#BUT whether thats how life actually works. remains to be seen! might cause him some stress to find out!

[player1064]

loooooving the beville/carraville fic rn but also interested in becks pov bcos im assuming he may/may not have cheated while in madrid and whether he is also falling out of love at a similar time as gary or if gary’s thing w jamie is gna be like a sucker punch to him arghcjsk

ohohohoooooo well. I'm not gonna give spoilers but there IS more becks pov planned I just tend towards writing gary pov bc well hes my special guy....

the way I'm structuring the fic means that some scenes I've written don't make the final cut bc they don't fit anywhere into the sort of non-linear structure and a few of those scenes were gonna be like. becks having Issues with the relationship 😭 (though some may still make it in.... we'll see...)

crucially though I think that gary and becks are a little bit out of sync on Everything so make of that what you will.... we have a couple of chapters left centred around their playing days and then the focus is shifting to retirement......

[set-phasers-to-whump]

i never knew how much it would hurt to feel (this building collapse on top of me)

prompt: buried

whumpee: shawn spencer

fandom: psych

hi and welcome to my very first psych fic! i finished the show a couple weeks ago and finally get to write it! since this is my first fic there is a high chance the characterization is not the best and i do apologize but as i write more it will improve! i hope you like this anyway! (first part of the title is from some kind of disaster by all time low)

Shawn and Gus are poking their way through a falling-down, long-deserted office building on the outskirts of town, looking for clues about the latest murder case that they’ve gotten themselves assigned to. Gus pokes his head through a doorway and immediately recoils with a yelp, hands scrabbling frantically at his face. 

“Spiders!” he shouts, and Shawn shines the beam of his flashlight on Gus’ face. 

“Spider webs,” he says, reaching out to brush them away. “Ooh wait, what’s this - a giant tarantula on the back of your head?”

Gus slaps his hand away, brushes his own hand across the back of his head to confirm that there isn’t really a giant tarantula lurking there, and frowns at Shawn. “If we don’t find any clues soon -”

“C’mon, man, you know it’s a process. This building has two more floors we haven’t even seen yet.”

“Two more floors that look like they might collapse at any second.”

Shawn can’t argue with that, especially when the next step he takes makes his foot sink a couple inches into a rotting floorboard. He gingerly pulls it out and prepares to concede to Gus about the top two floors of the building. 

“Okay, fine, we don’t have to go up -”

The ending of that sentence is drowned out by a horrific crashing noise, and before Shawn has time to process what’s happening, what feels like several tons of stuff is falling down on top of him in the single most painful event of his entire life. He screams, and dust and pieces of who-knows-what fill his mouth and he coughs and his chest burns and he can’t quite breathe right because something is pushing down on him and everything is dark - 

Ah. That would be because his eyes are closed, Shawn realizes, in a moment of blinding clarity. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly in the dust, and sees...a whole lot of junk. Chunks of plaster and concrete and wood surround him in a sort of enclave, and if he looks out across his body he can see what’s causing the issue with his breathing - a very large, very heavy piece of concrete, probably some kind of support beam. Excellent, Shawn thinks. Being buried alive in a mountain of old office is exactly how I wanted to spend my day. 

He’s trying to distract himself from the pain with this line of thinking, which is half-working. If he can just not focus on how much it hurts for a few moments, until he can make his hands cooperate and grab his phone, or until he has enough air in his lungs to call out to Gus - 

Gus! Shawn is trapped in his own personal bubble of debris, and Gus isn’t here. Which means he’s somewhere else, maybe hurt even worse than Shawn is, or maybe even dead, but Gus isn’t allowed to die, not like this, not - 

“Shawn!”

Thank god you’re alive, buddy, Shawn thinks at Gus’ voice, and then he thinks, oh man, I actually have to yell back to Gus so he doesn’t think I’m dead. He takes as deep a breath as his constricted lungs will allow, which hurts like absolute hell, and shouts, as loudly as he can, “Gus!” 

“Shawn!” he hears Gus yell again, as he tries to ride out the wave of pain burning through his entire chest. Don’t make me yell again, he thinks, forcing himself not to cough despite the large amount of dust that has gotten into his mouth, because he thinks the pain of that might actually kill him. 

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to yell again - he hears shifting noises and knows that Gus is getting closer. He tries to think of a way to let Gus know exactly where he is without opening his mouth again, and then realizes that one of his arms disappears underneath the rubble currently boxing him in. His hand doesn’t feel like it’s buried, though, so he thinks that it must be on the outside, and maybe Gus can see it. He concentrates very hard and wiggles his fingers, taps them on the ground, and hopes that Gus is as close as he sounds. 

And he is. A few seconds of wiggling and tapping pass, and then Shawn feels Gus’ hand touch his own. “Shawn?”

Shawn curls his fingers into the best approximation of a thumbs-up that he can manage. 

“Okay, um, don’t move,” Gus says. Got it, Shawn thinks. Don’t exactly have anywhere to go. “I’m gonna...I’m gonna get you out of there.”

This seems like a pretty good plan to Shawn, except for one thing. He shuts his eyes and prepares himself to speak again. 

“911,” he whispers, and hopes that Gus can hear him. 

“Oh. Right,” Gus says, and Shawn hears the sounds of him dialing, and then explaining that his best friend is buried under debris in an abandoned office building on the edge of town.

“They say it’ll be about twenty minutes,” Gus informs him. “You’re not buried very deep, so I’m gonna try and get you out before then, okay?”

Shawn gives him another thumbs-up, mildly surprised by Gus’...lack of panicking. Not that he’s complaining, because honestly he’s pretty close to panicking himself, and at least one of them needs to remain sane at all times. 

He lies there and listens to the sounds of rubble moving and Gus making various noises of effort to indicate the very difficult work he is doing. All the while, though, he’s talking to Shawn about, talking how stupid this idea was in the first place, and how he could be at work earning money to pay for the new TV in the Psych office instead, and about a million other little things that Shawn would ordinarily groan at and find some way to change the subject.

Now, though, he’s content to listen to Gus and distract himself from the fact that he feels like he’s been run over by a truck carrying a mobile home and then had the mobile home dropped on top of him for good measure. 

It doesn’t actually take that long for Gus to mostly unbury him. There’s still some rubble surrounding him, but apart from the giant concrete thing lying across his chest, he’s basically free. He gives Gus the best smile he can muster in his current situation and wheezes out, “hey.”

“Hey,” Gus replies, checking his watch. “Help should be here in about seven minutes, if that lady at 911 dispatch was telling the truth.”

Shawn nods as best as he can, then experimentally moves his freed arms to the concrete currently crushing his chest. 

“Don’t do that,” Gus warns. “The 911 lady said it would be too heavy and that trying to move it by ourselves might hurt you worse.”

But it hurts, Shawn thinks, petulantly, and this must show on his face because Gus says, “don’t give me that look, Shawn. She said if that beam was gonna crush you, it would have already, so you just have to wait.”

He really doesn’t want to wait. Maybe this beam isn’t going to crush him to death, but it’s making it very difficult to breathe, which in turn is making it very difficult to stay calm, which is then making it harder to breathe - 

He needs to relax. Maybe if he closes his eyes for a few seconds...yeah. That sounds nice. He lets his eyes slip closed and tries to take a calming breath that does approximately nothing. But not two seconds later, his eyes are snapping back open.

“‘Ow,” Shawn mutters, as loudly as he can, as Gus smacks him across the cheek with a surprisingly strong hand. 

“Don’t you dare pass out on me, Shawn.”

“Won’t,” he promises, reluctantly keeping his eyes open. How much longer do I have to keep my eyes open for, exactly? he wonders. 

“When’s...help?”

Gus anxiously checks the time, as though he hadn’t just anxiously checked the time like two seconds ago. “The lady said twenty minutes. It’s been fifteen.”

Five minutes...he can make it five more minutes. Right?

“Talk...to me.”

“I was talking to you, Shawn. Until you decided to almost pass out on me!”

Shawn slowly shakes his head. “Wasn’t gonna.”

Gus shakes his head in return, like he doesn’t believe it, which is fair. But he keeps talking anyway. Shawn wonders whether it’s even possible for Gus to run out of boring things to say to keep people awake. 

True to the 911 lady’s word, exactly five minutes later, help arrives in the form of a firetruck and ambulance. The paramedics immediately get to work on Shawn. In other circumstances, he’d maybe try and fight them on the whole precautionary c-collar situation, but they also give him drugs and an oxygen mask, and both of those things feel absolutely wonderful, so he decides to shut up and let them do what they need to do - namely, free him from his concrete prison. 

Even with the drugs in his system, it hurts, which is surprising considering they’re removing the thing that’s hurting him. But it hurts almost as bad as the initial collapse of the building on top of him had, and it hurts more than actually being pinned under it had. He screams for all of two seconds of intense pain, and then the weight is completely gone and the pain stops and he falls silent with an “oh” of pleased surprise. 

The move onto a backboard and into the back of the ambulance hurts, too, but far less in comparison. Shawn makes it through both of those events with only minor wincing and whimpering, and soon enough they’re on the way to the hospital, and Gus is talking to Jules on the phone, and the only source of pain at all is the iron grip that Gus is keeping on his hand.

aaa thanks sm for reading! hope the characterization wasn’t too abysmal and i hope you enjoyed :) i plan to write plenty more psych whump in the future so if thats what you enjoy you’re in luck!!!

[bubblyani]

Warmth (Bob Saginowski x Reader)

Bob Saginowski Christmas One Shot 🎄

Genre: Fluff

Author’s Note: Bob is Fluff itself and I always wanted to write something about him. Since it’s almost Christmas, I decided to write this for the holidays. Merry Christmas everyone!

P.S: I repeat, Bob is SO MUCH FLUFF...I can’t even <3

You were almost about to doze off on the bench, feeling a bit too comfortable by the warmth of the morning sun amidst the December chill.  All cause you decided to go for a walk and explore your neighborhood in Brooklyn; so sitting on a bench after that wasn't such a bad idea, wasn't it?

As you rubbed your eyes, you heard a bark. When you opened your eyes, a pit-bull puppy stood there at your feet, looking at you with such innocent eyes.

“Well, hello there! Are you lost?” you cooed, bending down to pick up the puppy, cradling it in your arms. It did seem to have a collar. You read the name, Rocco.

“So…Rocco, are you lost?” you continued, raising the puppy up to your eye line, letting it lick your face.

“Looks like Rocco is not lost after all huh?”

Suddenly you looked up to find a pair of lovely blue eyes staring at you. For a few second you froze, busy scanning this face. He looked handsome and gentle. He seemed gentle. His relieved expression of finding “Rocco” seemed quite soft and gentle as the puppy itself.

A human puppy…you thought.  

You giggled out loud.

“Sorry…yeah Rocco is safe. He just ran over to me. I don't know why” you replied, standing up to hand the puppy over to the man.  

“Maybe dogs can sense good people” the tone of his voice made you feel so relaxed, you just kept smiling.

“Hehehe…maybe” you really couldn't help but notice how handsome this man was.

He had that homely handsomeness to him. The type who will take care of you and who will help you get through everything and anything, regardless of what might happen.  

“So…uh…how come I haven’t seen you around before?” the man asked in curiosity. It seemed quite natural how the both of you started walking together around the park. As if you did this before.

“Oh, actually I moved into town a few days ago, so, pretty much new around here” you motioned to your surroundings.

“So, I’m guessing you haven’t been to my bar then?”

“No I haven’t. And I’M guessing you work there?”

“Yeah…” he replied, slowly putting the leash on Rocco. “ I own it, actually…well, sort of” he smiled, putting Rocco on the ground.

“Oooh..fancy!” you chipped, making him laugh.

“ So…what do you do?”

“Well...” you dug your hands deep in your jacket pockets “I teach pre-school, I start work tomorrow”

“Wow, that’s great” his phone rang, “ Listen…” as he looked at his phone “I gotta go …but um…I’ll see you around hopefully. And feel free to stop by the Bar”

“Sure I will…Thank you” you nodded, about to lift your hand to wave, watching him walk to the gate with the dog.

Suddenly he turned back as if he forgotten something.

“Oh…I’m Bob by the way. Bob Saginowski” he walked back, extending his hand to you. You both laughed. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N)” you shook his gloved hand, still chuckling.

“Y/N…” Bob repeated. You suddenly felt your ears turn red “Good Luck for work tomorrow “    

You laughed shyly, “Thank you” waving at him and Rocco.  

It may have been winter, but suddenly you felt warmer than before.

-------

Didn't matter if the days were sunny or full of clouds, when Bob Saginowski was present, you literally felt sunshine. You’d always greet him outside the Bar every morning on your way to work, where he’d be cleaning or taking out the trash.

The nights when you did stop by his bar, Bob was the happiest you’ve ever seen him. Did not matter how busy the nights were, he would always find a way to tend to your drinks, stop by for a small chat, and even give you his signature soft smiles each time your eyes met from across the room. He went so far to even walk you back home in the middle of his shift.  The days when you were able to get a “Good Morning” and a “Goodnight” from his lovely lips, were the best days ever in your opinion.

---------

It was late. You were just about to crawl into bed, but suddenly heard the doorbell ring. You carefully opened the door to find Bob standing outside your door.

“Bob, what’s going on? Is everything o-”

You were cut off by the sudden embrace he pulled you into.

“I’m sorry…” he muttered softly into your hair “I heard some people threatened you. I just… wanted to make sure you’re okay”

Being in the arms of Bob Saginowski wasn't so bad after all. In fact, it wasn't bad. It was just wonderful. You felt warmth reaching every inch of your body; your bodies seemed to fit each other like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. You couldn't help but return the embrace, by wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you. His arms moved down to your waist, settling there with a firm grip. As if he didnt't want to let you go.

But…wait a minute! Threatened me? Who? When? What the fuck?

How was it that Bob knew and you didn't?

Suddenly you heard a deafening noise.

A police siren? What’s going on?

It grew louder and louder. You remained in Bob’s arms, with your eyes closed tight, wishing the noise would stop.

You suddenly opened your eyes.

You weren’t in Bob’s arms; instead you were actually lying in bed. It wasn't nighttime, it was actually the morning. It wasn’t the Police siren…it was actually your Alarm.

You sat up. It was all just a dream.

As weird as the dream turned out, you couldn't help but smile sleepily.

Being that close to Bob felt nice in your head, you just wished it could be a possibility in real life. But, why would you even feel that?

When you tried to close your eyes to continue that dream, the phone rang, making you jump.

It was Bob. Your heart raced suddenly.

“H-Hello?”

“Y/N! Hey…” his voice on the phone was still as warm. You pressed the phone closer to your ear as if to take in all that warmth, on this chilly December morning “Did you sleep well?”

“Uh huh” you murmured “Is everything okay?”

“Uh…yeah. I uh…” he paused “ Listen, I’m gonna go walk Rocco later, do you wanna join me?”

“Of course!” you replied in haste, for your heart didn't stop racing.

Bob chuckled “great…”

You always tried to label what exactly Bob Saginowski meant to you. But that strange dream and that surprising phone call, just sealed it completely.

-------

“Y/N! you okay?”

You looked up to find Bob’s worried self, sitting right beside you. Both of you sat on the bench, watching Rocco encounter some excited children who were playing in the park. You paused, wondering whether you should gather some courage and talk to him about whatever you were feeling. “I’m fine…Actually Bob I-”

“Actually, I have something I gotta say…” Bob calmly interrupted. You nodded in acknowledgement, waiting for him to continue with bated breath.

“Y/N, In my life, I once thought I was supposed to always be alone. Then last year I found Rocco. And you know? we were really lucky to find you, right here in this park.” You smiled. “We really enjoy having you around. And I think it’s safe to say, you’ve made us lot happier. I finally don't feel like I’m alone anymore”.

You were speechless. You were unable to take in all the sweetness Bob was being at that moment.

Am I dreaming again?

“Would you...I don’t know...wanna go out with me sometime?”

You felt a rush of euphoria. You smiled as you bit your lower lip.

“Bob, I SO wanna kiss you right now!” You leaned in, cupping his face, caressing his cheek. His eyes twinkled. “So is that a yes??”

Giggling, you mouthed, “Yes”, pulling him for a long awaited kiss.

Suddenly the morning chill, the winter cold was non-existent.

For you found the warmth that was Bob Saginowski.

Check out my MASTERLIST for more

[lollytea]

can you tell us more about the snufmin kids, if thats okay?

Oh of course, of course!! i love those children so much dude!!!

[Original OC post]

Beginnings

-Torben’s origins are kinda a downer but basically his mom was a witch on the outskirts of a little village (real far away from moominvalley) who was killed after a lot of fearmongering. they raided her cottage afterwards and found baby torben and assumed him to be a child she stole.

- They couldnt find the “real mother” and he ended up in the care of a childrens’ home. He actually bounced around a few of them until he ended up in the home where he met with his future siblings. according to those working there, he had a rather unnerving stare and a lot of them felt there was something not quite right about him. (the rumor going around was it was something the witch had “done to him” and that “the poor child might never be the same”)  he was a lot more sullen as a baby who didnt have much of an interest in toys and had a hard time connecting with the other children. He brightened up considerably when he found Birch and Essi

- Birch was an oddity from the start. (Species headcanon from here) Its natural for woodies grow in groups, usually from trees and bushes, so theyre biologically social creatures who are hardly ever seen alone. But Birch may have been a spectacle of his species, as he was formed in a moss patch and born all on his own. 

- Another thing that was considered strange about him was his lack of imprinting. Woodies tend to latch on to the first “safe” person they meet, who then forcibly becomes their “parent”. (Woodies are produced asexually and have no “real parents” so finding a person of protection is often done as a survival tactic. It’s recommended that one stay away from woodies if one is not ready for children.) Baby Birch was discovered by a farmer and surprisingly did not take to him right away, like any woodie does. Actually he was rather standoffish and even bit if the old man touched him. He was sent to the home not long after. 

- Space was tight and there werent a lot of cribs/beds to go around, so Birch didn’t have one to himself. Instead they just squeezed him into 2 year old torben’s crib for the two children to share. Here they became inseparable, with Birch, maybe not imprinting but forming a close bond with somebody and finally finding a source of comfort. He bit a little less after this. Likewise with Torben, who gained a caring gleam in his eye once he had a little one to care for. Even when Torben was old enough for a proper bed, he insisted Birch sleep with him and would not budge on the matter. The home gave in and allowed it. 

- Essi’s origin was a simple one, of just being born at the wrong time. In a house packed with mumrik children, one more simply could not be accommodated. I dont want to say her birth parents were terrible people but with the amount of kids they had, they were rather jaded to a fresh baby face and werent too emotional in deciding they need to be rid of her. 

- She was never an angry or intentionally misbehaved baby when under the care of the home. She just needed a lot of stimulation that she wasnt getting and tended to tear up her clothes, curtains and bedsheets. It was also concerning that she never cried, or babbled or made any sound at all. It had falsely interpreted as some fort of defect child. They didnt know if it was right to mix her with the other babies, seeing as with the damage her claws had already done, they felt she could be dangerous. She was left on her own a lot.

- The other two met Essi when they were caught stealing food from the kitchen and locked away on their own to think about how sorry they were. But being tight on space, the only isolated room was the one where Essi was kept. They had heard about her being “the baby who didnt cry” and were very intrigued. but upon further inspection of the wriggling little girl in the cot, Torben observed that she looked lonely. They wondered if she simply wasnt capable of crying, which would be awful if one wanted to express their sadness. After entertaining her throughout their isolation period, the two decided that she was now their baby. And they would be her siblings. They would all belong to each other. As a family.

Miscellaneous HCs:

-Torben sleeps like he’s fucking comatose. There is no waking him. Even when living with Moomintroll and Snufkin, he and Birch still share a bed and Torben kicks and Birch (a light sleeper) hates it. But no matter how much arguments and late night brawls this causes, they still refuse to get separate beds. 

- Essi has a crib in Moomintroll’s room and sleeps there until she’s like 4. (She always magically ends up from her crib to her papa’s stomach by morning.) They tried to get her a “big girl room” when she was bigger but she didnt adapt very well as she couldnt sleep when she was alone. They had to move her into her siblings’ room. She slept soundly after that. 

- Moomintroll and Snufkin often tell the kids stories from their youth, sometimes using anonymous names to work as “fictional stories” lest they frighten them (or for the sake of their own dignity). Essi is very disturbed by the story of the the hobgoblin’s hat, while Birch can only scoff and wonder aloud what sort of idiot was that moomin who went and put the thing on his head. Moomintroll stares dead ahead and refuses to meet eyes with a highly amused Snufkin.

- Early on in his training, Alicia gifts Torben with his own witch hat. With much excitement, he immediately plops the thing on only for his whole head to disappear under it. Alicia laughs, informing him only a fully trained witch can wear it properly and the hat will adjust accordingly once he’s ready. (The hat freaks Moomin the fuck out. He does not care for magical hats anymore.)

- Essi has a little stuffed yellow bird that Mymble got her, which she carries around (often in her mouth) everywhere. She named him Comet, based on the story of when her papas first met.

- Speaking of Mymble (the younger), she loves doing Essi’s hair, although it took her a while to get accustomed to the little mumrik’s big mop of curls and couldnt understand why brushing it was so hard at first. She’s familiar with it now and often weaves in little flowers and ribbons. 

- Birch is very close with Snorkmaiden who thinks his flowering skin is very pretty and encourages his writing and curiosity. (Being a huge fan of the written word herself, mostly fairytales.) 

- Moominpapa is also supportive of his eloquent grandchild (Splendid! Another writer in the family, eh?)  but he’s a little more pushy and it takes a bit of chiding from moominmama to get him to stop saying “have you considered writing about Me??”

- Torben loves Snork. Snork.....hates Torben really. Well, its not that they hate him, its just that Snork has spent their entire life on this flying machine project and torben+flying broomstick= a mockery of it all. Not to mention Torben is annoying as fuck and spends way too much time pestering Snork about god knows what.

- Essi and Little My hunt bugs together. Lov the cronch

- Birch is afraid of thunderstorms. The whole family usually piles into his bed on thundery nights to make him feel safe. 

- Once Torben is at an adequate stage of witching training, he’s allowed a familiar. Of all creatures, he chooses Essi, the closest thing to a black cat he has. She happily obliges and spends most of her late childhood, mid teens operating under this duty.

- Snufkin has composed a tune for each of his children that he plays when alone and thinking about them, or by their bedside and playing them to sleep. Torben’s tune is called ‘Bonfire in the Rain’ Birch’s is ‘Baring Shards of One’s Looking Glass’ and Essi’s is ‘She Who Stirs the Stars’

- To help with Birch’s collecting hobby, Torben enchants a little velveteen pouch an gifts it to him. It never overflows and Birch can fit the whole forest in there if he wishes. It’s very handy to carry around when Birch is vagabond. Extremely light luggage.

- Torben also gifts Essi with a locket encapsulated with the essence of a star. Just enough heat and light to illuminate her way and keep her warm at night. It’s her prized possession. 

- Birch is ace and a he/him nonbinary. He’s not entirely sure if he’s aro as he feels pretty picky about close friends too. but romance has never appealed to him much. 

- Essi is bi. She’s only briefly been involved with like 3 people before meeting the love of her life, Sislaf. 

- Torben is as fluid as can be. He doesnt really have a way to describe his sexuality, he just knows that he loves and loves and loves a lot. He’s a bit like Mymble in the sense that he dates a lot and is always very naive and devoted right away, only to get himself hurt later. He’s quite sensitive about all that.

Futures

- Once the kids are grown, they do end up going their separate ways in life but remain close and visit eachother frequently. They keep in contact by letters. Birch is eternally pissed about his messy handwriting compared to Essi’s beautiful scrawl and Torben’s neat yet flashy one.

- Torben becomes the Moominvalley Witch, now that Alicia’s family have moved on to other places. He builds himself a small cottage on the outskirts so he can have time alone to think and brew. He’s still a walking distance from his parents home though. Flying distance if he’s feeling lazy.  

- Birch’s travels become longer and in time and through word of mouth, the tale he tells become quite well known. He’s a famous storyteller now, whether he wants to be or not. Luckily, he’s begrudgingly embraced it (better than Snufkin did with his fame) and spends a lot of time in taverns, entertaining the regulars.

- Essi was the one who found it the hardest to grow up. Shes a family oriented person so she didnt want to be alone but she also dreamed of adventure and couldnt just drag her whole family along with her (especially her papas who were at the point where they just wanted to rest and settle down) But she found her calling. Criminal. Leader of a pack of criminals actually. Some were old friends from moominvalley, some she met along the way but Essi was lucky enough to find herself a group that became like a family to her. They traveled land and sea, doing all the righteous work and righting the injustices that Snufkin used to do. Only this time, its not just one little man. Its one little woman and her gang. 

- The siblings meet up a lot, usually around a campfire where they share a pipe and laugh about nostalgia. Torben’s particularly good at animating the smoke into moving images, while Birch tells a story to accompany it  and Essi claps along. And even when shes grown and tough, during moments like this Essi still feels the comforting warmth of being a baby sister

[dregstrash]

Earning the Present(s) [3/4]

Who says presents have to be given on Christmas? (me, the very late, very sorry fic writer)-- another long one folks

Part 1 || Part 2

Summary: Five years after the events of the Ice Court, the six outcasts were in the prime of their lives. They had everything they had fought and bled for: money, power, promise, home. But this holiday season, a surprisingly altruistic event has them all under the same roof, and they all may have been a little older and a little wiser, but they were still those teenagers who had done the impossible and had almost died countless of times. And when the idea of a holiday gift exchange comes up the true test of their friendship and their growth is thrown into the rink.

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

WYLAN

Wylan wasn’t sure how he could have possibly ended up here. Whether or not it was by Ghezen’s Hand or from Inej’s saints, but he was positive that it had to be some sort of cosmic intervention that had led him sitting in front of his fireplace, holding his husband’s hand, and surrounded by thieves and an ex-convict.

“That was quite the celebration, Wylan.” Inej said from her place by the window. “I think Kerch might do some good having an orphanage like that in its streets.”

“Thank you, Inej.” Wylan smiled at her. “Getting it past the Council was tough enough, but I’m just happy to give some of those kids a home.”

Jesper snorted beside him, “Yeah, now there actually might be space at The Slat.”

“How did you get those fat birds to donate to your cause anyhow?” Nina brought up. She was tucked firmly under Matthias’s arm and looked positively comfortable.

Wylan felt a slight blush at the measures he had taken to ensure the Council’s support of such an extravagant building to house the countless of orphans roaming the streets, and he tried his best not to look at Kaz as he said, “Let’s just say the right leverage was applied.”

“Oh saints,” Nina rolled her eyes then turned a lazy finger towards Kaz, “You need to stop corrupting his sweet mind.”

Kaz’s lips twitched, “Van Eck doesn’t need me to corrupt his brain. That’s why he keeps Fahey around.”

“Hey,” Jesper protested, “That’s Mr. Van Eck to you, Brekker.”

Wylan grinned and settled to drink his tea as the argument continued on. He wasn’t particularly proud of asking Ketterdam’s most notorious villain to help to threaten the Kerch Council to make this orphanage happen, but he didn’t regret it either. He would have paid for the construction of the building himself, but the land that he was eyeing for the site was owned by the city. When Wylan had brought up his request, one of his father’s oldest friends (who had held a grudge against Wylan ever since his father received his life sentence in jail) suggested that the land would be best used for other means. 

And before he knew it, Wylan’s plans of the orphanage were starting to fall apart before they had even begun. It wasn’t just the orphanage that had been upsetting him. It was how easily the Council had looked over his request and how the idea of building an estate for the very act of charity was less worthy. Echoes of his father’s voice had resounded in his head, and this startlingly new conviction settled in his chest and one thing led to another and he had found himself sitting awkwardly in front of Kaz Brekker at The Slat stumbling through the situation.

“I’m willing to pay you half of the exported sugar I have coming in this month, if you can help get this off the ground.”

Kaz hadn’t moved throughout the entire exchange. He could have been a statue as Wylan talked and his dark eyes stayed steadily on him. Even when he had finished talking he remained still.

“Does Jesper know you’re here?”

“He does, and he highly discouraged me from coming. Something about getting into bed with a demon.” Wylan had explained.

“At least being married to you finally wised him up,” Kaz murmured before he looked past Wylan and got a familiar, distant expression on his face. “That sugar shipment, it’s coming from Zemini, isn’t it?” He had finally said.

Wylan didn’t bother asking how he knew that, “Yes.”

“The ship it’s on has one of the largest cargo holds in your fleet.” He said again. Wylan nodded. “Hmm...I’ll help if I can take that ship off of your hands for the rest of the year.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Wylan asked raising his eyebrow.

“I have certain business ventures across the sea, that require speed and space.”

“Right.”

“And just so we’re clear, Wylan. You’re asking me to convince certain members of the merchant council to approve your plans for this orphanage? Through any means necessary?”

“Yes.” Wylan cleared his throat, “It’s a good plan and this city could deal with at least some kindness. Even if it comes through the Bastard of the Barrel himself.”

Kaz’s sharp smile caught Wylan off guard.

 “Then the deals the deal, merchling.” He held out his gloved hand and Wylan shook it firmly. “Wait a couple weeks and suggest the plan again. You’ll probably be able to start construction soon after that.”

And true to his word, Wylan went back to the council and no sooner had he finished did they approve the plans and even called it Ghezen’s work that an orphanage should be built to educate those who had nothing. Jesper had scoffed at the reasoning, but was just as excited as his husband when Wylan drew up blue prints, started to hire crew members, and then ultimately its grand opening.

Jesper had been by Wylan’s side through it all. He helped with some of the ground work, supervised when Wylan was away taking care of his mother, and calmed him when the ever-present self-doubt started to creep back in his mind. After the Ice Court job, it had seemed almost like a dream for someone like Jesper to stick around to Wylan, but there he was. Then his tall, Zemeni, thrill-addict boyfriend had really thrown him for an absolute loop when they had gone out to dinner on their backyard and he had gone down on one knee. It was all impossible, but then Wylan said yes and the impossible became possible. And with this orphanage now open, even that had become possible.

For that reason, he supposed it wasn’t that impossible to have all of the people that had survived the most dangerous heist ever to be conceived by anyone to be sitting around the fire ready to open presents.

“Okay,” Nina announced finally, “Me first. So as tradition dictates. Whoever picked first has to give the present first. If I remember correctly, Matthias picked a name. Okay, my dear Fjerdan, who’d you have?”

“Uh,” Matthias said hesitantly. He pulled out a long, rectangular box from behind him and kept his eyes on the present. “I-uh-I didn’t know what else to get you, um, Inej.” The girl in question raised her eyebrows in surprise and stood up from the window, “But, I hope you find it suitable.”

Inej walked over and opened the box slowly. Wylan watched as Inej smiled gratefully as she pulled out a beautiful double-edged knife with a white marble handle.

“It’s of Fjerdan make,” Matthias explained his face flushing, “The inscription is from-uh- Fjerdan saint and uh-”

“Thank you,” Inej interrupted and further surprised the bulky man with a hug.

Matthias smiled in relief and returned the gesture.

“Splendid, Jesper you’re next.” Nina said.

“Ah, finally,” Jesper grinned widely as he separated his hand from Wylan’s. He dug around in his pants pocket and produced two small boxes. Wylan recognized the smile that was lighting up his face and he felt his insides swirl at whatever his husband had decided to gift their friend.

“Now, dearest Nina, since you only deserve the best. I hope these will suffice.” He tossed both boxes at her and she caught them deftly, “Though, I think one of those might actually be for Helvar.”

Curious, Nina opened the first box and positively giggled as she held up a scrap of black lace lined with a blood red border. If Matthias’s face was red before, it was practically boiling now. Even Wylan felt a slight blush creep around his neck.

“Ah, Jes, you shouldn’t have.” She held out the undergarments out for everyone to see and slyly glanced at her Fjerdan, “Think of all the things we could do with this, sweet.”

Matthias looked away fast and everyone laughed at his reaction.

Still giggling Nina unwrapped Jesper’s second present and the smile that settled on her face was far more genuine and real than Wylan had ever seen on her. “Jesper Llewelyn, how did you get this?”

Nina held up a thin chain up from the box and revealed a beautiful sun charm. It glinted against the fire light warmly, and had a clear jewel in the middle. 

Jesper shrugged, “I was in Little Ravka in the other day, and I happened to befriend a very talented Fabrikator. He insists it’s the purest form of gold out there.”

“Thank you,” Nina said.

“You’re welcome,” Jesper smiled back.

Wylan couldn’t help but reach back for his hand. It was so rare to see him this comfortable with anyone else or with any other group of people. He was never comfortable with any of the men that Wylan did business with and all of Jesper’s other friends lived far too close to the gambling halls. So to see him so happy made Wylan’s heart flutter in his chest.

The night went on and with each unwrapping came a surprised shock of actually receiving a perfect gift. Inej gave Jesper finely crafted holsters for his guns. Nina gave Wylan a Grisha made flute, that Jesper insisted he played for everyone. He obliged and marveled at the artistry of the instrument and the clear and pure notes that emanated from it. Then came for Kaz to give his gift and Wylan couldn’t deny the sudden shift of mood as they all waited for Kaz to come back from wherever he went to fetch his gift.

“Alright, Helvar,” Kaz reentered the room with a hefty box under his arm, “This was hell to try to get, but try not to kill it.”

He all but shoved the box at Matthias’s lap and went back to his seat by the fire. The other boy looked curiously at the plain box curiously.

Matthias’s furrowed brow quickly rose up as whatever in the box made a loud bark. Nina peered in and her mouth dropped in an almost comical O shape.

“How-what-I-” Matthias stammered as he lifted a gray and white pup out of the container.

Wylan gaped at the small creature that was now sniffing at Matthias curiously and even dared to nibble at the giant’s thumb. It let out a small whimper before Nina instinctively stroked it behind its ears. 

“He is adorable! Look at him!” She squealed.

Kaz shrugged, “I did a favor for a Fjerdan a while back, and I had a pack delivered to me for security reasons. As it happens, I had a litter of these runts running around and I kept a couple before getting rid of the rest.”

“By ‘getting rid’ do you mean a quick trip down the canal?” Jesper said hesitantly.

“Ugh,” Nina shivered, not taking her eyes off the dog, “Please don’t answer that, Brekker, I don’t want to hear the truth or the potential lie.”

Kaz’s lip twitched, but he stayed silent.

Matthias’s bewildered blue gaze met Kaz for a moment before he stammered out a quick, “Thank you, demji.”

A bemused expression settled in Kaz’s eyes before he saluted him in acknowledgement. 

The puppy was yawning and Wylan could have laughed at the sight of such a small thing nestled in Matthias’s large hand. And if Wylan was completely honest with himself, he could have laughed at the fact that Kaz had even thought of being so considerate. That he went out of his way to think of something Matthias would actually want-- that his gift was so small, fluffy, and....wholesome. 

“What are you going to name him?” Wylan asked finally.

Matthais looked down at the animal and nuzzled his face with its snout, “I’m going to name him Trassel....after a good friend of mine.”

Nina peered into the blue and black eyes of the puppy, and cooed to it, “Hi, Trassel. Welcome to the family.”

The dog barked cheerfully at that and settled to rubbing his face against Matthias’s hand.

After a few moments all eyes turned towards Wylan who had yet to give his present.

“Ah, right,” He said, suddenly feeling nervous. He got up from his seat and went behind the curtain to retrieve the long rectangular box. His stomach fluttered with anxiety as he made his way back to the circle of his friends. It wasn’t so much the giving of the present, but knowing what the recipient might do with the gift gave him a slight pause. But as he neared Kaz, he shrugged away the discomfort. 

“Here you go, Kaz, hopefully it’ll serve as a good backup.” 

Kaz took the box hesitantly, and ripped open the box. Wylan held his breath as he delicately lifted a cane. The handle was shaped like a crow about to take flight, and its dark-wood finely engraved with jagged lines, and its tip tapered into a fine point. 

“It’s-” Wylan started to explain in the midst of Kaz’s silence, “It’s Grisha made so it shouldn’t break when there’s a substantial amount of force applied. And- if you twist the handle-”

Before Wylan finished the thought, Kaz twisted the handle and the pointed end of the cane opened up and the neutral expression Kaz had kept on his face disappeared. He smiled as he examined the turned cane and the new opening of the cane.

“You made me a gun.” There was a slight hint of a laugh in his voice. 

“Wylan, my dear,” Jesper said looking amused and concerned all at once, “Did you just give the most deadly man in the barrel a weapon that is not only as strong as his current cane, but also a gun?”

He shrugged and tried to fight the smugness working its way in his chest at Kaz’s reaction to his gift. He had his own reservations when he had come up with the plans as soon as he knew who he had gotten for this secret gift exchange. Wylan had debated about it for a full day before he had drawn up the plans and then set up a meeting with Ketterdam’s few Fabrikators. There were always going to be monsters in Ketterdam, those with longer and sharper teeth, and he supposed it wouldn’t hurt having one of those monsters as an ally and providing him with one more tooth.

“Well, Wylan,” Kaz’s grin was the widest he’s ever seen on him, “I will say, you never cease to surprise me.”

He twisted the handle restoring the cane to its proper form. 

At this Wylan did smile at Kaz. That was the closest thing to a compliment he’s given him in recent years and even if he had stopped working with the Dregs, there was still a small part of Wylan that couldn’t forget about his past. That feeling of doing a job well done or even earning a place in Kaz’s crew. 

And as the night continued on, with people playing with their presents in anyway they could, whether that be taking turns holding Trassel or making Wylan play or Nina offering to teach them some Ravkan games, Wylan couldn’t help but marvel at the warmth and radiating from the people around him. And when he noticed that Kaz had managed to slip away quietly, he decided that they needed this-- all of them. 

The crew who broke into the Ice Court, brought down a member of the Merchant Council, conned multiple countries, and fabricated their own plague, needed a chance to feel like the world wasn’t always escaping the past or fighting for their future. That for once they could sit around a fire with warm drinks in their bellies and live in the present.

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

Tags:  @krugerevengeinej @orangesnakesanddogs @i-hate-usernames45 @qrow-ismyspiritanimal @fangirl-ladybug @wraithpirate  @the-jennster @lagabygaby @rynli @noirmagic1 @shiyash @readmeaway @razz-dazzle-taz @queenofthebarrel @irepostthingsilike @irepostthingsilike @i-just-want-to-have-a-fun-time @smittenthing @highladyofthefoodcourt @emilily101 @sourbishop @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away @alexbeatthebass @writtenwordheart @icefire0722 @ladyofvroses @bbenwyatt @zxyjxy @burnin-through-the-sky @thewoofster @daniellepal @goodie-giving-gecko-gets-gatos @bree-the-sloth @universallyghostjudgecalzone @thecrownedcupcake17 @kayleed77 @kanejandkruge

[castlehead]

makeshift feels from the opinion lab

kafka wrote in a journal urhmherm of being limited to prague, then his room, then his bed, then nothing at all. to be limited at last to nothing at all. well. turns out i guess the most kafkaesque sentiment came from franz kafka.

enjoi ya rickety gethsemane while it is still to be dreamed, young writers, young writers of youth.

after a job on a hot day back in april or may or something i started listening to this while walking out of the truck towards the gas station convenience store and abruptly pivoted away from the sliding doors to sneak around the side and weep near the green fencing around some boilers. it occurred to me how little i could ever forgive myself for doing.

the shit ive done, all of it, i havent forgiven myself. if i did it and it was bad, or even meagre, dumb, really no big deal, bet yr ass it still keeps me from thinking i deserve happiness. i do not forgive myself for anything ive ever done. no deed is too temporal to etch itself cleanly into my head as something unforgivable, if only it makes a small point.

i know this is true because no joy i ever feel is felt fully, because i do not think it is deserved; and because i allow myself to be joyous only when i think of the truth of my unforgiven, unforgivable state. never to be. Never will.

and that is what is depression.

There must be something here, in me. Here where the jackals caterwAul Like streetcats Mewing their gizzard After this night’s heat, What’ll it be Jackals, Buzz off, shit man

i feel like the key to life is knowing that 90 percent of anxiety & depression, either in degree or in its truth, and at least somewhere not wracked by war, is unsubstantiated (the ten percent being actual crises, like fear of violence, a death in the family, etc). The problem is how persuasive these feelings can be that lead to the fulfillment of the very fear or solidifying the reason for being depressed. But with positive feelings, the least thing, whether true or no, can always be rewarding. A bit of happiness must be allowed to be felt, indiscriminately, because it is more useful to us than a bit of sadness. Take the fierce dialectic u use to establish a depressing ‘truth’ and persuade yourself of something good. If one is far fetched, let it be the something bad. Until it happens, after all, all of it remains in your head, to do with what u will.

You don’t get to lower taxes on the rich and gut social services at the same time. The reason social services are in place is to provide a fair shake for john q public. Mostly investors are feeling the benefits of the corporate tax cut. They’re not giving the money towards a better product that would help the people. but one day there will be no sesame seeds on the bun of yr Big Mac and you’ll wonder how that’s possible with an entire sesame seed dept that just got a pay raise.

tax reform should be done to help a free market, so that the rich can be poor and the poor rich. Taxation helps the people so that social services become less necessary. Social services were developed because the percentage of taxation was unequal between higher and lower class. Poor folks felt the pain while rich folks shrugged it off.

Thats why I say you can’t do both: social services are a protection against the world being entirely controlled, if it’s not already, by those from the very swamp this president wants to drain. T**** hasn’t drained shit.

i feel like writing takes over for your thought process. You can’t think and write at the same time, or something. something turns off or it switches where it’s doing the shit it’s doing to a different place, like yr hands. I don’t think you can write down one linear thought with another thought being thought in your head. This is why people say their mind goes blank in extended periods of inspiration. The functioning has gone from being untethered and temporal, ie wandering thoughts, notions, speculating, to being possessed in a focused place, ie yr hands, which usually leads to a more focused expression of perhaps a thought of particular value, enough in the first place to require writing down. But tho this can be easy for some talented people, who might, as Joyce said, polish their nails while writing some genius thing, what does not come easy for anybody, because it is imposssible, is thinking two disparate things, of the everyday and of some behemoth philosophic concept, for example, without either one taken place after or before; or, one of them being intermittently disturbed, tho linearly, by the other, like a notification on yr phone- until at last one of the two breaks down, and the foxus superseded by the one left. This is especially novel. One thinks; one does not think and also think. That would make it two people in one head. Therefore we can presume that ones identity is found in the unity, or internal focus, of their story in thoughts down one narrow wire: thought can cross many paths and examine everything under and beyond th sun, but per person it is still in the singular. It cannot divide into two simultaneous paths of equal focus. there can be multilayered thoughts with a similar core concept behind them, and these can be thought simultaneously as much as one can ante up and dole out shades of emotion and shades of thought, and so on. But I cannot think of a teleological explanation for all creation and with the same focus Apply myself to letters in the mail. There is a dominant voice, and the rest, the mundane voice, is seen thru that lens.

ya cant say yr colorblind then gripe about people hatin ya cuz u r white. contradiction of terms no? if you really didnt see color, ud say people hated yr ass because yr a damnfool entrylevel, grunt-ass lowbrow. not because of the color of ya skin, which ya recognized and put to the forefront in making that very statement.

feel like uh, a priori is not intuition alone. Intuition is a function of the mind, while a priori is, if I understand Kant correctly, a representation synthesized before there is an object of focus available for the senses to interpret, ie an essentially true conclusion drawn, that has no need for a combined manifold, as, Kant tells us, is offered by merely living in space and time: time to extend and progress from cause to effect to cause, and space to do it in. In other words, intuition is cognitive- psychological, and a priori, theoretical- logical.

Pathos is the one thing most divine about people, for i see that in my worst state I can still grieve for the savaging of life’s last hope, and be uplifted, feel tears, at least for a little blessed while. There is no state so low that does not inspire one to at least pity themselves, and feel the comfort of passions, however mistaken or wretched the person.

i feel that / Some subjects do not even allow to be proved through the scientific method, yet they are still issues of a scientific nature and not just mysticism. the line is very thin however, since usually these subjects devolve into mysticism. In fact, if science only worked with that which could be proven, from the outset or otherwise, we’d have a pretty limited roster of discoveries. Sometimes discoveries can be made along the way towards proving; sometimes, discoveries can be made, scientifically, thru means that for lack of anything better, are entirely theoretical. And sometimes the search is not to prove something true but to clarify something. Science is not out to be incontrovertible.

The man in mismatched sox inhaled not as deeply as he would have liked at such a crescendo, even if on the third listen in a row, then, looked up at the massive pure blue upwards, cloudless, felt likely to cry for joy, but in the end simply mouthed the words:

“I’m gonna die of loneliness, fo sho.”

So often doth trespass our intuition upon realms and pathways of a more intimate enumeration of cause and effect than could be available to any witness, and that is available only to the actioning of objects involved in the event seen and analyzed by what and who were no player.

The crisis paid goodbyes in the form of telling your ass off, is what he said. But we all knew he thought he was merely a parable often enough already. We didn’t listen to the crisis, deliberately shut our ears like boxing them very slowly ourselves before anyone else could. Later in the year many terrible events would occur that were the direct result of ignoring his words. But nobody came around to believing he did it. The crisis was way off teaching prophecies someplace probably foreign. But if I refuse to be confined to learning from my own folly I should at least give the follies of others a chance. Fatass karma, and more hell than handbasket.

What the crisis he said was

HEY YOU DONT WANT TO FACE JACK, FACE? TELL ME ABOUT HOW CRUELTY CAN BE ELEGANT AGAIN. YOU ARE FACING NO SUCH BURDEN OF SIMPLY LIVING. TELL ME WHAT HALLUCINATIONS ARE, YOU SWOLLEN, DYSPEPTIC SHIT.

And to this day All I remember is him Looking slain already Like he’d be on the slab In days Or even hundreds of years from then And it’d be how, uh, how He looked then Slamming the door While my sister and things Was gatherin they buckets for weeping later In that queer disease of spite where You grieve for the vanquished enemy.

all triumph is in some sense humorous, for in itself triumph is the opposite of tragedy. that is why the soldier laughs as he shoots at a retreating enemy. there is an element of rowdiness that is somewhat comedic, taken in itself.

Numbers are the only symbols that stand for what they are. In this way they are more like hieroglyphs

is bed porn a thing? it should definitely be a thing.

THIS LIFE IS FILLED WITH DARKNESS THIS DARKNESS IS SO LIGHT GOD IN HEAVEN QUA SKY MUST BEAT WINGS TO KEEP ON GROUND NOTHING MUCH IS EVER FOUND NOTHING MUCH IS EVER FOUND. No symbols where none intended etc etc

No art is permanent, in that its aims in being created do not last, do not translate between epochs. I will never experience Homer as one living in Ancient Greece. Have not closely read Homer, but when I do it will be as myself in my time, with all the sullying context of those years from then to now only left to unguide me.

Kierkegaard tricks you into thinking he knows his insanity is illogical, the side effect of writing his labyrinths. The frightening moment comes when you realize how fiercely logical his insanity seems to him, and how insane the World actually is, and you wonder if it is that you do not understand it or just do not accept it.

[justtextmeoppa]

❝ I Promise... ❞

Plot: You're being bullied at your school but rapmon doesn't know, but when one day he decides to surprise you and pick you up, he sees you get bullied and saves you

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Words count: 1,8k+

Genre: Angst and fluff

For anon, I hope you like it! 

-kyu.

Gif isn’t mine, credits to the owner!

Is there anything that’s perfect? Body, grades, life? This was something that weighed heavy on your mind. It wasn't something odd to think about at your age but it was something weird to be thinking off around 2am in the morning. Turning for the for nth time, you finally drifted to sleep but was pulled out of your sleep by the sound of your alarm clock. Your daily routine kicked in which involved; brushing teeth, bathing, getting dressed, sorting out hair and then looking at your phone for your morning message.

From Joonie

Have fun at school today baby. I will see you later at the studio. Love you lots.

‘School…’ You sigh heavily as you look at the purplish bruise on your inner arm, ‘How fun.’

Getting on the bus, you sank deep into your seat and put on your earphones. The calming music vibrated into your ears as you looked out the window at the moving scenery. The morning bus drives were always your favourite thing during the day, apart from seeing Namjoon. Tapping your finger melodically on your thigh, you felt your earphones begin ripped out.

Here we go, The thought rang through your mind.

‘Morning brat.’ A familiar voice sneered, ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Y-yes, Jihoon.’ You stutter, looking down in your lap.

‘Speak louder you idiot! Someone of us aren't used to mouse talk.’ Lee Jihoon, your classmate and personal bully, asked.

‘Yes!’ Your voice more firm.

‘Ooooo look at that, little miss mouse has a bite.’ Jihoon pushed your head, resulting in it hitting the widow slightly as the bus came to a stop, ‘Well see you later mouse.’

Grabbing your things, you all but ran out the bus. Truth be told, you hated attending school, well just the current one you were attending at the moment. You never understood why you were bullied, you never bothered anyone. You did as you were told and moved on with life. Rubbing your head, you bumped into someone which caused you too freeze

‘Jihoon?’ The voice asked and instantly calmed you down.

‘Do you even have to ask.’ You sigh looking up at your best friend, Yerim.

‘I don’t understand why you don’t just report them, Y/N.’ She huffed.

‘Because if I do that then they will be more angry.’ You reasoned, looking at the bruise in your inner wrist.

‘Has Namjoon seen that?’ Yerim asked with a raised brow.

‘No and he will never see it.’ You pull down your jersey sleeve and walked to class.

The bruise was given to you a few days ago by Jihoon and his band of misfits. It was still slightly sore but only when force was used by that hand. One would say it was unethical for a boy to bully a girl, but it wasn't just him. Within the group there were four girls who made your life a living hell. Peace couldn't even be achieved in the bathroom because they would be around.

From Joonie

Was the bus ride fun?

To Joonie

Same old same old, could have been better.

From Joonie

Are you okay, babe? You sound offish.

To Joonie

I am okay baby, I have to go to class. See you later ^^

Locking your phone, you slipped it into your backpack to only hear a snicker behind you, ‘How cute. Busy telling the boyf about your day?’

‘Yes.’ Your response short as you tried to walk pass them but only to be shoved into the wall.

‘Hey hold up, what’s the rush buttercup?’ Seunghee asked, ‘It must be so burdensome to be a student while your boyfriend is already an adult. Talk about being a babysitter.’ The others laughed at the comment, ‘Are you sure he isn't paid by your parents to look after you, so you don’t  go running into moving traffic?’

Just then the bell rang and you bolted from the scene before they could rip into you anymore. Tears threatened to fall from your eyes as you sat in class. The day dragged with lessons and hourly bully checks. Eventually the final bell rang and you were on the bus towards Namjoon. Getting off you sighed, you were exhausted mentally and physically. Your back still hurt from being thrown into the wall earlier.

‘Babe!’ Your prince beamed.

‘Hey Joonie.’ You smile as he came to hug you, you just placed your hand on his chest, ‘Ahhh no hugs.’

‘What?’ Why?’ He asked with a raised brow? ‘I haven't seen you all day.’

He pouted at the rejection while a little chuckle left your lips, ‘I hmmmm just had gym so I am all sweaty. Do you want a sweaty hug?’

‘It’s not like I haven't been sweaty with you before.’ A naughty grimace spread upon his face as the dimples appeared.

‘Namjoon!’ You hit his chest playfully to only wince at the pain that shot up your arm, ‘Ahh!’

‘What?’ He grabbed your arm, ‘Baby are you okay?’

‘No no, just my wrist.’

‘Are you hurt?’

He was about to lift your sleeve before you ripped it from his touch, ‘No it’s nothing. I am sure I just hit you in a weird manner. Probably from those sculpted pecks.’

‘Ha ha ha, very funny,’ He now held your clothed wrist delicately, placing a soft kiss on it, ‘Are you sure you okay?’

‘My wrist is fine.’ You reassured.

He took your face in his hands and caressed your cheeks with his thumbs, ‘I am talking about you in general, not your wrist baby girl. You have been very offish for the past few days. Is everything good? Home? School?’ He looked deep into your eyes, ‘You know you can tell me anything, Y/N.’

At that moment you wanted to spill everything out to him. You wanted to scream out your irritations and frustrations to the world. But you rather not tell him. He was your boyfriend, not your counsellor. Sighing, you placed a delicate kiss on his lips before breaking apart and giving him the biggest smile you could ever muster.

‘I am okay, baby.’ You said for the nth time, ‘But I have to go home now.’

‘But you just got here!’ He whined.

‘I have tons of school work.’ You stated, ‘I am sorry. But I will see you this weekend, okay?’

‘Why not tomorrow?’

‘I might finish late and I rather not take the bus.’

With that, you said your goodbyes and split ways. Truth be the matter, you just didn't want to tell him you might be late due to the issues at school because he would want to know why and all that. Arriving at home, you took some meds and went straight to bed. The evening sky was quickly replaced with the morning one. Soon the daily routine kicked in. Bus bullying, scolding from best friend but you tired your best avoiding your offenders.

Walking, you suddenly tripped due to someone, ‘Some would say you are avoiding us Y/N-ah.’

‘And we don’t like being avoided.’ Seunghee added, bending down and tilting your chin up, ‘I’m sure you are used to that feeling though.’

‘Wh-why are you all doing this?’ Your voice cracked, a car pulling up in the parking lot a few feet away.

‘Ahhhh it’s fun?’ Jihoon questioned, a person emerging from the sleek car and walking towards the group of people, ’Does that qualify as a viable answer?’

‘I would say so.’ Another chuckled, ‘Unless you want a soppy answer. Do you want a soppy answer?’

You remained silent, ‘Well do you?!’

‘Y-yes.’ Your voice shook at the force in Seunghee’s question.

‘Look at that, she is actually talking back.’ She pushed you down before standing up.

Your body was in pain. Your back still ached from yesterday and your wrist was on fire due to having to hold yourself up. Picking yourself up, you no longer lay down but sat up straight and looked up towards them. They were once your friends, people you cared about when you were younger but something changed. You weren't sure and you knew they would never tell you because they left you all alone. Attending school with the people you once cared for was something that was the toughest for you.

‘What? All talk and no bark?’ Jihoon sneered.

‘Maybe she needs a lesson, Hoon-ah.’ Seunghee urged.

‘Or maybe you all need a hit in the head.’ A voice broke the conversation, causing your heart to sink into your chest and them to turn their heads towards the person.

’N-namjoon?’ You asked.

‘Get the fuck away from Y/N!’ Your boyfriend threatened.

‘And what if we don’t?’ Jihoon stood up from himself, ‘Not like you can do anything about it, ahjussi.’

Before Namjoon could make a logical thought in his head, his first went ramming into the younger males face. Jihoon flew to the floor due to the impact that was applied to his cheek, ‘The next person to talk ill towards me gets something way worse then that punch, do you hear me?’

‘Y-yes.’ The others stuttered.

‘I am your senior and elder, show some respect you punks!’ He spat, ‘Next time I see anyone of you around Y/N or even looking at her, I will personally end you. Understood?’ They all nodded, ‘Now beat it before things get ugly.’

With shuffled footwork, they ran down the halls as you tried to get up, ‘Ah..AH!’

‘Wait wait baby,’ He picked you up in bridal style, ‘Let me help you.’

‘What are you doing here?’ You asked as he placed you down on a bench, and took a seat.

‘I wanted to come fetch you since you said you didn't wanna take the late bus, and it’s a good thing I did,’ He looked at you, ‘What was all that?’

‘Nothing, just friends being friends.’

‘Y/N, I maybe a few years out of school but I ain’t that old to know that those weren't friends. Are you being bullied?’

‘I would say casual teasing.’ You said softly.

‘Casual teasing doesn't have one on the floor, thats called physical assault.’ He corrected, ‘Why didn't you tell me?’

‘I don’t know…’ The lie seemed to sound more real then anything.

‘So suffering in silence was your best option?’ He asked with a raised brow, ‘Listen to me Y/N Y/L/N, I am your boyfriend.’

‘Exactly you are my boyf-’

‘A boyfriend that wants to protect and keep you safe. I can’t do that when you keep things from me, so promise me something.’

‘What?’

‘Promise me you will tell me anything that is troubling you. Whether its friends, family or life. I need to know because what if I didn't come at the time that I did, imagine what would have happened?! How could I live with myself knowing that something like that happened right under my nose-’

Namjoon was shut up by your soft lips on his. Within seconds, his plump ones kissed you back with the utter most delicate touch. Enveloping yours, you placed a hand on his knee and gave it a reassign squeeze before pulling apart and pressing your foreheads together and whispering softly.

‘I promise…’

[samanthasroberts]

The big bike helmet debate: ‘You don’t make it safe by forcing cyclists to dress for urban warfare’

The question of whether cyclists should wear helmets provokes fury often from those on four wheels. But which has the bigger benefit: increased physical safety, or creating a better environment for people to cycle helmet-free?

As a cyclist, I dont object to helmets or to high-visibility clothing. Like the majority of people I know in London, I wear a helmet most of the time when on a bike. I do, however, have serious worries about efforts to make the use of hi-vis clothes or helmets compulsory, or even to encourage them as a safety panacea. Because when it comes to genuine efforts to make cycling safer, they are a red herring, an irrelevance, a peripheral issue that has somehow come to dominate the argument.

Olympic cycling champion Chris Boardman eloquently expressed this when an appearance on BBC1s Breakfast show to discuss bike infrastructure became dominated by angry viewer reactions to him being filmed cycling down a street bare-headed. I understand exactly why people feel so passionately about helmets or hi-vis, Boardman wrote. I understand why people wish to use them. But these actions seek to deal with an effect. I want to focus the debate on the cause, and campaign for things that will really make cycling safe. That is why I wont promote high-vis and helmets I wont let the debate be drawn on to a topic that isnt even in the top 10 things that will really keep people who want to cycle safe.

Boardman is not alone in finding that helmet use provokes strong and strange reactions. Nick Hussey, the founder of a British cycle clothing company, Vulpine, became so perturbed by the vicious social media reaction when his firms website featured models on bikes without helmets that he wrote a response for the Guardians cycling blog. It began with the parallel of him hypothetically marching into a bar and snatching a third or fourth pint of beer from a random drinkers lips, yelling, Stop drinking or you will die!

Thats more or less what the infamous helmet debate has become, Hussey lamented. Shouty strangers shouting at other shouty strangers for choices that dont affect the first shouty strangers life. Its a bit weird, definitely a waste of energy, and not a fun place for cyclists to share space in.

As Boardman noted, in the Netherlands, perhaps the least perilous country for cyclists in the world, helmets and hi-vis are almost unknown. You dont make cycling safe by obliging every rider to dress up as if for urban warfare. You do it by creating a road system that insulates them from fast-moving and unpredictable road traffic.

In the Netherlands, cyclists helmets and hi-vis are almost unknown … a couple in central Amsterdam. Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

In contrast, the great majority of UK cyclists ride helmeted, something which saw bike helmets added back into the official basket of goods used to measure the inflation rate in March.

Dr John Black is an eminent doctor of emergency medicine who has managed helicopter acute medical teams and advised the government on emergency care. He has seen the terrible consequences that can follow from a head injury on a bike, something the evidence shows can be worsened if the rider is not wearing a helmet. Black believes helmets should be obligatory by law. He was among a series of doctors who wrote to the British Medical Associationrequesting that it formally call for mandatory helmet use. It subsequently did, a decision that remains controversial.

Black sees his views as simple common sense. If someones unprotected head strikes a solid surface such as the roadside or the pavement, even if its a ground-level fall, patients can sustain devastating head and brain injuries, he says. We know that the wearing of cycling helmets can reduce the risk of that by up to two-thirds. Black says he has treated young people who suffered injuries that left them unable to live independently. I just dont think we can afford to plan for, particularly, young people of working age potentially being incapacitated and needing lifelong care, with all the devastating consequences that has, not just for them but for their families, he says. I dont think we can afford to be complacent about this issue.

All this makes perfect sense, does it not? Lets hear, however, from another doctor. Dr Harry Rutter is a public health expert who specialises in physical activity. He is sceptical about an excessive focus on helmets as a safety measure. Most of the risk of severe injury while cycling is not intrinsic to the activity motorists impose it on cyclists, he argued in the influential handbook City Cycling. Cycling is a benign activity that often takes place in dangerous environments. Of the three main elements determining serious cycling injuries the road design and conditions, the motorist and the cyclist the cyclist is the most studied.

Most of the risk of severe injury is imposed on cyclists by motorists … rush hour near Waterloo station. Photograph: Dan Kitwood/Getty Images

If I want an expert on one patients head trauma, then Black is the doctor I would choose. But Rutter is an epidemiologist, and so looks at issues on a population-wide level. And the problem with the helmet debate is that too few people do this.

But lets begin with something hopefully straightforward and more individual: if you happened to fall off your bike and strike your head, a well-fitted and properly fastened helmet would offer some injury protection. A major 2001 review of the research concluded that helmets reduce the risk of head injury by 60%. A 2011 examination of this study by Rune Elvik, a Norwegian academic and road safety expert, said the overall protection could be slightly reduced given what seems to be an increase in the likelihood of a neck injury if you wear a helmet (another source of endless debate).

Now, however, things begin to get more complicated. In his analysis, Elvik noted that whatever the benefits in each individual case, a population-wide increase in helmet use, for example after legislation, is not generally matched by similar reductions in overall head injury rates. Again, with helmets things are never as straightforward as they appear.

Robert Chirinko is a man with a minor obsession for spotting how peoples behaviour changes according to their perception of risk. Thus, he notes, while a small car might be less safe if someone is actually in a crash, recognition of this fact often makes a person more likely to drive carefully, and they may well end up safer overall.

He also has thoughts on the plague of serious concussions affecting American football. Is the solution more padded helmets and other protections? Offsetting behaviour suggests that more protections lead to a greater feeling of safety, and hence an increase in the severity of tackles, blocks and other confrontations, he says. It follows that the solution may well be less protection. If US footballers feel less safe, they will surely temper their performance on the field accordingly, with desirable health outcomes for all participants.

One study appeared to show that helmet use could make cyclists act in a more reckless fashion. Photograph: lmsvail99/Getty Images

Chirinko is an economist at the University of Illinois, not a doctor or road safety expert. But his ideas about offsetting behaviour his professions term for what psychologists call risk compensation is a fascinating element to the discussion over bike helmets. Crucially, it seems the perception of reduced risk when a helmet is worn can both prompt riders to be more reckless with their own safety and nudge drivers into being less careful towards cyclists.

One of the most famous experiments connected to risk perception and cycle helmets was carried out by Dr Ian Walker, a psychologist at the University of Bath. Walker is a man who has researched attitudes and reactions to cyclists with more thoroughness than most. In 2006 he attached a computer and an electronic distance gauge to his bike and recorded data from 2,500 drivers who overtook him on the roads. Half the time he wore a bike helmet and half the time he was bare-headed. The results showed motorists tended to pass him more closely when he had the helmet on, coming an average of 8.5 cm nearer. Walker said he believed this was likely to be connected to cycling being relatively rare in the UK, and drivers thus forming preconceived ideas about cyclists based on what they wore. This may lead drivers to believe cyclists with helmets are more serious, experienced and predictable than those without, he wrote.

In a parallel experiment Walker also spent some time riding about wearing a long brunette wig, to see whether drivers gave female cyclists more room than men, perhaps because they also unconsciously assumed women are less experienced cyclists. They did, it emerged, even when the woman was 6ft tall and, for the drivers who happened to look in their rear-view mirror, surprisingly hairy.

The converse to all this is yet another study carried out by Walker, this time in 2016, which appeared to show that helmet use could potentially make cyclists themselves act in a more reckless fashion. His experiment saw participants of various ages and both genders asked to play a computer game in which they pressed a button to inflate a balloon on the screen. Each inflation earned them more hypothetical money, but also increased the random chance of the balloon bursting, which would wipe out the winnings. At any point players could stop and bank what they had earned from each individual balloon.

Those taking part were fitted with eye-tracking sensors and told this was the purpose of the experiment. However, the sensors were not plugged in the real test was that half the participants had the eye tracker fitted to a baseball cap, the other half to a bike helmet. Over dozens of games, those wearing the helmets consistently took greater risks on average when inflating the screen balloons. The helmet could make zero difference to the outcome, but people wearing one seemed to take more risks in what was essentially a gambling task, he wrote. The practical implication of our findings might be to suggest more extreme unintended consequences of safety equipment in hazardous situations than has previously been thought.

One study showed that motorists tend to give female cyclists more room than males when overtaking. Photograph: Steve Vidler / Alamy/Alamy

Yes, a helmet might make you safer if you get knocked off. However, it might also, even marginally, increase the chance that this happens in the first place. And its when a government decides it needs to pass a law making helmet-wearing compulsory that we start to see even more unintended consequences.

City-wide bike-share schemes have become increasingly common in recent years, spreading to hundreds of places around the world. These have almost invariably proved hugely popular. Not, however, in Australia. If you ride a share bike in London or New York or Paris or Hangzhou, you can bring a helmet if you want, or otherwise just leap on and pedal away. Do the latter in Melbourne or Brisbane and you risk being stopped and fined by police, because of compulsory helmet-use laws in force since the early 1990s. Both schemes have tried to get around this by placing complimentary helmets on the bikes Melbourne leaves 1,000 new ones a month or selling cheap helmets at nearby shops.

But for many people its simply too much bother. This is one of the many accidental effects of helmet compulsion. Even in a youthful, vibrant and otherwise innovative city like Melbourne, a bike-share scheme is a non-starter. A small if significant opportunity for creating a human-friendly city with all the public health benefits that go with it is lost.

Clover Moore, the mayor of Sydney, says she would also love to create a bike-share system there but feels unable to, given the long-standing helmet compulsion law. This comes from the government of the surrounding state, New South Wales, over which she has no control. Id like to do it, but with the helmet law its not viable, Moore says. Australia has a reputation for being a free and easy nation. And the very opposite is true. Australians love rules and regulations, or at least our governments do.

A compulsory bike helmet law was imposed in Melbourne, Australia in the early 1990s. Photograph: Miranda Forster/AAPIMAGE

At some point during a discussion on the subject, a proponent of helmet compulsion will usually say something along the lines of: Forget all this talk about freedom or inconvenience. If a bike helmet law saves just one life, then it will be worth it, surely? This is emotive stuff. But the accidental effects of bike helmet laws can go much further than just undermining bike-share systems. Strange as it may initially sound, there is evidence that they can end up causing more deaths than they save.

This is down to the apparent deterrent effect helmet laws have on cycling. Some studies have indicated that they put off enough people from riding bikes in the first place that the resulting negative effect on public health more than cancels out any benefits from fewer head injuries. As with everything connected to this subject, its worth noting that its all bitterly disputed by opposing sides. But the evidence seems solid.

One study carried out for New South Wales transport authorities in 1993, a year after mandatory helmet use for adults in the state was extended to children, was mainly intended to check whether the new law was increasing helmet uptake. This it had, but the researchers also found a 30% reduction in the number of children riding to school. Similar data showed even bigger reductions in bike use in other parts of Australia when helmet laws came in. In New Zealand, where helmet compulsion was introduced in 1994, the number of overall bike trips fell 51% between 198990 and 20036, according to one research paper. The reasons are mixed. It can be in part because some people simply dont want to bother with a helmet, a factor arguably less important now than 20-plus years ago, when bike helmets were more expensive and not nearly as comfortable. More pressing, however, appears to be the fact that obligatory helmet use reinforces the notion that cycling isnt an everyday way to get about, but a specialist pursuit needing safety equipment, which makes it less appealing.

Professor Chris Rissel, a public health expert at the University of Sydney, carried out a 2011 study that asked people in the Australian city about the effect of the helmet-use law. Almost a quarter of respondents said they would cycle more if they did not have to always think about a helmet, with the greatest increase in bike use among younger or occasional cyclists. A repeal of the law would, Rissel said, have a significant positive impact on improved public health. Another Australian academic once tried to quantify this effect.

Piet de Jong, a professor of actuarial science at Macquarie University, crunched figures for the estimated reduction in bike use if helmets are made compulsory against any fall in head injuries. For most countries, under assumptions favourable to the helmet legislation case, the unintended health costs cancel out the direct health benefit, he found. For the UK, de Jong calculated that an overall net cost to public health of a helmet law would be about 500m a year. Critics have questioned some of De Jongs calculations. However, there are other potential health drawbacks to helmet compulsion. For a start, if a law does mean fewer cyclists, you have the possibility of a reverse safety in numbers effect fewer riders on the road could place those remaining at more individual risk.

The only part of the UK to have introduced a cycle helmet law is Jersey. In 2014 the States of Jersey, the islands centuries-old combined legislature and executive, passed a law compelling children aged 13 or under to wear a helmet, at pains of a 50 fine for their parents.

In many ways wearing a helmet makes even more sense for a child than an adult. Photograph: Danny Lawson/PA

In many ways, wearing a helmet makes even more sense for children than it does adults. They have a greater likelihood of falling off bikes and, when they do, are more likely to hurt their heads, in part because young bodies are disproportionately weighted towards the skull. My son wears a helmet whenever he is cycling. That said, there is no evidence that Jerseys law will achieve anything at all.

The islands government commissioned the UKs respected and independent Transport Research Laboratory to evaluate the plan. Its report found that the year before the ban, 84% of Jersey children wore helmets anyway, and not a single under-14 had been seriously hurt on a bike.

At the time, I spoke to Andrew Green, the Jersey politician behind the law. He dismissed the idea that it would see a reduction in cycling, but offered only an anecdotal view as to why: I believe children participating in cycling will increase after the law, based on the number of phone calls Ive had from parents saying, I want little Johnny to wear a helmet. He wont wear it because his friends wont wear one. Therefore I wont let him have a bike. Its an argument. But its not evidence.

The tragic backstory to Greens interest is that his now-adult son is unable to live independently after he suffered a serious head injury on a bike when he was nine. Green himself chairs Headway, a charity that does fantastic work with people who have suffered brain injuries but has branched out, controversially, as a vocal advocate of helmet compulsion.

Its easy to see why Green does what he does, but equally its important that someone counters his views. Of its annual budget of 630m in the year the law was passed, Jerseys government spent precisely 150,000 on pedestrian and safety improvements.

This is a compact island with a benign climate and lots of green space. Yet 23% of its five-year-olds are overweight or obese, rising to 35% of children aged 10 or 11, higher figures than the UK average. When it comes to improving the health of children, the government might be better served doing everything it can to get them on bikes, not creating laws that exaggerate the dangers of doing so.

In 2006 the British Medical Journal carried an examination of the evidence by Dorothy Robinson, an Australian statistician, into what actually happened in New Zealand and Australia after helmet compulsion laws were passed. The study uncovered complications over figures that seem to show a reduction in head injuries suffered by cyclists, a fact much touted by advocates. For example, it found evidence that adult cyclists who opt to wear helmets tend to be more safety-conscious anyway, while helmeted children are more likely than non-helmeted children to ride in parks rather than streets.

Finally, the study noted, helmet-use laws had often come into force at the same time as other road safety measures, such as random driver alcohol breath-testing in parts of Australia, which was likely to have even more impact on safety. The conclusion? The idea that bike helmet laws directly improve overall safety for cyclists doesnt appear to be backed by any evidence.

In 2013 the tireless Ian Walker carried out a more extensive version of his helmet study. It also measured how closely drivers passed a bike when overtaking, but this time using a volunteer colleague rather than himself there were seven different outfits. Four made the rider look like a cyclist of varying experience and dedication, ranging from full Lycra to more everyday clothes, including one involving a hi-vis jacket. Three other outfits were based around bright yellow waistcoats bearing written messages. One read, Novice cyclist: please pass slowly; another said, Polite: please slow down polite is sometimes used by UK cyclists and horse riders in the hope drivers might mistake it for police and finally one read, Police: camera cyclist.

This brought data for just under 5,700 overtakes, more or less evenly split between the seven outfits. None of the outfits made an appreciable difference to driver behaviour, apart from the one saying police. For the six others, the average passing distance was between about 114cm and 118cm. For police it went above 122cm. Similarly, the proportion of drivers who went very near the bike was noticeably lower for the police vest. In contrast, the tabard saying polite saw the nearest average overtaking distance and almost twice as many potentially dangerous passes as police.

The lessons seem clear and worrying. For one thing, no matter which outfit was worn, a small percentage of drivers still overtook dangerously near, at a distance of 50cm or less. More than this, it seemed drivers were perfectly able to distinguish between different types of rider, and to read and absorb any message displayed. But rather than adjusting their driving to the perceived experience of the cyclist, it was only when faced with a threat to their own welfare a police rider filming their actions that many allowed a cyclist more space on the road. Most alarming still, some seemed to treat the mild attempt at deception of polite as a reason to almost punish the cyclist.

When Walker carried out his original 2006 helmet experiment, he says, he did not conclude that the results meant drivers didnt care. I felt that was a very callous interpretation, and it was more likely that they just took the helmet as an indication of experience, he says. But the later study changed his view: It really might have been something like, Well, hes got a helmet, it doesnt matter.

This is an edited extract from Bike Nation How Cycling Can Save the World, by Peter Walker, published by Yellow Jersey on 6 April. To order a copy for 11.04 (RRP 12.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over 10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of 1.99.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/the-big-bike-helmet-debate-you-dont-make-it-safe-by-forcing-cyclists-to-dress-for-urban-warfare/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2018/11/09/the-big-bike-helmet-debate-you-dont-make-it-safe-by-forcing-cyclists-to-dress-for-urban-warfare/

[isaacathom]

also almost hundred percent that Tsitas’ ancestor (not the condesce - Tsitas isn’t the Heiress. mostly because i dont want to fuck with that) had a very strong relationship with Endlyn’s. 

Endlyn’s (The Lawmaker, at present) did what you’d expect - Made Laws. This is because she’s fairly middle on the spectrum, low enough that she understands low blood thinking, high enough that the blue bloods stand her. But she has limited reach - she’s basically completely restricted to Lowblood Policy. That is, until Tsitas’ ancestor (the Director? Eminence? idk which) finds her. A lowblood notable for her extreme loyalty is a prize indeed, and what better claim for a high blood? She essentially sponsored the Lawmaker, allowing her job progression unlike any of her caste, while making it clear she was her pet. The Lawmaker was hers to command. What the Director wanted as law, was minted as such. It’s likely this sort of activity is what got the Lawmaker killed - while following the Director’s instructions, she stepped on the toes of another highblood (likely Iliyas’ ancestor), perhaps ordering him to do something for her. It didn’t sit kindly. The Director had much blood on her hands when she was finished taking revenge for the murder of her ‘pet’. The relationship was likely somewhat closer than that - it would have been publicly restricted by the perception of caste distinction. The most the two could ever have been is moirails, leaning on and aiding the other. The Lawmaker was a shoulder to cry on, an unjudging soul - how could she judge those of such high status? The Director was a bringer of unholy vengeance. They worked perfectly together.

Meanwhile Iliyas’ ancestor is his damn near inverse in terms of personality. Iliyas’ selfishness and exploitation of others brought to the forefront, made truly manifest. A greedy seadweller, a Conqueror (but that /doesnt fuckign fit/. Champion?), who took what he desired and cared little for its effect. Such was his mistake to take the life of the Lawmaker, unaware she was the Director’s property, only aware that the possession of the life of they who writes law was a treasure, indeed. Before this fatal error, he likely took from many of the other ancestors. Rhiana’s would be a strong contender for that position - perhaps she too was slain at the Champion’s hand. But in that instance, it was likely the event that gave him this title - her ancestor was almost certainly a rebel, however minor. (I want to say Guerrilla, but with Serren’s quirk combining double r’s? for an 8 set). A leader? Unlikely so high. But she had influence, she had power, she had appeal to the people. Her death - and the subsequent deaths of those who had aided her - made him a Champion. She was not a martyr, however, for she had as yet done little. An idea. Her death was quiet, a nameless among many. A ghost of what could have been. That, or perhaps she HAD succeeded - the Lawmaker, responsible directly for a lot of suffering through what she wrote, slain by a vicious rebellion. Rightful retribution from the Champion. Which then begs the question - how does the Champion fall? Perhaps this is where Lyndel’s ancestor comes in. A long and twisted revenge for a lowblood lover. A straight forward slaying and self banishment, a soul never again seen by the law and indeed by the stars.

ok how about the flowery leaves. lets make it simple. So, the Director takes in the Lawmaker as a sort of sponsor, allowing the Lawmaker a great amount of power. As a figurehead (and comparatively vulnerable), the ‘Guerrilla’ slays the Lawmaker as part of her rebellion. This backfires, as the Director sends her Champion to wreak retribution. The Champion is then likely himself slain by Lyndel’s ancestor, in a display of absolute back stabbing fuckery rarely seen. What power. She excuses herself from proceedings and is assumed to die alone in the wastes.

so thats 5. that leaves three - Junzha, Dahnte, and Zekari. There’s more to the Director’s lifespan (shes nigh fuschia, after all) but. yknow. fuck em.

You’d assume Dahnte would be her Champion, and perhaps thats how Dahnte actually envisions himself - as Tsitas’ Champion, since Iliyas is so.... lackluster. but that was not his ancestors role. Dahnte’s ancestor was himself the lackluster one, a weak highblood who formed relationships with lowbloods in order to survive. He surrounded himself with the psychically superior, safe in the knowledge that they couldn’t affect him personally, but that they could hurt his enemies. Among these is almost definitely Zekari’s ancestor, who isn’t a particularly powerful telekinetic, but strong enough to attract the attention of the needy. Whether this also includes Junzha’s ancestor, im unsure, though to figure that out i need to figure out what the fuck power Junzha actually has now. lets assume Yes for now.

SO he has this squad of powerful lowbloods to defend him from people who would do him harm. It is then not difficult to believe that he gets cocky with his army, picks a fight with someone he shouldn’t (perhaps Champion, perhaps Director herself?) and his group is summarily completely destroyed. He flees. He is, at this point, the Recreant. A coward, a fool. What happens once he flees is unclear - perhaps he encounters the Apostate, Lyndel’s ancestor. Though if we have it be that the Recreant attacked the Director (and got one or both of Zekari and Junzha’s ancestors killed), i think that the Guerrilla’s campaign should be for their justice. Rhiana is a spirit of vengeance. this is why her ancestor isn’t a martyr - theyre a reactionary, and theyre just as violent. Slaying the Lawmaker. leading to the Champions subsequent mass slaughter of bronze and burgundies. Leading to the Apostate to swap sides - she relates to the Guerrilla’s struggle, even if she had disagreed with the method. She openly betrays the Champion, killing him in his own hive, in his own base of power. It’s a fucking powerful move. And then she flees.

So like, woulllld they meet beyond that point? The Apostate and the Recreant, alike as traitors but distinct by their courage. They both basically disappear from history at this point, so its not IMPOSSIBLE. its also not impossible that the Recreant already had his shit pushed in before that point. like in the gap between his army’s defeat and the betrayal of the Champion is completely possible that he just fucking died somewhere. the Apostate seems far more capable, though her death likely comes swiftly as well - she won only through subterfuge.

ok, so say thats their ends. Junzha and Zekari. whats up, lads.

i think a god idea for Junzha’s is a man conscripted into the Recreant’s foolhardy gang. His talents lie not in combat, but in civility, in aiding the restless and the weary. It allows him to protect himself, but few others, when the Director’s fury rains down. He rises amongst the bodies of his fellows, alone. She claims him as a trophy of her conquest, and he is given new purpose. His talents bolster the Director’s own forces, ease their sufferings. But never his own. His soul is always black, and further still when the Champion claims it was his capture that caused the death of the Lawmaker. he is the Catalyst. he allows others to act, causes it. but he is confined, constrained. his service is loyal, but not out of love, and he is the one ancestor who dies of completely natural causes - alone but for his work. he is sometimes known as the Destroyed - for naught remains of his mark, except the knowledge that it never existed.

which leaves Zekari. i think, perhaps tie him back into the lawmaker. something she had done directly, which might invite the Guerrrrrilla’s vengeance. a law she passed. was it on the Directors command, or her own deduction? its unclear. whatever it was, it put his ancestor into hot water. the sort of hot water a high blood patron can rescue you from. A noble Indigo blood, perhaps? It was desperation that forced him to join the Recreant’s ill fated guard, and he certainly never enjoyed the position. but were he to leave, what would be left? Jail, culling, or a position in a worse army, that of the Director or Condesce herself. She had a place for telekinetics like him, and he wanted no part. So he played along, followed this would be captains orders, and found himself at the end of the Directors weapon. The wrong end. the Dead end. Forced for no other choice, slain by his only other opportunity. He would have found use in the Directors army, but he would have been equally unfulfilled by his role as the Destroyed became. poor souls. The Desolate, perhaps. ofc it does sorta depend what he did to end up in a situation where his only option was to becoming the Recreants whipping boy. Based purely on Zekari’s character it makes sense for it to have been him trying to help - trying to help someone. Who, specifically? hmm. doing it for the Destroyed could be an interesting idea - an extension of Zekari <> Jun. and also how the Desolate ultimately fails, because the Destroyed ends up in the army with him, ends up seeing him die, and ends up withering away in some back tent for another army. yknow. cause you fucked it. nice going, homie. he basically loses time and time again. perhaps he caused someones death? that could be fun. basically killed a guy to save the Destroyed’s life. but, of course, its a high blood, and on the Lawmakers respect for the hemospectrum, this is a crime of an extreme degree. the punishment? oh, they vary, and the Lawmaker almost salivates at the thought of all that could be wrought upon those who do not heed her words. thats fucked up. holy shit.

so yea. The Desolate kills a high blood. unrelated, just. some guy? some asshole. probably just straight up flattens him. lift, drop, splat, instant warrant for arrest/culling/what have you. so how does he get away? by basically signing away his life to the nearest highblood willing to employ his services, who promises not to work him to the bone. he doesnt have much choice. if he can claim being in the employ of someone, its a substantially lesser crime, or something like that. at that point, its just High Blood Business. all for ol Destroyed over there, who is then promptly recruited himself for his general skills, to the Desolate’s dismay. had he known the fate he was going to give his friend, he’d have let the highblood kill them, and then exacted revenge. 

ok. lets say thats all good. thats, in descending order by blood - The Director, the Champion, the Recreant, the Apostate, the Lawmaker, the Desolate, the [a bunch of screams], and the Destroyed.

ok, naming the Guerrilla. it doesnt work with her quirk, purely because i cant think of any good reason to combine the two rs, even though Serren has two rs as well? it doesnt make sense to me. lets find something else. the Fugitive? describing how she spent a nice chunk of her time on the run. it also makes her sound more guilty, which i like (how often you got an innocent fugitive, yknow). i think i like that ok, The Fugitive she is. nice.

ok, thats all of them? now the big one - how does the Director die? she’s nigh fuschia (high enough to enjoy status, NOT high enough to be killed by the Condesce YET). lives long time. she cannot die naturally, unless all these ancestor events are so positively ANCIENT shit. so she has to die somehow. from what? the ideal candidate for bloody murder is the Apostate, since her whole deal is that she was on their side and betrayed them following the culling of the Fugitive and those /remotely/ connected to her. but she cant kill the Director quickly - that interferes with the Destroyed’s slow death in her service. unless she bides her time. which i do kind of dig. but if she bided her time and then slew the Champion in his own hive (or office, i guess), theres still the issue that its..... highly unlikely she could overpowers the Director, just by pure virtue of being a Teal Blood vs a Nigh Fuschia. the raw strength is just off the charts. especially for a desk pushing Teal whose main job in the Director’s service was to pass messages. Errand boy. so it would require EXTREME planning, like beyond cosmic coincidence, to give her to chance to kill the Director. perhaps this is a confrontation that passes wholly into myth - all that is known is that the Director died. whose to say the Apostate didn’t expire in causing this? it is only assumed that she escaped and lived free the rest of her days. Maybe she beat her in a battle of wits. maybe she blew them both up. maybe she tricked the Director into a building and levelled it on top of her. who knows? both ‘died’ that day, one way or another. for the Director lay slain and bloodied by the side of her Champion, and the Apostate was noone to be seen. perhaps the two died together, the Champion to the end fighting to defend his ... yknow. thingo. theres a word. charge? fuck it. He died defending the Director, a round, loyal success. in contrast to his descendant, whose loyalties would skew to the other end of the hemospectrum. nice.

that works.... well enough??? nice.

[somedaypast-thesunset]

 im really tired of this drama for the sake of drama scenarios that keep coming up. like theyre completely avoidable but people choose really selfish and self centered ways of doing things and then dont even take into account the amount of people it affects. our friend was late for fishing so he left without him but didnt bother to say anything about it and just left while our friend was in transit. i mean, theyre both pretty rude. hes rude for being late, hes rude for leaving without notice. but no one cares that at 5am, our friend showed up at my house and then slept in my bed for the next 5 hours before deciding to head over to his friends house for a bbq. no one cares how that inconvinienced my day. no one cares that i didnt want to do that, or have our friend over at 5am but i'm not that selfish. i'm not soo self centered that i would turn away our friend at 5am when he's upset. it's not the right thing to do, so of course i invited him in. but he had no desire to listen to any of my problems. i couldnt talk to him about any of my plans or desires. the next day i asked  our friend to come over so i could grab and he did but he had hit his car in a parking lot and wanted zip ties to secure something. i tried to help but he was downstairs and didnt want to get up and find zip ties for our friend. so our friend took it upon himself to go downstairs himself where he was promptly yelled at for bothering him. today our friend called me five times from 8am and when i finally answered he just wanted to chat about how he wasnt mad anymore and wanted to be a limo driver and other such nonsense. i thought about how many times the calls interrupted my day, created anxiety for me, made me think i was being a shitty friend for not answering. even once i did answer he called back later when i was trying to sleep! i sent a simple text to him saying our friend was no longer mad and wanted to be a limo driver now. this was more just commentary on something that happened in my day. at the end of the day i recieve a long message telling me how he doesnt need to be reminded of this annoyance and is trying to distance himself from other ppls bullshit and if im not getting in the middle of it then why am i saying anything. i felt caught off guard - mostly because i didnt do anything. all i did was comment on something in my own day and now he was triggered to the point of attempting to take it out on me. i told him it was a joke and meant to be a joke and i had no idea he was still annoyed and that he should speak up so i dont invite people to his house because i dont care whether or not hes friends with anyone, quite frankly. but dont trap me into scenarios which cause drama and upheaval because i made a single comment about someone and you failed to mention that you dont even like this person. then he replies that its "his fault" and he just doesnt want to deal with it because it "already ruined fishing, it ruined his afternoon and now its ruining his dinner". i simply replied, "cool, same here". because he never takes into account how much something may be "ruined" by his behavior and attitude. what about me? what about the fact that i asked to stop "dealing with our friend's bullshit" in february when he made inappropriate remarks to me? or the fact he was willing to give drugs to him - on several occasions - despite knowing that im really not down with it at all? but we've continued, for four more months, until the breaking point became him being late for fishing. please. this has continually ruined my general life experience for the past year. the two main people in my life are two of the shittiest people to be considered "main" people in my life. a schizoid drug dealer whom i met through a girl i can no longer even consider a friend because she is equally as crazy and a guy who is best known for being the catalyst of his best friend committing suicide because he fucked his best friends girlfriend. this is a terrible landscape of my life right now and literally all i can do is continually displace myself from THEIR bullshit because the amount of inconvinience they place on to my life far outweighs whatever inconvinience they feel from each other or from me. the thing is though - i dont "trust" my gut fully. i'm actualy more inclined not to trust my gut but my gut is continually right about a logical outlook on someone or their behavior and what that could define in their morality and ways of thinking and acting towards people. my gut told me my first boyfriend was kind of an asshole and that we didnt truly have much in common and that i was filling a role he wanted me to. i knew this, but i continued for many years. my gut told me my abusive ex was an absolute piece of shit but i stayed with him out of pure desperation because i honestly thought it would be better than this and honestly it is not. my gut tells me my current relationship is a real relationship but neither of us are capable of having a real relationship based on our own personal issues and demons and lack of emotional maturity. it's like equal contributions to why it doesnt work at a level we both want it to. we both want to have a mature adult relationship. we both understand to a degree how mature adult relationships work. we are not in any capacity mature adults. we are overgrown teenagers struggling with basic life skills, possibly on a level that is even more of a struggle than our average peer, trying to pretend that we are in fact adults and capable of managing a relationship. we are not though. ive been in long term relationships and understand that bringing up things like "its my fault" or "your right/wrong" doesnt actually add anything to the relationship. admitting it's "your fault" doesn't do much; putting into action - "i'm sorry i misinterpretated what you were saying but im definitely not into hanging out with him any time soon" is far better. but its not up to me to "police" how he should speak. it's up to him to decide that this method of communication is a lot more fair for both parties. it allows him the freedom to express what he wants and thinks while respecting that i'm someone with my own brain and individuality. but thats not where we're at. you cant force maturity. you accept this persons level of maturity or you find someone who has passed that level or possibly wait it out? but waiting it out is a fucking gamble and that's the gamble i've decided to take. you know, i'm not entirely prepared for an adult relationship where i literally contribute equally to the relationship as a whole.  i'm not ready for that in myself as a person. as an individual, my life would not benefit from a relationship with a partner giving to me equal to what i give - we would both starve and live on the streets and drive each other bat shit crazy and smoke endless amounts of weed. that's a really terrible life. but at the same time an equal partner to him would be someone unstable, someone who plays with monogamy, someone unwilling to pay into the relationship and carrying burdens of past lovers. someone who has a short temper and bad attitude, who is outspoken on their hatred of the world and people around them and brutally honest regarding split second thoughts and emotions they have towards those people. he wouldnt put up with it. honestly. so neither of us are ready to ask for much in a partner because we are not giving much in return. either of us. and thats a hard thing to accept and like.. i think even my doctor might have an askewed opinion on this because he wants to see me as a victim; maybe ive portrayed myself as such but we are not looking at the other side of things. who is this person and why are they in my life? why do they remain to be a significant person in my life by their own volition? they choose this. something in them wants to see me succeed and be healthy and do well and feel loved and cared for. that does not mean they are _responsible_ for my success, healthy or wellbeing. they are semi-responsible for giving love and care because of the definitions of the relationship they created but theyre not responsible for MAKING me FEEL loved and cared for. i have to accept the knowledge that they love me. so yes - why is he not "helping me"? thats what it comes down to. why am i not receiving some kind of "help" from him? but why is he responsible in giving this help? why are the parameters of an assumed healthy relationship by other people who may or may not even be in healthy relationships being put on something private and considerably always one sided as no one accept our mutual friend has seen our relationship grow? it's almost antiquated, but not naive or dumb, to think because hes a man, because he makes money, because he fucks me and loves me, that he should support me. that he should give me a place to live. give me money. offer it to me. why? where the fuck does it say that anywhere? that's not the stipulation upon fucking someone and that's actually a hard thing for people to swallow i think. maybe its a really ultra feminist idea -- just because a man fucks you doesnt mean he owes you anything other than like.. respect of consent. he doesnt even really owe you a ride home. honestly. he doesnt even owe you a drink or dinner. you made an adult decision to give yourself up to this man and he doesnt owe you shit in return. of course, it goes both ways. he buys her a drink - she doesnt owe him anything either. no one owes anyone anything. it's all a matter of your own free will and choice in how you will behave. what kind of person is fucking anyone because they bought them a drink anyways? but thats simplifying - over exaggerating, even. its the guy that asks a girl on a date and spends 150$ on dinner and buys an expensive bottle of wine and takes her to a concert he bought the tickets for; but he doesnt get laid. its now frowned upon - like he struck out on it. like she owed him her body because he decided to spend all this money. but just because youre in a "relationship" -- which is self defined to begin with. like the basic of it is two people who are close and know a lot about each other and spend time with each other and are possibly intimate. thats it. thats all the fuck there is. they owe you nothing in the past present or future. its just two fuckig people spending time together. thats it. how they choose to spend that time is totally up to them and whatever makes them as a couple and as individuals happy. and when you cant find that balance you no longer spend time together and thus no longer have a relationship. i also though, have to break out of this old mind set i've had for years that is a really ignorant mind set brought on by upper middle class people degrading me and my upbringing. but it happened for so long and so often that it's hard not to now believe it and default to this line of thinking. i feel like i've been reprogramming my brain. and i have to or else i remain in limbo - i have anxiety about life and then i feel bad about not working and then i have anxiety about not working and cant work because it's all just a cycle and i've just been made to feel like such a piece of shit, such a subhuman because this is the path ive "chosen". but in a multiple choice scenario where your choices are given to you and you have to select one, your level of free will has been diminished. and thats the scenario you live in when you are in poverty. but i'm too sick to get out of poverty. i feel stupid in some ways for believing this doctor will help me get on disability and receive more money. but i just want to live. i just want to live and be able to survive without this constant anxiety and worry about how to eat let alone how to deal with issues i've been struggling with since my teenage years. so i'm really hopeful, on the inside, because it would be jynxing it to be hopeful on the outside. but i'm tryng to go with it. i'm trying ot believe that he's right and right now i am making myself sick, i am perpetuating the cycle by not trying all these avenues of help. instead of worrying about not working or having money, i'm just trying to be. i'm just trying to know that i am sick and it's not "my fault" and i'm not "a burden". it's "okay" that i'm not working right now. i wouldnt be capable of it if i tried. and those failures because i am sick and unable to succeed just add to the issue. so i am tryng to focus on what works for me. because i am doing "the right thing". i'm doing the few things i can do, what i'm supposed to do - it's atleast given me some results. i have a few projects on the go and one remains to be the most successful thing ive done in the past year of my life and the success i've gotten from it has been something i have consistently worked hard for and has given me a reason to perservere in some very dark moments. i dont think people realize that though. they just see it as this thing i like to do but i see it as one of the very few reasons to wake up and do something. i feel responsible to people i have build a decent relationship with even though i have discovered that everyone is a human being and all have flaws which make them difficult to work with at times. maybe a majority of the time, even, but this is how i created something that has a purpose to me. something that goes beyond financial gain and politics and drugs and death -- something that is just good. it's just nice and good. it's not poisoned - though it has been threatened to be. and it has taught me so many good lessons in life and business. its one of the best things i have done. i want to continue my belief in that and myself. i lost that in the past six months. i lost the confidence that i knew what i was doing but i was allowing other people to do shitty things, to take control, to take advantage when they didn't care. and it was okay they didnt care. but i cared. and now that ive shown that i cared i am receiving more positive feedback and gaining more respect including from people who did not really enjoy me before as a person. i believe the best steps i can take right now is to focus first and foremost on my health and mental well being; which is accepting that my mental health directly affects my physical health and thus i am not a bad person for being tired and feeling sick even if i'm physically active and eating healthy. secondly is to secure a foundation in which i can build a stable independent life on regardless of how that is secured - even if it is not viewed as positive in popular opinion, like disability. it doesnt matter because independent means seperate from other people so other peoples opinions dont actually matter in this scenario. even if that means losing close relationships - such as the one with him. if i have true belief that this is what is best for me and i am literally putting it into the action when i want nothing more but to die on a regular basis then it is worth losing a relationship for if it means i'm going to live until next year. if it means i have a personal reason to live until next year. third is to allow myself to follow my ideas through and promote a healthy work ethic in myself that will build towards better socializing and potential revenue streams. it does not matter right now that its not making money. i am not bill gates over here. i'm not trying to reinvent the wheel. i'm just trying to do me. it's not about how this "directly affects my life" because i "dont have money". i am not capable of earning money through normal ways and cleaning apartments is not sustainable or worthy of investing my time in when it doesnt benefit me in any way but a brief 50$ spent on weed to nurture myself from the experience. quick-cash scenarios are feeding the cycle, even if it seems beneficial short term. some of my ideas are artistic, some are more administrative with real potential to make money without relying on 20$ jewelry sales. i really want to elevate what i'm doing in all areas of my life because that level of attention to detail is what makes me feel good about myself. looking at what ive created and seeing it as aesthetically pleasing and professionally sound to my eye and recieving positive feedback for it makes me feel good about myself. and i deserve to feel good about myself and i'm not self absorbed; the things i do are very charitable and serve my community and peers as well as allow me to explore my thoughts and ideas creatively. it is very easy to feed into the very quick dim witted insults that i get about this though. "sure, i wish IIII could just sit at home and play on the computer getting diability but i have to work" -- at first response, we've both forgotten why i'm even sitting at home to begin with; why it's hard for me, why i would be getting disability. all that's seen is someone "sitting at home". they do not see the sickness. they do not experience the life i've lived. i've been contnually slashed at by almost everyone i've ever known and just gotten up like "okay, it's cool, i got this" and acted like everything was fine but i'm bleeding out and have been bleeding out for a long time. you just cannot fix this overnight. and it's only now even as i write this that i realize i havent even focused on myself like this in years. literally years. i've actually felt very surreal lately because this shift in focus like i dont know anything of whats happening becuse i dont know myself and this is new to me. i feel disconnected. but ive spent a long time analyzing other people. and their actions towards me. and how ive felt about their actions towards me. and how their actions affected my life afterwards. very rarely have i ever analyzed just myself. my own actions, my own desires, my own beliefs which have little to no influence from outside sources. my combining life experiences to form the opinions which make up who i am; not who i'm told i am by my parents or my boyfriend. just me. and for a very long time i would say or think that whatever i thought about things, whatever my opinions or beliefs were, they werent that important. they werent as important as what everyone else thought because i wanted to be seen as a good person because good people experience a positive life. i want to have a positive life. i didnt want to be around drugs or drunks or stupid people. i wanted to join groups and do good things and be altruistic. i wanted and maybe still want to in some ways, serve people. because everyone else is more important than i am. its taken me a very long time - like a stubbornly long time that is actually exactly how long it would take me because thats exactly who the fuck i am - to admit that not all people are good. like even if 50% were good, even if 70% were good, there are billions of people on this planet so 30% would still be a fucking shit load of people that more than likely are walking past you on the street. they gotta live somewhere. you cant pretend like absolutely none of the bad people that clearly exist in the world dont exist around you. and unfortunately, and i'm still really stubborn on this, i think the number is higher in terms of bad people. i see a lot of bad people on a regular basis. not even associated with me. just out in the world, people doing shitty things to other people. so i think i could almost safely say atleast half of the worlds population are probably assholes. so to live in the belief that you are not important perpetuates a serious amount of trauma and abuse by the sheer number of assholes who exist on this planet. you actually need to be much better prepared in order to really sift through who is an asshole and who is not an asshole. if you think you're a piece of shit then no one is an asshole because whatever anyone does, they're better than you anyways so how could it be "bad". how can you "complain". it's not downgrading the trauma thats experienced - for example, my abusive ex, but knowing i wasnt important allowed me to stay in the relationship. i perpetuated the abuse by staying and accepting i wasnt important. when i left, it stopped. and even if i think i'm not important, at 27 years in, i really also don't like trauma and abuse. i do not like those feelings even if feeling important is not "important". but in order to stop trauma and abuse, the number one thing that must change is not feeling or believing me or my thoughts or emotions are important. what i regularly would deem as selfish is self-sufficient. it's survival. my stubbornness in believing the world is good is causing me serious harm. people are not all good, they do not all have good hearts but it's okay because some are good. all of them are human beings with flaws, but some are good human beings with flaws. so the fourth most important thing right now is breaking and creating connections with the "right" people. i am tired of drug users. i have been tired of drug users since i was sixteen and i am still tired of them now. i have never known a good drug user. i have never wanted to remain friends with one. i have never become a regular drug user. i am constantly embarassed and ashamed of the times i spent on drugs. it's okay to be alone if it means not spending time with people you're not going to do anything with anyways and you don't feel a good connection with. i want to be heard. right now, i'm not being heard. i believe thats a serious flaw in my closest relationship but i believe the voices in his head are screaming so loud, even when he's trying to listen, he can't hear anything past his own bullshit. it's not for lack of trying. i would love for him to be finished being friends with our mutual friend. ive not wanted to be friends for sometime but he didnt particularly care. even though i respect the time ive had with our mutual friend and the help hes given me and the time hes spent with me when ive been feeling down - he has never been helpful. he has also only ever fed me weed and even harder drugs when i have been particularly down. he has hindered my recovery many times and triggered issues. the only reason he is in my life is so i can buy weed easily. and that in itself might be causing an issue in my life. the other week he handed me this book, "i'm okay - you're okay". he told me it was basically what i try to say to him; not the contents, just the title. and i guess that sums it up -- what i'm doing is "okay" and what he is doing is "okay". it hurts, yeah. because i'm a human being with flaws and emotions and my own issues and other people - many other people, not just him - will trigger these issues. a lady at the hospital coldly said, "to me, it might be nothing, to you, it might be everything". but it's true -- this might be nothing to someone else. ive occassionally thought successful marriages have docile women who have accepted that men can be ignorant and aggressive people by nature. everyone seems to have a story of an overzealous over the top angry man - even if they were just angry and no one was harmed. but to me, it's everything. to me, it triggers immediate fear and a response of crying and wanting to run away beause something bad is going to happen. it's not just being yelled at - something bad will happen. when he screamed at me on the weekend, things shifted. i could feel a level of embarassment; it wasn't like he was really trying to prove something. he knew it was a disgusting display, immature and extremely unhelpful for my particular situation. he wanted to quickly sweep it aside - just as he did again today when he realized i wasnt actually trying to start "something".

[trendingnewsb]

MIA: This is a white country, you dont have to spell it out to me

Maya Arulpragasam is bringing dancehall, hip-hop and grime to this years Meltdown. Is the outspoken British Sri Lankan the best argument for positive cultural appropriation?

The Guardian said that you couldnt shag to my record. As conversational openers go, MIAs beats the banal niceties of, say, Hello, how are you doing?. Its no surprise that she charges straight into a chat about why her last album was considered too confrontational for the bedroom by this paper. Its an icebreaker moulded to MIAs very own design: abrasive, compelling, underpinned by sex. Yeah, she finally concedes with a grin when I suggest we move past it, you cant have it all, can you?

Its a theme she warms up to when we talk about her edition of Meltdown at the Southbank Centre, which were ostensibly here to discuss. Usually, I wouldnt do something like this, she says, slouched under an oversized khaki coat dress. [But the organisers] were like: Hey, you can do whatever you want. Still, putting on the South Banks annual festival, curated in previous years by the likes of David Bowie, David Byrne and Patti Smith, has turned out to be a fairly arduous affair for MIA who says she doesnt do computers at the moment.

They didnt tell me it was nine days long. I thought it was a weekend. And then all my lists were, like, Well, this person wont be in London and that person is doing Glastonbury. Organising festivals is actually really complicated, she stresses. It wasnt just about dreaming something and then it appeared. Programming literally means, like, programming.

For all that Maya Arulpragasam didnt quite know what she was letting herself in for, one suspects the Southbank Centre didnt either; logistics aside, the mornings photoshoot has already been met with some flapping from the press officer made nervous by MIA climbing on the roof without safety clearance. Still, her lineup dancehall, Brooklyn hip-hop, depressive Swedish rap and Nigerian grime is perhaps the most underground the festival has seen in its 24 years. How much is she expecting to shake up its comfortable concert halls, cafe bars and conference-room spaces?

Click here to watch the video for last years Go Off.

When I was a teenager in London, I would just get a Travelcard and go somewhere, explore the city and go to weird places, she says. I would never judge the place, like, This is middle class and white. This is a white country, you dont have to spell it out to me, but there wasnt ever a limit on where I could go or what I could do.

A long, elliptical digression on London then and now follows, which takes in the optimistic multiculturalism of the 90s, Tamil house parties, empire and British identity. Its the bento box of an MIA interview: individually contained ideas that dont obviously bleed into one another and yet, overall, make a collective sense if youre prepared to go with it. Thats the key thing about MIA: you have to be willing to go with her to properly get her. Given that she still looks and sounds like a beautiful, bratty, art-school upstart and is prone to labyrinthine tangents, its easy to portray her as inarticulate or unhinged. But MIAs intelligence is instinctive rather than intellectual, and fuelled by the political.

The Mehrabian maxim that reckons that only 7% of communication is verbal is one that might best be proven by the transcript of a chat with MIA removed of all tone, attitude, context and body language. Take, for instance, her explanation of why only the future remains relevant:

As humans, we dont use our past and our history to work out the importance of what our role is in the present, she says. And if you cant use the past to define your present, then it should not be an element that holds back the future. Greece is a perfect example. More than Britain, they were brought to their knees, and not a single white country thought about saving them. And it was part of their heritage. Its where their mythology comes from or their concept of capitalism and democracy comes from. Nobody cared, everybody cared about the modern. Right?

Kim Kardashian is actually more powerful than Greece. She has more money than the whole of Greece, she continues. Therefore, thats where the power lies. If you then define it that way, then you kind of just have to live with that. And maybe whats happening in modern society: that if youre going to judge it by that, then other countries are gonna come in and define the future.

In print, its a statement that seems lacking in logic and coherence. In the moment, Im fairly sure Im able to follow her and we go on to consider how and where this future is being defined (for the record: You cant ignore the fact that China is going to be doing their thing in the next 50 years) and how Arulpragasam believes the immigration issue has become a red herring covering up a truth that can explain the American and British swing to conservative populism.

With Brexit, the idea was to get away from Europe and reinvent our identity, she says. And really, that identity was going to be American, but then they gave us Trump! So, everyone now is like, Oh shit, what is Britain? Are we going to rewind back to the 1800s? We cant. Its too late for that. So, going forward, we need a charismatic leader who then va va vooms the British identity. And we dont have that either.

People thinking that Im a bitch is totally unwarranted … MIA. Photograph: Stephanie Sian Smith/The Guide

The prime minister has called a snap election on the day we meet. Does MIA have any faith in our political system? Or in the left?

Everyone keeps going, Corbyn cant do this, but its, like, well, who else is there? she says. If people just left him alone to actually do the job and actually gave him some support, maybe hed be different. Treating him with so much contempt fighting that takes all his energy. How the fuck do you expect him to do interesting things? In any case insists the estranged daughter of a Tamil revolutionary, politicians are people who couldnt get jobs somewhere else.

MIAs politics, unwieldy and unslick though they may be, have often made her an easy target for tedious sneering in the press; the most insistent narrative is that, like Banksy, shes big on arch, subversive statement but lacks substance. Or that she is a hypocrite for making herself the poster girl for the worlds most marginalised people. And yet, shes one of the best pop stars Britain has ever produced. For all the ear-clanging experimentation of her five albums, MIA has always kept a sleeve full of pop bangers Bucky Done Gun, Paper Planes, Bad Girls, Finally that have sounded like little that came before or since her. Even if she didnt have the tunes, here is an art-school refugee Sri Lankan single mother with a visual aesthetic co-opted by everyone from Vetements to Versace who was born into political rebellion and revels in controversy. Gleefully gauche and carefree, MIA is the best argument for when cultural appropriation works. Bland singer-songstress beloved of Radio 2 playlists she isnt. So how much has the criticism bothered her?

People thinking that Im a bitch is totally unwarranted because Im not, she ays. I just had to fight for shit, and I still do. I just dont care any more. I dont know. She stops and starts. What I deal with as an artist, the media, the public persona, its a walk in the fucking park, compared to how confusing the universe really fucking is. Theres so much beauty in it and theres so much mystery, theres so much confusing shit in it. That is way more interesting to think about than why, like, Patricia hates me. You know what I mean? I laugh. Its like, Who the fuck is Patricia? and How can Patricia say this shit about me?. It just does not matter to me at all.As it is, she says shes most preoccupied with how to be a functioning grown up, an adult and a mother to an eight-year-old son (whose father Benjamin Bronfman is son to the billionaire heir of the Seagram fortune) born into immense privilege.

When the war came to an end in Sri Lanka in 2009, it actually did affect me, she explains. Everyone was, like, What the fuck does she know? Shes, like, a pop star, but that was my life. It was 50% of who I was, it was my identity. I didnt know what to do with myself. So I had a kid. Its the year the cause died, but the year my personal cause my son was born. And then, OK, I have to figure out what to do in very small parameters: I have a son, how is he going to see his grandma, am I going to make it there on Saturday? Can I make sure that I dont mess up his head by being depressed about certain things?

She struggles to reconcile her upbringing poor and living in Sri Lanka for her childhood to poor and living on a council estate in Mitcham, south London, in her adolescence with her sons. Im not very straightforward as an immigrant. That whole My kids would never see the pain that I saw; Im not like that. Im totally up for reintroducing him to the pain. I dont have any qualms about that. Her problems havent changed, she says, because of money or better circumstances. Whether Im in a mansion or a council flat, I would feel the same anxiety waking up going: I need to write this thing in a scrapbook, wheres my notepad? I would still have all those problems. I might still overcook the fish fingers. Those things are not going to magically transform because your house has changed. At the beginning I thought that money couldve saved my family. Very quickly I realised that money is not the thing.

Her conflict in wanting to being huge and commercial versus credible and ahead of the curve has been a persistent tension threaded through MIAs career. When I got into the music game, it was never an option to shut up and make lots of money. she says. To be a huge pop star, I would have to be, like, Yes, I think bombing Afghanistan was a great idea, I love our democracy and what it has achieved. I love the American flag and Im going to make a jumpsuit out of it. I just think it was important to have all of those Arab Springs, and its great and lets drink Coca-Cola. I had to do that, and do it all in a thong. Could I have done that if it meant that my mum had the nicest house in Chiswick by the river?

Click here to se the video for MIAs Bad Girls.

Does she worry about money now? If youre preaching living within your means, you have to, to some extent. But I also know that if youre someone in society that speaks out about injustice or political issues, one of the things that happens is that you get economically punished, 100%. I take that hit all the time.

The most recent, obvious example was MIA being forced to quit her headline slot at Afropunk last year, following a contentious quote in which she asked in an interview why Beyonc and Kendrick Lamar might not discuss why Muslim lives matter or Syrian lives matter. I dont regret [raising the issue], she says, with triumphant chutzpah. You saw how bad it was. And the Muslim ban didnt happen just with Trump, it was already happening under Obama. But you couldnt say that about him, you couldnt say that he introduced the Muslim ban, or banned seven different countries, or was already monitoring people, or dropped more bombs than Trump has. In truth, Obamas administration did identify the seven countries on Trumps list for additional screening measures, but it didnt bar their nationals. Shes already skipped ahead. The quantity of damage cant be quantified right now, she insists. Well have to wait the four years. After eight years of Obama, we kind of knew [his failings], but we just werent allowed to say them because he was so great. He was better than any person in Hollywood that I wouldve watched. He was really likable and just had loads of swag. That doesnt mean that you have to deny the truth, though.

This (and much more) comes moments after she tells me she has no time for opinions these days. She claims she doesnt read the news any more and that her primary sources for information are customers at the local kebab shop, taxi drivers and then sort of figuring it out. What about the state of the world? MIAs moment as an agitprop pop activist has never seemed more potent. Politics? I have no time for these things because Im so stuck in the zone. Ive become a hermit. [Meltdown] is actually giving me the chance to actually go out and meet people again. Ive gone for weeks without talking to a person, I do that happily. I tell her I dont believe her, as I suspect it would be a recipe for her to go fully barmy.

Im actually quite an extreme person, so I dont see that as madness. I see that as, like, solitude, doing a phase of solitude is not that bad. After declaring her fifth album AIM to be her final one, shes also trying to find new ways to channel her creativity. Im trying to write a film. I havent stepped into it yet because I want it to be good. Once you hit the start button you cant really stop it. She has, she tells me, the added complication of ADD to contend with. When was that diagnosed? I just have it. Dont even need diagnosis, its a waste of time, its a waste of the NHS. In truly blithe MIA style, she adds: Its just when you have too many ideas and not enough ways to get them out.

MIAs Meltdown is at the Southbank Centre, SE1, 9-18 June

Read more: http://ift.tt/2rBtxTD

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MIA: This is a white country, you dont have to spell it out to me

Maya Arulpragasam is bringing dancehall, hip-hop and grime to this years Meltdown. Is the outspoken British Sri Lankan the best argument for positive cultural appropriation?

The Guardian said that you couldnt shag to my record. As conversational openers go, MIAs beats the banal niceties of, say, Hello, how are you doing?. Its no surprise that she charges straight into a chat about why her last album was considered too confrontational for the bedroom by this paper. Its an icebreaker moulded to MIAs very own design: abrasive, compelling, underpinned by sex. Yeah, she finally concedes with a grin when I suggest we move past it, you cant have it all, can you?

Its a theme she warms up to when we talk about her edition of Meltdown at the Southbank Centre, which were ostensibly here to discuss. Usually, I wouldnt do something like this, she says, slouched under an oversized khaki coat dress. [But the organisers] were like: Hey, you can do whatever you want. Still, putting on the South Banks annual festival, curated in previous years by the likes of David Bowie, David Byrne and Patti Smith, has turned out to be a fairly arduous affair for MIA who says she doesnt do computers at the moment.

They didnt tell me it was nine days long. I thought it was a weekend. And then all my lists were, like, Well, this person wont be in London and that person is doing Glastonbury. Organising festivals is actually really complicated, she stresses. It wasnt just about dreaming something and then it appeared. Programming literally means, like, programming.

For all that Maya Arulpragasam didnt quite know what she was letting herself in for, one suspects the Southbank Centre didnt either; logistics aside, the mornings photoshoot has already been met with some flapping from the press officer made nervous by MIA climbing on the roof without safety clearance. Still, her lineup dancehall, Brooklyn hip-hop, depressive Swedish rap and Nigerian grime is perhaps the most underground the festival has seen in its 24 years. How much is she expecting to shake up its comfortable concert halls, cafe bars and conference-room spaces?

Click here to watch the video for last years Go Off.

When I was a teenager in London, I would just get a Travelcard and go somewhere, explore the city and go to weird places, she says. I would never judge the place, like, This is middle class and white. This is a white country, you dont have to spell it out to me, but there wasnt ever a limit on where I could go or what I could do.

A long, elliptical digression on London then and now follows, which takes in the optimistic multiculturalism of the 90s, Tamil house parties, empire and British identity. Its the bento box of an MIA interview: individually contained ideas that dont obviously bleed into one another and yet, overall, make a collective sense if youre prepared to go with it. Thats the key thing about MIA: you have to be willing to go with her to properly get her. Given that she still looks and sounds like a beautiful, bratty, art-school upstart and is prone to labyrinthine tangents, its easy to portray her as inarticulate or unhinged. But MIAs intelligence is instinctive rather than intellectual, and fuelled by the political.

The Mehrabian maxim that reckons that only 7% of communication is verbal is one that might best be proven by the transcript of a chat with MIA removed of all tone, attitude, context and body language. Take, for instance, her explanation of why only the future remains relevant:

As humans, we dont use our past and our history to work out the importance of what our role is in the present, she says. And if you cant use the past to define your present, then it should not be an element that holds back the future. Greece is a perfect example. More than Britain, they were brought to their knees, and not a single white country thought about saving them. And it was part of their heritage. Its where their mythology comes from or their concept of capitalism and democracy comes from. Nobody cared, everybody cared about the modern. Right?

Kim Kardashian is actually more powerful than Greece. She has more money than the whole of Greece, she continues. Therefore, thats where the power lies. If you then define it that way, then you kind of just have to live with that. And maybe whats happening in modern society: that if youre going to judge it by that, then other countries are gonna come in and define the future.

In print, its a statement that seems lacking in logic and coherence. In the moment, Im fairly sure Im able to follow her and we go on to consider how and where this future is being defined (for the record: You cant ignore the fact that China is going to be doing their thing in the next 50 years) and how Arulpragasam believes the immigration issue has become a red herring covering up a truth that can explain the American and British swing to conservative populism.

With Brexit, the idea was to get away from Europe and reinvent our identity, she says. And really, that identity was going to be American, but then they gave us Trump! So, everyone now is like, Oh shit, what is Britain? Are we going to rewind back to the 1800s? We cant. Its too late for that. So, going forward, we need a charismatic leader who then va va vooms the British identity. And we dont have that either.

People thinking that Im a bitch is totally unwarranted … MIA. Photograph: Stephanie Sian Smith/The Guide

The prime minister has called a snap election on the day we meet. Does MIA have any faith in our political system? Or in the left?

Everyone keeps going, Corbyn cant do this, but its, like, well, who else is there? she says. If people just left him alone to actually do the job and actually gave him some support, maybe hed be different. Treating him with so much contempt fighting that takes all his energy. How the fuck do you expect him to do interesting things? In any case insists the estranged daughter of a Tamil revolutionary, politicians are people who couldnt get jobs somewhere else.

MIAs politics, unwieldy and unslick though they may be, have often made her an easy target for tedious sneering in the press; the most insistent narrative is that, like Banksy, shes big on arch, subversive statement but lacks substance. Or that she is a hypocrite for making herself the poster girl for the worlds most marginalised people. And yet, shes one of the best pop stars Britain has ever produced. For all the ear-clanging experimentation of her five albums, MIA has always kept a sleeve full of pop bangers Bucky Done Gun, Paper Planes, Bad Girls, Finally that have sounded like little that came before or since her. Even if she didnt have the tunes, here is an art-school refugee Sri Lankan single mother with a visual aesthetic co-opted by everyone from Vetements to Versace who was born into political rebellion and revels in controversy. Gleefully gauche and carefree, MIA is the best argument for when cultural appropriation works. Bland singer-songstress beloved of Radio 2 playlists she isnt. So how much has the criticism bothered her?

People thinking that Im a bitch is totally unwarranted because Im not, she ays. I just had to fight for shit, and I still do. I just dont care any more. I dont know. She stops and starts. What I deal with as an artist, the media, the public persona, its a walk in the fucking park, compared to how confusing the universe really fucking is. Theres so much beauty in it and theres so much mystery, theres so much confusing shit in it. That is way more interesting to think about than why, like, Patricia hates me. You know what I mean? I laugh. Its like, Who the fuck is Patricia? and How can Patricia say this shit about me?. It just does not matter to me at all.As it is, she says shes most preoccupied with how to be a functioning grown up, an adult and a mother to an eight-year-old son (whose father Benjamin Bronfman is son to the billionaire heir of the Seagram fortune) born into immense privilege.

When the war came to an end in Sri Lanka in 2009, it actually did affect me, she explains. Everyone was, like, What the fuck does she know? Shes, like, a pop star, but that was my life. It was 50% of who I was, it was my identity. I didnt know what to do with myself. So I had a kid. Its the year the cause died, but the year my personal cause my son was born. And then, OK, I have to figure out what to do in very small parameters: I have a son, how is he going to see his grandma, am I going to make it there on Saturday? Can I make sure that I dont mess up his head by being depressed about certain things?

She struggles to reconcile her upbringing poor and living in Sri Lanka for her childhood to poor and living on a council estate in Mitcham, south London, in her adolescence with her sons. Im not very straightforward as an immigrant. That whole My kids would never see the pain that I saw; Im not like that. Im totally up for reintroducing him to the pain. I dont have any qualms about that. Her problems havent changed, she says, because of money or better circumstances. Whether Im in a mansion or a council flat, I would feel the same anxiety waking up going: I need to write this thing in a scrapbook, wheres my notepad? I would still have all those problems. I might still overcook the fish fingers. Those things are not going to magically transform because your house has changed. At the beginning I thought that money couldve saved my family. Very quickly I realised that money is not the thing.

Her conflict in wanting to being huge and commercial versus credible and ahead of the curve has been a persistent tension threaded through MIAs career. When I got into the music game, it was never an option to shut up and make lots of money. she says. To be a huge pop star, I would have to be, like, Yes, I think bombing Afghanistan was a great idea, I love our democracy and what it has achieved. I love the American flag and Im going to make a jumpsuit out of it. I just think it was important to have all of those Arab Springs, and its great and lets drink Coca-Cola. I had to do that, and do it all in a thong. Could I have done that if it meant that my mum had the nicest house in Chiswick by the river?

Click here to se the video for MIAs Bad Girls.

Does she worry about money now? If youre preaching living within your means, you have to, to some extent. But I also know that if youre someone in society that speaks out about injustice or political issues, one of the things that happens is that you get economically punished, 100%. I take that hit all the time.

The most recent, obvious example was MIA being forced to quit her headline slot at Afropunk last year, following a contentious quote in which she asked in an interview why Beyonc and Kendrick Lamar might not discuss why Muslim lives matter or Syrian lives matter. I dont regret [raising the issue], she says, with triumphant chutzpah. You saw how bad it was. And the Muslim ban didnt happen just with Trump, it was already happening under Obama. But you couldnt say that about him, you couldnt say that he introduced the Muslim ban, or banned seven different countries, or was already monitoring people, or dropped more bombs than Trump has. In truth, Obamas administration did identify the seven countries on Trumps list for additional screening measures, but it didnt bar their nationals. Shes already skipped ahead. The quantity of damage cant be quantified right now, she insists. Well have to wait the four years. After eight years of Obama, we kind of knew [his failings], but we just werent allowed to say them because he was so great. He was better than any person in Hollywood that I wouldve watched. He was really likable and just had loads of swag. That doesnt mean that you have to deny the truth, though.

This (and much more) comes moments after she tells me she has no time for opinions these days. She claims she doesnt read the news any more and that her primary sources for information are customers at the local kebab shop, taxi drivers and then sort of figuring it out. What about the state of the world? MIAs moment as an agitprop pop activist has never seemed more potent. Politics? I have no time for these things because Im so stuck in the zone. Ive become a hermit. [Meltdown] is actually giving me the chance to actually go out and meet people again. Ive gone for weeks without talking to a person, I do that happily. I tell her I dont believe her, as I suspect it would be a recipe for her to go fully barmy.

Im actually quite an extreme person, so I dont see that as madness. I see that as, like, solitude, doing a phase of solitude is not that bad. After declaring her fifth album AIM to be her final one, shes also trying to find new ways to channel her creativity. Im trying to write a film. I havent stepped into it yet because I want it to be good. Once you hit the start button you cant really stop it. She has, she tells me, the added complication of ADD to contend with. When was that diagnosed? I just have it. Dont even need diagnosis, its a waste of time, its a waste of the NHS. In truly blithe MIA style, she adds: Its just when you have too many ideas and not enough ways to get them out.

MIAs Meltdown is at the Southbank Centre, SE1, 9-18 June

Read more: http://ift.tt/2rBtxTD

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