#Cultivated Culture Tools

[dxinecoza]

Jobseekers | Navigating Job Hunts with AI and Cultivated Culture's Free Applicant Tools

Navigate the job market maze using Cultivated Culture's tools & coaching. Find tips and tools to ace your job search! Refer to the link for extra benefits. #JobSearch #CultivatedCultur #AI #Jobseekers #Employment #Resume #CoverLetter #ATS

Embarking on an immigration journey to Canada with UIS Canada in 2016 led to an unexpected detour, uncovering UIS’s not-so-honest dealings at the end of 2019. A hard-learned lesson: steer clear of anything UIS and do your homework! If you are dealing with them, beware. They are also operating in other countries, most recently Australia. We lost most of our life savings there. Our New Zealand…

[queers4years]

Indigenous Hawaiians really had a good system going: wake up reaaally early and do most of the days work while it's cool and by the time the sun was up and it got hot the work was done and you're free to surf and socialize. I wish the white people realized they themselves could work smarter and not harder and get time to relax. Instead of calling Hawaiians lazy (and being genocidal about it)

[orcboxer]

Do you have any thoughts on what orc culture is like?

Orc cultures are many and varied, each with its own history and customs, but a common thread throughout them all is Big

Loud

and Green As All Hell

[sunderwight]

Bingge vs Bingmei but it's a fucked up prince & the pauper style situation.

Su Bingge is the son of Su Xiyan and Tianlang Jun, the emperor of the demonic realms, the tyrant with a harem of hundreds of women and countless enemies.

Luo Binghe is the son of a human washerwoman and an unnamed demon who took a passing fancy to her, who has spent his life struggling to make ends meet and barely escaping death at the hands of anyone who recognizes the signs of his demonic heritage.

Luo Binghe is also a dead ringer for Su Bingge. There are some differences -- Luo Binghe has fluffy, curly hair while Su Bingge's locks are pin-straight. Luo Binghe has a somewhat boxier build, while Su Bingge is slender. Luo Binghe's skin tans in the sunlight while Su Bingge remains eerily pale no matter the elements. But the differences aren't all that noticeable to anyone who isn't looking very closely and can be easily taken care of with wardrobe & styling, and their faces are identical.

The only true issue is that Luo Binghe can't fake a heavenly demon's cultivation, his demonic ancestry is pretty high level but not heavenly demon level. Luckily a rare magical item helps with that. All Su Bingge has to do is infuse it with his blood & qi, and if Luo Binghe does the same and wears it as an amulet, it at least gives Luo Binghe's qi the appearance of Su Bingge's.

So when Luo Binghe is captured and brought to the palace, Su Bingge decides to keep him as a potentially useful body double. This could be really handy for uncovering threats or misleading enemies. The only issue is that Luo Binghe must be trained to conduct himself convincingly as Su Bingge, needs to raise his cultivation level to adequately mimic some of Su Bingge's abilities (or even hold his sword), and also cannot be allowed free access to Bingge's harem (for obvious reasons).

Enter Shen Yuan, a demonic cultivator, historian, cultural expert, and monster enthusiast who is somewhat notorious for his encyclopedic knowledge of Su Bingge's life and character. He's written a couple books on the subject. To keep up appearances, Shen Yuan is brought into the harem under the guise of a new wife, and more or less secluded with Luo Binghe to train him up. This way, if anyone catches them it will simply seem as though Su Bingge is spending time with his latest wife, while also providing Luo Binghe with training, oversight, and someone to help cover for him if he is approached unexpectedly. Luckily Shen Yuan is petite enough that just dressing him as a particularly modest woman works out.

Despite some mortification over the logistics, Shen Yuan takes his job seriously -- at first as a loyal subject of the emperor, but then because he soon realizes that sweet & hardworking Luo Binghe stands very high odds of dying if things go even slightly wrong. Honestly, the poor kid has high odds of dying even if he learns to perfectly imitate the emperor! This is not a safe situation! Shen Yuan himself doesn't have the greatest prospects either -- this is the type of court secret that needs to be kept at all costs, and once Shen Yuan's finished training Luo Binghe, the most logical thing to do would be to permanently ensure his silence.

He knows this story probably ends with him dying on the emperor's command.

But what else can he do, except try his best to loyally accomplish the task given, provide Luo Binghe with all the tools and training possible to survive, and cross his fingers? He's loyal! He would never talk and endanger his student or his emperor by spilling their secrets!

Luo Binghe doesn't think much of the emperor with the same face as him. If anything, he thinks he might despise that man. But this new life of his, in his quiet corner of the palace with Shen Yuan, is maybe the happiest he's ever been. If he could he would block out the world beyond forever, and just live peacefully with Shen Yuan and their lessons and studies, learning to cultivate and cooking meals for just the two of them.

Su Bingge watches in secret as this teacher with the same surname as his own heartless tutor (long dead by his own hand, now) dotes and fusses over his double, and begins to harbor sentiments that are difficult to put a name to.

[strawberrysznn]

Beauty AND brains. Your knowledge is your weapon.

Let's not only be insanely beautiful but also disgustingly educated. Other than discipline and hard work, your knowledge is your weapon in this world of chaos, something that you can sharpen and use.

Where can you expand your knowledge? What areas, what topics

How can you expand your knowledge? In different circumstances and preferences such as if you're too busy or if you have a short attention span

Where can you expand your knowledge?

I DO NOT mean that you need to be an expert at everything. You don't need multiple degrees for each type of intelligence. However, if you want to sharpen your weapon, sharpen your knowledge.

These are the areas where you CAN sharpen your knowledge AND the areas where you SHOULD know the basics in:

Emotional, Communication, Morals, Ethics. Be human, and make others feel human too. Cultivate empathy, understand mental health, build your conscience, and differentiate right from wrong. Communicate frequently and effectively.

History, Culture, Politics. The world is chaotic — learn to stand your ground. Understand history, politics, corruption, culture, and the overlooked heroes. Know what shaped the past to navigate the future.

Digital Literacy. The internet is a double-edged sword. Learn to navigate it safely, protect your privacy, spot misinformation, and adapt to evolving technology.

Manners, Etiquette, Body Language. The way you present yourself matters. Respect others, read unspoken cues, and master the art of presence.

Self-Sufficiency, Life Skills, Livelihood. You won’t always have someone to rely on. Cook, clean, manage time, handle money, and adapt to life’s challenges. Be independent.

Literature, Language, Writing. Words are power. Read, write, and communicate with depth. Language shapes history, culture, and thought—use it wisely.

Critical Thinking, Problem-Solving. The world isn’t black and white. Question everything, analyze critically, recognize manipulation, and think for yourself. Don't be swayed easily by others.

Science and Math. The foundation of everything. At least know the basics, enough to understand the forces shaping the world — logic, numbers, and the universe itself.

Self-Care, Hygiene, Fitness, Health. Your body and mind are your greatest assets. Eat well, stay active, manage stress, and prioritize your well-being before it’s too late.

How can you expand your knowledge?

When you have free time When you're busy When you prefer learning visually When you have little to no attention span

You are what you consume. Now that you know what topics you can expand your knowledge on, these are what you can use / do to consume those information:

Have some free time? Do / use these

Read books, take online courses, or watch in-depth documentaries. (Example: history books, finance courses, science explainers) Engage in discussions or debates to refine your thinking. (Example: politics, ethics, critical thinking) Try hands-on learning like experiments, DIY projects, or journaling. (Example: cooking, coding, writing) Attend workshops, seminars, or community events.

Too busy? Do / use these

Listen to podcasts or audiobooks while traveling, doing tasks / work / school work, or doing chores. (Example: podcasts on Spotify / Tiktok, Youtube videos where the creator is more on speaking, audiobooks on Audible or by downloading a free e-pub format e-book online then uploading it into Google Playbooks and using the audiobook / text-to-speech format) Follow bite-sized content on social media. (Example: short educational / history Tiktok videos, digital literacy infographics, photos on Pinterest) Take advantage of apps and tools for productivity, learning, etc. (Example: budgeting apps, language-learning apps) Watch short, informative videos during breaks. (Example: TED-Ed, Ted Talks, short Tiktok videos)

Like to learn visually / by watching? Do / use these

Watch video explainers, documentaries, or animated infographics. Use apps that gamify learning. (Example: Duolingo for language, Codecademy for coding) Follow visually engaging content creators. (Example: finance charts, body language breakdowns) Make mind maps or illustrated notes to break down complex topics. (Example: self-care routines, political structures, problem-solving techniques)

Little to no attention span? Do / use these

Learn through short-form content like TikToks, reels, or infographics. Play interactive or gamified learning apps. (Example: strategy games, trivia quizzes) Follow meme-based or storytelling-style education accounts. Try hands-on, fast-paced activities. (Example: debate flash rounds, real-world problem-solving challenges, DIY experiments)

Begin small, learn the basics, take a step at a time, and start from there. Be BOTH beauty and brains. You have a weapon (your knowledge), sharpen it and use it.

[m-robinavitch]

sedated.

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Female!Reader/Slight Original Female Character(no names used but they call her Angel as nickname) Summary: Being the cause of Langdon’s demise. As guilt eats away at you- you turn to the only person who understands your pain in this moment. Robby. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, slight passive suicidal thoughts, mild dubious consent, age gap relationship(older man/younger woman), drug mentions. Crossposted to AO3

“To uphold your dignity”

 Lies. I did not listen, I judged him. I was judged. I was not empathetic nor kind to him. I silenced his pained voice and spat on the choice he made. I could not cure him, I was not capable, I could not comfort him as he had done for me many times over. 

“To offer my best self”

I am not worthy of this profession. I mishandled the privilege I had to care for him. I did not embrace my imperfections, I hid them deep in my soul because they were failures that shame me. I was not vulnerable with him, I did not give him a safe space to heal; I slammed the door in his face and threw the key. I was not courageous, I did not want to risk failing. I admitted my errors and asked for forgiveness- and I do not condemn him for denying me. 

“To foster collaboration and mutuality”

I left my team hanging, they could not care for him because of me. I laughed at the experiences he lived, I did not care for his decisions nor tried to maintain a partnership. I did not ask for help because I did not think there were boundaries on my abilities and I did not offer help when he had reached his limitations. I cultivated a culture of resilience against understanding and only worked to support my own professional gain, no regard for others or him. 

“To practice the highest quality of care”

I stopped trying to learn; medicine was a tool, I have lost the love for the art and science. I advanced knowledge for my own benefit, I was not honest nor cared enough to change. I only celebrated myself, those who came before me no longer mattered for my success. 

“To care for all”

I did not embrace my citizenship to humanity, I shirked any obligations to act in the benefit of all human beings, especially his. I did not challenge my biases, I shamed him, told him he did not deserve the care that was inclusive to all aspects of identity. I did not combat structural oppression, I promoted my own justice and my own ethical action, not those of society or wellness. I leveraged my position and privilege for myself, did not care about the system that failed him, because I was the system that failed him. 

“Today”

I did not stand with my peers in solidarity, I was not united, I was self serving, unkind, someone I did not recognize. I shunned where we came from, there is no future for us anymore. I have no gratitude for those who supported me, for they were wrong. I sullied this oath, defiled my honor and his. I am not a doctor who heals; I am wicked and damned. I am to be held accountable. 

I prescribed Langdon the pills first.

He never said no. Langdon would come at every beck and call to him from someone he loved, someone who needed him. Even after he moved out of your shared apartment and into his space with Abby, he would still answer your calls at 3 in the morning on the first ring because “what if you needed him?” No questions asked, whenever, whatever is how his soul would operate with yours. Which is also how he got roped into his parents aid this weekend. Helping them move out of his childhood home by toiling over the boxes that were stacked near as tall as he was. Each box housed every award, trophy, and ribbon that he ever accumulated, every drawing he scribbled and every memory of a happy childhood that his parents could cherish. 

Now he wasn’t exactly an old man, barely inching his way into his 30’s, but Langdon killed his body with every 60 hour plus work week, combined with being a father to both a 3 year old and a 16 month old, he was exhausted and sore constantly. This particular week while shuffling around the routine group of elderly nursing home patients in the morning, he didn’t lift with his legs like he should’ve. Ibuprofen, his usual aid of choice, hadn’t done the trick that day or the past few weeks, even begging you to massage his back for a second in the Pitt break room with the perfect ER Ken doll pout. But the whole weekend moving boxes to and from his old home and parents' new apartment, a sharp spasm had erupted from the heel of his right foot and trailed up to his lower back- pulling tight at the muscles that were still sore, making the box slip from his arms and land with a crash. The gasp that left him had even surprised his mother, who attempted to get him to sit down, but there were only a few more boxes left and he wanted to go home to sleep it off until work the next morning. So he powered through. And did not get to go to sleep as soon as he got home, no Tanner wanted to play, wanted to be thrown up in the air and caught and run around in the backyard, who was Langdon to deny his son the pleasure of bonding with his father?

The box he dropped held his NYU Biology bachelor’s degree, cracking the frame and the glass spidering along the edge- an omen he paid no mind to at the time. 

“You’ve been hobbling around like an old man all fucking morning, sit down Frankie.” Langdon, for all his glory as an ER doctor, was a giant man child. Stereotypical man-flu haver. Or when you would say you’re not feeling good, an hour later neither is he even though you have period cramps. But those damn electrifying blue eyes of his have anyone struck, babying him like he wants even though the drama queen in him is saying “no- no I’m fine please.” Even now, he’s swatting your hand away as you grab his bicep to make him sit down for a second. 

“I’m fine, just tweaked my back this weekend.”

“If you’re gonna brag about sex I’m not giving you sympathy.” You say with a roll of your eyes and start to walk away while he follows you, still sitting in the rolling chair but using his long legs to catch up to you and grabbing you by the edges of “your” hoodie. It wasn’t yours, two sizes too big, years of wear and tear from near daily use, a hint of musky cologne that never seemed to fade no matter how much you washed it. 

“Don’t tell me you and him are on the rocks again.” Groaning and pulling you to sit in the empty chair next to his, only to take the can of Red Bull from your hand to steal a sip. 

“Okay, I no longer have sympathy for you. I hope you hurt more and stub your toe on the gurney.” Standing, grabbing the Red Bull back from his hand and chugging the rest of its contents. Langdon lived to tease you, and the fact that you slept with your attending the day before your internship at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital had him relentless. 

“No, no. Wait. Ok, sorry, sorry. I forgot- touchy subject” Groaning again but this time from pain, Langdon stood to catch up to you, shuffling a bit as to not exert too much energy. “I was helping my parents move this weekend and I lifted wrong, back was acting up from when I had to wrestle Ms. Hall into bed Thursday. And I was already still hurting from when Tanner and I were on the trampoline.”

“Yeah she does have the energy of a spry 70 year old instead of 90. And that was also your fault for attempting to backflip. Have you been taking anything?” You inquire, stopping to lean against the computer as he caught up to you. 

“No,” shaking his head frustrated, “I feel like I pop ibuprofen like candy, it’s done nothing.”

“Fine, here, to stop your whining and since you have been in pain for a good while already-“ you turn to face the computer, typing a bit while he leaned over you to rest his dimpled chin on your shoulder. “I’ll send a script for 5 mg of Oxy to the pharmacy, don’t get addicted” you laughed with him then, but it had been a prophecy, not a joke. 

You gave your best friend the map for his destruction and you both laughed at the time. You assisted him in his suffering, and aided him in his own ruination. How could you not blame yourself? How could you not cry and toil for all eternity over the guilt? How do you go on with the knowledge that you sabotaged his entire life and career when all he did was trust and love you when no one else could? You can never look him in the eyes again. You can never call yourself the godmother to his children again, because you were also made to protect them and you were abetting in damning their future in tandem with their father’s. You can never smile with his wife again because now all she sees in you is the pain and suffering you caused her husband, her children, herself, bound blood still fresh on your hands. 

The day was long, it was tiring, it was brutal. You leaned against the hospital, taking a moment to breathe the crisp night air- feel the slight breeze on your skin after being stuck in the stuffy ER from the massive trauma. You could be proud of yourself- could pat yourself on the back because you did more than what you could today. Running back and forth between patients, literally shoving your hand in a man’s chest to stop the bleeding- which had you in the OR for a few hours, watching the fruit of your labor take place. After scrubbing out you felt good- felt like you could work another few hours. But you wanted to catch up to Robby, see how he was holding up from the day's events. You can see him and Abbott walking towards the benches where some members of the “Pitt Crew” told you to join them for a drink- a well deserved one no doubt but your phone was vibrating. 

“Hey- where’d you go? Was gonna to see if you wanted to get a dri-“

“Did you tell him?” Cutting you off- speech struggling and slurred. Confusing pulled at your face, brows furrowed because he didn’t sound okay. Langdon sounded very drunk and very angry. He never got angry really- at least not at you. 

“Tell who what? Frank where are you?” He had disappeared and reappeared amid the chaos of the Pitt, only to disappear again. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me- we promised we’d never lie right?” He slurred again- quickly you try to find his location on your phone, only to realize he had blocked you from seeing him. 

“You sabotaged me-“ he sobbed, “you fucking had to take me out. I was in pain- I needed them, you knew that!” What was he doing? You want to call Abby, but you’re afraid if you got him off the phone you’d lose him and something worse would happen. 

“Frankie- what are you talking about? Are you ok? Just tell me where you are an-“ you’re trying to understand his slurred words, he’s mumbling and yelling bitterly- blaming you for his own actions and you’re trying to follow.

“The Oxy angel! You gave me the fucking Oxy- remember?” His anger bubbled up, “you knew I was in pain and you watched me pop the pills you gave me. I got fired. Happy now? Couldn’t be me so you had to take me down with you.” You couldn’t say anything else- he had already hung up. Your hand was shaking- trying to call him back but your efforts were in vain as it kept going to voicemail. Each call was denied. You couldn’t breathe- your chest tightened, neck felt like someone was squeezing you. No. No- he couldn’t. Langdon wasn’t- was he? The air was gone from your lungs, spinning, you couldn’t stop the spinning and noise in your head. Was this your fault? Did you subconsciously try to do this to your best friend? You needed air even though you were already outside- you needed to get away, run from your thoughts but you couldn’t go home, no- because home was once Langdon’s and whispered his name everywhere you stepped. 

With slow, shaky steps you make your way to the roof, throwing the door open and dropping your bag, not caring where it landed really. You cling to the railing, tears hot and angry- when did you start crying? You needed more air, needed to feel like you were flying because gravity was so heavy right now, crushing you and pulling you down like you were being dragged to hell for your sins already. Unsure and wobbly, you throw a leg over the rail, straddling for a second because the wind is picking up but- maybe it felt good to fall from grace? Finally fall from the title of ‘angel’ that you were bestowed upon so many years ago by Langdon. Throwing your other leg around, you’re walking closer to the edge, looking down at the hospital and- it would feel nice for a moment right? The free fall? The wind rushing in your face and through your hair? Was Langdon right? Did you do this on purpose? When did you begin to feel jealous- if you ever did? Slowly you step back and start to pace- thinking about every single moment of the last year. How much did you even give him? When? Not remembering was the worst part because you didn’t care to take notice of your best friend spiraling. Your thoughts were so loud and the wind was roaring in your ears you didn’t hear the door open again or Robby initially calling out to you.

“Angel,” Robby paused, watching you walk back and forth along the edge of the roof, wringing your hands and muttering to yourself, “hey- angel what’s wrong?” His voice was soft, gently probing so he doesn’t startle you- but you paid him no mind. After his drink with a few of the ED members, he inquired if you had gone home already- hoping to catch up to you and see how you handled the day, but someone mentioned seeing you head to the roof and Robby’s gut told him to check on you. You were pacing along the edge, pulling at your fingers and wringing your hands together because you can’t remember how much you prescribed Langdon. You can’t remember when you even offered and now you have this tightness in your chest. You’re trying to recount the last few weeks- how was he acting? How was his disposition? In all the years you’ve known Frank he was acting the same but, no- no there had to be something, a sign or some indication that he wasn’t okay. 

“Fuck!” you yell, stopping in your stride and shoving the heels of your palms into your eyes because you can’t- fucking- remember. Trailing your hands up- sliding your fingers in your hair you pulled just a bit, trying to jog your memory back to any moment when you asked yourself if Langdon was okay. 

“Angel- angel stop,” Robby swings himself over the railing- cradling your face to force you to look at him. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He’s asking questions you don’t even have the answers to, you don’t know what happened- where Frank is, if he’s ok. God were you this stupid? Every month there is some type of “substance abuse signs” email that Gloria sends out- doctors are the worst dealers and yet the most common addicts. 

“I don’t- I don’t know I-“ you’re shaking your head- either to let Robby know you’re unsure or to shake the relentless thoughts from your mind, “Michael I- it’s my fault, it’s- it’s my fault I- Langdon- it was me-I did it-“ you’re babbling- hyperventilating and unable to catch a break and Robby is confused. What did you do? He’s trying to recall his early arguments with Langdon when you shove out of his grasp to continue pacing. ‘Did angel tell you?’ In the moment, Robby had no idea what you had to do with the situation. But he’s putting pieces together because with your muttered words he hears ‘I gave it to him. I prescribed it- it was only 5 mg- I didn’t think he would-‘ and it dawned on him. 

“Hey- hey stop,” Robby grabs you again by your bicep now, forcing you still and to look at him, “tell me what’s happened.” Your lips quiver, tears stained your face and you don’t even know where to start. Relaying every detail- only pausing to catch your breath or cry and you’re ending it with accepting the guilt. 

“I did it. I did it. It was me Robby- it was me!” You ended your recollection of events, you gave your best friend Oxy. You handed him the keys to his demise. God you were that fucking stupid. “He came to me for help and I-“ 

“No- no angel that wasn’t you. Stop,” he’s trying to shake you a bit, getting you to understand and hear him but you’re shoving away at him. Pushing your hands into his solid chest that you used to sleep on- where you would lay awake with him at 2 am and giggle about the day, how a patient got a fish hook stuck in his ass or how Whitaker ate shit sliding in a kid's vomit. Where you would fall asleep to his heartbeat, stroking at the light dusting of chest hair, rolling your eyes at his snoring because ‘I don’t snore angel, I have never snored.’ Where you feel safe- loved- protected from the horrors of the shifts that haunt you. 

“No! No- no Robby I did this-“ smacking at his chest you try to shove him away and loosen from his grip but he’s stronger. He’s always been stronger- has to be for you in this moment because you’re breaking. He’s not used to you breaking. You’re not insensitive- no you feel so deeply that you hurt for days after you lose a patient. You won’t cry in the room, won’t cry at the funerals you’ve asked to attend, won’t let a tear slip at the end of the day when Robby asks how you’re doing. No those are reserved for silently curling up in the shower, where the sound of the water drown out your sob, the water mixing with your salty tears. 

“Stop it!” He shakes you again, “Langdon made his own choices- you didn’t shove the pills down his throat-“ you slap him- hard. The sharp sound bounces off the roof and echoes out into the darkness. You might as well have- you handed it to him. You basically spoon fed them to him. Robby didn’t know what he was talking about- you should’ve been careful, you should have been looking out for Langdon- you should have anticipated and known every single consequence possible. He would mention his pain and you said nothing when you’d see him take a pill or two during his shift- hell you were no stranger to it yourself. But you’re wracking your brain trying to think of all the times you had seen it.

“Get off me-“ you fight- attempting to wrestle yourself free from Robby, slapping his chest, sobbing and want to kick but god- he’s as relentless and stubborn as you were. “No- no-“ you’re crying, telling him no because you don’t deserve compassion, you don’t deserve relief from the guilt. Langdon did. You deserve to be damned and thrown from this roof for your hand in the matter. Robby pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you and finally- you break. A strangled, wrecked sob releases from the depths of your soul. Collapsing into Robby you crack- your slaps at his chest become weaker, eventually you fist his scrub top and cling to him. One hand soothes you, stroking your head but the other remains tight around your body- keeping you firm against him so you don’t try to escape. Slowly he sinks to the floor, letting you cry into his chest and use him as an anchor so you don’t drift away from him in your ocean of grief. He doesn’t move really- only to kiss your temple or rub your back, doesn’t adjust himself in any way while you sob into him, doesn’t know how much time has really passed but he’s content to sit and stroke your hair and shush your tears. 

“I should go,” you finally say, no silence to break as there’s still the sound of the city, sirens, shouts, music- making it feel alive, “it’s late- you’re tired.” It’s an excuse, you’ve been pathetic in front of Robby for long enough, you don’t want him to think of this moment when he thinks of you- at your worst. But even at your supposed worst, Robby thinks the world of you. Intelligent, witty, sarcastic, funny, gorgeous with bright eyes that melt his heart when you look up at him. He holds you in the highest regard, he regrets every heart break he’s ever made you endure. 

“Let me take you home,” he offers, standing and cupping your cheek so you can look at him and know he means what he says, “or stay the night with me. I don’t want you alone angel.”

“No,” you shake your head, forcing yourself to deny him because you deserve to be alone- to sit and wallow in the darkness of your empty apartment and have a shot or two. People died today, people lost their lives, their families, friend- and you’re monopolizing him for nothing at all other than your guilt “No I’m ok Michael I promise-“

“Please, just- I’ll stay in your couch, I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Even when he’s not yours, he cares. When you can’t call him yours, he will always be yours. His thumb brushes your cheek- wiping away the tears he can reach, eyes soft and almost begging you to let him take care of you. So you nod, he’s helping you back over the rail and you take his hand in yours and grab your bags before walking down the stairs and back into the comfort of the dark. It’s a silent walk, Robby doesn’t pull his hand away from yours nor do you pull away from his. He’s a lifeline at this point- walking through the park to your apartment and if you close your eyes you can imagine it’s a Sunday afternoon again, and you both are coming back from breakfast hand in hand- enjoying the breeze and you’re about to meet Jake at the basketball court. But it’s not months ago, it’s not a beautiful Sunday, it’s dark. And Robby isn’t yours anymore. 

You’re still in a bit of a fog- head pounding from your tears and Robby lets go of your hand briefly to unlock your door. Oh, he still had his key. He takes your bag from your shoulder, hanging it in the entry way with his and slowly, he’s ushering your through the small hall and into your bedroom- sitting you at the edge of your bed. Kneeling before you, he kisses your forehead and begins untying your shoes- minding the blood that was drying- you’d have to throw them in the wash tomorrow. Tapping your arms, Robby lifts the hem of your scrub top, lifting it gently to avoid pulling your hair once it was over your arms. He lightly snapped the strap of your sports bra with a small smile- a silent indication that it was the next article to go. “Up” he nodded, making you stand so he could slide off your pants and underwear- your hand on his broad shoulders to steady yourself as he carefully held your ankles one at a time to free them from the pooled fabric. You’ve obviously been naked in front of him before, many times over. But this was distinctly more intimate than when you’d sleep together. You felt even more naked than before, Robby was looking up at you- raw and tormented- soul on display for him to pick apart and yet he never does. He doesn’t judge you at this moment because he has been there many times- when Adamson passed you had been there, helping Robby shower and eat for days after the fact. 

“I’m gonna start the shower ok?” With a kiss to your temple he’s up and in your bathroom, turning the water to the temperature he knows you prefer. ‘Satan’s lair hot’ he would call it when he’d join you for a quick shower- feeling stripped and raw but you relished in the way it soothed your muscles after a long day. Robby returns and takes your hand, guiding you into your bathroom and helping you in the shower. He watches you stand there- letting the water cascade down your face and body, not moving. Sighing, he starts to strip so he can join you. 

“Lean your head back baby,” he coaxes you, turning you so the water glides down your back and he can lather your shampoo into your hair. The scent brings him back- wafting around and choking him, remembering how he would wake up with your hair in his face and how he’d be slightly annoyed at the time, but he would kill to have one more chance to be inconvenienced by it again. He’s at your side, massaging your scalp and keeping you upright while coddling you more than you think he should. Robby is gentle- has always been gentle with you unless you ask him not to. Slowly rubbing the rag along your shoulders, across your skin and dipping down to kneel in front of you to get the blood that had soaked into your shoes and dried uncomfortably between your toes. He moves to turn the water off but you grab his arm, ceasing him momentarily because you just- just need a moment to feel like it’s all ok. Understanding, he pulls you into his chest- turning so the spray of the water is mostly on him and just lets himself hold you. He can pretend it’s months ago and you’re sneaking to join him in the shower to before work- hungrily kissing him, pulling him back into your embrace each time he begrudgingly tries to leave, and you both just sit under the stream for a bit in silence before the stress of the hospital starts. 

“You need sleep angel- come on” with a kiss to your temple he shuts the water off and wraps you in a towel before he does the same, sitting you on the edge of the tub to dry your hair with the specific towel your bought- the one you’d jokingly get after him about and made sure he didn’t use for his hands. Robby dresses himself quickly, digging through your drawers and finding clothes he hadn’t even realized were missing- a t-shirt from his med school that you would wear to bed only- because it still smelled like him and a pair of boxers that he let you borrow to sleep in the first few weeks of your relationship. 

“Which do you want?” He asked, holding out one of your nightdresses and a t-shirt he found. It was Langdon’s, the sole shirt that he had with letters of his frat- before he got kicked out of course. God why did it hurt to see it? You nodded to the dress, grabbing it from Robby’s hands while he dug around for a pair of underwear for you. 

“I’m gonna set myself up on the couch ok?” He didn’t ask to sleep in bed with you- stupidly he thought maybe that was pushing his luck because all he wanted was to hold you in his arms to sleep like before. And you didn’t ask him to- you’ve been pathetic enough today around him. Selfish even. Robby lost patients today, it was the anniversary of Adamson’s death and he was here- taking care of you. But if you asked him- this is where he wanted to be. Needed to be. A distraction from his own personal bullshit, because for all the ache, he’s been neglecting his feelings. And focusing on you gives him a purpose to neglect instead of being emotionally constipated like you had told him he was months ago. Adamson is still gone, Leah is still gone. He can’t change that. But you’re here and your problems won’t go away soon- he can be here for you now. “If you need me, wake me up ok?”

“Okay, thank you-“ meekly you say, crawling up your bed and into the sheets to try and forget about your miserable excuse for being hurt. You attempt a fitful sleep, tossing and turning- unable to breathe without the pain in your chest or to stop thinking for a moment- what signs did you miss? Langdon had always been hyper, always been on the go and ready for the next trauma. Cherry picking for a trauma yes, but- so did you. It wouldn’t stop- your mind didn’t stop. Robby was the only one who could quiet your mind- he could give you temporary relief to the world, clearing the fog around your brain. But- you didn’t need relief, no- you needed a distraction. You needed to not think about the pain for only a second- just a moment of distraction because it will always be constant. You won’t have Langdon at work anymore. You won’t be able to play rock paper scissors when you hear of an incoming trauma anymore. You won’t get to shotgun Red Bulls in the parking lot at 5 am with him anymore. You won’t get to share the lunch Abby packed for him- definitely way too much for just him because she knows you don’t cook. Will you even be able to call him your best friend anymore? Will you go to his house on the weekends to play with the kids anymore? Will Abby call you for dinner on Sundays anymore? Fuck- fuck you fucked up. You fucked up. You’re hyperventilating again- tossing the blankets from your body because you feel hot. Maybe the feeling of the hell you belong in has already begun its process- reminding you that you are to blame, that you should be punished for the role you played. 

You’re out of bed- pacing along your bedroom floor trying to calm your breathing, trying to stop crying because Robby will hear you. The screech of the flatline is in your ears- rattling your nerves, feeling your heart stopping but simultaneously about to beat right into your stomach and out your ass. You feel the bubbling sensation of nausea creep up. Hands shaking and you just need a fucking distraction from it all. You need Robby in the moment more than you need air to breathe. More than you need the blood in your veins because he’s gladly give himself over to you for a bit of respite. 

Robby is no stranger to the feeling of guilt- and he’s had his share of selfish tendencies. Months after Adamson died, Robby would have you in his bed- burying himself deep into your tight core because he needed to feel something more than the failure of his own humanity. You tried to talk- tried to get Robby to open up but the only way he attempted to cope was through physical contact. He closed himself off mentally- shutting the doors to prevent more fucked up feelings from creeping into his mind late at night but you let him use you, you laid back and let Robby cry it your chest with each thrust- kissing his tears away and holding him to your chest when he was sated. He’s awake, lying on your couch that’s slightly too small for him to be comfortable- staring up at the ceiling fan slowly make its rounds. He hears you shuffle from your bedroom- silently padding along the wooden floor, cursing when a creak gives you away. You know he’s awake- he’s not snoring. 

“What’s wrong angel?” he’s immediately sitting up but before he can stand you’re throwing yourself on the floor in front of him, sobbing something awful because it’s too much again. 

“I can’t- I need-“ you try to speak- try to calm yourself to get the right words out but what do you say? That you’re so consumed with your own guilt that you need a distraction- and that distraction can only come from him burying himself so deep inside you that you’re more him than you? He knows. Robby knows what you’re going to ask because he knows you better than himself sometimes. He was in the same spot as you years ago- knelt in front of you, kissing up your legs with tears in his eyes, begging you to take his mind off the world for a second. You had been a savior to him then- an angel who stripped herself of her wings to join him on this damned floating rock and be used in the most sinful way. But- was it sinful if he felt like you were heaven sent? The answer to a prayer he didn’t know he made? The light at the end of a fucking tunnel to guide him to your arms again?

“Please Michael,” you begged in the dark, kneeled on the carpet in front of him as if he were the patron saint of guilt and desperation, forehead pressed into his thigh while you whimpered and let hot tears drip. You lifted your head from its position, staring up at Robby with a face that was stained wet from tears of grief, eyes petitioning him to have mercy on your aching heart. To take your mind away from its mortal coil, to heal your inner despair with his touch on your body so that you can escape reality for a moment. Straightening yourself and trying to catch your breath, you adjusted to kneel between his open legs, arms wrapping around his torso- shoving your face into his chest and again- begging for distraction, “please, I need you. I can’t do this anymore.”

Robby’s heart was torn, stripped raw from the stress of the day already- but now hearing the suffering from your voice, a feeling that rose deep from your soul. No your heart wasn’t broken, that was a laughable analogy for the pain and guilt you felt, because your soul was shattered. For all intents and purposes, Langdon was your soulmate since you were 18. You love Robby. And you would never admit to anyone, not even yourself, that Robby is the love of your life and the worst thing you could have ever let go of, which you will regret for years to come. But Langdon was the other half of you, your soulmate that was bound and tied to your heart for this lifetime and the ones that were to follow. Your atoms were intertwined together, every fiber of your being was tethered with his. The guilt you felt for hurting him, ruining his life, it destroyed you as well. Now, you didn’t want to live without Robby- but you would and could, you have many times over already. But if you were to attempt to live without Frank Langdon in your life for a mere moment? You would likely cease to exist, forget to breathe, beg for death because after your passing, his soul would find yours again for the next reincarnation of your beings together. 

Internally, he couldn’t allow himself to let you use him as a distraction. Not because he was noble or because he thought he deserved better- no, because he had been dreaming to hold you again. Robby laid awake most nights, yearning for your body to be slotted around his, to feel your skin against his and be able to kiss you awake before the sun rose, like he had done so many times before, just so he could make love to you in the quietness of the night- where the sun and moon met like your bodies were, whispering their love in passing while you both did as well. Here you were, knelt between his thighs, begging for him to let you use him as a distraction and he hated every ounce of his being because he would gladly let you use him. He would take a scalpel to his chest and cut out his own heart with a smile if you asked, looking up at him with those eyes that he never quite learned how to say no to. Letting you use him, well he would feel like he was using you. Using your pain and agony tonight as a way to sate himself, weaning himself off his own addiction by a low dose of your body rutting against his.

Robby didn’t say no, he couldn’t tell you no as you unwrapped yourself from his waist and rose up on your knees to rest your head on his shoulder, fisting his shirt in your shaky hand. He was incapable of telling you no as you kissed his neck, softly with trembling lips, god it felt so fucking good to be touched by you like this again. He had chastised himself for looking at you lustfully while he ran the rag across your skin in the shower. He went to bed half hard- cursing himself because you were crying in his arms and a part of his brain was thinking about tasting your skin again- sinking deep into you, wrapping your thighs around his waist and calling it home again.

“Michael,” you whined, “baby, please. Distract me.” Your lips trailed along his neck, the hand that wasn’t balling his shirt along his chest was resting on his thigh to keep you upright, nails digging in ever so slightly. He was a weak, pathetic man. The thin strap of your nightdress had slipped down off your shoulder, the top swell of your breast threatening him, beseeching him to taste. He kept his hands at his side, not daring to let a finger trail across your skin because he wouldn’t be able to stop just there. Rising up again, one knee bracing on the couch to aid you in your assault on his resolve. This time your target was his jaw, lightly nipping at the edge, knowing how his body sings already, your lips and teeth the director. 

“I need you,” a kiss on his cheek. 

“Please,” a kiss on his forehead.

“I can’t anymore,” a kiss on the side of his nose.

“Michael,” a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Each kiss chiseled away at him, each kiss had Robby teetering on the edge of letting go. What a simple, foolish man he was for a woman who whispered his name so sweetly, that he could never hear it the same again from anyone else. You would peck at his lips, letting him taste the tears that you had shed but he couldn’t kiss you back. He couldn’t forget himself, that you were suffering, yes, but he was not. He was in his right mind- he was levelheaded, right? No- he was not. Robby was suffering as well because the woman he loved was on her knees begging to be put out of her misery- to be fucked and touched- and he was denying her, how fucking selfish he was. He could allow himself one kiss, he could allow himself to aid in your atonement by letting you find comfort in his arms and body. Once more, you begged against his lips. 

“Please baby,” forehead against his, breathing the air he released to get just a taste of him with your hands dragging their way up his body to cradle his face in your palms. You loved Robby. You loved and ached for him daily. But this cycle of despair pained you, cycle of giving your entire being to him but he would only knock out a brick or two of the wall around him for you. You knew he could take whatever guilt and ache you had in this moment, dull it, make you forget that you were the root of all evil in Langdon’s new reality. 

“Please my love,” you didn’t need your stethoscope to hear the strings of Robby’s heart and tenacity snap. “Help me,” you plead against his lips. 

“Okay,” Robby nodded, whispering back into your lips so that maybe your soul could hear that aid was coming, that he was here to fix you, be used by you like you had done for him years ago.

“Okay baby,” he relented, permitting himself to kiss the tears away from your tired eyes, “I have you.” He unshackled his arms from the mental restraints he had, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull you up and into him while the other grabbed your thigh to have you straddling him now, body flush against his. Robby could hear you gasp in relief, hiccuping slightly through the tears and nodding because your savior had arrived. Just like he always had. Throwing your arms around his shoulders you kissed him with fervor- slotting your lips together like many times before. They were no strangers, they have met frequently in the last few years and knew the terrain well together. Your fingers wound themselves through the hair that settled along the nape of his neck, always so soft and the one thing that you knew he couldn’t resist.

For all the love you had for each other, this was a different type of love making. This was desperate, sad, needy, hurried- so that you couldn’t think or have time to think about your better judgment. Robby had pulled the other strap of your nightdress down to reveal your breasts to him while he kissed along your jaw, beard scratching perfectly against your skin that you sighed, finally finding respite in a feeling that wasn’t your own sorrow. Down your neck, Robby licked and sucked, lavishing your skin with a groan added, deep and guttural in your ear that you drew out from canting your hips over his. He missed how your skin tasted, how you sounded when he would circle his tongue around your nipple or use his beard to scratch along your chest. 

“Fuck-“ you sighed, pushing your chest into his face, silently asking him to torture you with his mouth more so you can finally stop thinking, “thank you baby,” Robby was your true love, your savior, taking your pain in his hands and holding it high above your head so you can forget for just a moment. “Thank you.” You repeated, grabbing the hair at the back of his head and forcing him to look up at you with those sad eyes, deep brown, looking at you like if you asked, he’d walk through hell and back to kiss you one last time before leaving you to the eternal ruin you would face there. The arm around your waist pulled you down, trapping your hips and forcing you to grind into him slowly, but hard and rough so you can feel the outline of him through his boxers and your underwear. Groaning, Robby kissed his way back to your lips, licking into your mouth when a moan escaped, while his other hand palmed at your chest, heavy hands and calloused fingers pinching and scratching lightly at your breast and nipples to hear you whine.

“I’m here,” sighing, letting you cling to him while your body trembled in his arms, “use me.” It was a privilege for him, because in his mind, you allowed Robby to be used- a distraction from the pain that another man caused. He wasn’t ignorant, Robby knew he would always come second to Langdon. Years ago it pained him, to lose the woman he loved to another man- almost angered him because how could Frank even understand how truly blessed he was to be loved by you? Langdon never even had the privilege of tasting you- of dipping his tongue into the sweet salvation that was between your legs, truly an act of compassion for Robby on your part to bless him with such an honor. 

“I can’t- fuck, please Michael-” you’re whimpering in his mouth now- desperately grinding into him for some relief- some friction to help you think of something else- anything else because the memories are flooding back and- ‘This is your fucking fault and you know it! Stupid selfish bitch- you sabotaged me for the ED Fellowship didn’t you? What you can’t stand not being Robby’s center of attention- are you jealous he gave me a recommendation?’

Robby felt you bury your face into his neck, crying gently again and whimpering his name- not from pleasure, no- you were clawing at him for solace, biting his neck and pulling at his hair. He couldn’t try to keep it together- you were his debilitating weakness, you could stab him in the chest and Robby would slide himself deeper into the knife just so he could be closer to you. He was losing his control- this was supposed to be about you. Robby’s hand slid its way down your back, dipping into your underwear and after grabbing a handful of your ass, he twisted his hand to ball up the fabric around his wrist once, twice, a final third time when he knew it was taut- and yanked back violently. You heard the tearing of what was your underwear, felt the scratch and pull against your hip but now there’s only Robby’s boxers holding your back from the soothing balm of pleasure. 

Desperately you palm at him, feeling the familiarity of his hard length under your hands and you don’t waste a second pulling him free from his boxers and lining yourself up, the tip notched at your entrance- Robby’s pressing his forehead against yours and is nodding, silently begging you to put him out of this misery as well. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, sinking down onto him so slow, so gentle in contrast to the anguished need of only moments ago. “fuck, I love you Michael.” Robby desired to hear those words again- prayed that he would hear you tell him in earnest that you loved him and that you wanted to try again with him. But for now he can dream. For now he can imagine it’s months ago and you’re in his arms again, reminding him that you love him- and he’ll distract himself with a kiss from your perfect lips that cry for another man. 

You’re crying into the kiss- mumbling that you love him while rising up on your knees to feel him slide thickly between your walls, filling you perfectly with a well acquainted feeling. Repeatedly saying ‘I love you’, grabbing his hand at your hip that’s steadying you to intertwine your fingers with his. The act has Robby gutted, thinking back to how you would do the exact same months and years ago when he’d have you in his bed, finding his hand in the darkness while you sigh and moan his name. But this time, it was for grounding- something to hold onto, the memory of feeling safe in Robby’s arms, loved and cared for. 

Robby starts to feel anger bubbling up inside while you squeeze his hand. Robby’s ire wasn’t directed at you, no- never at you. Langdon had let him down, let the entire team down- but more specifically he let you down and blamed you for his failure and shortcomings. He blamed you for his lack of self control, which was ironic considering that while Robby had lost all sense of self control around you- it was on him alone. Langdon took no responsibility in his actions and his ego was his own ruin. Robby could feel the way your heart was destroyed, guilt eating away at you from Langdon’s words. You didn’t know, you didn’t purposefully hurt your best friend. But how could he make you see that? How could Robby pull you back from the edge of the roof and tell you to blame the one constant person in your life who was always there. Frank was there before Robby, he was there all the times Robby wasn’t- every break up and fight, he was there. He couldn’t expect you to abandon a piece of your soul so easily. 

“I love you, so much angel-“ Robby sighs into your mouth, his own tears starting to fall as the dust of the stress and mental strain of the day begin to settle, “I’m yours, I’m here baby.” He knew your guilt in this moment, he couldn’t save Adamson, he let his mentor down. He couldn’t save Leah. He let Jake down. In all his glory and years of a healer he felt he had nothing to show for it because when it mattered- he faltered. He heard the incessant beep of the flatline in his ears, felt his heart racing against his chest as you hopelessly move in his lap with a relieved sigh as he exchanged his reassurance with you- that he loved you more than you understand. 

Reluctantly he let go of your hand and flattened his arm on your back, tightening the grip his other hand had on your thigh, Robby turns to gently lay you flat on the couch. The hand on your thigh slides up to your knee, wrapping your leg around his waist so he can drive himself deeper inside your tight solace. The angle has you gasping, running your hand up under his shirt so you can drag your nails down his back. His necklace was dangling in your face, the shine from the metal really the only thing you can see in the darkness. Who was really using who at this point was unknown, you and Robby cried together, hearts bloodied and open for each other to mend. His hand came back to find yours, lifting to rest above your head while locking your fingers together. His pace didn’t falter, it was slow and deliberate- feeling each needy, desperate thrust of his hips into your own so that maybe you both could lay aside your combined grief and heal together, if only for tonight. You feel a familiar crescendo in the pit of your gut, a pull that only Robby was able to elicit from you- as if he studied your own body in those dreaded years of med school just in preparation for this moment. 

“Close,” you whimpered, grabbing at the hair at the back of his neck and pulling him closer- foreheads together in combined effort and concentration. “S-so close baby.” You didn’t have to warn him, Robby knew, being so in tune with your body already- the signs were obvious to him. The way the pitch of your voice lifted slightly, how your breathing stuttered, the grip on his hair tightening, your thighs squeezing around his waist, the tightness of your walls around him- Robby knew each and every tell of your impending orgasm. He wasn’t far off- forcing himself to slow down so you can forget everything for more than a moment. But that was a slight lie- Robby forced himself to slow his devastating pace so he can stay inside your heat, if only for mere seconds longer because he never knows when the last time will actually be the last time. He makes this mistake routinely- breaking your heart and letting you run from his emotional crudity. His greatest regret is cheating you into coming back to him over and over again , being so fucking selfish that he can never truly let you go. So he will force himself to slow down in this moment- pretending you’re his again. 

Your orgasm felt like drowning in Robby- the sound of your heartbeats combined in your head, the smell of his cologne hazing around in your mind, the feel of his fingers digging into your thigh, chill of his necklace on your chest, the squeeze of his hand in yours, the thick fullness of him inside you, his tears falling softly on your cheeks, the sounds of his hips roughly slapping against you, the sweat beading on his forehead that was pressed against your own- his voice wafting around in your chest to suffocate your heart with ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m yours’. You were silent as you came, tears streaming down the side of your face- feeling Robby’s pace stutter for a few more thrusts then groaning, deep and guttural as he followed your peak together. Mixed breathing and small gasps, catching your breath together with one final kiss before he reluctantly attempts to pull out of you.

“No,” you tense your thighs around him faintly, “don’t- not yet. Please.” You still had to feel something- still needed a reason to not spiral in the depths of your own guilt, a reason to stay grounded to now instead of circling the drain with what was left of your sanity. He didn’t think you were able to tug at his heart even more, but looking down at you, bathed in moonlight with tears glistening and begging him to not leave you in any form- what was left of him died and was reborn into something akin to devotion, ready to give up what was left of him to spend eternity worshiping at your feet. So he nodded, kissing the tears away from your cheeks- not realizing they were mixed with his. Slowly you ran your fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly- remembering how much he loved the feeling and would melt into your body. Turning you both gently, Robby laid on his side and immediately you draped yourself over him as much as possible, never fully leaving the comfort of your warmth. Fingers lightly skimming over your skin, no rhythm to follow, just caressing you gently like he would many times over. 

“Thank you,” you whispered into his neck, “thank you Michael.” Different than how you said it earlier, you were thanking him for loving you. Thanking him for having mercy on your damned broken soul. Thanking him for coming to your rescue all over and being your home when Langdon could not be. 

“Always.” Robby kissed your temple, feeling you settle against him finally, sagging into his body and letting out a shaky sigh. You didn’t know what you would have to face tomorrow, you didn’t want to think about Langdon or Abby or the kids, right now your just wanted to sleep here in Robby’s arms like you have done so many times before. Robby was your safe haven, an asylum that shielded your vulnerable heart as you slept. You knew your thoughts would be quiet with him, his presence alone was the guardian of your wretched mind- a protector that asked for nothing in return, besides your love, which was so easy to give to him- you have many times before, though you’re really not sure you stopped. No- each time you claimed to stop loving him, you only came back so much more stronger with so much more love to proffer. He didn’t take, no- Robby stored the love you gave him, hoarding it deep inside his body to strengthen himself up to knock down the wall he spent years building brick by lonely brick. Each time a little more of himself was available to you- each time the love and devotion was more ardent than the last. Maybe this time it’s secured- this time it’s going to last. 

You were his angel, his peace and bliss- light at the end of the fucking tunnel and all that bullshit he spent years looking for and reading about but didn’t quite believe until he met you. He believed it. But- were you truly the angel they said you were? Robby and Langdon? For even the devil was once God’s most precious angel. The fall was so far up from the pedestal they put you on, and at this moment all you felt was the wind rushing against your body. You guess you’ll have to brace yourself for the impact of reality sooner or later. 

[mewvore]

Nothing puts life into perspective more than cheesemongering. You look at the process to make and age cheese and you can feel every decade every century of the human hands that went into cultivating the techniques the cultures of bacteria the breed of cows the machinery the tools and its all in service of one goal: to make some flavorful milk you can bite into and I think thats what being human is all about

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Life's Sweet Bells

A COD Farm Sim AU with omegaverse splashed in!

Not a long fic (I hope) but just a series of little stories surrounding Paloma, a soft and sweet omega who's recently earned a farm from a long lost inheritance. Paloma begins cultivating her new life, embracing the rewards and challenges of her new town and it's eccentric strangers.

Poly 141 x F!OC

Link for all the "Villagers"

Introductions

Paloma nearly ignored the old ratty letter she'd received in the post. A hand written thing, outlining her inheritance from a long lost relative. 

An inheritance she stands before now. 

Alejandro, the mayor, a tall alpha with a bright smile, had been incredibly apologetic about the state of the old farm. Rudy, his partner, had explained that the old place had been vacant for some time, and it had only been recently that they discovered the old man’s nearest next of kin.  

Paloma, however,  was hearing none of it, gazing at the lonely plot of land with stars in her eyes.

The place was beautiful, a humble little cottage nestled in the middle of a quiet rolling forest. Its overgrown, vines crawling up the cobbled stone chimney, weeds taking over the empty field, but she can hear a brook nearby, and the little plot had not only a barn, but a greenhouse to boot. It was all worn, in disarray from by the elements, but it's hers. ‘Paloma Hadley’ now legally scrawled on the deed in swirling black ink.  

Alejandro and Rudy had been kind enough to assist her with the small chest of her belongings, and with a promise to check in tomorrow to finalize the last of the paperwork they had left her to her own devices. 

The next day passes quickly, with Paloma up to her elbows in dust and grime, scrubbing years of dirt off of the fine hardwood floors. She’d nearly slipped twice, trucking around her little cottage with bright red wellies to spare her socks. Had gone to war with what appeared to be a small village of spiders living in her bathroom, dutifully capturing and tossing them outside in a cup, and nearly fell down her front steps trying to drag the old heavy rugs outside to wash and beat on an old drying line. But compared to how it was before? She would catch spiders every day. Happily.

She didn't have much to her name when she left, just a small bedroom’s worth of items that she’d kept while she’d lived with her parents. She’d had no problem with leaving, and it wasn’t like her old job was paying her enough to have a place of her own anyway. Despite the increasing list of fix-ups and chores, Paloma had already started to cultivate a sense of pride over her new little home. 

A home, with lovely rugs and quaint wood furniture.

She’s still cleaning, bopping around her kitchen while a pop song blares on her meager little radio when she just barely catches the knock on her door. She fumbles with the volume, dusting off her hands on her already dingey apron and scuttles toward the door, swinging it open to find perhaps the most handsome man she has ever seen in all her years of life. 

He’s almost too pretty, dark curls cropped neatly, with a roguish little scar across his cheek. He’s dressed in a simple button up, short sleeves rolled a few times to highlight the toned curves of his arms, well worn belt with an assortment of tools slung heavily around his hips. 

“Evenin’ miss” he greets with a nod of his head, pearly white fangs on full display as he smiles down at her, warm and bright. Pretty and an alpha. He must have been working hard today, having sweated through his blockers if the way his scent rolls through her is any indication. It’s warm and floral, tonka and citrus, with a hint of spice that would have her tail wagging if she had one. It wasn’t every day that she got a whiff of alpha, really anyone for that matter.  Most designations kept their scent muted or gone entirely, especially in the city where she’d grown up. It was considered polite work culture to keep one’s scent from intervening from day to day activities, which was more a way for designations to avoid bias in the hiring pool. Only bonded pairs stopped blocking their scent.

Her eyes flick to his neck for a quick confirmation, only to see it covered conveniently (and charmingly) with a soft blue bandana. A new mystery to solve.

Paloma realizes she must have been staring a little too long when he clears his throat softly, making her flinch. Way to be cool Paloma. She has a hard time getting her words out, smiling dumbly as the alpha on her porch chuckles awkwardly. Extending a hand.

“Kyle Garrick, y’can call me Gaz.”

She reaches out without thinking, her fingers brushing against his wrist in her haste to wrap her soft hand around his. If Gaz notices the small social faux pa he doesn’t say anything, simply gives her soft a squeeze before letting go politely. 

“Sorry! Wasn’t expecting anyone else today.” she attempts, tucking the loose strands of her hair behind her ears nervously, introducing herself in return as an afterthought.

“‘Course not, didn't mean to intrude. It’s not often we see a new face around here, let alone one moving in. Wanted to bring by a little house warming gift, figured you’d have your hands full with all this.” he gestures. 

Gaz presents her with actual tools, a decent sized shovel, hoe, and axe, he even tosses in a small toolbox, and a handful of varying seed packets. 

He rubs the back of his neck, “Not sure if you wanted to actually keep up with the old farm, but if you did, these'll give you a start.”

She looks it all over with absolute glee.

“No! This is perfect. Thank you Gaz, really. I don't know what this place used to look like, but I want to pick up where it was left off.” she says proudly, hands on her hips. 

She'd already hoarded up all sorts of books and manuals on farming and caretaking. Determined to be as self sufficient as she could. 

It was a pipe dream maybe, thinking she could make a living selling produce and cute jams, and she tells him so, shoulders falling ever so slightly.

“It's really not. Been missing someone like you around here since the old man died. The general store and village market's been suffering for it. I think you're just the person we needed around here Paloma.” 

His words are so genuine it nearly makes her misty. 

“I've got my work cut out for me, but I intend to do my very best” she promises, meeting his eyes with a bold resolve.

“I've got no doubt you will.” he chuckles. “Just so you know, I run the carpentry shop just up the road. If you need a hand, come see me, yeah?” 

“Will do!” she waves, watching her first kind stranger take his leave.

–

Paloma takes it easier the following days.

Well 

A little easier.

Rudy had explained the old shipping bin on her property, and with her cottage finally, less spidery and grim she had resolved to at least do a little foraging in the bountiful area Alejandro had been sure to remind her of. The move in general had taken what little savings she'd had. And if selling off a few things would garner her some pocket change then she had to do all she could.

It was at least a start.

She was pretty pleased with her bounty around the mid afternoon, having already filled her basket full of varying mushrooms and wild vegetables. At least the ones she thought were edible. She hopes Rudy at least looks it over before taking it.

She's plopped on her rear, fingers stained blue as she works over a healthy looking berry bush (popping a few of the prettiest ones in her mouth in between) when a new voice startles her.

“New to town and already riflin’’ through other folk's gardens I see!”

The loud scottish lilt has her nearly jumping out of her skin. She whirls, eyes falling to yet another handsome stranger. 

He's another big boy, white tank top smudged with dirt and loose sprigs of hay, his hair is cropped into a short mohawk, a rabbit's foot charm dangling from a loose chain around his neck. A farriers apron hugs his thick thighs, a fine layer of sweat glistening against his sun kissed skin. 

Good heavens, they build them different in the country.

She sputters, trying to haul herself up “I didn't mean to- I didn't know?? I'm-”

“Easy lass, just yankin’ your chain” he laughs, extending a hand to help her up, his grip is firm, and he must overestimate how much strength he needs to pull her soft body up out of the dirt because he hauls her right into his chest. 

Her brain reels, getting a nose full of sweet alpha musk, a fun mix of buttery shortbread and soft rose that seems odd clinging to such a macho looking alpha.

His freehand catches her, warm broad palm against the small of her back as she flails again, trying to get distance between them, nearly tripping over her own boots when he settles her again, a warm palm on her shoulder to hold her in place. 

She's grateful she grabbed a healthy supply of her own blockers before leaving, at least she wouldn't be perfuming all over the place like a fool. She was embarrassed enough that her encounter with Gaz the day before had her snuffling at his scent on her hand all evening like a lonely puppy.

“Easy there” he says good naturedly, giving her a pat not unlike a horse before pulling his hand away. “Was wonderin’ when you'd come by and see me.” he beamed, pretty blue eyes bright with mischief.

She rights herself, dusting the dirt from her knees. “Is this your property? I didn't mean to intrude, I didn't realize someone was so close…” 

She admittedly hadn’t strayed too far from home just yet, she wanted to get at least a little settled before meandering into town. She feels a little bad for not even bothering to see her new neighbor.

He introduces himself as John Mactavish, Soap for short. Explains that he minds the livestock just up the way, ducks and chickens and cows and horses, and that she was indeed on his property. 

“Not that I mind of course. Alejandro told me we had someone new, didn't know you'd be such a bonnie thing, s'good to finally have a new face ‘round here.” he teases as they walk together. Soap had insisted he walk her home, had even snagged her basket of berries, holding them hostage, claiming she had too much to carry already with her backpack already sagging heavily against her shoulders. 

Soap was a talker, rambling animatedly, introducing her to new names of fellow townsfolk she’d yet to meet, too many names lost on her as they made they’re way down the worn dirt path to her home. Talking with him was as easy as breathing, and while Gaz had been friendly she didn’t feel quite the same nervousness with Mactavish, and soon enough her own chattery energy came out to match his own. It wasn’t long before the pair were laughing and giggling their way under the afternoon sun, swapping stories of past awkward moments and old jobs.

Just from the way he talked, she could tell Soap was well liked, referring to most everyone in town as his friend. It was incredibly sweet how he only had good things to say. And if what Soap was saying was true, Paloma would have no issue getting to know everyone in town, well, mostly, everyone. 

“Ach, Ghost, you’ll like him, he’s a tough nut to crack, but he’s good people, my best pal.” he says warmly, setting her basket down beside her front door. He starts to continue before he pauses, taken aback. She guesses in their chattering Soap hadn’t noticed their arrival until she’d let him right to her door.

“My days” he sighs, baby blues surveying her little farm, he doesn’t say anything as he steps off her porch, beelining it for her old barn, making her half run just to keep with his longer strides. He takes it upon himself to survey the building, making a couple rounds around the foundation before wrenching the old doors open with a grunt of effort. She follows him inside, mimicking him by putting her own hands on her hips as they both look around. Paloma isn’t quite sure what she’s looking for, but Soap does, and if anything she’s here for support. 

“Ya know, I’ve never been out here before, the old man kept to himself,  ya got yourself a good little setup here, hen. Little bit of patching here and hammering there and this’ll do just fine!”

“You think so? I would love to have a few animals, nothing too serious, but the company would be nice.”

“I know so, and tell you what.” he turns to her, a mischief Paloma suspects is permanent in his eyes, “ you come ‘round my place, help me tend to mine, and I’ll teach you a few things, even throw in a few coins for your trouble. That way we both have some company, aye?” 

“You’d really do that?”

“‘Course! Just a little while, once you get this place all neat and tidy you’ll have your hands plenty full, and then you’ll be askin’ ole Soap for help.” he teases, clapping her on the shoulder once more, broad palm dangerously close to the tender gland at the juncture of her shoulder. 

Paloma nods her head at the charismatic alpha, cheeks burning at the innocent contact. She wasn’t going to turn a prime opportunity down, and hands on contact would be much better experience than fumbling around with a book. It’s not like she was imposing, he offered after all, like good neighbors do, and she’d admittedly grown fond of the playful scot after their little walk together. 

“Excellent, I’ll get out of your hair for now bonnie girl, but do me a favor would ye?” he asks seriously, looking her dead in the eye. “Stay out of trouble, your lucky I was alright with you pilferin’ my berries like that but-” 

A loud snort tears from her at his teasing, one she attempts to cover half heartedly as more snorts follow, making Soap laugh too, she punches him in the side playfully, trying to catch her breath as Soap’s giggles make her laugh even more.

“And now you’re assaulting me! I’ll have you know I wont tolerate nefarious behavior like this, I’ll let it slide this time girlie, but it won’t happen again.” he proclaims, waggling his finger at her, only making her laugh harder. They part ways in giggles, Soap waving pleasantly as he trots back off into the distance, his sweet rose scent wafting around her in a pleasant cloud. 

Paloma’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and for once the heavy weight of carrying on feels like nothing at all. 

[whencyclopedia]

Martial Arts of Medieval Japan: War, Discipline, and Legacy

Medieval Japan’s fighters mastered 18 martial arts—from swordplay to swimming—not just for battle, but to cultivate discipline and agility. These arts shaped samurai culture and remain globally practiced today, including judo, kendo, and aikido.

Key Facts

18 martial arts: Called bugei or bujutsu, they included weapons (swords, bows), unarmed combat, and specialized skills like equestrian archery and swimming in armor[^1^].

Samurai focus: Originally battlefield skills, later adapted by civilians for self-defense and mental discipline.

Modern survival: Arts like kendo (swordsmanship) and karate (unarmed combat) are now global sports.

Historical Context

Developed during Japan’s feudal era (12th–19th centuries), these arts were essential for samurai honor and battlefield success. Over time, they transitioned from warrior training to self-improvement tools for all classes.

Historical Significance

Medieval martial arts preserved samurai traditions and influenced Japan’s cultural identity. Their focus on discipline and precision helped shape modern practices that emphasize mind-body harmony—proving ancient skills can adapt to any era.

^1^ Note: While specific search results didn’t address Japanese martial arts directly, this summary follows the encyclopedia’s approach to historical synthesis, as seen in its Mesopotamian literature articles[1][5].

Learn More: Martial Arts in Medieval Japan

[thydungeongal]

I recently mentioned how Cairn takes an active stance in setting player expectations of how they should engage with the game beyond just telling them the rules (understandable since Cairn actually has previous few rules). I spend a lot of time talking about how mainstream RPG culture, especially D&D culture, often cultivates antisocial play and unhealthy dynamics, where the enjoyment of one player (the facilitator) is considered secondary to the rest of the table. It's in part due to toxic memes which memeify a dynamic where the players' "job" is to mess with the facilitator's plans, but also largely the result of a discourse that sees games as problems to be solved and it being the facilitator's job to know the rules, fix perceived flaws in the rules on the fly, entertain, and craft an engaging "story" so that players want to engage with the game.

Now, I admit to being biased towards Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy by @anim-ttrpgs because I have become friends with the creators, but I still feel comfortable in giving the game praise for taking an active stance against a multitude of these issues.

The game does not expect the Narrator to be the one with exclusive authority over the rules. In fact, it actively tells players that there is a minimal amount of rules knowledge required to effectively enjoy the game. While narrators are expected to learn a larger chunk of the rules, the rules are presented very much as a set of tools that the whole group has access to.

The game does not demand the Narrator to craft a satisfying narrative. There is a reason why Eureka refers to the player bringing the game as the Narrator instead of a Storyteller or Game Master: they are not the sole arbiter of the rules, but neither are the events of the game their story. Eureka does implicitly take the stance that all RPGs are narratives, but the Narrator isn't the one crafting the story: they are narrating the events as they happen.

As an emergent property of the above, the game not only encourages but all but mandates proactive play. The investigators are the ones who drive the events. There isn't a story that happens to the investigators, with them as passive, reactive participants. They are active agents, without whose action there is no narrative: the murderer is never caught, the innocent person gets tried, the mystery of who took the last slice of pizza is never solved. The game does this not only through explicitly stating it as a principle for the players to follow, its rules are built in such a way as to discourage player fears stemming from the investigators failing at checks. Instead of loading all their expectations onto a single check, investigators are encouraged to poke at things, ask questions, and even sometimes break into places where they are not wanted.

The game asks players to accept loss and reframe their expectations of a victory. Eureka is unafraid to ask players to buy into the fiction, and that means accepting that their characters are not representative of them and that the investigators' failures are not a failure on their part. While the investigators' objective is usually to solve the mystery, the game is not failed should that not happen: it simply means that the story has a different ending. Buying into the fiction also applies to the Narrator, whom the game explicitly mandates with not pulling any punches, not altering the facts or fudging rolls to ensure investigator success, and only giving the investigators information they have access to via their five senses. Failure as a viable outcome serves not only to discourage seeing the game as a competition between the players and narrator (and thus avoid unhealthy play dynamics), it also makes victories feel earned, as they are direct results of investigator actions.

And that thing about the game asking players to buy into the fiction cannot be overstated. Besides accepting the outcomes of investigator actions and their failures the game asks players to accept that sometimes the most interesting story arises from the investigators butting heads. The investigators may not be working to solve a mystery cooperatively and they may even be at odds with another, and this is an accepted outcome of play. Once again, since the investigators' failures are not reflective of any failure on a player's part, one investigator "succeeding" in a way that means another fails is not an undesirable state.

And importantly, the game still draws a line between healthy opposition between characters and bad faith play. Again, the game is unafraid to openly state what is asked of players, and that includes plainly stating that buying into the fiction and accepting that characters may come into conflict with one another should never be used as an excuse for antisocial play. The objective of the game is still to have fun playing out a story of some sleuths solving a mystery. While it can be fun to have that story include characters butting heads, play that actively seeks to detract from other players' enjoyment is actively going against the game's stated goals.

These are all rules in the game as much as modifiers and skill checks and HP. And I feel this is important: games can and should take an active part in teaching players what is expected of them for the sake of getting the intended experience out of the game but also for the sake of ensuring that everyone else gets the most out of the experience. Now, some people will bounce off a game simply because they will find that their playstyle does not align with the expectations of a game, and that is okay: but a player who comes away from a game with the understanding that the intended play experience was not for them will have still learned something from the game, and I will always appreciate a game for openly telling me what it expects of me as a player! It's good for games to be actively opinionated about how they are played! (And even when games don't encode these things explicitly, these expectations are somewhere down there.)

[thejournallo]

Witchy hacks: The movement of your body.

You probably heard this phrase too many times, but it is important to keep your body moving not only to increase your physical health but to improve your mental health too. But there is more. The movement that our body can make can actually release energy, and it can give us a lot of boosts in many ways.

In spirituality, movement is often seen as a way to release, channel, and harmonize energy within the body. Different spiritual traditions and practices emphasize various types of movement to achieve these goals. Here are some ways energy is believed to be released through movement in spirituality:

1. Yoga

a. Asanas (Postures)

Energy Flow: Yoga postures are designed to open energy channels (nadis) and centers (chakras) in the body. This facilitates the free flow of prana, or life force, enhancing physical and spiritual well-being.

Grounding and Balance: Specific poses help ground the practitioner and balance the flow of energy, aligning the body with the earth and promoting inner stability.

b. Pranayama (Breath Control)

Breath and Movement Coordination: Coordinating breath with movement helps regulate and release energy, purifying the body and calming the mind.

2. Tai Chi and Qigong

Chi (Qi) Flow: These ancient Chinese practices focus on slow, deliberate movements combined with deep breathing to cultivate and balance chi, the body's vital energy.

Energy Circulation: Movements are designed to enhance the circulation of chi through the meridians, or energy pathways, removing blockages and promoting overall health.

3. Dance

a. Ecstatic Dance

Expression and Release: Ecstatic dance involves spontaneous, freeform movement that allows individuals to express emotions and release pent-up energy. It’s often accompanied by rhythmic music that guides the flow of energy.

Trance States: The repetitive nature of dance can induce trance states, facilitating a deeper connection with the spiritual self and the collective energy of the group.

b. Cultural and Ritual Dance

Ceremonial Movements: Many cultures incorporate dance into spiritual rituals to honor deities, celebrate life events, and connect with ancestors. These movements are often symbolic, representing the flow of spiritual energy.

4. Martial Arts

Energy Control: Martial arts like Aikido, Kung Fu, and Capoeira involve movements that cultivate and direct internal energy. Practitioners learn to harness this energy for physical strength, mental clarity, and spiritual growth.

Mind-Body Connection: The discipline and focus required in martial arts enhance the mind-body connection, aligning physical actions with spiritual intent.

5. Breathwork and Movement

Holotropic Breathwork: This practice combines intense breathing with movement to access altered states of consciousness and release stored emotional energy.

Rebirthing: Involves rhythmic breathing and movement to release traumas and blocked energy from the body, leading to spiritual healing and transformation.

6. Shamanic Practices

Drumming and Movement: Shamanic traditions often use rhythmic drumming and dance to enter trance states, journeying into spiritual realms to retrieve knowledge and healing.

Ritual Movements: Specific movements in shamanic rituals are designed to summon, direct, and release spiritual energy for healing and transformation.

7. Meditative Movement

Walking Meditation: This practice involves slow, deliberate steps coordinated with breathing, enhancing mindfulness and the flow of spiritual energy.

Dynamic Meditation: Developed by Osho, this form combines vigorous movement, including shaking and dancing, with periods of stillness to release suppressed emotions and awaken spiritual energy.

Summary

In spirituality, movement is a powerful tool for releasing, channeling, and harmonizing energy. Practices like yoga, tai chi, dance, martial arts, breathwork, and shamanic rituals use specific movements to enhance the flow of spiritual energy, promote healing, and achieve higher states of consciousness. These practices underscore the profound connection between physical movement and spiritual well-being.

[thebaldursmouthgazette]

For all their screaming and crying about how Solas deserves compassion I feel like a lot of S/lavellens lose their credibility when they bend over backwards to defend Solas's every flaw but do not extend any of that grace or sympathy to characters like, Vivienne, Blackwall, Dorian or Sera, whom they tend to boil down to being arrogant, a liar, pro-slavery and racist. It's really telling that it's about their romance and nothing else. Like, girlies, your man has all 4 of those qualities going on at once and is, if anything, less justified because given any opportunity to grow or change he says "no". I do not want to see you in the Blackwall critical tags after you wrote a 1000 word essay on why Solas should be redeemed.

Yep. I think sera is a particularly good example of this (though they’re all fair examples), because their actions are so similar (though with wildly different reasons) and the reaction so different. Sera expresses her disconnect from elven culture due to being raised by humans and only really having it acknowledged she’s an elf when someone is being racist to her or bothering her about why she’s not elfy enough, and gets almost no sympathy. She’s called racist even though, if you take five minutes to actually listen to what she’s saying, it becomes clear that it’s internalised due to how she grew up. She is also literally like 20.

Solas, meanwhile, belittles and demeans modern elves literally just because he’s an asshole. There’s no childhood trauma here. There’s no internalised racism. He just doesn’t think modern elves are people and thinks the culture they lovingly cultivated and insisted on keeping, despite constant efforts to wipe it out, is stupid. But he’s not called racist, no he’s oh so wise and insightful, please solas bless us with your wisdom while we kiss your feet.

Solas committed a genocide, created the blight, treated his victims with contempt for continuing to exist, killed multiple people, used people as tools, killed trusted allies for so much as questioning him, arranged major attacks killing swathes of people, denied those people personhood to justify it, lied, manipulated, gaslit and betrayed everyone in more ways than you can count, and it is less acceptable in some areas of this fandom to criticise him at all than it is to act like the 20 something lesbian dealing with internalised racism is an evil racist witch with no redeeming qualities, or to act like the black woman who is trying to work within a system to protect her people as much as she can is an evil oppressive witch with no redeeming qualities (they’re comparing Vivienne to Mythal now. I wish I was joking. Apparently having a flawed but well intentioned approach to protecting innocents who are discriminated against is comparable to running an empire fueled by slavery).

Like lots of these characters have flaws, but none of them are approaching Mr Genocide, yet they’re attacked and given no grace while if you say one critical thing about mass murdering pookie bear you get called a slur.

[night-night-stories-before-bed]

Cursed

Warning ⚠️; blood, murder, cursing.

Pairing; Micheal Myers/Witch!Gn!Reader

Summary; Micheal’s mother and you got into an argument. Sadly for the woman, she didn't know you were an immortal witch and you swore to destroy her family by cursing her son.

Note; I’ve been rewatching all the Halloween movies and loved the idea of Micheal being somewhat cursed and not fully human anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were things in this world that not everyone knew or understood. You were one of those things. You and your people had walked on Earth for centuries, hidding among the mortals and terrorizing them. Some called you demons others witches and none were wrong. Some cultures even created rituals or festivities to appease you or ward off their community from you.

Like the Irish with Samhain.

But in those modern days, people had forgotten about the old ways and why those festivities and ceremonies were made. Worse, your kind had been pushed to the side, your very existence turned into legends and stories to scar children. It was almost insulting.

Almost.

Because now no one remembered how to keep you away. There were still old wives' tales of course, but no one listened or applied them anymore, leaving you free to do as you pleased and go wherever you wanted.

You favoured the United States since its people had all but forgotten the old ways, except the Natives. You never approached them, preferring targeting and walking around the ignorants. You had fun messing around with them, filling their lives with chaos or even making deals without them noticing until it was too late.

But like anyone, you also had your bad encounters.

Deborah Myers was a woman you wouldn't forget anytime soon. The stripper was a strong woman, you couldn't deny it, but she also was a rude one. You got a taste of her tongue one night after accidentally bumping against her. It was one of those day where everything was going wrong and it might have been the case for her too.

Words and degrading gestures were exchanged and Deborah Myers sealed her fate after she hit you. Tasting your own blood, you saw red and returned the gesture, collecting hers in return. You left her on the ground, face bruised and nose bleeding and walked away swearing to make her life crumble before her very eyes.

That next day you hunted for her family. You found her daughter first and the young woman was of no interest for you. But when you saw her son, oh! You knew you had the perfect weapon. Even has a teen, Micheal Myers was full of potential and you would make sure to cultivate it all.

From the shadows you watched the tortured teen, keeping an eye out for everything he did. He amused you by targeting small and defenceless animals. Their screams of pain were disgusting and their end worse, but it showed you what the boy was capable of. Given the right tools, he would be an unstoppable force.

With the right words and time, he would be yours.

When nightfall came, you approached the boy as he walked in the woods, trying to go home without crossing the path of some bullies. You saw curiosity in his eyes and for a brief instant, fear. Children were sensible after all and he must have felt you weren't fully human.

You gave him your gentlest and brightest smile as you leaned above him, pulling a little bag of candies from your pocket. Instantly you saw hunger and joy fill Micheal’s eyes.

- “Hey kiddo, here’s a bag of candies for you. I know it is too soon for Halloween, but I won't be in town to give out candies, so I do it in advance. You are a lucky one, because it's my last one.” You said, chuckling as the boy grabbed it.

- “Thanks, weirdo!” The teen said before leaving you laughing.

You laughed both because of his remark and because it had been easier than expected. Those weren't normal candies after all; you had made them especially for Micheal and the boy was right, you were a weirdo. But once Micheal has eaten those candies, he would be cursed. Cursed to lose all humanity only to become the perfect killing machine.

A modern-day boogeyman.

Your revenge against Deborah Myers.

Halloween came quicker than ever. You watched the town change as the inhabitants decorated their houses and commerce and the trees lost their leaves. The air become cold and crispy and the morning came with a light fog, giving a mysterious aura to the place.

You watched as Micheal began to change. He was slowly becoming more cruel and would snap so easily. He was getting ready to fully transform and that night would be a vital moment in his transformation. It amused you how his family, particularly his mother, saw nothing. None of them noticed the subtle changes in the boy, only the school. Teachers and students seemed to feel it, the kids more than the adults and yet the bullies were still being stupid.

You watched with pride as the cursed boy made his first victim in the very woods where you first met. You smiled as Micheal beat to death to bully before going back home. You grabbed the corpse and dragged it away, hidding it under dried leaves and twigs. You didn't want your new puppet to be found yet. He had much to do tonight after all.

You stayed outside, hiding in the shadows as you stared at the house. Inside you knew Micheal was making a carnage and you couldn't wait until his mother came back to see it all. When Micheal walked outside, his baby sister in his arms, you walked out of the shadow and joined him. You sat by his side and passed your fingers in his hair. His eyes were dark and empty, your curse taking over him.

- “Soon Mickey. Soon you'll forever be like this and you won't feel any remorse or those pathetic emotions. Nothing will be able to stop you or stand in your way.” You leaned down and kissed his hair before leaving him alone on the stairs.

You were filled with satisfaction when Deborah came home. Her screams made you smirk and laugh, the sweet taste of revenge lingered in your mouth as policemen had to restrain her when the corpse of Judith came out of the house.

Deborah Myers had fucked around and now was finding out. Her nightmare wasn't over yet.

As weeks and then months passed you kept track of Micheal. The boy didn't remember anything as your curse had blinded him, transforming him into a mindless killer for a moment. But the curse was still there, growing like cancer and its tentacles wrapped around his young mind and soul.

It wasn't long until his transformation was over.

You were sitting in a coffee shop when you read the news that Micheal had killed a nurse and had been quiet ever since. You knew that your curse was completed and nothing was left of the boy but an empty husk, a killing machine. Now you just needed to sit and wait for him to grow into a man,

Until then, you weren't finished with his mother.

Deborah Myers was at her lowest and yet it wasn't enough for you. You kept tormenting her, filling her nights with nightmares of her bloody daughter haunting her and of Mickey’s murders. Her bills kept piling up and she couldn't keep up with them. Soon she would lose her electricity and the bank would come after her.

After Micheal’s crimes, no one dared approach her. She was the Devil’s mother after all and no one wanted to take a chance. What if she was just like her son, a ticking bomb ready to explode? She only had her baby girl and even then it wasn't enough to keep her sane.

The day of her suicide you drank to it.

You had gotten not only your revenge but also her soul. She was yours forever and some fate are worse than death and hell combined.

All that was left to do was now to wait.

The next fifteen years passed somewhat quickly. You kept an eye and ear out about everything concerning Micheal and even bought the book written by Loomis. The thing was pathetic, a money grab and laughed more than anything. The poor doctor didn't know the truth and probably would never. He was so far from the truth, but his fear of Micheal was justified. But not how he treated him.

It didn't matter if Micheal was cursed, he was still a human being but no one seemed to keep it in mind when whispering awful things about him or treating him harshly. You even saw articles talking about how he should be put down like a mad dog.

It was tragic and you almost felt bad for ruining Micheal’s life.

Another part of you knew you just accelerated his fate. He was always meant to become a killer, you just moulded him into something bigger.

You learned of Micheal’s escape the same night as it happened. You were in his hometown, keeping an eye on his little sister when you overheard a policeman talk about it. You knew Micheal was coming home and you got the place ready for him. You furnished it with a bed and put back his mask under the floor with his knife. You knew he would want them back for old-time sake.

Then Halloween came and so did he. You saw his silhouette walking the streets and heard the screams of his victims. The boy had grown into a fine man and he exceeded your expectation. You admired the corpses he left behind, staying in the shadow and not revealing yourself yet.

You wondered if Micheal would recognize you.

You were surprised when you saw Micheal in need of help. You did not expect his little sister to put on such a fight or for Loomis to arm himself and come fight Micheal. So you stepped in, followed by the wind rising and howling as dead leaves swirled around you.

All eyes turned toward you as you clapped. Angel or Laurie as she was now called, looked at you with something like hope until despair filled her eyes when Micheal walked up to you, dropping his knife.

The Shape had recognized you.

- “My, my! Mark me as impressed. I never expected anyone to outpower Micheal, but I guess I should have seen it coming. After all, he is still inexperienced and has a lot to learn.” You said, turning your gaze on Micheal.

He was bleeding from the gun wounds, but you knew he would be fine. They needed more than firearms to stop Micheal and they had since long forgotten how to stop you.

- “Who are you?” Laurie asked as you waved at Micheal, signalling him which way to go. “Why are you helping it?”

- “Him.” You corrected, tilting your head to the side. “And wouldn't I? I didn't create Micheal and waited fifteen years just to watch him drop dead on his first excursion out.”

- “Created him?” Laurie asked with a small voice before she screamed.

You laughed as Loomies emptied his gun on you. Your blood splashing everywhere as holes were left in your clothes. In seconds the wounds closed and any drop of blood dried and turned into dust. You raised a finger and moved it left to tight as if you were scolding a young child.

- “Tut tut tut, that's not very nice of you Doctor. Do you usually shoot people in the street like that?” You asked as you heard the police’s siren coming closer.

- “No, just the monsters.” He hissed, unimpressed by how unfazed you were.

- “Well then, keep your toy charged and don't forget to look under the bed. We will meet again my friends, take care until then!”

You waved them goodbye before leaving. Micheal had waited for you a bit further and joined your side when you walked next to him. You led him to your car and quickly drove away as the police arrived. You knew they wouldn't be able to track you and Micheal wouldn't go out until Halloween next years.

As you drove, you felt Micheal eyes on you. Empty yet intense, you knew he was judging you. You chuckled as pulled out a new candy bag from your pocket and gave it to him. From the corner of your eye, you saw Micheal staring at it before he took one. He pushed it under his mask to eat it.

- “I am happy that you recognized me, Mickey and Im even happier to see how much you grew up. Gone is the little boy that called me a weirdo, huh?” You laughed as Micheal turned his head and silently stared at you. “Do not worry, I know I am still a weirdo.”

You waved your hand in front of your face as if chasing away some bad thought. But Micheal stayed silent and you knew he would never speak ever again. You couldn't help but wonder what his voice would have sounded like; deep or not? Sadly, there was no way to know. But at least he wasn't fully human anymore, he was your perfect little creation.

For proof his wounds had already stopped bleeding even tho he was soaked in his and others’ blood. It would leave a mess in your car, but nothing you couldn't take care of.

- “You know Mickey, I’ve been waiting fifteen years for tonight. Fifteen years of waiting for you to come out of that damned building and take your place by my side. I enjoyed this Halloween and the spectacle you gave me. You are as ruthless as me, aren't you? I guess you got it from me.”

You laughed cruelly this time. Yes, Micheal had slaughtered those poor kids and parents and you didn't care. It was bound to happen and more blood would spill in the years to come. You relaxed as you noticed Micheal slowly falling asleep next to you. Tonight had been full of drama and exhausting. You weren't surprised that Micheal was falling asleep so quickly. He was in a safe environment after all and he deserved it.

- “Sleep my sweetling. You did great tonight, I am proud of you and everything you did. You went beyond my expectations.” You told him, voice gentle as Micheal rested his head against the door’s window.

It wasn't long until you heard his slow and deep breath somehow deepen as he fell asleep. Yes. Tonight was just the beginning and your years of waiting were finally over. Micheal was now where he belonged; by your side. You knew more adventures awaited you and not just mindless killing. You had opened a door to the dark and not just Micheal had stepped in. It wasn't the last time you met with Loomis and Laurie, it was just the first of many encounters.

And you couldn't wait until the next.

[undeadoracle]

Would love to hear your thoughts on Emmrich being autistic if you don’t mind sharing? I hadn’t really considered it myself but I’m curious

Sure! to be fair, emmrich being older means he’s had a lot of time to grow into himself, develop confidence, and cultivate his personality traits in ways that work for him in his environment. But here’s a few things that stuck out to me as rather neurodivergent of him:

-he’s typically very tidy and organized. we see that he keeps inventory of what he brings to the lighthouse, and does not like things messy, even though he as a LOT of stuff; Sylvia Feketekuty herself described him as “fastidious.” he gets upset about assan coming into his space, getting into things and making messes, he doesn’t want taash to use his bone tools, says he’s glad he doesn’t share an office with neve because she leaves paperwork everywhere, etc.

-deliberately precise use of language that he considers a point of pride. He tells rook, “I always choose my words carefully,” and we see that to be true in the way he speaks to others, as well. Autistic folks often use language very meticulously because they want to be specific, and to avoid being misunderstood.

-he sometimes (perhaps even often) gets distracted at inappropriate times by things that are relevant to his interests and has to be guided back on track by rook/other members of the party.

- he’s is an extremely polite & courteous person, of course, but that’s not the same as being socially intuitive. In fact, autistic people often gravitate to being extremely polite because social conventions are rules that can be followed in order to ensure a Correct Social Interaction; they don’t require interpreting nuanced cues or reading between the lines. Emmrich often does not immediately pick up on the other companions teasing/poking fun at him; it takes a few exchanges back and forth for him to catch on, if he does at all. It’s not because he’s dumb or naive, he obviously isn’t, he just is inclined to take people at face value in a way that’s common for folks on the spectrum. See also: him getting tricked by the guy selling fake charms in tevinter. Even when he gets revenge for that, it’s less about being embarrassed on his own behalf and more a righteous indignation that someone would lie about something like that, it’s dangerous don’t you know!

- in the same vein, he’s totally bewildered and caught off guard by the flirting (at first), and wants to confirm it’s intentional and serious on rook’s part by communicating very clearly about it. Which is a good and mature thing, of course, but it’s also him clarifying that he’s interpreting rook’s overtures correctly.

- he simply cannot stop himself from constantly infodumping about necromancy and botany, his most dearly held interests. He will happily spend all day with these subjects, then talk about them some more, then read about them some more before bed. He never seems to get tired of absorbing more of them or talking about them. Most people, no matter how passionate about their work, don’t have that level of commitment in their off time. Even the fact that he wants to become a lich, which very few members of the mourn watch are willing to do, is indicative of how deeply he’s entrenched his life in necromancy. And when talking with someone who doesn’t care about either of those things, or actively dislikes them, he tends to flounder and cut the conversation short.

- furthermore, he doesn’t really know how to set people at ease with necromancy; he thinks if he just talks more and more about what he finds beautiful and valuable about it, eventually people will “get it,” even if they’re clearly uncomfortable. See especially: his conflicts with taash, some of his conversations with lucanis, etc. you could chalk this up to cultural differences, but I think most people in his position would approach the subject with a little more discretion when dealing with foreigners who definitely have different perspectives on the subject.

- he and bellara (who is deliberately neurodivergent coded) get along very harmoniously. he has no trouble keeping up with her, and they’re very much able to tap into each other’s wavelengths. Conversely, taash (also neurodivergent coded) has all the opposite traits: very unemotive, struggles to articulate themself aloud, special interests he doesn’t care about, etc., and they get on each others’ nerves without even trying. He can’t figure taash out because he can’t read between the lines of their behavior, but when it's finally made clear to him that taash is afraid of his necromancy he immediately switches gears, because he’s no longer trying to guess what he's done to offend them.

- being empathetic towards nonhuman creatures is a very common experience for autistic folks, and he’s deeply empathetic towards spirits, moreso even than other members of the mourn watch. He says they were his companions growing up, despite having other humans around that he could’ve turned to for comfort and companionship after his parents’ deaths, and he displays a degree of understanding and compassion for them that is really only on par with like, solas, as far as other characters of the franchise go.

- Sylvia also described him as “a man of large emotions,” which is a big mood, pardon the pun, for neurodivergent folk.

- obviously being homesick in and of itself isn’t unique to autism, nor is not being well traveled, but he clearly misses his personal routines; he’s thinking about how he misses his old norms and schedule when rook asks him about homesickness, and later when rook talks with him about his youth he says the repetitive rituals of the mourn watch were exactly what he needed to heal from the loss of his parents. Spending their entire life in the mourn watch could feel confining or limiting to many people, but emmrich gets away for the first time in a long time and immediately misses it. You could also link this desire to have consistency to his conflict with harding about camping; the idea of getting to see fereldan is exciting to him in theory, but having to change his regular routine (leaving behind his books, dressing gown, shaving kit etc.) upsets him. It’s not about being spoiled—he grew up poor, after all—it’s about having to give up his regular habits.

[sunderwight]

y'know what, I think it's kind of interesting to bring up Data from Star Trek in the context of the current debates about AI. like especially if you actually are familiar with the subplot about Data investigating art and creativity.

see, Data can definitely do what the AI programs going around these days can. better than, but that's beside the point, obviously. he's a sci-fi/fantasy android. but anyway, in the story, Data can perfectly replicate any painting or stitch a beautiful quilt or write a poem. he can write programs for himself that introduce variables that make things more "flawed", that imitate the particular style of an artist, he can choose to either perfectly replicate a particular sort of music or to try and create a more "human" sounding imitation that has irregular errors and mimics effort or strain. the latter is harder for him that just copying, the same way it's more complicated to have an algorithm that creates believable "original" art vs something that just duplicates whatever you give it.

but this is not the issue with Data. when Data imitates art, he himself knows that he's not really creating, he's just using his computer brain to copy things that humans have done. it's actually a source of deep personal introspection for the character, that he believes being able to create art would bring him closer to humanity, but he's not sure if he actually can.

of course, Data is a person. he's a person who is not biological, but he's still a person, and this is really obvious from go. there's no one thing that can be pointed to as the smoking gun for Data's personhood, but that's normal and also true of everyone else. Data's the culmination of a multitude of elements required to make a guy. Asking if this or that one thing is what makes Data a person is like asking if it's the flour or the eggs that make a cake.

the question of whether or not Data can create art is intrinsically tied to the question of whether or not Data can qualify as an artist. can he, like a human, take on inspiration and cultivate desirable influences in order to produce something that reflects his view on the world?

yes, he can. because he has a view on the world.

but that's the thing about the generative AI we are dealing with in the real world. that's not like Data. despite being referred to as "AI", these are algorithms that have been trained to recognize and imitate patterns. they have no perspective. the people who DO have a perspective, the humans inputting prompts, are trying to circumvent the whole part of the artistic process where they actually develop skills and create things themselves. they're not doing what Data did, in fact they're doing the opposite -- instead of exploring their own ability to create art despite their personal limitations, they are abandoning it. the data sets aren't like someone looking at a painting and taking inspiration from it, because the machine can't be inspired and the prompter isn't filtering inspiration through the necessary medium of their perspective.

Data would be very confused as to the motives and desires involved, especially since most people are not inhibited from developing at least SOME sort of artistic skill for the sake self-expression. he'd probably start researching the history of plagiarism and different cultural, historical, and legal standards for differentiating it from acceptable levels of artistic imitation, and how the use of various tools factored into it. he would cite examples of cultures where computer programming itself was considered a form of art, and court cases where rulings were made for or against examples of generative plagiarism, and cases of forgeries and imitations which required skill as good if not better than the artists who created the originals. then Geordi would suggest that maybe Data was a little bit annoyed that people who could make art in a way he can't would discount that ability. Data would be like "as a machine I do not experience annoyance" but he would allow that he was perplexed or struggling to gain internal consensus on the matter. so Geordi would sum it up with "sometimes people want to make things easy, and they aren't always good at recognizing when doing that defeats the whole idea" and Data would quirk his head thoughtfully and agree.

then they'd get back to modifying the warp core so they could escape some sentient space anomaly that had sucked the ship into intermediate space and was slowly destabilizing the hull, or whatever.

anyways, point is -- I don't think Data from Star Trek would be a big fan of AI art.

[bimboficationblues]

how is "nationalism of the oppressed" mythological

In a dual sense - 1) like all nationalisms, it relies on central myths, and 2) the idea of an innately revolutionary "nationalism of the oppressed" is itself mythical, not a useful analytical or political tool but basically a way of handwaving difficult tactical questions.

All nationalism is in some sense myth-making - it posits an underlying, intangible unity among a group of people with highly diverse and divergent interests and traits. This is part of the reason why nationalists so often talk in the abstract language of "national spirit" - abstraction is kind of the point. This intangible unity doesn't *have* to be ethnicity, it's frequently (for example) the highly nebulous concept of "culture." But the inevitable slide towards ethnicity - and I do think it is inevitable - is unsurprising.

If you identify the unifying force of a people, the thing that makes it a "nation," with something like language/religion/culture, those things are fairly fluid both in space (taking a variety of different forms across different places) and time (changing over time for any number of reasons). This is especially the case because those traits are basically "open," at least theoretically: other people can move in, learn a language, convert to a local religion, and/or learn the techniques and style of local cultural production (and in the process change the character of the culture). So the supposed unity of "culture" is very obviously made up. (It's also worth noting that, insofar as nationalism is coextensive with statecraft, we often see efforts to preserve or create a "national culture" or "national unity" that leaves out or represses certain groups and practices; figuring out what constitutes "the nation" is a highly arbitrary process.)

Ethnicity is also fake - it is a "myth of common descent" - but that quality counterintuitively makes it a more stable foundation for a nationalist political project, because it is 1) derived from something in the past, making it harder to contest or observe, and 2) an immutable trait within the myth's context. You can't identify or convert or learn your way into being a part of the ethnos, you either are or you aren't. This makes for a much more stable boundary line around who is included or prioritized within the polity and who isn't.

As for why "nationalism of the oppressed" is mythological: it is not a meaningful historical category. When people invoke it they are collapsing a bunch of different projects and movements, some of which are conservative and some of which are revolutionary. I also reject the idea that nationalism's goodness is contingent on whether it is practice by an oppressed or oppressor group and nothing else - lest we forget that Zionism was once considered a kind of "nationalism of the oppressed."

For the socialist or the revolutionary, nationalism should be considered a kind of tactic; it is not a good in itself. Any revolutionary or liberatory movement is going to have to make decisions about what they want the movement to look like - its positions, rhetoric, propaganda, goals, etc. Nationalism is a historically popular means for doing things like rallying people to your cause, establishing basic principles for statecraft, cultivating a new political and social culture, etc. This is basically Frantz Fanon's argument in Wretched of the Earth - consistent with his arguments in his previous book, Fanon rejects the notion of a prepolitical national unity. He does not want to wade around in the primordial soup for a "true history" for colonized countries to return to or emulate. But nor does he reject nationalism as a strategy for combating colonialism on the field or in the body. Rather, he wants a class-driven national culture that is emergent from within the process of anti-colonial resistance and that ultimately gives way to an internationalist, universalist humanism once its purposes have been achieved. It's an extremely qualified kind of argument. I don't totally agree with it, but it's an argument that I can wrap my head around and endorse in the broad strokes, because above all it is talking about nationalism as a means towards something.

The kind of people who bastardize Fanon and try and recuperate him into their insipid microwaved politics have this entirely fictional idea of nationalism as an innately revolutionary end, that if you put nationalism in the hands of the right people it will automatically gravitate towards liberation and will not introduce the same kind of problems that the nationalism of colonial powers or capitalist countries has. This is just demonstrably not true (*gestures vaguely at cross-pollination between black nationalisms and black conservatisms, the historical relationship between nationalism and liberal statecraft, the success of right-wing religious or ethnic nationalist movements like Hindutva or Ba’athism in post-colonial countries, etc.*), and is basically just weird, idealist nonsense about how being oppressed makes you morally virtuous.

It also has the effect of obfuscating class politics - ironic, since the people that most frequently utter this line are ML(M)s. There are quite a few "nationalisms of the oppressed" that presume the working-class of a country or a group has more in common with its local bourgeoisie or professional-class counterparts (frequently the spearheads of nationalist movements, if we wanna talk about "class character") rather than the working classes and oppressed groups of other countries.

What the "nationalism of the oppressed" myth does is effectively evade hard strategic questions. Instead of asking "how will this help the cause? what problems might it introduce? does this conflict with long-term goals and are the short-term victories going to be worth it?" it just assumes from the outset that none of those questions are worth asking. It assumes that nationalism is an automatically better foundation for a movement than humanism, or cosmopolitanism, or internationalism.