatever it was you were almost getting. “I think I know that place.”

“What? The townie bar?” She sounded confused. “Oh! You mean from last year?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” The almost déjà vu feeling was fading quickly, like a dream after waking up. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Do you want to go in?”

Did you want to go in? You weren’t sure. You didn’t even know what you would do if you went in. Just look around? See if anything sparked a memory? You could ask around, you supposed, see if anyone recognized you. But that would probably be a bit weird.

Did you even want to chase this feeling? Your psychologist had said trying to get your memories back was fine, so long as you were sure. But were you sure? As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. Maybe leaving the past year alone was in your best interest. You had a sneaking suspicion that you’d regret either option. If you left it alone, and chose not to pursue your memories, you’d always be wondering. You don’t think you could ever fully come to terms with not knowing. But if you walked into that bar, and tried to uncover the truth, you’d most likely find something bad. Bad enough that your brain erased it in the first place, as some sort of method of self-preservation. There were no good options.

Typical.

But now you had an idea of where to start, should you chose to do so. Walking into The Big Kumara now or never walking into The Big Kumara weren’t your only two choices.

“No,” you finally answered. “Let’s just go to Boogie Wonderland.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” It felt nice to answer honestly. And it felt nice to be sure.

Boogie Wonderland was just as loud and as crowded as you remembered from your last visit with Dawn. She spotted her friends immediately, but it took you a good few minutes to fight your way through the throng of close-pressed bodies to get to them.

“Dawn!” They greeted her as if she were Norm from Cheers. She was certainly more outgoing than you, and had quite a few more friends and acquaintances.

Dawn introduced you to all of her coworkers, giving you a pointed look when she introduced the one she didn’t, but of course definitively did, have a crush on. The group didn’t make much of an effort to include you in the conversation, but that was fine by you. You listened from the periphery, absorbing what you could with the music blaring, focused mostly on trying to decipher whether or not Dawn’s new coworker had any interest in her. The good news: he was absolutely flirting with her. The bad news: he was flirting with two other coworkers, the bartender, and a woman sitting at the bar, as well. Dawn had always had terrible taste in men. The thought occurred to you that you might not be able to judge. The guy you’d apparently been involved with could have been just as sleazy. Or worse. Your hand absent-mindedly traced the silver chain around your neck, as you once again became frustrated by your lack of memory.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by one of Dawn’s friends talking to you.

You focused on him. “Sorry, what?”

He raised his voice, assuming you couldn’t hear him over the music. “What is it that you do? For work?”

You were startled to realize you weren’t sure. The last few days had been so crazed that you hadn’t even thought about work. You didn’t have any angry calls about missed shifts. Were you unemployed? Last May, you had been transitioning to working remotely. Maybe you still did that?

He continued to look at you expectantly. “I, uh…”

Thankfully, Dawn came to your rescue, confirming that you did in fact work remotely at the same job. You probably should try to get some hours in, soon.

The same man, whose name you couldn’t remember, turned to you again. “That’s cool. How long have you known Dawn?”

“Three years.”

He nodded. “Nice. I’m going to head up to the bar. Would like me to get you anything?”

You realized he was asking to buy you a drink. You panicked. “Uh, no, thanks. I’m probably just going to close out, myself, anyway.”

His face fell. “Oh, yeah, sure, okay.” He got up quickly and went to the bar.

You were uncomfortable with everyone’s eyes on you. “I’m probably just going to head home,” you addressed Dawn, before getting up and making your way to the bar to close out.

It wasn’t that Dawn’s friend was unattractive. He wasn’t drop dead gorgeous, but he was definitely handsome, with gorgeous eyes and attractively mussed hair. A year ago, you would have accepted a drink from him, no questions asked. But you felt different. You felt almost guilty for being flirted with, as if you were cheating. You felt a sudden pang of loneliness, similar to grief. It felt like the first time you had the urge to phone a grandparent before remembering they had died, like falling with nothing to catch you. It felt surreal.

It was as you signed the receipt and put your credit card back into your clutch that you noticed him across the dance floor, talking to some woman. You had the feeling you’d had at seeing The Big Kumara, but so much stronger. You almost recognized him. You didn’t know him from Adam, but you missed him, like he was a dear friend you’d given up for dead. He was pale, with messy brown hair, and wore an outdated black and red military jacket that had clearly seen better days.

The man saw you staring, and seemed startled for a moment before his face lost all expression and he looked past you to the bar. Had he recognized you? It happened so fast, you couldn’t be sure.

He left the woman he was talking to, and walked towards the exit. Without thinking, you followed. You pushed past warm, dancing bodies, picking up speed when he went out the door and you lost sight of him. As you finally made your way through the crowd and out into the cold, you saw him halfway down the block and called out to him, “Wait!”

He turned to your voice, and you started to go towards him, but he turned and ran. Shit. You sprinted after him, calling now and then.

“Please, wait!”

He ran a few blocks before ducking to the right. When you rounded the corner, you stopped in your tracks. What the hell? You were standing in a dead end alley. The man was nowhere to be seen. There was no one in the alley, save for you and a stray dog who sat beside a dumpster. Your heart was racing, and not just from the running.

That was that, then. He was gone. You felt a lump form in your throat. You were so confused, stressed, and overwhelmed. Leaning against the alley wall, you let out a soft sob as your tears started to flow. The dog trotted over to you, and you scratched his head with one hand as the other clutched at the chain of your necklace. He looked up at you with big, intelligent eyes as you let yourself lose composure.

[eqcentriceqclectic-blog]

Inherited Demons

2019/12/07 – Nothing Right

Nothing I do is ever right. In His eyes, I will always be a feral horse that needs to be put to the whip. If I don’t and I get free, he hopes that my freedom in the wild will end in cold realisation in my last moments as I am beset by wolves. Even, if objectively right, it is as if an offense on his very existence—as if he were a god or a ghost and disbelief in him would condemn him to abyssal oblivion. And so, being right or doing well is actively discouraged—either through deafening and oppressive silence, or through roaring rage and insufferable indignation. He may be seen as quiet, but that is not to be taken as docility or humility—no; it is a sinister and seething silence. Normally, improvement is supposed to be seen as positive.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve either wanted to run away from home or outright kill myself. It desperate times, they’ve been my mantra or my prayers to soothe my wretched soul. What stopped me from running away? Fear of failure. Fear of strangers. Fear of retribution. An incompetency instilled in me long ago. One I replicated and instilled in a brother placed into my charge, even as a shell of a person—shattered shards looking for a reflection. It wasn’t until that reflection attempted to kill himself that I realised what my shoddily-assembled puzzle-of-a-person had done. I had become that which I had despised all my life--that dictatorial and patriarchal demon for which is suffered beneath had impregnated in me a piece of its insidious soul. It had gripped me in its agonising grasp, and regurgitated the darkness imparted to it, into my screaming-tear-streaked face. And thus, the cycle would continue like a horror-franchise that just won’t die. That was the day I realised—despite my love for the pure curiosity and optimism of children and the undeniable yearning to cradle and raise small-beings of my ghostly-ovaries—that I could not perpetuate this curse. To adopt a family-less entity into this story would be tantamount to sacrificing them to the demon that inhabits our family-line with my own bloodied hands.

I remember when I was bird-sitting Rita (a cousin’s feather-child) and He attempted to interact with it while wildly inebriated—like he enjoys doing—and held out his hand. Rita, as finicky conures tend to be, bit him HARD as she did not know him and did not like him. I feared for that bird’s life as I recognised the drunken rage that overtaken his alcohol-laden-bubbly-demeanor, as he shouted some profanity at the bird. I called out, to let him know I was present, and explained to him why she bit him before telling him to leave her alone.A similar incident happened years ago when I had my bird, Vira. She was a feisty bird and I loved her bravery and assertiveness but the curse infused in me by Him did not make distinctions between humans, non-human animals, plants, or inanimate objects. She and my brother have both bore witness to the same rage and self-perceived-indignity-fuelled-wrath I bore witness to growing up. I loved her dearly, but could not reconcile my own behaviour—I could not split this demonic presence within myself with the love I had for all living things as they both were a part of who I was and it was maddening. But as with all things deeply-unsettling, we seek to take flight from it—as is natural—to get as far as we can from it and forget about it so we can go about our days. To face it, would be to face the demon—itself, a part of you—and to face your own guilt and culpability in its sins, for without you, it would not be able to do its work as a formless, parasitic, lifeless virus. To face your own guilt and responsibility in hurting others is a terrifying thing; it chills you to your core and tears it to shreds because you want to believe you are a good person who does good things, and when you are not the hero of your own story, then you can never be a hero in any story—if you are the villain in your own story, then you will be the villain in all stories.

Looking myself in my own shattered mirror, I could finally see the demon bleeding forth from behind my ill-assembled portrait… I could only play at perfection for so long before all the mismatched pieces fell apart and revealed the vast darkness that mocked me beneath. Like a self-indulgent actor without a true mirror to look into, I enchanted myself with delusions that I was not He and that I was above that which lurked at the bottom of every bottle. And all the while, I was a cheap imitation of him—like a copy-cat-killer imprinting on a serial-killer worshipped by the media. I didn’t need alcohol to justify my crimes, for I had a divine mandate bestowed upon me by my ancestors, which was bestowed upon them by successive emperors, and god-kings before them, and thus the gods themselves. Chinese patriarchy is as insidious a poison as it is insipid as it permeates into every aspect of life in the family. It may not have been such a poison, but it certainly is now. As they say, “Power, absolute, corrupts—absolutely.”

In Chinese culture, there is a powerful emphasis put upon passing on the family name—so much so that female-infanticide was a widespread practice in China. My grandmother used the phrase ‘tuang-tong jeng’ frequently when urging her living descendants to procreate and pray for sons. Also present in Chinese culture is the misguided belief that because all elders are to be afforded respect, it automatically blesses them with the power to always be right—no matter the circumstances. It can be seen in dazzling display with successive Chinese-emperors slaughtering countless people over the millennia, simply for disagreeing or embarrassing the father-of-the-nation with reality and truth. Is it not why the satirical fable of the Emperor and his “new clothes” exists? An emperor that is willfully-blind is one that is indulgent and willfully-negligent—and those that could not see beyond their own gilded mirrors, often led to the starvation of the masses they were given dominion over, and ultimately, their dynasty’s demise. Once they lost their divine mandate, another emperor would rise and a spoiled descendant of his would lead it to ruin, in cycles unending.

After help assembling my mirror to match those that see me for who I am, only now am I able to see the apparition hiding behind it. As puppet-master and puppet entwined as one, it is my responsibility to sever those strings that snake around my offending limbs. It is my responsibility to cast off the shadows that shroud me, as it has become me. It has infused into my essence and become its own—my own—demon, separate from His, but no less His satanic-spawn. Only after acknowledging its existence, screaming its name, can I even begin to excise it like the viral cancer it is. The process is never-ending, for if you ever believe you have destroyed it, your complacency will allow it respite to recover and thus spite your own efforts to defeat it in the first place. We must always strive to be better, despite our accomplishments and desires to revel and relish our achievements—for idle hands do the devil’s work. Resting on our laurels is like laying and brooding upon our nest-eggs atop a poisoned heath—our savings and our accolades will rot along with us. We’ll only fester along our heaped up hoard, as a magnificent dragon does upon all its glittering greed. If I’ve gleaned anything over the past two or so years, it’s that our own pride and arrogance will always be our downfall. It understand that it was my own hubris in believing I was less of a terrible person than he was, only to find myself, one day, staring back at Him in the mirror. I saw me, regurgitating exactly what putrid horrors was spat into my own face, at someone else—someone I was told was below me—simply because they were younger or less of a person than I was. And that is how He still sees me: lowly, basal, lost, stupid, barbaric, “sub-human”—and worst of all—a child. And one that is unbridled, feral, and wild—but worst of all, “uncontrollable”. And, also, wholly unimpressed with the infallibility of the patriarchal parental dictatorship to which begs rebellion and resistance.

I will no longer scrape my head at His feet simply because he decided he would do the “holy” duty of acceding to his mother’s wishes of him to marry a woman he didn’t know, and would never love, and bear for him a son he could present to his parents—just because he is my father and my elder. He is as flawed as we all are and I will not grovel at His feet simply because he thinks he is my superior simply because he is my father and my elder. Respect is earned—not demanded—and throughout the years, my respect for him corroded away until there was no flesh left to burn off. Similarly, I have but few happy memories of Him, as the visceral emotional abuse and on-going threats of physical abuse incinerated the vast majority of them as Vesuvius did the people of Pompeii, or the atomic bomb did to the people of Nagasaki. Neither annihilating disaster completely removed the people from existence, as there remained ashy shells or radioactive shadows in their wakes—such are my happy-memories left, as obtuse imprints in the eroding beach-sands: as vague stories of ‘Snow Black and the Seven Dwarves’, as ephemeral visions of rehabilitating young birds blown to the ground by torrential storms, and as echoes of lessons on why not to step on ants. Stronger and clearer are the memories of being slapped for protesting against a particular untested brand of pizza or being chased with a large wooden stick purchased from Home Depot for refusing a hair-cut from Him. Another, particularly, peculiar poison of His was his inherited creed of beating his own child if that child was bullied to tears (or into action)—a shadow he internalised from his own father when being bullied by neighbourhood Vietnamese kids for being Chinese, back in Vietnam.

Growing up as a child in a house-of-cards propped up by two maternal hopes for their fifth-born children was a bittersweet hell, as many are—sweet enough for hope to grow but not enough to survive under the withering harsh bitterness. Perhaps it’s more of a purgatory: not horrible enough to cause one to kill oneself, but just enough to wish so. Those two grandmothers were my oases of love and care in an arid dusty desert of moonless, endless, nights. They were my guiding stars, above all the rabid fighting and gnashing teeth of childish gore-cloaked-hyaenas that called themselves my parents. My grandmothers were the life-sustaining waters, and my parents were the malarial insects that abated my existence. When my brother attempted to kill himself, I came to find out—of course, through another one of their petty and accusative arguments—that neither of them ever dreamed of having children and raising them. Why? Because they were still children, themselves—they were mostly raised by their elder siblings as their immigrant parents worked to carve a life in an increasingly hostile environment. That environment they grew up in abruptly changed as conditions in Vietnam deteriorated and they it was decided that they all needed to flee through hell and high-water (and marauding pirates). The Peter-Pan-like situation became even more so during His teen and young-adult years; formed here, in Canada, under his elder brother and without parents or grandparents to guide these “Lost Boys” fell into a world of alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, and guns that their new peers immersed them in. His elder brother went from a sixteen-year old running a small textiles business that employed workers in Vietnam to an alcoholic who would gamble his way into a depression in Canada. He would go from an inquisitive child making toys out of trash and sticks and swimming in monsoon-flooded roads to a teen drinking himself into a stupor and smoking until his adult teeth would become grey and lined with tar. Children raising children does not yield the positive results, and least of all depressed children raising children—this is true of my parents, and of myself. I had no business being in-charge of my baby brother—absolutely zero—especially with the foul fecal froth spilling from their mouths, to mine, as it then spilled down to my younger brother as I abused him emotionally, verbally and physically as my parents did to me. As explained in the paragraphs above, it did not occur to me until later what I was doing was wrong—it was just what I’ve known and what I felt.

I started to notice how my cousins, aunts, and uncles would look at me as I terrorised my brother over his mistakes—or my perception of his mistakes and improprieties. My logical reasoning at the time was that, “I’m not allowed to do that; why is he?” They always looked startled—or, “unsettled,” maybe is a better word—at my outbursts and threats. I remember once, in a restaurant—where I sat next to him while we were seated amongst our cousins and the adults were sat across from us—where he refused to eat a certain food and I became unreasonably enraged at him and I threatened to cut the head off of the stuffed toy (acquired from Midway arcade in Niagara Falls) if he did not eat it. I had stunned everyone and their hearts broke for my brother, just a young child being terrorised by a teen sibling. Breaking this cycle of abuse was tough—especially while still being abused, yourself. After, breaking free from physical (less so, emotional and verbal) abuse, all the injustice and indignity and rage continued spilling on to the easiest and most vulnerable target, who—under patriarchal rules—would lack arbitrary familial immunity from my wrath and cruelty. Where I could verbally, emotionally, and physically abuse him for whatever I wished, I could only cry, whimper, cower, and hide. However, I did exact vengeance upon them by hiding or damaging the belongings of my parents in protest of their mistreatment of me. There was one instance when I was about six or seven and I fled out of the back of the house after having been shouted out of the tear-stained washroom I had locked myself into on the top floor of the house. On my way passed the car, after deciding that I would run away from home, my eyes burned with salted indignation and so I picked up a stone from the gravel bed and scraped profanities onto the car’s paint and transferred my raw emotions into words. I dropped the stone and continued past the garage and through the laneway until I reached the side-walk, still crying. I stood there, thinking, and came to a realisation that I could not go any further—for if I did, I would be kidnapped and killed by a stranger. So, I walked down to the corner and right back to the front of the house and down the alleyway back to the backyard and back into the house where my parents were still searching—His wooden stick still in-hand—without a clue that I had tried to run away (or that I had keyed words of profanity on to the car with a pebble).

In 2017, when Grandma first became weak after years of mismanaging her own hypertension-medication, I became involved in her healthcare in the balmy month of July. Before then, I didn’t even know she had hypertension and thought she took medication just because it was something a person did when they got as old as she did. After accompanying grandma and Him to both the hospital and her nephrologist, I began researching Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD). I learned about how the kidney can be damaged by high blood-pressure and looked into the medication she was taking, going so far as to see which medications could be contra-indicated. I advised Him that grandma’s medication (since she became inconsolable and beyond fearful for her life and no longer was able to manage them herself and became paranoid that we (including the doctors) were trying to poison her and began refusing to take them for a while) should be split into two as then the hypertensive-medications were be better able to manage her blood-pressure through the day instead of causing a sharp drop for the day while allowing it to rise again in the evening--one of her medications for hypertension-management was even specifically designed to be taken at night which is when blood-pressure is supposed to naturally drop. He likes to take credit for this. He also likes to take credit for what he didn’t even believe for a long time—her weakness that started in the first place. When her health was declining in April of 2017, after her nephrologist cut her off from the round of erythropoietin he had initially put her on in the winter prior, He did not believe that it was her health, but her age. I would become increasingly frantic in asserting that this was the reason as the months dragged on and by July, she could barely get out of bed because of how anemic she was. I, unlike He, had done research into what “erythropoietin” was and why she needed to take those shots. I was upset at her nephrologist for cutting her off from those shots because he thought her red-blood-cell count was too high (after a blood-test in March/April) and he’d see her back in three months (this was the cadence of her visits to him: every three months, so approximately four times a year). Again, by July, she was so weak that He took her to the hospital twice in the latter half of that month and once in August where I accompanied them after ending my seasonal job a few days prior. I urged him again that it was the lack of erythropoietin shots and resulting anemia that made her so weak—but he again asserted that it was because she was old. Thankfully, the nephrologist prescribed another round of erythropoietin shots (one shot, every other week, for three months—so six syringes in total). However, the ordeal and fear of death had warped her mind—the nurse at the nephrologist’s office told us that because her GFR was so low, she would likely need dialysis but that dialysis for people aged eighty and up were too at risk of developing a central-line infection—and surgery for a kidney transplant would provide an ever higher risk of mortality. She also told us that she most likely only had two-years left to live—guess what? It’s been over two-years now. I guess it’s the same for when Push got the morbid news that she only had three months left to live and lived another three years. Anyway, I digress. After horrifying and terribly painful months of trying to sleep with an insomniac grandmother in the next room having an end-life crisis, chanting all through the night of her tragic ending, and trying to manage her anxiety, panic, and paranoia in the day-time after both He and mom went to work, and brother went to school, she snapped and her dementia advanced by leagues. In the years prior, I started to notice she became much less brave and much more reserved and careful—in addition to misplacing her watch and other things that told a story of short-term memory loss. She became a lot less aware of her surroundings where, before—as a mischievous little child—I would stand behind the wall at the base of the stairs and try to surprise her but just get a sweet old smirk and an adorable elderly quip as she walked by her silly grandson. However, ever since reaching ninety, just walking to her room and asking what she was watching would startle her half to death (and our floors are obscenely creaky)—she became a lot less aware of her surroundings and where things (or people were). Around this time, she also started to hear ringing in her ears when there was only dead-silence. After she became increasingly unhinged and violent, there became a need to hospitalise her—not for her weakness or anemia, this time, but for her aggression. She probably had not slept for over a month, by this point, and this was most likely the source of said aggression, paranoia, and anxiety. On the car ride there, she was openly hostile to Him while he was driving and my attempts to stop her so as to avoid having a car-accident turned her aggression towards me. When finally passing triage and reaching the waiting area of the emergency department, Grandma continued her violence, painfully hitting Him and I with her gold-and-jade-laden rings. When a room finally opened up, she refused to go and wanted to go back home (even after days and days and days of wanting to be taken to the hospital) and when we tried to gently push her towards the room, she suddenly turned around, and as it with the power of all the elephant matriarchs of the world pushed me and Him out of the room and began assaulting us before the nurses quickly called for orderlies and security to bring her down and tie her arms and legs to the hospital-bed in the room. Because of what had just transpired, she was upgraded to the sub-accute emergency section with a room closer (and facing) the nurses-station. She was sedated with haloperidol through injection because she refused to take an oral dose but during the process Him, I, a nurse, and two security guards needed to hold her down and she still was almost able to bite the nurse (and myself). After that, we were put into contact with the Local Health Integration Network (LHIN) to discuss placing her in an assisted-living facility and both 4th Uncle and He were seriously considering it and passed on the responsibility of coordinating with LHIN to me due to my higher education and superior command of English. They also put in a referral for us to the hospital’s geriatrics department and scheduled us to see a Dr. Cheng at a later date after the attending physician provided a temporary round of anxiolytics (lorazepam). When taking the lorazepam, she was much more docile and also able to sleep and it felt like we got her back from the throes of insanity—that is, until we had to take increasing doses and it became unfeasible to continue. Her violent tirades returned, along with her insomnia and we went to see the geriatrician. He proved to be—not just incompetent, but—wildly careless and inadequate; his bed-side manner was shockingly crass and crude. He never really listened when we came in for the appointment and seemed in a hurry to get us out the door with a new round of pills for her to take: haloperidol, sertraline—you name it, she probably was prescribed it. Some of them were worse than others, like haloperidol which left her a stumbling and drooling mess—taken long enough, left her bid-ridden and Him changing diapers and bed-sheets. Eventually, I decided it was time to stop seeing the geriatrician as I was also so upset with his flippant demeanor when at appointments in his office. He took a little while to convince, as He was afraid of Grandma reverting back to her violent and difficult self even though I was the one home alone with her while everyone else was gone for a majority of the day at work or school. As that was the case, the representatives from LHIN mostly dealt with me when they came by the house whether it was the social-worker on the case or the professionals she would send to the house. The most helpful professional was an occupational therapist who educated me upon dementia and Alzheimer’s as well as providing emotional support and advice on the situation with the geriatrician and his exceedingly terrible medications. Before this, in my ignorance, I was yelling and screaming at Grandma, confused as to how she could go from a completely normal and loving grandmother who I would give up the my own mother for to someone I was afraid of being around. After the occupational therapist left, my relationship with Grandma started slowly shifting back to one of positive interactions and normalcy. He, however, refused to read the educational materials the occupational therapist left to enlighten us on Grandma’s dementia because he refused to believe she had dementia because of how quick and abrupt the change was. He wanted to believe that she was doing this on purpose and after retiring before the Christmas of 2017, would often get into drunken tirades and yell so loud you could hear him throughout the house and even in the backyard. This continued afterwards, as well, and followed the cycles of her decline into bed-riddance (either from the anti-psychotics prescribed by the incompetent geriatrician, or the lack in erythropoietin) and ascent back into insanity and unnatural strength. In another descent in early 2018, after her nephrologist AGAIN decided that her RBC-level was too high and cut her off from erythropoietin for another three months, I again became insistent that He call the nephrologist to prescribe another round of shots. He was stubborn, as always is the case, and believed that her being bed-ridden and defecating in a diaper meant that it was her time—as if you were just born with a pre-determined age at which someone would die at. I was enraged so I took matters into my own hands after getting home from work one day in May and called the nephrologists’ office and angrily berated the secretary, to which she told me that all we had to do was call in after running out and they would send the prescription and shots to the pharmacist and we could pick them up. I sat there after the call, part-relieved that it meant Grandma wouldn’t have to go through another round of panic and part-annoyed that He did not want to do it because of laziness and self-importance (the belief that He is smarter than I, even without doing any research or having any prior knowledge about anything, even though He was always the one who took her to the nephrologist’s and family physician’s appointments). He does the same with plants and ended up condemning our eight-year-old starfruit plant to die in the cold, despite my protest. He always thinks he’s the smartest person, regardless of what experience/knowledge he has or doesn’t have in a particular subject—and I’ve inherited a similar manner of speaking-as-a-matter-of-fact-ly, as if I was 100% sure about what I was saying (which often gets me into trouble).

Depression In every waking day, the demon lurks within your shadow—always just out of the corner of your eye. As that sun sets and the lights go out, that shadow becomes an all-consuming spectre that fills the room as much as it does your mind—it eats that light your try to light inside, unhinging its jaws and swallowing the sun whole like a constrictor after it had crushed all the air from your lungs. A breath-taking darkness sends your heart into a frantic panic, straining and screaming and searching for every last bubble of air in the blood starting to leak from your eyes. Crimson tears streak down, acrid and burning, like streams of fiery lava making their way to the salty sorrowful depths of the oceans. Your head is feverishly throbbing with starvation, suffocating and drowning in itself as it melts from the draconic hell-fires lit under you by the shadowy-figure. You are more palatable to it when scared out of your mind and injuriously maimed by your own hand, so it eats at you night by night, piece-by-piece—it could be days, months, years, or even decades—but it is patient and diabolical. You are to it, like finely aged-wines or cheeses are to a wealthy connoisseur with too much money to know what to do with.

An Unwelcome Stranger Is His child, in his home, being a burden upon him. It doesn’t matter if this person does anything good, because���ultimately—this person is a stranger. A worthless stranger borne of his flesh and blood, that only continues to feast like a fat leech, engorging itself on His blood.

[hopesanpedro]

Createurs - We Exist

I have the pleasure of being in the presence of talented and passionate artists and musicians most of the time and it’s, for me, is one of the best things in my life. Friends, I call these people.

Last Saturday, one of the bands I looked out for in the past years launched their first album – We Exist. Createurs, which is apparently the French word of creators which is already so beautiful when you think about it in itself, is a collaborative band telling the stories of the monsters not just under our beds but also the ones inside our heads, even the ones that are chasing us, through the music of different people. They have also collaborated with different visual artists for each of their song and those artworks were also featured in the lyrics booklet with their CD.

We Exist album has 12 well-written tracks that speaks of the eerie, the enchanting, the damned, and the mystery of the entirety of life. Yes, life.

Now, I’m not going to pretend like I’m some music expert and give you guys a review of their album. I am, however, going to share with you my thoughts on each and favorite lyrics from the tracks in it.

1. Pancake (Re)Mix

This one’s a little too close to my heart. Remember the artworks I’ve mentioned earlier? I made one for them and it was for this song. I think this is the most outright cheesy song they have in their album. But even so, it wasn’t the corny kind. I described this one as “colorful” when I first heard it. It’s exactly the reason why I was careful on putting too much color in the artwork, I didn’t want to take the colors from the song – I wanted it to be as serene and innocent as the song.

“Flying with time just to witness your smile. And I, oh I’m falling down tonight”

We all know the feeling of being all chummy giddy soft inside like we swallowed a whole damn litter of puppies and they won’t stop making you melt from the inside and that’s what this song makes you feel like – kilig. Oh young, new, love.

2. Tides and Lifelines

Okay, just reading the title you’d get an idea of what this song is about. This song reminds me of a lyric from one of my most favorite band ever ever; “love is watching someone die”. (fine it’s from What Sarah Said by Death Cab For Cutie). I think this is one of the songs Createurs wrote and it speaks about mortality and how we deal with it.

“We’re the bullet in each other’s gun, shoot the angels that would take us apart”

Just read those lines. I don’t want to even think how hard it is to be so desperate and helpless in trying to help someone so dear in the brink of death. Ouch, I’m just gonna go and cry for a while.

3. Teragram Carnivale

“Shadows fall on rooms like this, where the sun and the moon collide, with your eyes that once were my carousel rides”

I feel like we all can relate to this song in some way. It has to be relevant to every one of us at some point in our lives. We all wanted to believe in something that has grew its root around our hearts and got a little too caught up in the roller coaster rides. I think this song brings you back to that particular time to make you realize that the past never changes and they never go away. Definitely in my top 3.

4. Facemask

I think I’ve played this song one too many times when they uploaded this on spotify before. Mostly because of its catchiness and its angst. Lol sorry I know, I can’t think of a better way to describe it. You can actually feel the song’s anger and disappointment wrapped in some sort of vengeful feeling.

I liked the lines “You’re only fooling yourself, messing everyone’s head.  A catfish, a sly dish, the culprit, gets blown kiss”

In this digital era, anything and everything can be edited or lied about and it gets sickening when someone or a group of people manipulate others by lying to them about important things.  Technology is a beautiful thing if used for good, but there is some greed in humanity that uses it for something else entirely.

5. Trigger Warning

“It’s the beginning and it’s the end. When all the light has been set, a warning when night is at best.”

I feel like this song was supposed to be in the beginning? It would have been nice to have heard this intro to all their haunting songs, both in a good and eerie way. It’s like the ones you hear when you watch a horror movie that gives you chicken skin and cool fog kinda vibes. It’s a mood setter, a look into the mirror of our own self. It asks you to look inside and acknowledge that you are one of these monsters you are so scared of.

6. The Curious Life of Mr. Hyde II: The Mexicat

This song is still in my everyday playlist. It’s been there since I’ve met Rain the night they played for WAT Up the first time and I got sucked into their music. Oh god I have so many favorite lines from this song!! It’s about mental issues and it perfectly sings the chaos that is in one’s head. They wrote this to try and explain how complicated it is to be in the state of unstable mental health in a very poetic way.

Here are my top 3 lines (YESS BECAUSE I CANT CHOOSE OKAY?? ☹ ); “The colorful imagery of dancing audacity”, “Conversing with my demons, addicted to the tone”, “I haven’t got a martini or any kind of whiskey, But baby you’re my margarita, drunk in love with you”.

Welp. Let’s just say I love the entire lyrics ugh

7. Pianocktail

OH THIS! I love this one. This reminds me of my other favoritest band forever – Panic! At The Disco. The story within and the sophistication in this one is something that’s imprinted into my fanatic heart (awow).

“The taste has never been this condescending. A drink to be made by the one and only pianocktail!”

Ah, there’s nothing more tripping than an uncertainty for something you’ve had for so long.

8. Chat Box From Alaska

“She’s a part-time lover and a beautiful liar, plagued with her broken words and empty promises. Cornered by the pillars of her comfort and embrace, making out with someone better, someone smoother, someone tastier”

I feel like this song is basically for fuck girls who manipulates people for sex by leading people on and leaving them just as fast. I think the last part of this song was written by Rain as a poem years and years ago? Nevertheless, it ended the song so smoothly.

9. Awful Things the Moon Saw

This song makes me think of obsessive lovers or past ones that refuses to let it go. Maybe it’s also us when we hold on a little too tight on something that’s already slipping away.

“Well you know you’ve got me haunted by your scent, Now I find myself begging and falling for you more and more.”

It is also kind of a lullaby to me for some reason, I can sleep soundly with this one playing hehe

10. St. Cecille

This one’s also in my playlist since I’ve first heard it. I think I read the story behind (or at least heavily connected) this song, written by the vocalist. He has a lot of passion, idk ask him. JK!!!!

"Rhyme our thoughts in this waltzing dreams. Time stops when you are around. You’re the one I’ve been talking about on the song of roads and hearts”

I wish I can share with you guys the link to the story but I’m not sure if he’d like that. Anyway, this love song is right up my alley – mysterious, magic, and love? Hell yas.

11. Bloodstream

All I can say about this is that I am so excited for the story to come out because I want to look more into it. Twilight’s werewolves just left the building.

“Chaotic, poetic, and overly narcissistic. Hypnotic, agnostic, but slightly optimistic. Out of the forest to Manila fucking buses. It’s a tale about a man who waltzed among carcasses.”

It’s a midnight story!

12. Stellar Memories

The first song, besides the ones I’ve already heard before of course, that caught my attention in the album was this one. It’s a desperate attempt to preserve something we believe in and wish for its memories to last up to our end.

“Set up the fire and let’s dance around the house. Then watch it burn down like the dreams we fought so hard to get. If this is it, hope higher, ‘cause we’ll hide from the world and never make a….”

I feel like this is the best song to end the album with because I didn’t want it to end and I just kept it on loop for all its entirety because I liked each song.

I’ve already wrote a (lengthy) Instagram post about their well thought branding and packaging but I also want to commend them for the bomb line up and organized launch! Page Four Production reminded me so much of the first gigs of WAT UP and made me miss the team. From promotions to media exposures, to the materials! I look forward to attending gigs they’d come up with!

I won’t ask for more releases so soon because I want to savor this album and all its stories. I’ve already heard the Part I of Mr. Hyde and it’s Createurs’ gift to everyone who attended their launch so if you are curious, wait for the next album maybe it’d be included there.

This album will always have a special place in my heart. It’s definitely worth the long wait. Congrats, Createurs!

Listen to them on Spotify and follow them on their social media pages to be updated!

[tantum-tenebris]

i wrote. a thing. 

rated T for Terrible smooch. they kiss like. once.

The air was muggy and thick, with the constant clashing of hot, sweaty bodies dancing sloppily to a tune that Wilson couldn't quite make out.

Willow’s hand, slippery with his, was pulling him closer into the center of the party, where the noises had somehow gotten louder, the people even rowdier.

She had convinced him to go to the party when she found out there would be, well, activities involving fire and such. He despised parties and never went to them on his own. He felt obligated to accompany Willow to parties because it felt weird to leave her by herself where she could be hurt, or someone could take advantage of her.

Wilson knew how cruel the other people could be to her. Yet now, under the bright and flashing lights, nobody seemed to have a care in the world. Music and alcohol drowned out thoughts and cares and responsibilities, if only for a little while.

Once Willow was satisfied with their location, she pulled him closer to her, slender arms slipping around his shoulders and her hands playing with the black fluffiness that was his hair. He had seen her grab a drink earlier, and usually she wasn't so rambunctious, but now…

“Start dancing, silly,” she said and nestled her warm face into the curve of his neck. It all felt so hot, the air, the bodies around them, Willow’s heavy breath on his skin. He had forgotten that dancing was something one usually did at parties, and was suddenly feeling very embarrassed.

His hands travelled down her body until they rested comfortably at her hips, and they swayed to jarring music that did not match their swaying or the other dancers around them, but having her in his arms felt so nice and right.

“Don't- don’t you think we should-” ...Ugh. She couldn't hear him over the music that played so loud it threatened to make them both deaf.

Wilson nudged her and signaled towards the hallway, where the area was clearer and less blinding and lacked the sweaty, intoxicated bodies of the crowd.

Willow seemed to acknowledge this. She took his hand and clumsily made their way out of the crowd. “Sheesh, aren’tcha happy here?”

Hm, was- was she not bothered by the heat? She didn't look sweaty, even though it felt like they were dancing in a furnace that was a billion degrees. He wiped his sweaty hand on his pants self consciously.

There was a small table nearby, with a glass bowl with a mysterious brown liquid and red cups, some of which were knocked over. He was feeling thirsty - his throat was begging for water, anything - but he was supposed to be the one driving and he couldn't have them both be drunk and out of their minds. Not here, not now.

He watched Willow pour herself a cup of the stuff. She took a big swig and it left her with a hazy grin. That was her second or third drink.

“Hey, don't drink so much tonight.” Wilson bit his lip. She was starting to stumble, and her hands had to grip his shoulders so that she wouldn't fall. Her heels of her shoes were quite tall and he could easily see her twisting an ankle.

Willow only looked annoyed. “Sooo what? I can handle myself, ya know.” Of course she could. He trusted her in her ability to take care of herself. But not right now, when she was starting to lose control of herself, and he practically had to hold her and keep her from collapsing.

“Yes, but-”

“Just dance with me!” Willow took his hands and let them rest against the curve of her back. The velvety black fabric of her dress was soft and he liked the way it felt. Her dark, mysterious figure left her with almost something of a seductive demeanor. He couldn't deny how beautiful she looked tonight, but it only helped fuel the fire in the hearts of others.

Wilson watched the eyes of hungry men as their eyes trailed down past the hem of her skirt, and, ugh-

He held her even closer.

“Why the pouty face?”

“Oh! Um, nothing!” There's people watching her intently and shoving past them furiously and he’s so uncomfortable and out of his element, but Willow would only want to leave until she’s seen her pretty little fire show.

“Hmph. You didn't have to come with me.”

“I wanted to!” It was the truth. He enjoyed spending time with her, going to scary and violent movies and crazy amusement parks, because he liked seeing her when she was happiest. He didn't have to. But he wanted to...

Willow grabbed another drink, and sheltered it carefully between their chests as they did a little sway, taking a sip every so often. The music made it hard for him to concentrate.

Deeper into the shadows of the hallway, people were face to face and looking very occupied with one another. He scanned the crowd, seeing only a few recognizable faces…. Some had been in his chemistry class.

The sound of a plastic cup hitting the ground reached his ears. She had quickly finished and was already reaching for a fourth when he decided to warn her.

“Willow, this isn't good for you.”

Willow’s face scrunched up into an angry pout. Now she was the one who was grumpy. “Knock it off, why don’tcha? You’re being so annoying!”

Annoying or not, he couldn't let her keep doing this to herself. Wilson grabbed her wrist as she was about to take another swig and tried to forcibly pull the cup away from her.

“Ughhh, Wilson, stopit,” Willow argued, pulling the cup back instinctively it was some kind of keepsake. Her breath smelled strongly of alcohol.

“Let go. Now.”

She was wailing and drawing unwanted attention. “Stop…”

The people across from them had began to stare at their ruckus. He gave them a long, awkward side glance and hoped that he didn’t look like a creepy stranger trying to take advantage of her.

“If you don't put the drink down, we’re leaving.” Wilson hated scolding her. Badly. But he couldn't bear to see her so out of it, and taking so many drinks for her small size could prove to be so fatal.

She wasn't budging. He tried to pull again, but she pulled harder, and there was a loud piercing cry as her drink crinkled in their hands and made a splash onto her chest, staining the black dress and part of her skin with the wet, sticky liquid.

Willow stared at him, mouth agape and eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “You jerk!”

Some people had stopped dancing to see what their fight was about. Beginning to feel his face flush in a panic, Wilson moved to try and help her somehow, but she had fled his arms and left to go find the nearest bathroom.

He couldn't let her out of his sights. Wilson hurriedly chased after her, tripping on several wallflowers in the process, until he met her in the bathroom where she was already turning on the sink.

Her dress straps were loose and slipping from her shoulders. Wilson shut the door behind them and went to fix it.

Willow didn't notice. She was too busy examining the damage in the mirror. With a piece of cloth in hand, she clumsily cleaned up the underside of her neck, and on her collarbone and even her dress, where the stain couldn't be seen anyway because it was so black.

Her curly little pigtails were droopy and her eyes looked so red and teary.

Wilson let his finger drag softly down her cheek. “Willow, I’m sorry, but I didn't want you to drink any more of that stuff. It's not good for you.”

She was mumbling angry, incoherent swears and curses alike under her breath.

“What?”

“Y’don’t care,” Willow whined, hiccuping.

She was dabbing at nothing now. The stain was gone and she was dry, so he gently tried to let the cloth go.

“I do! Just look at yourself. You can't even think straight.”

“Nooo…”

His brows furrowed. She was too out of it to be paying any attention to him. Wilson grabbed her hands and gave them a squeeze.

“Ya never lemme do anything,” Willow slurred. “I’m fine.”

He touched her forehead - it was scorching hot.

The cloth he nabbed from her retained little coolness. He rinsed it a little, and then brought it to her forehead. She hissed at the sudden wetness touching her skin, but was too weak to pull his arms away.

He gently shushed her. “This will make you feel better, I promise. We can go home after, okay?”

Willow shook her head. “Th’ fire, Wils…”

Ah. Yes, she wanted to stay for the fire. It would be unfortunate to let her miss it, since she was looking forward to it the entire night, but he doubted that she could enjoy it anyway in her current condition.

“Perhaps later we can see your fire show.”

Wilson grew quiet. He rubbed her back in an attempt to console her, and it seemed to be working. She wasn't blubbering over fire or insulting him again.

After a long while, she began to sniffle. “Why don’tcha love me?”

He blinked, shocked. Did he hear that correctly?

“Love...you?” He loved her so much.

“You won't kiss me.”

Willow was drunk. Willow was drunk and sputtering out random, irrelevant nonsense meant to trick him. Her wanting to him to give her a kiss meant nothing if she was drunk and out of her mind…

He put the towel down and reached for her shoulders. “Willow, you’re drunk,” he said blankly.

She was angry again, of course. Her voice was beginning to rise. “You’re always so,” she paused, hiccuping, “oblivious t’everything! I thought we could…”

Willow stared down at the ground, eyes half-lidded. She was mumbling again, and was beginning to slip from his arms, so he secured his grasp around her back to keep her up.

Wilson didn't have any words. He wished he could go home and pretend none of this ever happened. However, he knew that if he had let Willow go alone, she might have ended up poisoning herself on accident.

He tried to apologize: “Willow, I-”

Her soft hands were on his face, pulling him down towards her. “You’re such a-an idiot.”

It all happened so fast. Her lips met his in a sloppy kiss, fighting and restless and trying to take all that she could from him. She tasted like strong alcohol and something of a natural sweetness, a lingering taste of fire that made his stomach twist and melt.

His heart was going to burst out of his chest, it was beating so fast. Willow’s lips were soft and hungry and stealing kiss after kiss, their faces pressed against one another. Her hands dug through his hair, tugging and pulling him closer.

Wilson had experienced his first kiss unlike anything he had ever experienced before.  

He pulled away to breathe at some point, and let his forehead rest against hers, with their faces only mere inches apart. Willow was panting heavily; he brushed the sticky strands of curls from her eyes. Her love threatened to burn him out.

“Why, Wilson...that fire in your eyes!” She was giggling and kissing him everywhere, touching him.

He sighed. As much as he liked it, this was going too far and it didn't feel right to take advantage of her like this.

“That’s enough,” Wilson mumbled.

His poor friend was dizzy and whining for more of his affection- he put his arm around her shoulder and led her out of the bathroom, past the partying and the dancing and the fighting.

They had arrived in Wilson’s old car, it was parked far away and they had a long walk back.

Willow stumbled and held onto him for support, nearly tripping on her own two feet. He managed to get her safely buckled into the seat of the car, by then it was half past twelve.

“Ya ssshouldn’t be driving,” she slurred, and yawned like a cute, tired kitty, “y’drankalot.”

He snorted. “No, you were the one who stuffed yourself with drinks. Let me get you home.”

Willow giggled and settled into the cushy passenger seat. She played with her lighter, passing her finger over the tip of the flame. She had hidden it somewhere on her person.

The ride was quiet, thankfully. Willow stayed silent for the rest of the ride, presumably passing out from exhaustion.

He struggled with lack of strength in getting her out of the car and into her house, sneaking up the stairs and being careful not to wake up her guardian. He laid her down onto her bed, making sure to cushion her head.

Her short dress was climbing up and exposing her upper thigh. He pulled it down shyly.

“You liiiike meeee,” Willow drawled. She let out a heavy huff and sank deeper into the bed.

“Only when you’re conscious.” She was being silly.

Wilson tucked the covers over her shoulder. He shouldn't stay for very long. While her guardian was well aware of who he was, it probably wouldn't be smart of him to stay here and make sure she’s okay. It’d be taken out of context otherwise.

Hmm. Did she want water? Maybe he could get her water before he left.

She hummed softly to herself, a distorted tune of one of the songs that played at the party. Oh, she was fading away from him anyway. Tomorrow, he could come back and talk to her.

Wilson brushed the bangs from her forehead, she was starting to drift off into sleep.

“Goodnight, Willow.”

Wilson had always hated parties.

He hated them even less when they were together.

[foxskinxx]

Take Me Away

Summary: The reader suffers from depression and Bucky doesn’t know.

Warnings: ANGST. DEPRESSION. SELF HARM. (please do not read if this is triggering.) 

Author’s Note: If you need anyone to talk to, my inbox is always open. Do not hesitate to talk to me. I’ve been really down lately and this is me letting it out. 

You couldn’t move from your spot on your disheveled sheets as you thought about all the dark thoughts your mind seemed to be replaying for the past couple months. You’ve grown up with depression and you were doing well until one late night, your dark thought decided to resurface with worse thoughts than you’ve grown accustom to. You never told anyone because you didn’t seem to do well with other people trying to help you, they always get hurt or scared. You didn’t understand why you had episodes like this but you do know this is the worse one yet. 

You sighed as you thought that the team might worry if you didn’t get out of bed soon and head to the kitchen. You sluggishly grabbed your leggings and your favorite sweatshirt that you stole from Bucky. You inhaled the comfortable article of clothing, smiling a faint smile as you thought of him. You drag your heavy feet towards the kitchen as you shut your apartment door. The sleeves of the over sized sweatshirt gave you something to hide your hands in as you thought of turning around and curling back into your bed. 

“Hey Y/n.” The team mumbled as they glanced your way and went back to what they were doing. You nodded at their acknowledgement and went to the fruit basket on the kitchen counter and grabbed a pear to nibble on. 

“Hey Y/N, I was wondering if I could have my hoodie back?” Bucky was beside you as he chewed on his apple as he looked at you with puppy dog eyes. You furrowed your eyebrows but then nodded as you began to discard your safe heaven to give back to the owner. 

“Thank you! I’ll give it back when I get back from my date m’kay?” He didn’t give you a chance to respond as he left the kitchen to go get ready for his ‘date.’ 

“Date?” You mumbled to yourself as you looked at your now exposed hands. You thought Bucky liked you but just didn’t want to make a move yet because he was still recovering. You started to tear up as you thought maybe he just didn’t want to be seen with you. You shuffled your feet as you went to exit the room but Steve’s voice caught your attention. 

“Hey Y/N, the the rest of the team and I will be going on a mission and won’t be back until late tomorrow night okay?” Steve didn’t sound like he was looking at you, probably looking at a newspaper article. You hummed at his question and continued your way to your nest as you thought about all the things you didn’t like about yourself. Again.

You can’t be loved by some like Bucky. 

You’re too boring. 

You look plain. 

You aren’t worth it. 

Your eyes let open a gateway of tears as you reached your solitude of your bed sheets. You curled into a ball of tears and desperation, and you were sure that your sobs could be heard from outside your room but it seems like no one noticed. Your body racked with sobs as your vicious thoughts became worse. You started to calm down when your mind gave a solution to ease all the pain and suffering. You sniffled as your mind planned out your escape of this treacherous state. 

“Okay..” Your voice was so cold and you were talking to the voices in your head that told you this was the only way. You numbly stood to your feet as you carried yourself to the bathroom and hummed a little tune. When you caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you willed yourself to hold in the bile. The last thing you wanted to do is look at yourself. You couldn’t contain the tears that fled down your cheeks and landed on the counter. You sniffled as you torn your eyes away from the mirror and looked for your long lost friend. 

You opened one of many bathroom drawers and shuffled around to find your shiny little friend. Your fingertips touched something cold and smooth, you slowly pulled it out of the shadows and finally eyed the long forgotten blade. 

You let out a desperate laugh as you crawled into the tub and closed the curtain. You let out a shaky sigh as you turned your left arm over to decided where to start your art. You felt something warm oozing down your forearm as the blade made a perfect vertical line just below your wrist. Your eyes dilated at the sight of your blood slowly coming down your arm and dripping onto your thigh. 

You made another one but this time a little deeper and you winced at the sharpness. You didn’t aim to kill yourself, but it was a very addicting method of releasing pain and sadness. You made twelve perfect lines on your forearm before you heard footsteps in the hall. You cursed yourself for not shutting the door but then you heard the footsteps walk right past you. You let out silent tears as you thought about how no one even takes noticed in your mood behavior and your isolation. You filled your whole forearm with red angry lines, in all directions, in all depths, and they covered your arm completely. 

You sniffled as you began to grow tired and climbed out of the tub with your blood soaked arm and your distressed figure. You slowly and numbly crawled in your nest as you thought about how you shouldn’t be here. 

I’m useless. You couldn’t stop thinking about your flaws and your insecurities. When your mind went silent and only uttered one final word did you find rest. 

Worthless. 

You woke up in a zombie like state of mind. You couldn’t figure out anything other than going right back to sleep. You opened your eyes and as soon as you felt the sting of your forearm as you barely shuffled around did you find yourself falling deeper into this dark hole. You took in a sharp intake of air as the thoughts came rushing back. You fluttered your eyes shut as you tried to chase your sleep begging it to take you away forever. You finally found yourself to fall back into your beloved dreamland. The thoughts wouldn’t make it in your dreamland and you sighed contently as you lost the last bit of conscious you had. 

10:11 pm

Your eyes flickered open and you began to bargain your way back to sleep again but it was useless. You had to at least do something for an hour or two before your mind would let you sleep again. You sighed as you faintly began to hear them again while you sat yourself up from your nest and made your way to the bathroom. You washed your face and ran some hot water on a wash cloth. When you saw that it was hot enough you began to guide it to your forearm and began to wash the dried blood off of your skin. You winced as you felt the flakes rubbing harshly on your sensitive wounds. When it was clean you threw the cloth in a dirty hamper as you threw on a sweatshirt to hide your self inflected wounds. 

You threw some baggy sweatpants on and some fluffy socks as you found the energy to walk out the damn door. You sighed as you found yourself outside of your comfortable apartment and in the main hall. You shuffled your feet to make their way to the kitchen. Your stomach finally gave you a sign that you haven’t eaten anything other than a bite the size of an ant. When you finally made it to your destination you found the entire fucking team in the lounge area in front of the kitchen space watching a damn movie. Fuck. 

I thought they weren’t suppose to back until late tomorrow night? You couldn’t wrap your brain around it. You pulled out your phone you manged to grab before you left and you gasped when you saw the date. You slept all day yesterday and all day today. You lost track of time and apparently days as you escaped to your dreamworld. You didn’t think too much about it when your stomach made an earthquake in your intestines. The team turned around at the noise and smiled brightly at your appearance. You flashed a small shy smile as you walked to the freezer to get something easy to put in the oven or even better the microwave. You found some frozen dinners and popped them in the microwave and made your way to the pantry to grab a bottled water. 

“Hey Y/N. I thought you would want this back.” You popped your head out of the pantry when you heard Bucky’s voice make his way towards you. You found him smiling brightly at you as he held his favorite sweatshirt in your direction. You blushed a little as you brought your arm up to gently take the beloved article away from him. 

“Thank you Bucky.” You flashed him a genuine smile as you thought about your safe heaven back in your hands again. He looked almost entranced by your smile as he copied your smile and made his way towards the lounge area again. 

You grabbed the sleeves of the sweatshirt and began to wrap it around your waist considering you’ll have to carry some food and bottles towards your room. Your meal was done as you heard the annoying tone of the microwave. You carefully slid a paper towel under the hot tray as you grabbed the food and held a couple of bottles of water in the other hand. You made your way to your room but apparently the team wanted you to stay for movie night. 

“Come on Y/N we haven’t hung out in a while okay? Please?” Steve threw you his puppy dog eyes as you protested but gave in knowing they wouldn’t leave you alone until you were literally glued to the couch. You placed the meal on the coffee table in front of the couch you decided to sit on. You were sandwiched between Bucky and Steve. You made yourself comfortable and tried to focus on the movie but something popped into your mind. 

“Bucky how was your date?” You turned your attention the love of your life as the team was now intrigued by the subject of someone dating. Bucky’s eyes grew wide as he coughed awkwardly at the spot light. 

“Um, it wasn’t really a date. It was more of a favor for another agent.” He explained the situation hoping you didn’t think he was dating someone. The team rolled their eyes as they went right back to the movie. You nodded your head and turned to the movie. 

..

...

....

“Y/N.. You’re bleeding.” Steve’s words made the room grow cold and everyone’s eyes land on your blood soaked arm. You didn’t seemed to care if they found out but you didn’t bluntly tell them either. You landed your gaze on your sticky forearm and got up to go to the sink and wash away the angry color that soaked your clothing and your skin. 

“It’s nothing.” When Bucky went to follow you and placed his hands on your waist to steady yourself if you needed it, you sighed telling him it was not a big deal. 

“That’s defiantly not nothing Y/N. What the hell happened?” Wanda was followed by the team as she slid your sleeve up just an inch before you snatched your arm away from her grip. 

“I said it was nothing.” Your voice was far way and it was cold. 

“Y/N..” Bucky grabbed your face in his hands as he begged you to look at him. He didn’t stop asking if Bruce could look at it to make sure it wasn’t infected. You started to think about how you didn’t want any infection and you wearily nodded. Bruce began to walk over to the crowded kitchen area and he told everyone to leave so he could have some space to examine. Everyone but Bucky left you and the doctor alone. 

Bruce was completely silent as he pulled your sleeve up from your irritated skin. You winced at the throbbing sensation of the sleeve being removed from your sensitive wounds. The two men didn’t say a word as your forearm came into view. The only thing that was heard was the faint dripping from the sink that someone forgot to turn off all the way. You began to grow annoyed at the two men just staring at your arm and looking like they haven’t seen anything like this before. 

“Bruce.” You snapped the doctor out of his thoughts when you snapped your finger in his face as well as shouted his name. He cleared his throat and glanced your way before he grabbed some cleaning solution for your wounds and pour the strong liquid on your skin as you took a sharp intake. 

“What happened?” Bucky decided to get straight to the point. 

“Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing on your forearm.” Bucky was stern when you tried to lie to the two men. 

“It helps..” You didn’t look into Bucky or Bruce's’ eyes when you tried to explain your reasoning. 

“You did this to yourself?” Bruce was flabbergasted at your confession. 

“Yes.” You didn’t see a point in lying to a doctor and a highly skilled assassin.

Bruce nor Bucky said a word at your proclamation. Bruce wrapped your arm in some bandages and told you to remove it in about 12 hours. Bruce left but not before he gave you a hug and a kiss on the head.  You watched the doctor leave you and you almost called for him to stay. 

 Bucky didn’t say a word as you stood there swaying, waiting for him to tell you to leave. You huffed seeing him standing there with an emotionless expression on his face and you made your way to walk out of the room. 

“How could you?” Bucky’s voice made its way to your ears before you completely left the room. You turned around to face him with your eyebrows furrowed. 

“Excuse me?” You didn’t quite understand his meaning. 

“How could you do this to yourself?” Buckys worrisome face made you feel guilty for a second. 

“How could I? It’s pretty damn easy Bucky. I get my best sharp razor blade and make gashes on my arm.” He had no right to began to worry about you now that you have a physical scar to show.  

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I don’t want to discuss this with you right now.” You turned around and made a beeline to your room before Bucky could protest. You could feel yourself began to break and you hurried to your room before you came crashing down in the hallway. 

You finally made it to your room without an interruption. You hightailed to your bed and as soon as you were wrapped in your blanket you began to let out a sob that made your whole bed shake. 

6:10 am

You mess everything up. You sighed at the first thought that made it’s way into your conscious state of mind. Your eyes began to flutter open as you turned to sit up trying to remember when you fell asleep. You groaned when you looked at the time and sluggishly made your way to the bathroom for your morning routine. 

You began to tear up as the thought of last night began to make its way to the surface. Your body couldn’t take it and dropped yourself on your knees as you began to hunch over and sob while you pulled onto your hair. 

“Why?” You wanted to know why you feel like this and why this is happening. 

You collected yourself and took a minute to breathe correctly as you pulled yourself off of the ground. You made your way to the bathroom again to wash your face of the evidence of crying and desperation that haunted your face. You took one last look in the mirror and pulled on a sweatshirt and some leggings before you headed out the door. 

You aren’t anyone special. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes as you pushed your inner demons away as you stepped into the kitchen. You opened your eyes and came to face with the team huddled around each other like a fucking football team crowds their coach. You cleared your throat to make sure they’re aware of your presence. 

They broke apart and looked like they got caught by their parents trying to steal some more cookies after being told no. You raised your eyebrow in question at the actions of the assassins and world hero’s. Wanda was the first to approach you and gently guide you to the white pampered couch everyone stood in front of. You looked at everyone and gestured ‘what the fuck is going on.’ 

“Y/N we think you need to see a physiologist.” 

“No.” You began to grow angry at their suggestion. 

Something’s wrong with you... even they think so.

“Y/N we are worried about you.” You scoffed at Tony’s comment and rolled your eyes as well. 

“This isn’t you love.” You glared at Wanda. 

“I hear your thoughts love.. they aren’t true.” Your eyes grew wide and you felt the warm salty tears slowly trail down your face. 

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD!” You stood up abruptly holding your head as though it would protect your thoughts. Tears started to race down your face as the plants in the room began to die and your hair turned a very dark blue. 

“None of you know anything!” You began to pace in a horizontal line in front of the team. 

“Y/N, we want to help you.”

“DO YOU? DO YOU REALLY STEVE?! Because since I’ve been here you have never once brought my confidence up, it’s always some other team mate that does better than me. FOR FUCKS SAKES I SAVED YOUR ASS THREE DAMN TIMES! I’m done not feeling anything, or feeling worthless. I cannot live here anymore.” Your face was swollen and so were your eyes due to the emotions that you are letting out. 

“Y/N calm-” You cut Tony off with a scoff as you felt more tears rising up. 

“DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN.” You couldn’t breathe, let along take on this much of mental and emotional stress. 

“I have to go.” You made your way out of the living space and no one dared to stop you. Once you reached your apartment, shut the door behind you and locked your door. You rushed to your bed and as soon as your cheek hit the pillow, you began sobbing. You curled into a ball as your insides felt like someone shoved a hot branding iron in your heart and stomach. 

“Please God, make it go away...”  You pray that God got your prayer because you could not get any lower unless you were in a coffin. 

You couldn’t take the suffocating darkness as you pushed yourself off the bed and ran towards the door. When you opened your door, you found Bucky standing there with unshed tears and a look of desperation clear on his face. Your face contorted in pain and anguish as you grabbed hold of him. You stood there clinging to the man you love for dear life. He wrapped his arms around your waist and nuzzled his face in your hair as his tear finally fell onto your shoulder. 

“Please let me in.. I’m sorry I didn’t know doll.. I’m so sorry..” Those words that held so much emotion and concern are what broke you. You sobbed into his chest and found your knees buckled sending you limb against him. He picked you up bridal style and carried your shattered body onto your bed as he situated himself on top of you so that you could still cling to him and he could hold you so you would break anymore than you already have. 

“Ssh baby it’s going to be okay..”

“I’m right here..”

“That’s it breathe for me doll..”

You began to seize your sobs and only make whimpers as you hold onto Bucky for dear life. You sniffled and nuzzled your face into his neck and began to calm down by his smell that you love so much. 

“I love you Y/N.. so please get some help..” You pulled back to see Bucky’s face that held nothing but truth and his eyes that held so much pain. Then you realized he was in pain because he loves you and he needs you just as much as you need him. You nodded and let a few stray tears fall as you let a hiccup escape due to the amount of sobs that left you hyperventilating. 

“Okay..” You couldn’t believe that after all the darkness that has stained your heart that you would finally find peace and for once you were going to fight back the demons for yourself and Bucky.

In that moment you found hope in the darkness, not because he confessed his love but because you realized that you meant something and that was enough for now. 

TAG LIST

@learisa @iamwarrenspeace @lovely-geek @dont-let-me-go-again @youtubehelpsmesurvive @melconnor2007 

[menagerie-rpg]

「 NOAH FANG LIU 」

STRATUM: One AGE: Twenty-six OCCUPATION: Magician SUGGESTED FCS: Yang Yang

CREATURE FORM.

SIREN is a bird-like sea creature, possessing wings on their back and scales on their arms and legs on a human body. Their voice creates a beautiful, yet sad melody, that entrances any who listen. But, their lyrics are filled with only truth.

ABOUT.

You were an image first, boy second. The undead kid, fame having consumed the souls of your family. But you always were much too impulsive to be Hollywood’s puppet, and that was apparent by your eighteenth birthday. Scandals, drugs, romantic partners that weren’t yours. All of this occurred not just because you felt trapped, but your hands itch for anything you did not have. You wanted to take risks, to fly into the sun, for at least it would be your choice to burn. So when your beast form leaked into the press, a typically poetic you thought it was a sign. A sign to stop being an image, and live instead.

BIOGRAPHY.

All under the cut.

I. Who are you? The son of two industry tycoons. A trophy child, set atop a pedestal and caged in a glass case for all to admire. Look, but do not touch. Adopted, the papers cry, rescued from the same land his mother once called home; snatched from the grasping claws of pain and hardships just as she was years ago. What a gracious woman his mother is. What a generous man her husband is. What a lucky boy he is. And what a pretty picture the three of them paint. Oh how the cameras love them.

( Illegitimate, the tabloids hiss as rumors fly, the truth mixed in with veiled envy, the honeyed skin and dancer’s grace are the mother’s, but whose cunning smile is that? His father’s gaze is blue. Where did those sly black eyes come from? )

II. Who are you? His name was his mother’s first, and last, gift to him. Liu Fang–virtuous and beautiful, with a killer’s legacy in his bloodline. She’d understood long before any of them, had looked into the baby she’d birthed and seen what swam under his soft pink skin.What a fitting name. How well he wears it now.

( He is his mother’s image, skin-deep beauty too thin to hide the ugliness inside. We breed disaster beneath civility. The rest of the world will learn too, sooner than later. )

III. Who are you? A face without a title. An image without a story. The masses make what they like of him each day: the rebellious heir to a music empire; such a charming little troublemaker, this well-mannered mutt with the designer pedigree; an addict chasing his next high, easily tracked by the bodies he leaves behind, emptied, on dirty white sheets each night.

( Love me. He’s never been a picky eater. Come one come all, step up to the plate if you’re feeling brave. Let him strip you of everything you have, then watch him pick your heart out from between his perfect teeth. Ah my pretty, pretty baby, I only wanted your bones for my altar. He will be whatever you desire of him. Are you proud of me yet? I am everything you never wanted me to be. )

IV. Who are you? He’s changed his skin so many times, shedding endlessly in trying to become what the headlines desire, he no longer knows. Did he ever? The reflection in his mirror mocks him every morning with the ambiguity of his existence.

( Oh but he can’t complain. Not really, not when everyone stresses how much ‘worse it could be’. You want for nothing. Never mind that his mother only holds him close when the cameras flash. Never mind that the man he calls ‘father’ only meets his eyes when there are angles to be played. He wants for nothing, and still the time-bomb in his chest keeps tick-tick-ticking, counting down the days until he self-destructs. )

V. Who are you? Oddity. Monster. Unnatural. Animal. Beautiful. He comes into his father’s legacy in stages: the scales that bloom over his legs and arms at four, smooth and cold to the touch–not so different from the marble they carved him out of; the wings that unfurl from the hollow of his spine at nine, too light to carry his heavy bones–you’re no angel, as if he needs the reminder; the voice that began as a hum at five, only to crescendo into a scream of a song at fifteen–they weep at his feet, fear warring with enchantment, and he grows heady on the power he wields.

( Human beings are such fragile things. He learned early on you don’t need your fists to break a person, but this, this gift he’s inherited, is a different kind of weapon altogether. Something vaguely alive begins to stir in his gut. )

VI. Who are you? A liar and abuser, a user and manipulator. But it wasn’t always that way. Some dusks, he recalls his father’s cadence, a familiar tune curbing his tongue and singing him to sleep. Be kind, he’d tell the boy on the verge of dreams. Be strong. Don’t let them make a demon out of you. If only you had more of your mother in you. I’m sorry. Maybe one day you’ll forgive me.

( Most dawns, he relives the moment his sanctuary came crashing down. Six years old, waking up to rubble and ruins. His father had disappeared overnight. Nothing missing from their home, nothing out of place. He was simply gone like he’d never been. Perhaps he’d thought he was doing right, protecting his child by removing himself from the picture. But normalcy was never written into their genes, and no amount of cruelty to be kind could change what would inevitably come. )

VII. What are you? The bastard son of a woman too self-absorbed to be a mother. The abandoned offspring of a man too afraid of his own shadow to be a father. A patchwork monster with bones ground from the sorrows of everyone he’s ever consumed, swallowing hearts like they played god with his. How many more will it take to sate the hunger within?

( His mother tried. Not very hard, but still, an attempt was made in those beginning months, and he will give her enough credit to acknowledge such. But maternal instincts can only do so much for the both of them. Something starts to tear inside him. How much pain will it take to stitch you back together? )

VIII. What are you? His face is plastered on the front page of every paper, magazine, and news source of worth. The shot is blurry at best, taken by a hand made unsteady with alcohol and pills. But witches have been hung for less, and by the next morning, the hunt is on. Golden child turned monster-in-the-dark; the press is having a field day, and his mother goes blind. He supposes he should be more concerned, afraid even. He’s never seen his step-father so angry, and it makes him laugh, loud and manic.

( Twelve years it took for him to bend past the breaking point. He blames the chemical cocktail coursing through his veins that twilight, and the fight with his mother in the hours leading up to his big reveal. You’re just like your father. He wishes that were true. You’d better be careful. Hasn’t he always? Crunching on eggshells, molding and remolding the masks he wears to play his part. You’ll end up buried like him. So be it. )

IX. What do you want? The man sits across the table from him–Metzger is the name given–innocuous in appearance, well-dressed, but a snake knows its own kind, and he is wary of the hidden fangs. 10 PM and the coffee shop is mostly empty. They’re tucked into the very back corner, far from the curiosity of nosy passerby. Such a simple question, yet it gives him pause. What does he want? Nobody has bothered to ask that one before.

( He’d had his father’s eyes, black and warm as an August night. Too quickly, summer faded into winter, no spring in sight. And so he keeps spinning his silken lies, digging through what remains of the crime scene between his ribs, hoping to rebuild a person resembling human from the wreckage. )

X. What do you want? Self-destruction is nothing more than another show, and what show is complete without eager spectators? He’s spent his life catering to crowds of spectators–that much hasn’t changed; he’s simply switched out one stage for another, one pair of shackles for another set of chains. At least this time, it was his choice to be made into a pyre. And that makes all the difference.

( I want to burn. )

[verdigrisprowl]

Feb 28 Bevel’s Movie Stream - Star Trek Discovery

A reshow of the prior Saturday’s screening, for Tarantulas’s benefit. Everyone was very careful not to say spoilers in front of him.

Prowl didn’t particularly want to see the broadcast again, but did in order to further inure himself against the mind-prodding scenes.

Tarantulas 9:24 pm (( HEY NERDS ItsyBitsySpyers 9:24 pm ((YO)) Tarantulas 9:24 pm (( TESTING (( gonna make a sound (( boink Bevel 9:29 pm *Bevel obviously already here like y'do* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:29 pm *Soundwave stretches and kicks his heels up on a feeler perch. Tarantulas is late but that's not new; in the meantime, he'll be as comfy as he likes.* Tarantulas 9:32 pm *l8, l8, for a very important d8* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:32 pm *Are you a rabbit or a spider, sir? Do sit.* Bevel 9:32 pm *waves for Tara* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:33 pm [][][]The Shadow knows.[][][] Tarantulas 9:33 pm *a loose salute for the chameleon* The shadow knows what? *does sit. where do sits* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:34 pm [[The darkness in the spar-- the hearts of humans, he believes it goes.]] [[Also, hello.]] *Still so offended by the eating of what looks like an octopus.* Bevel 9:35 pm *is now sporting bright pink and purple paint instead of her rainbows from last time* Tarantulas 9:37 pm Hello. hyeh. Tarantulas 9:39 pm *wants to lie down or perch oddly or something. sitting normally gets boring. just gonna lean over the back of soundwave's couch for now* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:40 pm *Soundwave shifts a feeler so one holds both feet while the other stretches up to curl over a shoulder.* Tarantulas 9:42 pm *lazily fluffs his setae as a secondary hello* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:42 pm *Feels that and puffs. How odd.* [[Will we have more of these this week, Bevel?]] Tarantulas 9:43 pm I thought that was the intention of this - catching me up. Although you DID start without me. ItsyBitsySpyers 9:43 pm ((ngl if i had no idea who plays Lorca I'd never guess he wasn't from the US by accent)) [[You missed very little, he assures you.]] Bevel 9:44 pm ((He doesn't even look or act like the last character I remember him playing it's wild ItsyBitsySpyers 9:45 pm *...Wonders if anyone ever invented the agonizer booths or something like them in Prowl and Tarantulas' timelines. Is sure they wouldn't be allowed now.* Tarantulas 9:45 pm *if anyone invented them it'd've been mesothulas* Bevel 9:45 pm One more this week! I found two more but they were not very clear records so I have to find better quality ones. When I do I will show them. ItsyBitsySpyers 9:46 pm [[Hm. Very well. He'll use the extra time to catch up on some logs.]] ItsyBitsySpyers 9:47 pm [[They can see THAT.]] Prowl 9:49 pm *and if he HAD, that would have been the thing Prowl noisemazed him for.* *hello guess who arrived extra-extra late. ItsyBitsySpyers 9:50 pm *Soundwave perks a little and pings greetings.* Tarantulas 9:50 pm *it prowl!! perks* Bevel 9:50 pm *waves to Prowl* Prowl 9:50 pm *sits with and leans on soundwave, returns the greeting ping* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:51 pm *Leans in and continues watching. He's a little surprised Prowl came to this, all content considered, but Prowl knows what he's doing. He hopes.* Prowl 9:51 pm *exposure therapy.* How's your head? ItsyBitsySpyers 9:52 pm [[He is well again, he thinks. Thank you.]]

@P: [[And he has caught up to most of what he lost.]] Prowl 9:53 pm @S «Glad to hear that.» ItsyBitsySpyers 9:54 pm *Nudges Prowl's leg with a loop of the feeler on the ground. He is thankful for the watchfulness.* Prowl 9:54 pm *he'll acknowledge that in a minute. he needs to focus on not reacting to this scene.* *at least he knows what's coming.* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:54 pm *Yes, of course.* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:57 pm ((i love the modern andorian makeup)) ((with the extra cheekbone wigglies)) Tarantulas 9:57 pm *tarantulas is gonna lean over and pet at one of prowl's shoulders before returning to the other side of soundwave* Bevel 9:58 pm ((the antennae wiggle too and it's great Prowl 9:58 pm *STARTS* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:58 pm *Is startled by the start.* Prowl 9:58 pm *you've thrown this room into chaos, tarantulas* Bevel 9:58 pm *does nothing* ItsyBitsySpyers 9:58 pm *See? Chaos. Unpredictability.* Prowl 9:59 pm *turns to give tarantulas a sideways half-look. what.* Tarantulas 10:01 pm *inscrutably squints his visor just a tad and proceeds to try and get comf* Prowl 10:01 pm *... okay. turns away, then.* Prowl 10:03 pm *he's getting pretty good at not visibly reacting* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:03 pm *You know, this is probably the clearest example he's ever had of the kinds of things Prowl has told him about.* *He wonders how much Tarantulas has been told.* Tarantulas 10:04 pm *ZIPPO* Tarantulas 10:14 pm *has somehow managed to pull a cat-maneuver and melted over the couch, flopping over the back onto his back and sliding down til he can see the screen upside down* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:16 pm *Looks down at Tarantulas.* [[...Are you quite comfortable like that?]] Prowl 10:16 pm *Pointedly doesn't look down at Tarantulas.* Tarantulas 10:18 pm *smol laugh* Comfortable enough. *his limbs are everywhere tho* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:20 pm *Curiously pinches at the ends of the legs down by his feet.* Tarantulas 10:21 pm *swipes & pinches back* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:21 pm *Quiet huffing.* *Ohhh yes. This is THAT tape.* Prowl 10:21 pm *scoots his leg sideways to keep it out of range of the pinching and swatting.* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:22 pm [[Ah. Apologies.]] Prowl 10:23 pm Hm. *THIS scene is HARDER to watch the second time. The first time through he could just accept it for what it was; this time, he can't think of it as anything but an elaborate patch that can't be escaped.* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:24 pm *Soundwave just keeps thinking about the times he and that one alternate shared memories and other data. Not so different.* *...Well, Stamets isn't sparkbonding with his conjunx in these thoughts, but the general idea stands.* Prowl 10:26 pm *The choosing of the Kelpien. ALSO harder to watch the second time.* Prowl 10:31 pm ... They could have prevented a lot of this by doing some very basic research. Like, say, looking up the name of the emperor. Maybe the local Michael's history. Things like, for example, where she grew up. Tarantulas 10:32 pm Too late, hyeh. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:33 pm [[He does not know if it would be that easy. There are probably humans whose work it is to monitor such queries. It would be odd for her to look up her own past.]] Prowl 10:33 pm "I was looking up my own record to check if I'm still listed as dead or if it's been fixed yet." "Considering that a coup was in process when I disappeared to chase Lorca, I was looking up the emperor to make sure no one else had succeeded in it." ItsyBitsySpyers 10:34 pm [[Such a search would only grant her seconds. That data would take much longer to gather.]] Prowl 10:35 pm You saw how much data they had on the local universe's Tally. Clearly they had no such qualms about searching for and studying her file in depth. Then why not something as simple as looking up the emperor's name? ItsyBitsySpyers 10:36 pm *Notes the latest in the name errors with some internal amusement and tilts his helm.*

[[Hmm. He supposes you're right.]] Prowl 10:37 pm *Prowl doesn't remember if there was anything unpleasant in this scene or if it's not til later. Braces himself accordingly.* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:37 pm ((i love the scar makeup)) Prowl 10:37 pm *mentally braces. physically nothing.* Tarantulas 10:37 pm *hmph. pouts* ...Not enough science in this epis - good, Stamets, yes. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:38 pm [[The mirror Stamets does have a point. In some minds, distractions from the intended path can indeed be permanent. Sometimes painfully so.]] Prowl 10:38 pm *that was far more than prowl needed to know about the horrors of being trapped in someone else's head.* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:38 pm *Well, he'd rather be honest about it than sugarcoat the risks.* Prowl 10:39 pm *prowl wasn't going to take those risks anyway but good to know?* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:39 pm *Soundwave isn't the only one out there, and many are less interested in preserving Prowl than him.* Tarantulas 10:40 pm ...Sometimes they serve as a sort of salvation, but I'm assuming that's not the sort of thing you're referring to. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:40 pm [[Generally not.]] Prowl 10:40 pm *Soundwave can rest assured that if anyone else ever gets inside prowl's head, his mental self-representation will curl up into a ball and implode.* Prowl 10:44 pm *BRACES SELF* Tarantulas 10:45 pm *you know, tarantulas hasn't taken inventory of all the inventions he should totally follow up on irl. should do that sometime. totally unrelated to the needlefingers tho* Prowl 10:45 pm *visibly, he doesn't tense up. he doesn't go still. he doesn't even blink.* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:45 pm *That is - unexpected.* Prowl 10:45 pm *practice makes perfect.* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:45 pm *And yes, inventory. One should always know what intriguing things are in one's possession.* Tarantulas 10:46 pm *nono, things he's inspired by from this show* Tarantulas 10:52 pm Oh /boo/. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:52 pm [[Boo? Why boo?]] Prowl 10:52 pm ... I still want to know how he got across. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:53 pm [[As does he.]] *Pause.* [[And if that network can be accessed and utilized by inorganic life.]] Tarantulas 10:53 pm It has something to do with the Defiant, doesn't it? Didn't that transfer happen in the past? ItsyBitsySpyers 10:53 pm [[No. That transfer actually has yet to happen.]] [[That is, it is one universe's future and one universe's past.]] Tarantulas 10:54 pm Wait - I forget. What? Prowl 10:55 pm And they mentioned that everyone who transferred through on the Defiant lost all mental stability. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:56 pm [[Where the Michael human is from, it has not happened yet. When it does, it will go back to before the mirror universe's current time. It travels both timeline and time itself.]] [[And, what Prowl said.]] Tarantulas 10:57 pm Or maybe the timelines run opposite. *hmm* I didn't mean he boarded the Defiant or such - just that there might be something linked to the jump, some way of having taken advantage of it. Maybe it was externally induced. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:57 pm [[Possibly.]] [[Unfortunately, we know as much as you at this time.]] Tarantulas 10:58 pm Hyeh, fair. Tarantulas 10:59 pm Poor Stamets, though... *slides down the couch a little more in sadness* ItsyBitsySpyers 10:59 pm [[Yes. Such a loss, and no time to process it. He hopes they will not break at a crucial moment.]] Tarantulas 11:01 pm *breaks at a crucial moment. oops. slid too far and OOMPHS onto the floor * ItsyBitsySpyers 11:02 pm *Hard huff and shaking shoulders. He could not have asked for anything better tonight.* Tarantulas 11:02 pm *at least it's his shoulders and leggies that take the brunt of the fall* ItsyBitsySpyers 11:02 pm [][][]Down came the rain and washed the spider out.[][][] Tarantulas 11:02 pm *SWAT* ItsyBitsySpyers 11:02 pm *Shaking harder.* *Will, in fact, slide down in his seat some from it.* Tarantulas 11:03 pm *has recovered himself and is sitting cross-legged on the floor now* Prowl 11:03 pm *almost falls. Sits upright.* ItsyBitsySpyers 11:04 pm *Lifts an arm and offers it as a brace. It's long enough.* Prowl 11:04 pm *no thanks, but pats arm.* ItsyBitsySpyers 11:05 pm *Nods and lets it fall across his abdomen. It's probably for the best. He might've rattled Prowl a little with it wobbling with him like that.* ItsyBitsySpyers 11:07 pm [[On this note, he should return to prepare for this weekend. He has allowed his deployers to make a mess of the building this week,]] he says like it's anything more serious than a few things out of place per minicon, [[and he does not want any guests to stumble onto something they shouldn't.]] Tarantulas 11:07 pm A mess? Howso? ItsyBitsySpyers 11:08 pm [[Plush toys, the twins' game chips, Buzzsaw's art supplies... things resting in places they don't belong.]] Tarantulas 11:08 pm Ah, so an actual mess, not destruction. Hyah. ItsyBitsySpyers 11:09 pm [[Primus, no. He would be busy repairing destruction instead of rewatching and thinking about these documentaries if that were the case.]] [[Rather, the ones responsible would be, while he supervised. With occasional assistance.]] Tarantulas 11:10 pm But you're not here for the documentaries really, you're here for the /company/. *obviously himself. ur here 4 spideambiance. tarantulambiance* ItsyBitsySpyers 11:10 pm [[He is here for both.]] Tarantulas 11:10 pm *snickers* Prowl 11:11 pm *is here for the documentaries* Tarantulas 11:11 pm *r00d* Prowl 11:11 pm *... and a little bit to make up for the movie nights he didn't sit with Soundwave while Soundwave was recovering from a head injury.* Bevel 11:11 pm *is here for company!* Tarantulas 11:12 pm *don't lie prowl, you're secretly hoping for another helm smooch* ItsyBitsySpyers 11:12 pm *Will just go home alone, then.*

*Soundwave reels his feelers back in and stands, dusting invisible dirt off his knee guards.* [[Thank you for the second chance, Bevel.]] Bevel 11:12 pm You're welcome, Soundwave. Good luck cleaning up. Tarantulas 11:12 pm Thank you for the first chance, hyeh. ItsyBitsySpyers 11:13 pm [[Tarantulas, Prowl.]] *Nods.* [[And cleaning up is not a matter of luck. Merely discipline and diligence. But he appreciates the sentiment anyway.]]

[[Rest well, all.]]

*Open, bridge!* Prowl 11:14 pm *nods back and farewell ping. WOULD offer to go along, but he said he's got to clean, so.* *and disappears* Tarantulas 11:14 pm *nods at soundwave* *INSTANT DISMAY. PROWL'S GONE* Tarantulas 11:17 pm *flops back on the floor. sads. rolls his helm to the side and looks at the only remaining party* ...You're a sweetspark for rewatching this for me. Bevel 11:20 pm I liked watching it again and it was nice having everyone here again. Tarantulas 11:22 pm Good, good. *slow, dramatic sigh* I suppose I oughtn't loiter, should I. Bevel 11:24 pm I do not mind. I was just gonna fix some stuff upstairs after the movie. Tarantulas 11:24 pm Upstairs, hm? Bevel 11:26 pm Uh-huh. I have been fixing the building since I got it for movie nights. It is a small building *for Cybertron anyway* so I can fix it without tearing down the whole place. Tarantulas 11:27 pm Do you have any particular plans? *waves around a spiderlimb absentmindedly* Bevel 11:31 pm Um, well, the floor right above us is where I stay sometimes, so it mostly just looks like a workshop but I want to add a dock for my ship into the floor above. After that? I think maybe just make the floors above that into apartments or something. Tarantulas 11:44 pm And rent them out?

[simmysimmymone-blog]

The Flower Girl (Part I)

By the time Cor had reached the middle of the sky, the dark blue shadows barely curving around the entrance gate to the Timaeus Railing as it threatened to sweep Turlock off the archway. The monorail station was nearly empty, save for someone who appeared to be a young woman peering over the edge of the walkway, bouquet of flowers in hand. He knew that if he leaned over the railings by the tracks, he could see past the hills and witness all of the city as well, with its splendid glass structures and spiraling towers, just like in the books Desagondensta would bring home.

But he could not bring himself to look over the Atlantean capital. Just the thought of Desagondensta caused his chest to ache with grief. To think, five years working towards recruitment, three years in the military, eight years in total away from his friends and family- all for Turlock to arrive at Atlantis alone without his father.

“Will you at least tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“About her. Anything.”

“Turlock, I...there is nothing more I can say about her.”

“Then there is nothing more that I can say to you.”

Another strong gust of wind swept around him, presenting a dull roar in his ears. Turlock squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to block out the memory, yet it still proceeded to permeate and glue itself to the back of his eyelids. It had seemed so satisfying, watching his slanted eyes- a mirror of his own-open wide and the lines in his face deepen from the shock and pain of his words, as if it could cease his own turmoil. But now it became a churning pot without a lid, spitting out his own vileness at him.

His fingers curled around the railing and tightened, gripping so hard that his knuckles turned white. His last face-to face conversation with his father. It did not matter that Desagondensta forgave him for it, that he had already apologized, that his last letter was wrapped around one of the pressed fire lilies that he was so fond of sending as a memo from home in his pack, expressing so much excitement to see him come home with stories of his own about the great city and promising reconciliation.

‘When I see you again, then I will tell you about Sooleawa.’  Even seeing her name, written proof that finally acknowledged her existence, did not matter anymore. His father was gone and Turlock was too preoccupied chasing a ghost to recognize the man who had raised him, trained him, cultivated every skill and every piece of wisdom he now owned, was now gone. If he just had the chance to tell him thank you, that he would miss him, that he loved him...

“When I see you again,” Turlock whispered, opening his eyes.

“SHIT.”

Turlock whipped his head to the side to see the young woman previously looking over the rail now sprinting towards him, a polychromatic cloud of flowers billowing between them. Before he could react, the gust of wind that had swept them out of her hands had already carried them above his head and towards the city.

She skidded to a stop in front of him, watching the flowers drift aimlessly away. “Fuck!” she exclaimed, clasping both sides of her face.

Turlock stepped away from the railing, watching her curiously as she groaned and shook her head. “Who was that for?”

“For a friend,” she said miserably.

“You seem a little bit more upset than one is over a gift for a friend,” Turlock remarked.

She rolled her eyes and dropped her hands. “It was for a friend from a friend. I was the middleman, and I was supposed to bring them to her so that they could make up or whatever because I guess she cheated on him even though she told me they were in an open relationship but honestly I don’t really care about any of it because they’re not really my friends, I just met them a couple days ago but since I’m new I just wanted to make a good impression, but then I wanted to look at the lights and wasn’t paying attention and then the wind just-!” She gestured  towards the valley.

Turlock barely caught each word. She spoke at an incredible speed, her wide lips not quite matching the speed at which the words left her mouth nor the dramatic rises and drops of her pitch. It was so unlike the custom slow, contemplative-appearing speech of the Atlanteans or traditionally short, quippy dialogue of the Annunaki that he had grown accustomed to over the past few years.  

In fact, the longer he observed her the more he realized that she didn’t seem be either. Besides missing the obvious wings of the Annunaki, she was tall, the level of his gaze reaching just above her eyebrows at her rather large forehead. But instead of having a slender, almost willowy body type like the Atlanteans, she was broad and stocky. Her arms and legs were visible and well-defined through capris and her button-up plaid shirt, her hair just barely hiding a thick and muscular neck. Her hair was another thing; it was somewhat reminiscent of General Jekesai and Aamori’s hair, frizzy curls that stuck out in every direction. But instead of keeping it cropped close to her head, her afro burst out of her scalp like a dogwood tree, and a thick braid wrapped across her crown as a headband to keep it out of her face. Little z’s and s’s curled every which way, and his fingers twitched in a sudden desire to run his fingers through it.

He impulsively folded his hands behind his back. “Where are you from?”

“Hmm?” Her eyes were still focused on the last few flowers darting between the hills.

“Where are you from?” he repeated.

She turned to face him with her scattered eyebrows raised, giving her the look of a scattered owl. “And what makes you think I’m not from around here?”

“Are you?”

The young woman chuckled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I don’t know, dude. I mean, since you’re an expert on a continent with a population of three billion people with nearly a hundred different ethnic groups, and you say that I’m not from around here, then who am I to say any different?”

The corner of Turlock’s mouth quirked. “No, sadly I am not an expert on this continent that has a population of three billion people nor its hundred ethnic groups. However, you do have an accent.”  

Her smile dropped. “I do?”

He nodded.

“Shit,” she muttered, hastily rubbing the side of her neck. She suddenly looked much younger now in her sheepishness, but there was something endearing about it as well.

“I do not know your accent, if that helps?” he offered.

She paused, then glanced back him. “You really don’t?”

“Untraceable,” he assured her.

“Oh.” Her eyes darted downwards, her hand slowly rubbing the back of her neck again. Then another smile slowly crept on to her face, this time her cheeks rounding out similar as a chipmunk and just as sweetly. “Well, I’m from SF. Just- just in case you wanted to know.”

“SF?”

“San Francisco. You know, California?”

California. Turlock recalled the word almost as if was from a dream, very faint and too slippery to definitively grasp, but still present somewhere in the back of his mind. A back room in one of the lodges, a pile of books that ranged from well-used to practically new...

“California, it is in...the United States, yes?” he said slowly.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m from the US. You know, you’re the first one who didn’t immediately peg me as a West Coast girl. Apparently I say dude all the time and talk really fast? I don’t know, I just everybody kind of talked slowly, although that is a really self-centered way to think about things. But yeah, San Francisco, California, United States, born and raised- I think? I don’t know, I never don’t live with my parents. Not that that matters.”

Looking at her now, Turlock knew that she could not be much older than him. There was something youthful in her rounded cheeks and bright eyes black as coal.

She chuckled nervously, now rubbing her arm. “Where are you from?”

What a strange person. He hesitated- his home always seemed to evoke odd responses from people, ranging from sympathy to disdain, sneering “leech”. But she could not have lived here too long to understand what it meant to be from one of the ECC reservations. And where would be the harm in telling a random stranger? 

He decided to take a chance. “Roanoke.”

“Roanoke? I’m sorry, I really haven’t been here long, they only recruited me a week ago. Where is, uh, Roanoke?” she tried.

“Have you heard of the ECC?”

“Yeah, it’s in one of the more eastern countries, right?”

“It is the entire eastern seaboard,” he corrected.

“The Endangered Civilization Colonies,” she said slowly to herself. “So you’re from one of the reservations?” There was no judgement in her voice, only a need for clarification. He nodded.

“Wow, that’s...I really don’t know what to say, dude. Like I said, I’m not really well affiliated with anything around here yet.”

“Do not concern yourself so much about it.” He looked towards the hills. The Cor had turned the green grass soft shades of turquoise and cobalt, nearly as monochrome as the metallic blue of the rails that dipped in between them. By now the last of the flowers had disappeared.

Except for one. A single orange bloom caught in the blue hue of the grassy sea. The stem split in two at the root and curled onto the long grass, anchoring the flower against the sweeping winds.

He stands people on their feet.

Turlock turned back to the young woman, now squinting at the sundial. “Well, it was nice talking to you, dude, but I gotta figure out what I gotta do,” she sighed, stepping back as she jammed her fists into her back pockets. “I don’t know, maybe I can run back and get another bunch before heading into the city. Or maybe they’ll have florists in the city? I don’t know, what do you think?”

“I think that you should not spend credits on another bouquet.”

“Well, neither do I, but I lost it so it’s my job to fix it and find another.”

“That is not what I meant. May I see your hand?”

“Uhhhh, okay?” She held out her right hand, and he took it gingerly between both of his own. There were green and white smears on her palm from the flower stems. It would be slightly inconvenient without seeds, but he could make do with the wick. He ran two fingers from beneath her pinkie to the meat of her thumb, then handed her back her hand. As he rubbed his fingers, he asked, “What type of flowers were they?”

“Um, mostly orchids, white and blue. A couple rhododendrons, also white and blue, but there were a few orange ones.” Turlock could see it; the orchids long and willowy as they reached towards the sky, the rhododendron petals pointing up and out as they basked in the Cor’s light.

“Hey, look man, you don’t have to buy anything for me,” she said in alarm. “I was the one being a klutz and it’s my responsibility to get a new one and I am completely capable of doing so, so you don’t have to do anything for me.”

Turlock only shook his head, and extended an open palm between them. She raised her eyebrows at him, but he simply put a finger to his lips and then pointed at his hand. She huffed, but focused her eyes on his palm. But Turlock watched her face, gauging her reaction. For a few seconds, her expression didn’t change. But then her eyes widened, and her hand flew up to clasp over her mouth.

A tiny green bud appeared between them, hovering just over the heavy creases in his palm. Then another, and then two more, then four, and then there were at least ten little buds in his hand. Already each one started to sprout at their own speeds, the green skin expanding and pushing to make way for the hints of blue and white and orange. “Whoa…” Her eyes were the size of walnuts and her jaw hung agape that would almost be parodical if not for upwards curl of the corners of lips as she watched, transfixed by the sight of each flower growing into their own with a dozen more sprouting by the roots. The ache in his chest softened for the first time since he had left the general’s office at the sight of her smile.

“That’s just- amazing,” she finally said once Turlock had a full bouquet in his hands. “And they’re just so- they’re so beautiful!”

“I am glad you think so,” he said, firmly grasping the stems before extending them to her. “They are meant to replace the ones the wind took.”

“Whoa…” She took them with the same wide eyes as before, gingerly fingering the stems as if she couldn’t believe they were real. “My baby bro- he’s trying the same thing, but he can’t do anything like this,” she told him as they straightened up.

“He will learn. A green thumb is rare, but it is not difficult.” He shrugged nonchalantly, even though he could already feel his temples beginning to throb.

“Man, I really...I don’t know what to say. Just- thank you,” she said earnestly.

“Do not thank me when I have not given you your flower yet.”

“Wha- my flower?”

“Which one is your favorite?”

“Uh- well, I’m more of a fire-lily type of girl, but the orange rhododendrons are very nice too, so that’s absolutely-”

“Forgive me,” he interrupted, “but did you say a fire-lily?”

“Yeah, but like I said it’s really no problem man, you’ve already done enough.”

Turlock’s fingers were already at the straps of his satchel. Desagondensta had sent him a fire lily in his last letter; it was pressed but there should still be something left for him to draw on. He tugged out the small glass box and with quick fingers popped the lid open. A single fire lily laid on top of a velvet blanket, the shriveled leaves curling inward as brown and wrinkly as a newborn babe. Just when he was about to press his fingers to it, he caught sight of the worn papyrus just underneath the blanket. For a split second, Turlock’s fingers hovered over it, hesitating slightly.

Desagondensta’s last flower...

“Like I said man, you don’t have to.” Turlock glanced at her face, and saw a pair of kind eyes gazing back. She looked down at the glass box, then back to him as an understanding half-smile curled into the side of her cheek. “I think that, whoever gave you this, even they would say that you’ve done enough.”

No. 

Turlock felt the corners of his lips turn upwards and he shook his head. “He would tell me that I need to do more in return for what you’ve given me.” He tore off a leaf, the crackling sound permeating the silent tension in the air, and held it up.

“And what’s that?” she asked as it began to turn green and uncurl outwards.

Rich bursts of orange and red shot along the sides of the stem until it produced a soft lavender bulb where the petals were already beginning to open and reach out for the sun. Turlock waited until the petals were as long as his index finger before tucking the flower behind her ear.

“A smile from you for a smile from me,” he said softly.

Her cheeks went as brilliant as the flower, and she rubbed her neck sheepishly. “I-”

“WAM WAM WAM! WAM WAM WAM!”

Both looked up to see the monorail zipping through the valley towards them, the horn’s stacattoed screech echoing across hills. He glanced at the young woman to see her gnawing her lip. “May I finish what you were going to say?” he offered.

“Since you already seem to know me so well,” she said jokingly as she turned back to him.

“How about, ‘I can’t thank you enough, this is incredibly sweet’ and ‘That’s my train’?”

“Shit, you’re good.”

“I do try.”

She laughed heartily, the sound rich in its throatiness and lack of constraint. “Now look at you, all confidence and edginess,” she teased as the monorail slowed to a stop next to them. With a hiss, the doors slowly parted to reveal a spiral staircase unraveling itself from the monorail before connecting to the loading dock.    

“Perhaps I will see you around?” he suggested as she boarded the train.

“I don’t know, maybe I will,” she replied over her shoulder. “If you already know me better than I know myself, then we should run into each other one of these days!” She paused at the top of the stairs as the staircase coiled itself back up, then turned around and poked her head out of an open window. “Hey dude! I never caught your name!”

“I am saving it for when we run into each other once again!” he called over the sound of the monorail whirling back to life.

“Then I'll see you in the city?”

“I hope so!”

“Well, until then-” She fumbled with something before shoving it out the window. Turlock lurched forward and something soft and jelly-like landed in his hands. He lifted it to his eye level and stared at a fist-sized water sculpture of a plesiosaur all curled up in his palms, the currents rippling over its body as a soft yellow light pulsed at its center. To his amazement, he could see its body rise and fall with every breath, a burst of air hitting his palm as it snored. He prodded it gently with one finger. Instead of permeating the silvery water sheen, it repelled him as if it were skin. The plesiosaur stopped snoring and lifted its head, opening its eyes to reveal a pair of bright yellow orbs as eyes, the same color as its core. They fixed him with a clear gaze of surprise and annoyance.

Despite everything, he couldn’t help but chuckle. “I am beyond grateful, but I cannot accept th-” Turlock looked up to see the monorail already starting to chug away from him.

“I can make dozens more, don’t worry about it! Just keep him as a reminder of me!”

“But-”

“Until next time!” she called, waving as she faded into the distance.

Turlock stood there at the boarding dock with the strange little creature in hand, the wind sweeping around the station that was just as empty and lonely as before, save for the smile widening across his face and the swelling of his chest.

“Until next time.”