#Hit myself with the epiphany that Gray was the first one to know about this whole Neo eclipse plan.

[opaattack]

A few years ago I had a couple of dreams that really stuck with me, and I was reminded of them recently. In my dream, I had died. I found myself in this empty room, the walls lined with doors. Stood in the center was what looked like an angel. She was over twice my height. had long flowing hair, white robes, white, feathery wings, stereotypical angel stuff, no halo, though, She looked down at me with half-closed eyes and told me that each of these doors led to a different afterlife. I had to make a decision, and that decision would be permanent and eternal. She also warned me that some of the doors led to afterlives akin to what I knew as Hell, and so I should be very careful in which one I choose. I spent a lot of time deliberating, stalling mostly, as I knew I couldn't remain here, but did not want to get stuck with a bad afterlife. Eventually I chose one door and walked inside.

Thankfully, I had not chosen an afterlife of eternal suffering, but I didn't get a very good one, it seemed. I appeared to be in an office building, with dull, gray walls that stretched infinitely. I was also in a dull, gray suit, as was everyone else in this afterlife. Everyone looked depressed and lifeless, sat at cubicles, typing on computers, doing meaningless busywork for eternity. It was disappointing and disheartening to say the least. No one reacted to my arrival, and with no one to guide me, I sat at an empty cubicle and got to work. I knew none of this work meant anything, and I began to wonder why I, or anyone else here, was even doing it. Then, I had an epiphany. Everyone else who came to this afterlife had done exactly what I did. No one guided anyone to their position here except themselves. It seemed like the thing to do, so they did it. That also implied, then, that no one was enforcing this either, and thus, there was no need to do it. This afterlife provided very little, yes, but there were people here. It didn't have to be dull. We could make our own fun. We could make our own rules. I told this to the woman in the cubicle next to mine and watched the same realization hit her face. She told the people next to her, and so on, and so forth. More and more people stopped working then and there, and we began to socialize. We would make up games to play out of what little we had, or just goof around. This dream ended here, but as I led with, this was a couple of dreams.

A few nights later I dreamt and again found myself in the room with the doors and the angel. I did not remember the first dream, but I did have a strange feeling of deja vu. As the angel began to explain, exactly as she had the first time, I caught myself staring at the door I had entered a few nights before, the one that contained the endless office, though I did not know why. After the explanation was finished, I walked to a door, this time one on the wall opposite to the one I had entered last time. Rather than entering it, however, I turned back to face the angel, and I simply asked her what afterlife waited behind this door. She informed me that behind that door was an afterlife of fire and brimstone and eternal suffering, not unlike the Christian idea of Hell that I was familiar with. She also stated that, among these doors, there was one other Hell-like afterlife. Realizing that I could just ask what was behind these doors, I questioned her about this, and she noted that people rarely think to ask her. I gestured to another door and asked what lie behind it. That, it turned out, was the other Hell-like afterlife. There was some key distinction between the two, though I do not remember what it was. I continued to ask her about which doors led to which afterlife, one by one. Finding one I liked, I went in.

I was naked, as was everyone else, clothes were not allowed in this afterlife. It was sunny and beautiful, with massive beanstalks piercing the bright, blue sky. Food was littered everywhere, and all of it was pristine. There were also people all around, near and far, frolicking, relaxing, eating, and making love to one another. It was a beautiful, hedonistic paradise. However, all my attention at this point was drawn to the colossal figure before me. He was several stories tall and reclined in a massive pile of food. He was a fat, hairy man with long hair and a wavy auburn beard. He had a rosy round nose and a jolly smile. He also carried a massive wine glass in one hand that seemed to refill itself whenever he drank from its contents. He lowered his free hand to me, and as I climbed on top of it he raised it to his face. He explained to me that he was the keeper of this afterlife, each one had one, and that he made the rules for it, and that it was also his job to keep it running smoothly. After explaining to me this afterlife's whole deal, the basics of which I already knew, he set me back down on the ground, encouraging me to relax, eat, have sex, and do whatever it was I wanted forever. First, however, I wanted to explore. I came to find myself scaling one of the beanstalks, wondering just how high it went. The beanstalks all eventually terminated, though at different heights, and most went well above the clouds. What I noticed, however, was that upon many of the leaves of each stalk, there were little wooden houses. Though most people lived in the endless fields on the ground, houses were here to claim for people who preferred them. The dream did not last much longer than this, and it would end, as all dreams do.

[watcher-ofthe-sky]

Concept: Dimaria x Brandish confessing to each other before the Alvarez - Fairy Tail War; thinking that they would be perfectly fine and alive when the whole thing gets over and would be happy together then.

Zeref: Plan B. NeO eCliPsE

[springsaladgaming]

What was the process for the ROs in realizing that they're queer? Just asking because I'm very very queer myself and love learning other people's stories!

Hi, anon!

As a very queer person and as the writer of these characters, I would love to talk about this. If I get too into it, I could probably be here all day, but I'll give a rundown for each of the characters.

Alex was always very charismatic and popular growing up. This was one of the triggers to them starting to realize that they maybe weren't in the box everyone was constantly trying to fit them into. Their family was somewhat of a factor too what with their parents being a little bit old-fashioned and not very comfortable with being open-minded. Their grandmother and sister, however, have always been great supports in their life, and talking with them helped Alex to understand themself a bit more. Alex came out as nonbinary around the age of 12-13, though they started questioning their gender identity a couple of years before that. Alex is very comfortable now with how they identify, but they still have a lot of insecurities about their appearance. As for their sexuality, once they started breaking down the walls of the binary for their own gender identity, the gender identity of their prospective romantic partners started to matter less and less. This next bit is conditional on when the MC met Alex, but a certain childhood crush on a certain friend's older brother may have also been an early wake-up call to their bisexuality. (You heard it here first—for MCs who met Alex as young kids or in middle school, Alex had a childhood crush on Sungjae at one point. They have never mentioned this to MC.)

Teagan is still in the process of discovering things about his identity. He was raised in a very rigid household and didn't have the time (nor the emotional or mental capacity under the abuse he was enduring) to really consider his sexuality. Now that he's out of survival mode, he's had time to explore and is just in the beginnings of realizing he's bisexual. To be perfectly blunt, he doesn't actually know yet that he's demiromantic. That's something he might have an epiphany about during the course of Ninelives.

Ansel didn't discover his transidentity until his early-to-mid-teens, and that's correlated with his reasons for dropping out of school and running away from home around that age. He hit puberty around that time, and the more his body changed, the more unhappy he was with it. He knew he was bisexual several years earlier than that, however, though the revelation wasn't as life-changing as learning about his gender identity. It wasn't something he really thought much about at that age—he just knew. By the time it would have even occured to him to explore his sexuality more, he was dealing with the stressors of gender dysphoria and couldn't really allocate the mental energy to both. By the time he moved past all of that, he had a very "screw it, who cares, I'm just me" kind of epiphany about all facets of his identity and starting rolling with whatever made him most comfortable.

Cherry, like Teagan, is very much still in the process of discovering her identity. She has a lot of difficulty taking the initiative to meet people, so this has not afforded her the opportunity to really explore her sexuality. I've never listed this under her character description, but it would be accurate to consider Cherry somewhere in the demisexual/gray-ace area. Generally, romantic attraction must preclude physical attraction for her, but there are exceptions. (As an example, regardless of how her relationship develops with Lucia during the course of the story, Lucia is someone that Cherry finds very physically attractive.) She doesn't really know how to term her sexuality yet, but, given enough time, she will eventually come to identify as pansexual.

Lucia is another character who is coming to some realizations about her sexuality during Ninelives. She still believes she is only attracted to men, but that's something that will change dependent on how relationships advance during the course of the story. Even if the story of Ninelives didn't happen—if her life led her in a different direction from this group—she would still discover that she is bisexual eventually. It's just a matter of meeting the right people. There was a very brief period of time that Lucia contemplated her gender identity as well. Though I don't think I've explicitly mentioned this in any of her descriptors, Lucia is an intersex woman. The topic of being intersex was a catalyst for the question of her gender identity in her early teen years, though she ultimately decided that she was most comfortable identifying as a woman. That hasn't changed since and is not likely to change in the future.

Rene started to realize that he was ace around the same time that other kids his age started prioritizing dating and sex—somewhere between late middle school and early high school. It was less an epiphany moment for him than it was many years of wondering why physical attraction was such a motivator for others. He kept assuming he'd understand one day. The realization that he actually would not understand was a gradual one and didn't fully culminate until he himself started dating in late high school. He didn't quite know what name to put to it until after he was out of high school, but by that time he was immersed enough in lgbtqia+ friend circles to comfortably explore and also discover that he is panromantic.

??? is someone whose identities I haven't talked about a lot since I've tried to keep certain things about her under wraps until she's revealed in Ninelives. So, for starters, I'll say that she is a cis woman and she is bisexual. Though she suspected, she didn't really know she was bisexual until her mid-twenties, which is around the time she gained the freedom and confidence to act more like herself in public—prior to that point, she had certain expectations from her family that made her behave a certain way. Those expectations aren't completely gone, but she holds more respect in her family than she used to and is thus less concerned about meeting expectations that go against who she is. For her, the process of realizing her sexuality involved a lot of imagination until she could really act on it.

Thanks for the ask, anon! I hope I covered what you were looking for.

[meatcrimes]

so i finally finished The Frontier. here’s my final thoughts:

new vegas runs so much faster and smoother since uninstalling the frontier and all related hotfixes

i will say one positive thing about this mod and it’s the sheer variety of different items in the world. not just the guns, but the consumables, workbench & campfire recipes, combining consumables to make healing items that are on par with the wasteland omelette or fiend stew.

i know this mod was being developed before fallout 4 was released but this would have been so much better, from a technical standpoint and from a story standpoint, if this were a fallout 4 mod. if this was essentially a Where Are They Now mod that explored what the ncr/legion/bos did following the second battle of hoover dam, this would have been a better story. for example, legate valerius becoming the next Caesar after the deaths of Edward Sallow and Legate Lanius and how the changes he implemented made the legion almost unrecognizable

speaking of legion, i played the legion quest line and most of the crusaders quest line so these are all opinions from that perspective

the de-fanging of the legion was disappointing. i wanted to play with the villain faction, or at least a morally gray faction who is no better than the other choices. the legion could still be evil even with the “liberal” valerius in charge. the ending where the northern legion abolished slavery, gave women equal rights and power, and allowed modern technology was disappointing because they were clearly trying to remove a lot of what made the legion evil in the first place. a “liberal” legion that, for example, uses slavery as a punishment for crimes that you’re freed from when your sentence is up, is still evil and still villainous

or a legion that allowed women to have limited roles as priestesses, doctors and frumentaria (which i hc that the mainland legion is already doing but wtvr). that could have been what the “liberal” new caesar has done while still maintaining the legion’s misogyny

SPEAKING OF WHICH. legate valerius had an epiphany and supported women’s equality when his daughters were born which is unintentionally hilarious because that’s how a lot of real life men start caring about women’s issues

the mission where you have to kill a slaver and when you get to her you find she’s already been captured by other slavers. and how that was the end of the quest. and you lost karma for killing her or setting her free. there’s a lot to unpack here but let’s just set the whole suitcase on fire

also the indigenous coded tribe that was wiped out by an STD. yeah. not over that

and the Followers doctor who knowingly gave the courier a blood transfusion from someone with syphilis

the other followers doctor, Welick, who blamed all of his problems in life on arcade gannon

(from subtext we can gather that Arcade exposed illegal/unethical things Welick was doing and the reason everyone “had arcade fever” was just them acknowledging that Welick was wrong. and the reason he “left” the followers is that he was actually kicked out. welick is an unreliable narrator but i’m willing to bet 35 bottle caps and a wrinkly $5 NCR bill that most of the players did not pick up on that)

scrapz my beloved ❤️

seriously scrapz was the highlight of this mod. you know that post that’s like “when you know you can do a canon character better so you just steal them and make them your oc”? that’s what i wanna do with scrapz. he deserved a better mod

also… the fact that we can flirt with scrapz with a black widow check (and i think confirmed bachelor too but i am not replaying this mod in order to see) and he openly admits to being horny on main for humans (paraphrased, but honestly tell me that doesn’t sound like a real line from this mod) and yet we can’t have sex with him!??

he clearly has advanced enough AI to give him the ability to consent, since he leaves the player if you get too far in the crusaders quest line (and i assume ncr too but once again. not replaying to check). we can fuck the chem-obsessed Argonian queen. we can fuck a deathclaw. but we can’t fuck a robot despite being able to have sex with FISTO in the base game

the entire Dr Voss quest. i’m still not sure what that was. it’s just a blur of blood sewers, finding keys, and increasingly incomprehensible notes

when callidus revealed AJ was his sister and he didn’t want you to kill her but capture her and reunite them. and then i killed her anyway because it’s what she would have wanted, between death and the legion

“you prevented silus from being interrogated” x103

the weird romance-but-not between legate valerius and the courier. like he lets you sleep in his bed for a well rested bonus, his personal quest is called I Was Made For Loving You, his weird protectiveness of the courier, and of course that unintentionally erotic interrogation scene. and near the beginning i swear there was dialogue with him that was like “you were out cold for days, but I never left your side. it looked like you weren’t going to pull through, but I ordered my men to spare no expense to ensure you recovered. i tended to most of your wounds myself, working late into the night to set your broken bones and repair your torn ligaments” etc etc you get the point

the NCR commander named Tiberius Rancor who no one suspected was a legion plant

the radioactive super mutants that had a melee weapon called Kitchen Sink and it literally was a whole entire kitchen sink ripped from a building. and the courier couldn’t use it

the repair tool for the cars in the game but when you used it, it kept giving you the achievement for knocking down enemies so it was basically a source of infinite xp

the fucking space enclave. the enclave, in space. they never were defeated by the chosen one or the lone wanderer, they just fled to outer fucking space for some reason

the cannibal ice ghouls with 3500 hit points. you know what i mean. the fact that this mod was set way too far south to be seeing them, and basically did nothing accurate to the mythology at all except that they were cannibals, and didn’t even pluralize the word correctly. i understand this was probably inspired by fallout 76 but 76 should not have had those creatures either

in conclusion: i was determined to finish this mod and i’m glad i can say i did, but was it worth it? was it really worth it? no

[chunhua-s]

congrats on your milestone event!!! id like to request for kita soulmate!au with angst to fluff genre 👉👈 yknow sumn rejection shit bcs im hopeless like that wehee once again congrats! and i love your writing style :3

anon you’re gonna make me cry 🥺 seriously i’m happy you enjoy my writing and that you think my style’s okay! most of the time i go off of what kind of feelings i get when i’m writing or the imagery that comes up in my head and i’m never sure that it translates well enough for you guys to feel or see the same thing. hopefully as i keep writing then i’ll be able to show you guys what’s on my mind better when i’m writing! thank you again for requesting — seriously, it means a lot! and like always, you guys, don’t be afraid to come and talk to me on and off anon! your interactions mean a lot, especially for content creators! we love hearing what you all think, what you like/dislike about our work, what you think of certain characters — absolutely anything! come and talk with us more whenever you can 💕

writing for kita feels calming somehow. normally the things that come up in my chest or my mind when i write gets nearly overwhelming if that makes sense? like i’ll have to pause and remind myself to breathe because it takes up so much of my attention that i kinda get lost, but with kita, it feels more flowey to me. it’s not demanding but more like a gentle coaxing kind of thing or like looking at the surface of a calm river. i was initially scared to write for him because i was worried i wouldn’t get him right, but i feel satisfied with how this turned out, i think. i hope you guys will find it as calming as i found it too! it might not be exactly what you wanted, but because i had already written the rejection of a person for atsumu’s soulmate oneshot, i wanted to play around with kita’s character and make it instead the rejection of a concept/idea? which would indirectly lead to him... you know, rejecting his soulmate initially, but— ahhhhhh it might make sense to just read it!! these rambles keep getting longer and longer :v i’m sorry for that!! please go ahead and read and tell me what you think in the end! 💕

NOTNING MORE THAN HUMAN ➽ KITA SHINSUKE x READER

genre: angst to fluff

au: soulmate

warnings: none

shinsuke kita is human.

and of course, that much is obvious. he isn’t a machine that’s incapable of feelings and emotions, whose heart is unfamiliar with melodies of an overwhelming joy, or the quiet hymns of deep rooted sadness. his skin still burns under righteous fury and anger, his tongue still weighs heavy under hesitance and silent worries. at the end of every long day, he’s still human.

it’s because he’s human that the words on his collarbone feel so heavy, as if they might cave into the bone and destroy him under their weight. it’s because he’s human that the sight of black markings in the mirror clouds his mind with a new kind of fear and worry. shinsuke kita is human, but he’s long since taught himself how to abandon anxiety and nervousness. he surrounds himself in familiar routines that calm the turbulent voices of doubt, he builds habits that ground him to the earth lest he should be swept away by the current. shinsuke has taught himself not to be afraid for the things that will happen everyday, but meeting his soulmate isn’t one of those things he can prepare for.

it’s a strange concept, he considers to himself. shinsuke doesn’t believe in words like fate or destiny, doesn’t care for the higher powers that should judge his actions. as far as he’s concerned, his own will is what dictates where his life goes — he’s in control, and that’s how it’s always been for him. let the gods watch, if they must, but he’s already decided that he’ll live by what is right, and he wouldn’t dare falter in the face of it. and yet — and it’s such a strange thing for him to do so — he pauses under the notion of a soulmate, of a destined partner who’s supposedly bound to him for as long as he should live. at first, he hadn’t given the idea much thought; it wouldn’t serve any purpose to worry about something that would happen whether or not he wants it, he decided. the truth of it is inevitable, just as the leaves must fall in autumn and the earth should be buried under clouds of white in winter. shinsuke is human — what more can he do but to accept it?

the black words that spread across his skin like droplets of ink became the bitter seeds of doubt that he hadn’t felt in a long time. it’s raining a lot today, isn’t it? the sentence by itself is so bland, like something maybe aran or anyone else might say to him in passing, and at first, it didn’t shake him too much, until he was caught one day under a sudden summer storm. seventeen year old kita somehow found himself stranded beneath a small shelter, where the wooden covering could protect him more than his umbrella until the rain passed. it was nearly unconscious, but he somehow found himself on edge, his breath faltered with the harsh pitter patter of rainfall that tumbled from green leaves and tore ripples from the surface of the lake. shinsuke kita found himself with a stomach full of butterflies and a thundering heartbeat that stole him away from solace and calm, cast the peace that he would so often carry with him away and left him stranded among chopping waves. every trembling breath he took stung on cold air and left him with a burning feeling on his lungs. it’s unfamiliar in its presence and shakes him to his core, but shinsuke kita is reminded of his own humanity when he realizes that what he feels, is anticipation and nervousness.

and it’s an odd thing. as he becomes aware of it, he finds himself twisting his fingers together during spring time; he worries his bottom lip between his teeth during unexpected showers. he feels like a child who stands in line to ride a roller coaster for the first time in his life — wide-eyed and drowning in the millions of feelings that race throughout his body. the feeling itself is nothing new, though it’s unfamiliar and intense in its ferocity and demand, seizes his heart and squeezes so tightly that whenever it rains, he’s left breathless.

it’s almost enough to drive him mad.

his very foundation seems to fall apart with the thunder that rolls across grey skies. for every drop of rain that hits the pavement, he finds himself a jittery mess as his heartbeat tears through his chest. the man who taught himself to abandon his fears reverts into the young boy who watched out for god, for the higher beings who watched his every move. and the thought that comes with every brilliant bolt of lightning burns him just as hotly, invasive and demanding when it flashes through his mind on a single, low whisper:

will you be happy?

shinsuke kita is human. he learns as he sees and lives as he’s learned, and what he saw growing up was that soulmates were bounded together till death do them part. a connection that’s set deep in stone, never to be erased by unforgiving weather and to persevere during the cruelest of storms. it’s an inevitable reality that the gods designed, so that mortals like himself should dance on stage and tell them a story. but shinsuke knows that not all these stories have a happy ending.

there are plays that end in tragedy and loss, those that only knew memories of pain and sang with death’s violin. man becomes the actor to a play that he has no choice in and dances on the puppet master’s strings, he surrenders control and gives himself up to the music, and he has no way of knowing the end of it until the curtains should fall. shinsuke has never been one to lay down his will, and yet, as winter melts once more into gray rain clouds and scattered showers, he’s reminded of his mortality, of the fate that’s been sealed away in the falling of rain. shinsuke kita is human, and so he must, like all men do, bend to fate’s will and never utter a word against her.

and for a long time, the sentiment caused him to completely reject the idea of a soulmate.

that feeling of helplessness that would wash over him with the rain turned into a bitterness that crushed his lungs between tightened fist. the acceptance of an inevitable waltz — whether it be to eternal happiness or to a cruel melody — turned into rebellious loathing that spat in the face of destiny. it’s entirely childish in its tale, like a toddler throwing a tantrum because he doesn’t want to give up his precious toy. that toy is his control, the power he had to live his life by his truth, not by that of a higher being. he’s human, after all, and humans are selfish and resentful by nature.

he finds himself with a heavy chest today, as well, as he waits for the pouring rain to subside. the small shelter in the middle of the garden park is familiar, and carries with it the memories of his epiphany, the one that created thunder storms in his once tranquil heart, and for that, he hates this place. the sound of the rain hitting the roof is like nails scratching against the chalkboard; the sound of droplets hitting the lake like an annoying whining that he can’t get out of his head. shinsuke curses this little pocket away from the world with all the childish anger in the world — let it be damned that doing so wouldn’t change anything. for once, he let himself go on a petty grudge against the universe, and against that looming stage and its heavy curtains.

it’s nearly faint, but he picks up on the patter-patter of footfalls that quickly approach him, and he turns bronze coloured eyes to find your rain-drenched figure running for shelter under the little gazebo. you’re out of breath by the time you make it underneath, letting out an exhausted and frustrated sigh as you press your hands to your knees, and shinsuke finds himself sympathizing with the way you bitterly push your hair from your face. you’re an ordinary office worker, from what he can see; you’ve hidden what looks to be a messenger back beneath your coat, leaving you to tremble in a thin button-up. this day’s downpour had been sudden, unexpected as spring would soon surrender to the approaching summer, and he imagines that he would have been in a similar position as yourself had he not packed his umbrella beforehand.

a silence settles over the both of you that’s only broken by the heavy rain, but the presence of it is so soothing that shinsuke finds himself breathing on a lighter air. suddenly the smell of petrichor turns sweeter, the melody of raindrops melting into a distant lullaby, and for the first time, shinsuke feels his heart melt under an indescribable sense of warmth despite the weather. and when your eyes turn to find his, a helpless grin on your lips, he feels that warmth explode under summer fireworks and coarse throhgh his veins like liquid lightning.

“it’s raining a lot today, isn’t it?”

for the second time in his life, shinsuke has an epiphany under the shelter in the garden.

he feels every bit of resentment vanish on a sudden gust of wind, one that sends raindrops splashing against his skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice. not when grey clouds suddenly reveal to him pillars of sunlight that embrace your figure and makes you glow against a background of green leaves. the rain turns into something sweet and enticing, and it suddenly gives shinsuke this unexplainable urge to grab your hand and dance with you underneath the pouring showers, where he can hear your voice ring out on chimes of laughter and innocent bliss. in mere seconds, he manages to let go of the dark clouds that he’d unintentionally harboured on his chest, he let them burst with the weight of anger and childish fury so that they would hit the earth on giant droplets of rain.

shinsuke kita is human — he’s imperfect, mortal. he feels and he thinks and he speaks what’s on his mind. he can hate, and he can love: he can make that decision on whether or not to hold useless grudges and to curse a destiny he can’t change, or to welcome that inevitability with the willingness to learn and grow.

today, as he stands beneath a wooden shelter, hiding from the heavy rains, he decides to stretch his hand out and let the water hit his skin.

davi hits 200 followers — haikyuu!! au writing event! 💕

taglist: @aiiishiiiteru @bootylikepeachy @tsumue

send an ask to be added!

[allthebooksandcrannies]

Just some thoughts on maturity...

This is going to get long so there’ll be more under the cut.

I saw a post the other day about how it can be tempting particularly for the older crowd on this website to judge or condescend those who seem to struggle with expressing or holding truly complex ideas and instead getting stuck in a binary mentality of good vs bad or us vs them. then the post went on to point out that its not really their fault considering that a major proportion of tumblr users are under 25 (according to this report, 39% of users are under 25 and 66% are under 35) and devopmentally this is really where we see the ability to hold complex feelings and accept the existence of multiple realities really start to develop and it was kind of an epiphany for me. 

I don’t want to come across as condescending, after all, i’m part of that 39% myself and can admit that i’m still working on this skillset. But part of emotional maturity is being able to accept and understand that the world is a complicated or gray place and morality is, if not exactly relative, at least exists on a continuum (what is acceptable and even praise-worthy in one culture might be taboo or reprehensible in another [which is why we need to avoid judging past or foreign cultures by our own cultural norms/morals]).  

Just as it is possible to do the wrong thing for the right reasons or the right thing for the wrong reasons and it be both right and wrong at the same time, there can be multiple truths and “realities” at the same time without either being more or less correct than the other. I know that might sound confusing or convoluted but let me explain. You’ve probably heard the expression that there are three truths: your truth, my truth, and the actual truth is somewhere in the middle. I agree with this to an extent. People can look at the same experience and come up with radically different narratives to explain what happened to themselves or others and generally they are both a little biased because the brain naturally works from an egocentric point of view (this isn’t necessarily the same thing as a selfish/arrogant pov, but that we tend to view things based on their relationships to ourselves even if they aren’t actually connected to us, ie a child that sees that their parent is upset about something that happened during their day but assumes that it is somehow their own fault, which gets into some theory of mind stuff that is honestly a whole other post and not really the point). 

An example from my own life, is a common argument that my mother and i rehash a lot lately. Just going off of the things actually said aloud (which is only ever half the argument), my mom likes to ask for constant progress reports on things like my thesis or grad school applications or my love life and then proceeds to tell me what she thinks i should do. Sometimes i humor her and let it go, but other times i try to explain that talking about the things that i’m anxious about actually makes my anxiety related procrastination worse and that i would appreciate it if she wouldn’t ask as often. Those are the main events that lead up to it. 

From what i can tell, she views her questions as good parenting. She has told me before that she felt hurt as a kid by how uninvolved her parents were in her own adolescence/early adulthood and doesn’t want to make same mistakes.  She then takes my request not to ask as a rejection of her parenting, and usually responds by telling me that i should stop being bothered because she’s just trying to help and i’ll feel better if i just do what she’s suggesting (and then proceeds to say “see, aren’t you glad you have a mom who pushes you to do these things” once i finish a project.)

there really is no winning because my mother has never really learned that the things you do to be helpful can still be harmful. in her mind, she can’t be in the wrong because that would make her a bad mom and she can’t be a bad mom because she loves us. sure, she might be able to accept this idea in fiction or in the abstract, but isn’t able to put it into practice because that is a learned skill that she has never known to try to learn. i think a lot of people end up stuck there. tbh its still my first instinct a lot of the time and its only through a lot of courses geared towards developing critical thinking and empathy, a lot of fiction meta analysis, and reading about a million fanfics that each interpret the same canon event differently based on the author’s personal experiences coloring what they viewed as important.

my first instinct is to view my mother’s refusal to change her behavior as a disrespect/invalidation of my feelings. I feel guilty because i know that i should do the things she’s suggesting but that is never the issue, the issue is that i have trouble actually making myself do it. For a long time that egocentric worldview (and that instinct kids have to implicitly trust hteir gaurdians) told me that both the executive dsyfunction and the fighting were my fault. It felt like she was saying that if i was better or smarter or more mature surely i would be able to do this on my own. it felt like she was saying that if i was a better daughter i wouldn’t hurt her feelings like this. 

But i’ve been learning that neither one of us were truly correct and we both were at the same time. Those feelings and concerns were real to us, even if we were both projecting our own insecurities onto the other person. Those feelings were valid and understandable but (and this is incredibly important) that did not give either one of us a free pass on how we acted on those insecurities.  It didn’t make us bad people but it did mean that we were engaging in toxic behavior that just hurt both of us.

So, the question becomes “what do i do with that?” Now that i know we were both responding from a place of trauma and insecurity in the past, how do we change how we act in the future? I think we have to get to a point where we can look at a situation and truly try to understand the internal dialogue that the other side is experiencing in the moment (why they feel the way they feel, do we really have evidence that they feel what we think they feel or are we projecting, are they acting well-intentioned/malicious or are they even considering the ramifications at all/do they have any conscious intentions) and come to a point where we can truly empathize with them, not sympathize with them, not feel sorry for them, but truly see it from their side and understand where they are coming from. we should remember that we’re all a little broken. and we should be gracious and merciful. 

That doesn’t mean we have to be happy about it. We don’t even need to think that they have a good point or that their pov is reasonable or forgivable (sometimes it just isn’t, and its important to understand that too). But it means not dehumanizing the enemy or oversimplifying their position into the general “bad guy” role. You can forgive without absolving and you can understand and show compassion without forgiving or accepting.

You need to set boundaries, and you need to accept that at the end of the day the way that they respond is not on you, not if you’ve acted based on that understanding we talked about earlier and treated them with at least the bare amount of dignity we are all entitled to as human beings. 

Returning to the previous example, with my mother, i now make a point when we disagree of first summarizing and acknowledging the validity of what i understand her intent to be, making it clear that i appreciate that she cares and is trying to be helpful. Then i explain my point of view not as what she makes me feel (because that would come across as judgement that would prompt natural, though incredibly unhelpful defensiveness) but as to how i feel based on my interpretation of the action. I try to make this sound as nonjudgemental as possible without making it anyone’s fault, including my own (which i admit can be easier said than done). Then, i give an alternative suggestion for what would actually be helpful and then it is in her hands. It is up to her whether or not to accept the boundary i have set up.  

In an ideal world she would respect my wishes and alter her behavior. after all, she is supposed to be the adult/parent in this relationship. the emotional labor isn’t supposed to be on the child, at least not the majority of it. 

(side note: this goes for relationships of equals such as significant others, friends, siblings, extended families, and peers. in a healthy relationship of equals you should be splitting the emotional labor equally. if they aren’t trying as hard as you are, you probably need to have a conversation about that and based on the outcome then evaluate how much, if any, of yourself is safe/healthy to continue to pour into the relationship)

But because many people, adults and adolescents alike, have not reached this level of emotional maturity and can’t honestly/completely accept or acknowledge their own flaws and mistakes without their sense of self taking a hit, sometimes its not enough.  My mother, no matter how respectfully i phrase my concerns and request, continues to insist on asking the same nagging questions that trigger a lot of my childhood emotional drama related to being good enough for my parents impossible standards.  I understand why she behaves the way that she does but the fact of the matter is that she still continues to hurt me and no longer has plausible deniability in those situations.  I have the right to be angry, though i do not have the right to lash out or respond in kind. 

I do, however, have the right and the responsibility to myself to do what i can to protect myself from further harm. I still want a positive relationship with my mother, we have plenty of good moments and are very similar people. But i have to be willing and able to remove myself from unsafe situations. Usually that means making it clear that i won’t be answering the questions and not calling or texting with her until the point is made (even if this leaves her surly). 

I had to lower my expectations for her as well. I had a high opinion of my mother because she can be very nurturing and compassionate, especially when we are in agreement. So i thought on some level that if i shared the information and the sources that prompted me to begin my own journey of self-actualization and personal growth in earnest that she would react similarly and understand why i needed her to at least try to do the same. Piece of advice, kiddos, it’s not your job to fix someone, no matter how much you love them nor how much potential they have. It needs to be on them, and they need to make that decision for themselves or it won’t work anyway.

I am trying to accept that unless she makes the decision on her own, she isn’t going to become the mother i want her to be. That’s an incredibly sad thing to realize about someone you love, but its true. If i don’t let that expectation go, our relationship will always be one of disappointment and eventually resentment. Instead, I've had to evaluate what conversations we are and are not able to have in a healthy manner, and just let things be what they will be.  I know my own worth (when my brain chemistry cooperates) and i have a lot of good, healthy relationships in my life that i can turn to when i need something my mom doesn’t know how to give me. 

It’s painful to grow and realize you’re leaving people behind in the process. You can offer them the tools to follow, and give them the support that they need to do so, but only if they want to. 

But i promise you its worth it.  When you accept your own worth with rather than despite your own flaws, when you learn to do the same with others, you realize that there’s a lot more hope for humanity than you thought.  we are capable of so many great things if we are in an environment that fosters our best selves. and even when we are not, we are still capable of growing past our trauma and hurt so that we don’t have to continue the cycle of pain and misery. We can’t control everyone and everything around us, they still have a measure of personal responsibility to themselves and others that you can’t absolve them from.  But you can be an example to them. You can show them through your own life and actions that things can be better, even if they weren’t aware of how much they need things to improve, or how much they deserve it. You deserve good things but you wait for someone to solve it for you. You have to fight for yourself and struggle against falling into the trap of the familiar. It is going to be scary, it is going to be confusing. there will be times when you don’t trust your own interpretations of your emotions and perceptions (especially if you weren’t taught to do so as a kid, its not your fault, but what happens next is up to you). When those times come you’re going to want to have good friends or mentors at your side or as a source of hope that things will be better and that there are people who can and will offer you the help you need along the way. No one can do it alone, and you don’t have to.  For me, my college roommates were my first clue that maybe things weren’t as good with my mother as i assumed, they fostered my confidence and my self-worth and i was constantly afraid i was going to scare them away but they had my back.  I didn’t think i deserved to be happy, i didn’t think i was worthy for anything outside what i could do or give for others and they showed me that i was worthy just as i was.  it was creators like @goldkirk and @maychorian and @cdelphiki and @sohotthateveryonedied that taught me through their works what healthy family relationships (particularly between parent and child) should look like, what unhealthy relationships can do to you, and that families of choice are just as valuable as those of law or blood. And @goldkirk especially, i want you to know that reading your blog, be it the ups, or the downs, your knowledge of things like child development and mental health, and even the things that you find helpful and reblog have meant so much to me.  I have a lot in common with your Tim and with you and you have given me so much hope and confirmation and affirmation that i’m not alone in my experiences and that i deserve to be happy, even if the road isn’t a straight line. and lately i have to say thank you to @mahpotatoequeen for just straight up deciding to be my new mom this summer. I don’t have the words for how much i appreciate you and how much it meant to me that in one of the worst crisis of my life that there was someone who saw the things i had posted just to get out of my system, things i had never said to anyone before and that came from a really broken and painful place, and reached out and stuck around rather than just continuing to scroll and go about their day.

But I digress. My point is that there are people out there that you can learn from and there are people out there who will care. And maybe we all owe it to each other to strive to become the healthiest version of ourselves, so that maybe someday we can be that for someone else.  just a thought.

(I can’t find the original post i referenced earlier but if someone knows what i’m talking about plz send me the link so i can give credit where credit is due)

[cerezsis]

Chipped

Chapter Three: Era Zero

Summary: White Diamond reveals her origins, and how she came to create Gray Diamond.

WARNING: This chapter contains descriptions of the death of loved ones, and mention of graphic violence. Tread cautiously.

--

           The group was dead silent as they followed White through her wing of the palace. White’s gaze was straight ahead, and her thoughts a mile away. She’d kept this door locked for eons, never intending to reveal its contents to anyone. The thought of having to open it, especially in front of everyone, was terrifying. Every inch of her being was telling her to stop, to retreat to her room and bar the door, but that wasn’t an option. Not this time.

           “I haven’t been honest about my origins,” White began, the disassociation in her voice weighing heavily, “In fact, I don’t believe I’ve said much about it at all. I was made by a race of beings called cessineans. They were an organic species, and the original occupants of Homeworld and its first six colonies. They created not only myself, but gemkind as a whole. I was the newest gem type, created to protect and govern the cessineans… and I didn’t emerge alone.”

           She turned a corner, leading them through an older, seldom used corridor.

           “Her name was Black Diamond. We were to rule Homeworld together, and if that was a success, our rule was to expand to the colonies. Despite our power, we were bound to the word of the cessineans. They made us gems to serve as their servants and soldiers. We served their empire, fought their wars, and built their colonies.

          “It was just a few years into our existence that Black and I had an epiphany. Our purpose was to create the perfect world, but a perfect world couldn’t exist with the cessinean in it. They were…” She paused, realizing that Steven would correct her if she continued with her original thought. “… what I considered at the time to be an inferior species. Us gems were created to be the perfect soldiers, the perfect servants, the perfect beings. So what were we doing serving such an inferior race? If we were to truly have the perfect empire, the cessineans had to be eliminated.”

           Steven stopped, his eyes widening in horror. “So you killed them all?”

           “I did what I… what I thought had to be done.” Still looking away, she urged them all to press on. “It wasn’t a simple task. Even with our superiority, the cessineans has us outnumbered. For every one of us, there were a hundred of them. We had to –”

           “This is a fascinating history lesson, but we’ve wasted enough time already,” Yellow interrupted, her tone cold and eyes narrowed with impatience, “What exactly is the point of telling us any of this? These cessineans have what exactly to do with what’s happening now?”

           White paused and spared a glance at Yellow. On any other day, she would’ve reprimanded her for interrupting, but her mind was too far elsewhere.

           “That symbol that came with the message, it was the cessinean’s emblem. I had all trace of their rein destroyed after I won the war. No one should know what it looked like, or that it ever existed at all.”

           Yellow blinked. “So for us to have seen it means a few of them escaped you?”

           “I… suppose so, yes.”

           “Fantastic.” Yellow would’ve rolled her eyes, had she not been speaking directly to White Diamond. “And what of Black? Why, after all this time, have you decided we need to know about her existence now? And when exactly does Gray Diamond come into all this?”

           White didn’t answer right away. There was a painful knot in her chest as she began walking again.

           “Black and I… we always had a… a strong bond. She was the first face I saw when I emerged, the being I was supposed to spend eternity with. We even shared a… bit of a psychic connection. I could always tell when she was feeling things strongly, and she could always tell with me. I loved her with all my being.”

           Finally, they reached their destination. To the others, it looked like she’d taken them to a bare wall, but White knew all too well the secrets it held. Hesitantly, she touched a spot on the wall, causing the space around her hand to glow in the shape of a diamond. The camouflage faded away, revealing an old door. Another touch from White, and it opened.

           The air in the room was stale and heavy with dust. Ancient artifacts were piled haphazardly across the floor, barely leaving enough space for a walking path. Leaning up against the walls were the remains of murals, their surfaces covered so thickly with dust that the only way they were even identifiable as murals was the elegant shapes of their frames. Strange pieces of diamond-size furniture were laid out throughout the room, seemingly the only things that were originally intended to be in there. Blue, Yellow, and Spinel were very confused as to what the purpose of the furniture could have been, but Steven recognized it almost immediately. The designs were vintage by human standards, but it was unmistakably nursery furniture.

           “Black and I had a vision for the empire, one we knew we wouldn’t be able to complete with just the two of us,” White continued, staring longingly at the ancient galaxy mobile that hung from the ceiling, “And with the war with the cessineans still raging on, we needed to prove to gems everywhere that our word was greater than the organics. That our rule was greater than the organics. In short, we… With intent to spite their laws, Black and I made life together. Gray Diamond is our daughter.”

           The whiplash from White’s words hit almost immediately. No one seemed to remember how to form a coherent sentence. The floor could’ve caved in and the whole planet imploded, and they would’ve been left with less questions and confusion than they had now.

           “But…” Steven finally stammered, “Gems can’t…”

           “They can’t anymore,” White corrected, “And since you’re all so uninterested in “history lessons,” I’ll save that for another day. All you need to know is that I do possess the ability to incubate a gem in my body.”

           None of them uttered another word. White’s brow unfurrowed, and her gaze once again refused to meet the others.

           “I gave birth to Gray after a pivotal battle against the cessineans. With our new child and latest victory, Black and I knew our triumph would be imminent. We enjoyed just under two decades as a family before…” She paused, trying to suppress whatever it was she felt welling up in her chest. “We only had one more cessinean colony to conquer before we were truly victorious. I needed to observe the production of our latest batch of soldiers, so Black and Gray traveled ahead of me to the rendezvous point. I still have no idea how the cessineans knew…”

           She stopped herself again. The lump in her chest was rising to her throat. “The day I was supposed to meet them, I was informed that our base had been bombed. I refused to believe it. I refused to believe…

          “There was barely anything left.” Despite her efforts, she couldn’t stop her voice from shaking. “Our base, our gems, it was all in ruins. All of it, just… gone. I found their shards scattered together in the rubble. Do you know what that’s like? Do you have any idea what that does to you? To scour through rubble, knowing you’re just looking for remains, to hold your baby’s shards in your –”

           The lump in her throat she’d been fighting finally rose enough to force her words to stop. She quickly turned away, trying to hide the tears that stung dangerously in her eyes, and quietly chastising herself for breaking now. After all this time, why did she have to be so weak, and right in front of everyone?

           Spinel was the first to approach her, followed quickly by Steven. White hesitated but allowed herself to drop to her knees to be comforted by them. Though the size difference made it difficult, they embraced her the best they could. Blue and Yellow stood, frozen in place. Neither of them quite knew what to do.

           “I can’t remember much of what happened after that,” White admitted, somberly, “I know I killed many cessineans, even shattered some gems in my grief, but I can’t… I won the war, that’s all I know. In less than a year, the cessineans were obliterated.” She turned her head towards Blue and Yellow, though none of them made eye contact.

           “I spent a few millennia alone before I even started the process of bringing you two and Pink into existence. Before I could do that, I needed to take Black and Gray out of existence. I spent eons remaking and replacing gems, dismantled statues, and destroyed all records even mentioning Black and Gray. Anything I couldn’t bring myself to destroy, I tossed in here. I couldn’t allow their memory to haunt me any longer, and I couldn’t allow myself to love like that again. I couldn’t afford… Once that was done, I made you three, and Era One began.”

           The room fell silent. No one quite knew where to go from there.

           “White…” Blue began, hesitantly, “If what you’re saying is true, if the base they were in was bombed… how is Gray Diamond alive?”

           “I don’t have an answer for that. Not one gem was found intact, or even completely recovered. Even Black was missing 30% of her shards. With Gray being so young, I assumed her gem had been more easily obliterated by the blast. For her to have survived at all…”

           Deafening silence befell them once again but was quickly interrupted by the sudden shriek of the alarm. Jumping at the sudden noise, the five of them looked to each other, dread sinking in as they realized what this meant; Gray Diamond and the cessineans were here.

[dollsted]

Rated: T

Pairing: JarethxSarah 

Plot teaser: The Goblin King is dead...at least in Sarah's normal life he is...but what happens if that turns out to just be a rumor? Source: Archiveofourown.com/F0rce0fnatur3 

Notes:

Hello my bebes. So just a little address to those who continue to read this. I have always been a fan of the Labyrinth and I know nothing could touch on or pick up where Henson left off but I've put a lot of thought into how my version of the story should go. I hope I can give fans back some semblance of what we've been waiting for since the story came out. I have read all there is and watched behind the scenes and rare footage on my favorite movie and so characters that are within the novel, concept sketches, and other works will be put in here. There may also be minor oc's as well as one big one. So I say unto you. I hope you enjoy my version because the goblin king may be watching over all of us in the heaven's and no one can take his place...I bring him back to life here on the pages before you.

Chapter 1: Rumors 

When I was a child, I thought like a child. But I did not do childish things. In fact, I don’t think anyone could call what I went through childish. But that feels like a time long, long ago. Even now if I think back on it, my mind becomes a fog. And then one day I just---forgot entirely. I do remember the days after vividly. I graduated and parted with my drama club family. I struggled with my major but suddenly all these dreams and thoughts of harrowing tales wouldn’t stop springing to my mind like an unlimited fountain from a spring that burst and never dried up. At first I would scribble the stories down in notebooks when I was supposed to be paying attention to the lecture in front of me. Now at twenty, I’ve found my calling and have become one of the bestselling fantasy novelists of my generation. I’ve heard all the praises. To be so young and have one of the most sought after series. One scholar I met at a gala party in New York City told me fantasy novels were an elder mans game. The older the person the wiser the writing as if the pages were scrolled on ink and parchment paper itself. I gave them their props as they rightfully deserve, but I planned to hold my own. I’d rather contend with the older crowd than the young teen romance category. I had no interest following on the coattails of finding a way to weave a story about a werewolf or vampire. I’m just waiting for the mummy revolution to peak.

           Now, I stare at a blank page. My well is congested and I need inspiration but a deadline for my eager fans want a rushed job. No one asks a baker to take the brownies out of the oven because they’re clamoring to eat it before its ready, mindlessly spooning the hot batter into their mouth. I understand the impatience but this is why the good writers have one hit wonders, or a series, and then slowly peter out for indefinite hiatuses. I can’t just expunge something onto blank pages without inspiration to fuel my motivation. So I gaze out my window on the reading nook watching the city life buzz about. I wish I could just reach down and pull their thoughts from them and manage to get something cohesive enough to send to my editor. I wring my hands around my coffee cup too jittery to even take another sip, the perfume from my eight o’ clock brew souring in my stomach. I can hear the battery warning on my laptop but I’m frozen where I sit. I came up with different plots but nothing made sense. I would need to cram at least four hundred pages into the novel and when I got rolling and tried desperately to fill the pages with random ramblings it came out in cliché bits and pieces that made no sense.

           Tonight there would be another gala and this was a black and white only listing. I was prepared but that’s who I was. I was ready within seconds. If I was given three hours I would be ready in three minutes. Always itching to go. Why slow life down anymore? Maybe it was just my mindset as a writer, maybe it was the pressure from the public. I was already a book behind and itching to be at this gala, perform my part of dutiful famous author, and then slip away with a spoon of ice-cream in my mouth and my silk gray pajamas on my body. Suddenly a thought rolled over my mind making me feel suddenly ill. When had I become the mirror image of my stepmother? My insides coiled tight like a sailors knot and I couldn’t stand to have this cup in my hands any longer and be alone with my thoughts. I needed to keep busy to numb my mind and run on autopilot.

           I glanced at the one newspaper clipping I saved of mom stuck to the corner of my corkboard. Around her ideas were peppered on yellow sticky notes. I was stuck in my fantasy that worshipping an absent parent who left dad and I behind for the stage, for fame and fortune, had abandoned us took precedent over reality. Before my epiphany I lived in a world where she would come back because daughters were invisibly connected to their mother’s right? Like sons and fathers. I had dreams she would ride through our suburban neighborhood on the whitest steed---well in a white limo, and she would come out with a plume of feathers in a pink boa around her neck and her finest ball gown and she would announce she was here to storm the castle and take me away with her where we would live in riches and in the lap of luxury. That’s the word she was, luxury. But that’s all she was. She wasn’t a dream that would ever come true. A mirage. She was just a word. One everyone knew how to speak, and only the rich could afford to. When I finally grew into myself and knew she was just another selfish story I made up in my head, I put my scrapbook and pictures of her away. Even now they’re packed in boxes I doubt I’ll ever open. The article is recent, her career had slowly plateaued when younger famous musicians rose to fame and glory on the stages of Broadway. And in some way, I had to thank her for popping my bubble of dreams because I didn’t want to follow in her footsteps in reality. Or dad. Or my stepmother’s assumption of what I should do with my life. I needed to do what I wanted. What my heart and head wanted.

           But now I’m stuck. In a bog of eternal stench. I raised a brow. That was an odd way of phrasing something. What did that even mean? What did I even just think? Before I could grasp it and replay the sentence it was gone. I needed air. And possibly something to eat. Normally I would go for a jog before the night fell but I had an hour left to get ready so I did what anyone would do in my position. I took a much needed nap.

           As I scan the crowd I notice little things. Another perk of being a writer. People watching. Noticing details. I watched couples stroll in, one couple shied away barely making it through the door when they realized they had forgotten or weren’t notified by the theme of the party. Even champagne colored attire wouldn’t fly in the mayor’s presence. The women who wore their hair down had coiled them in delicately hanging curls that bounced as they floated across the marble floor. There wasn’t a straight haired woman in sight. I was thankful I chose last second to throw it up in a chignon before I left from the house. I had to admit I still hadn’t mastered the art of being able to glide like most of these women had with heels and dress trains. My mermaid style dress was all in black and the design made it hard to take a good stride. I never cared for alcohol. I never developed the taste for it. The most I would take is a glass of wine, any color, and that was on my worst days. But I felt foolish just holding onto the flute of champagne clutched in my hand. Perhaps I could discretely slip it on a passing tray or abandon it in a less frequented area. I longed for my settee, ice-cream, movie, and pajamas. Depending how the night shaped, maybe I’d skip it all and just go straight to bed. Since I wasn’t stalled in conversation or mindless babbling I stole my chance to discard the flute. As I turned I became arrested by a form. I cursed wishing I had my precious solitude back. A bulky man towered over me. His jet black hair was slicked back and went against the grain of men who wore the signature penguin suites of stark black. He was dressed entirely in pure white. His hazel eyes bore into me seeing me and not just scanning over my bodice as most of the suitors that had pursued me during the eve had been. I spent more time dodging the men in heat that I barely noticed if there were any noble guests not just looking out for the single stragglers for a one night stand.

           I shrunk into myself and flushed tearing away from his gaze giving a slight curtsy. As much as the restriction of my dress would allow me to bend my knees. And then I felt even more awkward because I did that. I felt my brows knit and I mentally threw myself out a window before grounding myself. I expected him to start the conversation but perhaps I was being vain. Not everyone knew about me even if I lived in a city packed with my fair share of fans. I was used to having others pounce on me with immediate greetings and questions. To stop my internal suffering I chose to open my mouth and end my misery of turning into an awkward child and reminding myself that I was an adult. Am one. Speak!

           “Good evening.” Oh good, I just used the opening line to every gothic and creepy character would use. I really floundered instead of thrived in large gatherings. I wanted to wipe the slate clean, I hadn’t realized half of my champagne had been slugged back. I became aware of the stinging in my ankles and the pain on my feet as I balanced on my heels. He parted his lips revealing pearly whites. I could see his dimples and I found my hand busying itself by brushing a stray strand that had come lose from the chignon behind my ear.

           “It is.” His smile was warm and inviting. But I was on high alert none-the-less. I wasn’t sure how to further this conversation. I’d give anything to have my joggers on so I could shift my weight side to side. It was my tell that I was uncomfortable. But I was restricted in these damn stilts.

           “Are you here accompanying the mayor in his entourage?” Aside from the orchestra playing at the base of the stairs I could hear the soft chuckle in his throat.

           “Unfortunately no. I was a plus one with the Matthew party.” I had no idea who they were but I nodded in agreement as if I did. “What about you, lady?”

           “I only got my invitation because of my status. I’m a hot ticket item until my success runs its course and someone else comes along to claim the limelight.” I whisked my flute in the air toasting to my misery and draining the glass abandoning it on the wide railing. I was drowning. I wished for my friend from college to be at my side. She was excellent at steering conversations away from my failings.

           “That’s usually how fame works. May I ask, what your profession is now?” ‘Now’? It was an odd way to say something but I disregarded it as a slip of the tongue.

           “I’m a novelist.”

           “Fancy.” He waggled his brow and now it was my turn to laugh. It came out more like a bark.

           “Mind if we speak more but actually participate in this party by dancing?” I felt my face pale. I was meant to be a statue. One that showed up, soaked up the atmosphere, and then left without being drawn into something complicated. Like dancing. That was complicated. Especially in the prison I handpicked for myself. He offered his arm and I gratefully took it stepping as if I was made of china. I literally took baby steps painfully listening to the stairs announce our decent when the butt of my heel ricocheted in the scoop of the room. I could barely get one foot in front of the other, my dress demanding my steps be smaller.

           He blessedly closed his stride into small boxy steps allowing me to move with him. He lead, and I floated in the weight of his arms. His palm spanned over my entire back horizontally. I felt like a small hill up against a mountain. The tempo slowed, the musician’s skill amazed me. They could transition from fast pace to slow and sensual within the beat of a note. Before I knew it, we too had slowed, the only glimmer of having been keeping in step to the upbeat rhythm was my fast beating heart and the bead of sweat on the back of my neck. Somewhere between that transition, his body had mingled closer to mine and now his lips were at my ear in a gentle whisper. My eyes widened. I was confused. What did he just say? Was that really what he meant to say? I felt my world splinter. I felt like a dark void inside my heart was going to swallow me whole and I would be rid of all the people and buildings around me.

           I somehow made it back to my flat on the top floor. I slipped off my shoes, wormed my way into my pajama’s and when I came back to myself I was curled up in bed holding myself not caring that my chignon was half tamed and half wild. I didn’t even bother to wipe away my lipstick, clean the eyeshadow off with the liner above my lashes. I barely got my arm into the sleeve of my shirt. I hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on or button the shirt closed. My covers lay neglected at my back, my pillow barely touching the top of my head. I was staring into the black hole hiding the corner of my wall. Tears welling in my eyes. Why was I so tore up about this?

           I felt the hot coals roll over my cheeks staining my silk sheets. My muscles were stiff, my circulation numb from sitting so still. Why was I feeling all these things that made no sense to me? The thing the man said didn’t even make sense. It sounded like a joke or something he stole out of a novel. What did he mean when he said ‘The Goblin King is dead?’ and why was my heart breaking?

           I pulled my phone from the belly of my clutch opening up the web browser searching for anything that could connect me to those words. How was I supposed to react to that? Why was it even affecting me?! My mind was screaming. I found forums with geeks talking about video game references. Millions of results were nothing more than mindless ramblings of geeks and nerds. Broken phrases about movies, books, television, games. There was no viable information present. Frustrated I threw my phone against the wall but heard it hit my vanity instead shattering the mirror. I gasped at my own failings sliding off the bed to clean up my mess. My flat was empty. It was full of things that adorned the walls and filled the spaces so it didn’t look barren but---the truth was it was just me alone living here. I got to work brushing the pieces into the dustpan pausing when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a giant ragged shard.

           Hadn’t those words meant something at one time? A title? I had an odd hazy thought that I was meant to remember something. Something significant. But my work took precedence. What that man said was nothing. If it was a message it fell on deaf ears. Maybe it was just highbrow humor I forgot to gloss in the New Yorker. But that was a business magazine and no imagination or right brained people were allowed to even grace those pages. I got the vaguest of feelings that I had been on the other side of this mirror once. A fleeting thought. I disposed of it climbing back into bed regretting the ruin of my mirror and phone. I was a person meant to be on call any time of day especially for my editor. I would rush first thing in the morning to the store to get a new phone and hastily set up my mailbox.

           I stretched arching my back like a cat reveling in the warmth my flat offered through the central air system and gazed out to the skyline barely looking back at my with a slit eye of pinks and purples. No signs of orange yet. Coffee time. The heavens answered my thoughts. I heard the timer chime awake and the maker got to work gurgling the water I poured the night before come alive. All I would need to do is feed it creamer and retrieve my mug. I tapped a key on my laptop forgetting momentarily that the battery warned me the night before I needed to charge its juice. It wouldn’t matter. There would still be a blank page and a blinking cursor angrily ticking to remind me my own time was slipping away to start a draft. I couldn’t get what the stranger whispered to me out of my head. I paced feeling the ache in my feet from my heels from the night before. I had darted from the party wanting to stretch that space between me and my dance partner. Away from his words. Away from the mocking eyes that gave me a headache and dejavu.

           It would’ve been easier to hail a cab but I felt like the world was crumbling down on me. I was choking and I needed to breach the surface and gulp lungful’s of air. And then I practically fell into the lobby before the doorman or desk clerk could barrage me with questions. I knew I was disheveled. I didn’t need to be prodded or gawked at. I clambered into the elevator fishing the key to activate my penthouse suite on the top floor. I wanted to get home. I needed my bed before I passed out here. Fifty stories up and I stumbled into my room listening to the whirling gears of the elevator haul itself back to earth while I stayed floating in space.

           I escaped the footmen who were busy busing in luggage and packages of other residents. My main focus needed to be a new phone. With my laptop dead I needed access to the internet now more than ever. I knew my editor would be trying to get ahold of me. I tried to keep my thoughts singular but after I began setting up everything on the little device I found my curiosity drawing me back to the same spot I fled from. Who was the man that approached me and I danced with? Why did he single me out? Did he know me? Was he using code that I should know? Was it a password to get into somewhere?

           All my thoughts were spinning in a jumbled mess worse than a tornado at level five and I wanted answers but only gained more questions.  

[rwt-mystic-corner]

~*Pagan Meme*~

Tagged (via proximity and desire to do it) by @stormwaterwitch​! And I tag: Anyone who sees this (as long as they’re okay with tags)!

Do you have a magical/Pagan name?

I do, but I prefer not to publicize it. The “RWT” in my url is the abbreviation, though!

How did you find Paganism?

It was less of a defined epiphany, and more of a gradual realization that led to a transition. I’ve always thought trees and wind and thunderstorms had “power”, and I always delighted in FEELING it!  But I didn’t appreciate that power reverently, in a dedicated worship fashion, until I was about 14, and started reading about Wicca. 

From the first book I picked up (”Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner” by Scott Cunningham), everything just felt right, and the exercises came naturally to me. I never understood why “pagan” was an insult, and I always secretly believed there was more than one God or force of nonphysical power in the universe, despite being raised Christian. I met with them, communed with them, prayed to them, asked them for guidance... All that book really gave me was a name, and the gateway to an identity I now proudly embrace. (And, well, more structure and definition for what I was feeling, and ways to more directly consult and praise them.)

How long have you been practicing?

Witchcraft: I learned that little “wishes” sent out to the world had an impact at a very young age. It was an intrinsic part of my worldview, even at age 8! So without knowing I was working magic, I’d been practicing it my entire life. Pagan-dedicated worship, though? 12 years. Same time for dedicated, focused actual witchcraft.

Are you out of the broom closet?

To most people, yes. I came out as pagan to some of my co-workers within like two months of knowing them. 8F (Though I don’t openly chat about actually practicing witchcraft unless I’m prompted, because I’m not a fan of attempted evangelism.)

Solitary or group practitioner?

Solitary, though I occasionally join forces with friends and spirits.

What is your path?

I call it eclectic paganism, wherein I’m definitely pagan, but I’ve gleaned elements of truth from Buddhism and Daoism as well. As for my path in witchcraft, I call it more of a “mystical” practice, because I’m all about understanding divine mysteries, harnessing forces in the universe, and introspection as a study of microcosm. “Witchcraft” generally indicates a lot more use of physical tools, words, and rituals than I’ve ever used. (At least, not since I was about 16.) 

D E I T Y

What’s your brand of deism?

Oh boy, this one’s fun. Technically speaking, I’m an agnostic theist. I believe there is definitely something out there, but I also believe it’s impossible for humans to understand and truly comprehend exactly what that divine power is. Hence, “agnostic” (”not knowing”) “theist” (believes in godlike power). The pantheon I’ve connected most to is the old Finnish crew.

Who is your patron God/ess?

Matrons Mielikki and, well, the second is a bit of a close-kept secret. ;}P (While she’s not nearly well enough known to be considered “pop culture”, she’s been a very powerful force in my life since inducting me as a follower.)

What Gods do you worship?

Regularly? None of them, oops;; But mostly the two aforementioned. I’ve also felt a connection to Hestia, , and a weird connection to the Egyptian pantheon that definitely was Not worshippy, probably mostly from a past life? (But I was so irreverent in that life, it would probably be an insult to worship them now, ehheh;;)

Do you fear darkly aspected Gods/Goddesses, or rather respect them?

They’re practically my guardian angels. (I’m a shadow witch; their domain is my source of power! My spirit guide is a creature of the darkness!) I deeply respect, and in moments revere them, though I don’t really worship any by name.

Do you worship the Christian God?

I didn’t even “get” him when I was taken to church every Sunday. Or when I spent a week at Missionettes camp. Or when I could feel every single other person in that big room being spiritually elevated, and it felt so positive, and yet, I couldn’t feel what they were connecting to. He has never made himself known to me, so I couldn’t if I tried.

Do you worship animals? Or plants?

I revere and respect their power, and I appreciate the messages they may carry from my matrons and local spirits. So in a sense, yes?

N A T U R E

Do you regularly commune with nature?

Not as often as I’d like to... but when I’m at work with the dogs outside, and the sky is clouded over with a strong, consistent breeze: I do reach out to the forest behind my workplace and gaze off into the sky.

Taken a camping trip just to talk to nature?

I wish! I’ve never really been alone on a camping trip. Someday I absolutely will, though~ (Even though the forest Mielikki connected to me is at a local metropark with no campgrounds, and no other forest has ever “opened its heart” to me that way... it’s still a powerful feeling.)

Describe the moment you felt closest to Mother Earth?

...It’s hard to pick just one, honestly. It must be moments in which I’ve talked to the trees, or sat in the river just to feel the ground beneath me, the water around me, to breathe and get lost in it until I became a part of it...

Do you have a familiar?

I might. I haven’t exactly been working with him lately, but my chinchilla Dusty came to me in a magical way. I dreamed about holding an off-white chinchilla with a singular spot. And then went into work the next day, and saw him there. A tiny white chinchilla, with one little gray spot, just like in my dream. I resisted, initially; I was still healing from the loss of my first chinchilla, and didn’t quite trust myself? But he stayed in that cage for awhile, maybe a month, and as I took care of them, he gradually started coming closer and closer, losing his nerves, growing braver, growing closer... and then grooming me! We bonded, but he would still avoid everyone else in the store. Then one day, as I was debating whether it would be the right time to take him home, I heard the lyrics played on the radio: “Dreams do come true, from out of the blue”. So I took it as a sign, and now? He’s so very highly attuned to my moods. He gets excited when I’m excited, even if I’m just sitting there smiling at my computer screen. He runs to hide when I’m feeling frightened. He sits at the cage door and watches me when I’m getting lost in contemplation, and he seems to “join me” in peaceful meditation, and will curl up and sleep. He followed me around my room when I was setting high-powered defensive wards around it in the apartment, and if I lowkey enchant his veggies, he’ll always go for the one I was holding first.

I haven’t figured out how to incorporate a chinchilla into meditations or spellwork yet... (buuut it’s hard to rework something you’re not really doing lately, yikes.)

Have you ever called upon the powers of an animal in ritual? Or a plant?

Plants, definitely-- just today, I stirred a little ginger into my soup (to help with my perpetual stomach trouble), and worked a little magic to pull out all its healing properties I could. During meditation, I often have animal guides coming to aid me, or direct me, or watch over me, or just stop by to see what I’m doing. And of course, there was my old familiar, a tangerine ring-neck dove named Fizzy, who used to sit with me in meditation, watch over me in rituals and lend his flight to my prayers and spells, and I used his feathers in travel and creativity spells. 

Do you hug trees?

Not traditionally. I do lean against them when communing, though.

Give them gifts?

Ooh, no, but that’s a good idea. (I have adopted other gifted plants that others didn’t want, though.)

What are your favorite plants to work with?

Ooh, that’s tricky! Peppermint, maybe? Meadowsweet and heal-all remind me of a very dear witchy friend. Sandalwood usually has great results for me, but incense tends to dilute them... Probably pine above all, actually! It’s special to Mielikki, it smells wonderful, the trees are resilient and never mind giving a few needles or boughs, and the softer, enduring energy blends really well with my gentle persevering nature.

What are your favorite trees to work with?

See above. c: Closely followed by willow and hawthorn.~

What is your favorite holiday?

Definitely Samhain/Halloween!

What is your least favorite holiday?

Beltane, Litha, and to a degree, Lammas. I can’t do the ~summer energy~ thing, it makes me feel like I’m burning up and overstimulated. Moonlight rituals aren’t as bad, but I still tend to pass out in the heat, so, you know... Very Hard to Get Witchy when you’re seeing spots and your head is swimming. (The energy overstimulation doesn’t hit me as hard as it used to, not on the front end, but I don’t have as much time to dedicate to meditation and cleansing anymore, so it builds up more quickly anyways.)

Have you ever held a ritual on a holiday?

Quite often! Well, assuming Esbats count. I used to do mini-rituals for every single Wiccan holiday that I wasn’t doing a full-blown prayer/meditation session for. But that only lasted a year or two, because the story behind them didn’t really connect with me anymore.

Ever taken a day off work to celebrate a Pagan holiday?

I did, one Samhain when I had requested off and my boss just forgot. I opened up about it, as long as he promised not to laugh, and told him it’s a spiritual day for me, and he gave me the day off. Nowadays I at least request Samhain off when I can afford to, but lately my finances don’t really allow me that luxury. lP

Do you celebrate Yule on the 21st rather than the 25th?

You know, sometimes it’s the 20th and sometimes it’s the 22nd, but yes~ Back when I was 16ish, I would wake up on the morning of the solstice and watch the sun rise, to feel out the new year and perform a ritual of “planting seeds” for the coming year... hmm. Considering all the big life goals I’ve been setting lately, maybe I should get back into that routine....

[galadrieljones]

The Lily Farm - Chapter 24

Formerly A Funeral.

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Existential Angst, Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nature, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions, Sharing a Bed, Swimming, Arthur to the Rescue, Forests, Abduction, Angst, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Content, Sexual Themes, Adult Content, Canon Divergence, Found Families, Brotherhood, Fatherhood, pregnancy, Drug Use, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Protective Arthur, Minor John Marston/Abigail Roberts

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey to the north, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life, like the wilderness, is full of uncertainty and complications, and in their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big, all of which bring them closer to one another, as well as to their future. But they’ve fallen in love during hard times. With the gang tipping dangerously close to a breaking point in a changing world, Arthur must make a difficult choice. Can he escape the past, as well as the outlaw life and start over, building a family of his own? With Mary Beth by his side, one thing is certain: redemption and second chances finally seem within his grasp.

***For the rest of this story, you can visit the masterpost or AO3, both linked in the replies to this post and also at my blog ^_^***

Chapter 24: The Heartlands

In any case, I have grown tired in ways I cannot rightly explain.

I’m not sure what might have happened to Kieran. Most likely, he ended up out on a fishing trip, or a gallavant that simply extended beyond his original intentions. Diana could have spooked and tossed his ass and hightailed it back to camp without him. It could be anything. Mary Beth wants to come along and I had no choice but to let her. I ain’t her father. And I know she can do okay in a whole host of situations, but if it comes to shooting I don’t know. She may be a damn good conwoman and a savvy pickpocket, but she ain’t no killer. I love her. I’d do anything to keep her safe, and in any case, I guess I’m just afraid. I can’t shake that part of myself. I fear it will always be there—after everything. She knows it. I just don’t know how to protect her and how to keep making this life work no more. And Jesus Christ I have been so careless. We’ve been. Careless. I don’t know why. It just feels right, letting go inside her like nature running its course, like the way it’s supposed to be but shit. If she gets pregnant while we’re still here, toiling in this war of ours…I’m right terrified. I don’t know what to do. I should’ve said no to Dutch, and yet, I did not. Hosea was right, as usual. I need to use my goddam head.

I just always want to believe. I’ve been so blinded by my desire to just…please Dutch. It ain’t fair no more. I’m still out on this limb, and now Mary Beth is out here with me. And if we keep making it like we do, soon it’ll be an innocent among us and I ain’t letting no more of my own blood spill into the earth. I ain’t doing that. Not again.

Dutch thinks we can get money out of this Bronte fellow. He talked to me about it last night, after that fool’s party we attended. Something about a trolley station. A poker game on a goddam river boat. I see things differently, and Mary Beth confirmed my suspicions. Of course, she did it with intelligence and grace, whereas my thoughts tend to come out as gravy these days. Mary Beth was a sight to see with Bronte. Once again she’s proven she’s too good for me, and yet here we are. We’re getting married. Still ain’t told no one—not sure why. It just don’t feel right yet to make a big deal. But I do know that it ain’t like last time. It ain’t Mary. Mary could not commit to huge parts of me, my life. With her, I was a fool. But Mary Beth’s love for me feels…honest. It’s for the right reasons. She is loyal to me. I don’t know what I have done to deserve this bounty she brings, but I ain’t letting it get away.

We are setting out to find the O’Driscoll boy as soon as this storm clears. It rains so goddam much down in this hellhole state I have forgotten what season it is. It’s perpetually the hottest it’s ever been, and I will say, I miss the fresh air to the north. She does, too.

They rode out of Shady Belle at about four o’clock. It was later than Arthur had hoped for, as this meant they would most definitely be gone into the night, but putting things off would have been worse. The rain had brought a chill to the air that made everybody uncomfortable. It was a damp chill. Mary Beth wore a brown leather scout jacket with an ornamental purple tether around the waist. It had a hood, which she kept fashioned over her tightly braided hair. Arthur outfitted her with that same shotgun from their trip to the north and a whole shitload of slugs. She wanted the gun, and it was the right choice. But once again he told her: “Do not use that gun unless you absolutely must. Understood?” by which he meant: “Do not use that gun unless you have reason to believe that I have died or will soon be dead and cannot defend you no more. Understood?”

Charles led the way to Rhodes. It was easy business, tracking Kieran at first. The clouds had gone on and most of the the townspeople were back outside and about their business. It looked like a big wind had come in and blown over a carriage full of feed corn right outside the train station. A couple of working boys were hustling to pick it all up, but the axel on their carriage was broken, and the the job looked too big for just the two of them. Arthur and Charles gave them a hand while Mary Beth went to the saloon to inquire upon whether anyone had seen a young man fitting Kieran’s description.

“He’s got long brown hair, to his shoulders,” she said, “a little scraggly, about this tall, has a scratchy voice. He would have been wearing a straw type hat, cowboy boots, dressed like a rancher, riding an Ardennes. He’s twenty years old.”

“May I inquire upon how you know the young man?”

“He’s my brother, sir. Been missing from our ranch in Scarlet Meadows for three days. Mama and I can’t make ends meet without him.”

The bartender was taken with Mary Beth. He did not even require payment for his information as he wiped down a glass with his linen towel. “I think I seen a boy like that,” he said, leaning in on his elbow. “Was in here two nights ago, waiting out the storm. Sat by himself, caused no trouble. Ordered a glass of milk.”

"That’s him,” she said. “Did he say anything about where he was headed?”

“No, ma’am,” said the bartender, topping off her glass of rose. “But toward the end of the night, a couple boys crowded him in the booth, right over there. They all left together. It was sudden.”

This was alarming to Mary Beth. “Do you know who they was?”

“Didn’t talk like they was from around here,” said the bartender. “Yankees. I heard one of them mention that they was headed in from Riggs Station, way out in West Elizabeth, if that helps.”

“It does,” said Mary Beth. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.” She finished her wine and left a generous tip. He tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. She then went to wait for the boys in a booth at the front of the saloon. It took about ten minutes before they arrived, and she told them all about her findings.

“He said it was Yankees?” said Arthur, smoking, sitting next to her, wearing his hat with the pretty brown feather.

“Yes,” she said. “Said they crowded him and left all of a sudden.”

Arthur glanced across the table to Charles who became apprehensive.

“You think it’s O’Driscolls?” said Arthur.

“Sounds about right,” said Charles.

“What would they doing in Lemoyne?”

“Could be they tracked us here, after that nasty shootout with the Grays, then ran into Kieran by mistake, maybe took advantage of an unlucky circumstance.”

Arthur swore under his breath, looked around, smoked. Then he looked back at Mary Beth. “Mary Beth, I think Charles and I ought to finish this one alone.”

“What?” she said. “No. I got the information. I’m coming.”

“It ain’t safe,” he said. “I’ll ride with you back to camp.”

“How do you know it ain’t safe?”

“Because I just do,” he said. “I got a bad feeling. And my bad feelings got a bad habit of coming true.”

“He’s right, Mary Beth,” said Charles. “If it is O’Driscolls, there is bound to be bloodshed.”

"I ain’t scared,” said Mary Beth.

Arthur shook his head, serious. “Please,” he said. “This ain’t for you. Let me take you back.”

She stared at him in defiance. “You know what else ain’t for me?” she said. “Hitting a man over the head with a frying pan, saving your life. Or getting carried off by Murfree Brood in a thunderstorm. Or shooting a wolf mother in the face.”

Arthur sighed.

“What’s she talking about?” said Charles.

Arthur ignored him. “You near on shot me with that gun of yours in a panic,” he said to Mary Beth. “You’ll be in danger. These boys, they ain’t no turtles in the marsh.”

“Oh please. I didn’t shoot you,” she said. “I listened to you. Granted it took me a moment. But I can listen.”

Arthur shook his head. He didn’t mean to, but all this made her feel small. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Please, Arthur. I can’t sit back at Shady Belle, just waiting on you. I can’t. Don’t make me.”

There was a commotion then, as two people walked into the saloon, coming through the doors with gusto. At first, Arthur didn’t know what was going on, but then he recognized their faces right quick. “What the hell?”

“Dutch and Sadie?” said Mary Beth standing up to see. “What are they doing here?”

“Only the lord knows,” said Arthur, getting up to tip his hat and address them. “To what do we owe this fine pleasure?”

“Sit down, Arthur,” said Dutch, pushing in next to Charles. He was looking serious. “We need to talk.”

Arthur glanced at Mary Beth. She was apprehensive. A hush came on down between them all like a big old curtain. Then Arthur looked at Charles who had stuffed a fat wad of dipping tobacco into his lower lip, and he was spitting said dip into a wine glass, and he shrugged.

“What’s going on?” said Arthur. He pulled up a chair. Sadie gave him a polite but serious nod and sat down in the booth next to Mary Beth. She was wearing a tough yellow blouse that made her look like a cowgirl.

“Sadie here tells me that Diana showed up at camp this afternoon without her rider,” said Dutch, real quiet.

“That’s right,” said Arthur, lighting a cigarette. “Kieran’s missing.”

“How long.”

“He went missing a few days back,” said Arthur. “Day of the storm. We’ve tracked him through here, all the way out to West Elizabeth—near Riggs Station. Mary Beth here got the information. We think it’s probably O’Driscolls.”

“Good work, Miss Gaskill,” said Dutch, nodding. This made her feel tremendous pride. “And, Arthur, it is O’Driscolls, but it ain’t just O’Driscolls, boy, and that is the reason we are here.”

Arthur smoked. “I don’t catch your meaning.”

“It’s Colm.”

Everybody straightened up. Dutch had his whole, massive hands splayed out on the surface of the table in front of him. The room became heavy and distant all around them. Dutch had a way of doing this, making any and every space into his own.

“Colm himself?” said Arthur, shifting in his seat. “How do you figure that?”

“Because,” said Dutch, staring down at those hands. “The last time a horse showed up to my camp without its rider, it was in Denver, Colorado, and it was Annabelle’s.” Then he looked up at Mary Beth, looking sad in the low light from the saloon. It was a strange sight to see. “A pretty little spotted Apaloosa, just like yours, Miss Gaskill.”

“Annabelle?” said Mary Beth.

“That’s right.”

“You think this is a trap, Dutch?” said Arthur, tense. “You think it’s Colm, trying to lure you in again?”

Dutch puffed up. “I don’t know. But this certainly ain’t no coincidence. We ride. Tonight.”

Arthur became tense. “I ain’t riding the women into no trap, Dutch.”

“Calm down, Arthur,” said Dutch. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with just yet. For now, we’ll get as far as the Heartlands and make camp. Tomorrow morning, we head into West Elizabeth and…see what we can see. Sadie and Mary Beth can be of use to us. They can get information where we cannot. Comprende?” He looked around to wide gestures of agreement.

Arthur hesitated, but he eventually played along, sighing, finishing his cigarette and tossing it to the floor where it burned out into black.

Riding out, for a long time, it was silence. The sun started to melt off over the horizon at some point, and the air got crisper, and there were coyotes, it seemed, everywhere, and wild horses hustling out to the coast. Around the time they they were passing through Scarlet Meadows, Mary Beth rode up beside Arthur and asked him to hang back. Arthur obliged. They slowed considerably, making sure they could still see the rest of the group up ahead, but far enough behind to stay out of earshot.

“Arthur,” she said after a little while. The air was purple. It was getting past dusk now as they crested into the Heartlands. Soon, they’d need to make camp.

Arthur wouldn’t meet her eyes. “What is it, Mary Beth.”

“I know you don’t want me here.”

This broke him. He shook his head. He felt bad. “That ain’t it, Mary Beth. Of course I want you here. I always want you here.”

“Okay,” she said, looking around with her hood up. She looked sweet and kind. She looked like his girl. “Then I know you’re freaking out.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t even know what we’re up against yet,” she said. “Just give me a chance. You were willing to do that a few weeks ago, when we left for our hunting trip. What’s changed?”

“You know what’s changed,” he said, looking at her, lowering his voice. “I took a leap. I landed on my feet, somehow, and now I’m looking around, and I see us going backwards.”

“Arthur—”

He took a deep breath, looking down at his hands on the reins. “We ain’t been thinking.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, we got real deep, real fast, before we paved our exit. Putting you in danger, with so much goddam uncertainty? It’s making me crazy, Mary Beth. And Dutch, well.” Arthur laughed, cynically, under his breath. “Well he’s making me crazy, too. First that god forsaken party, Angelo Bronte, and now all this nonsense about Colm O’Driscoll. He ain’t even explained what the hell he’s going on about yet. Just expects we ride along with him, and look at us, doing exactly as we’re told. I’m a goddam fool.”

“You’re talking in code, Arthur,” said Mary Beth, pulling Watson up a little closer. “What the hell are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I just—”

“You said you talked to John,” she said. “Last night, before we went to sleep. Has he made up his mind?”

“Yes.” Arthur nodded. “They’re in. He’s just waiting on me.”

“Good,” she said. “He should be. You know what to do, Arthur. You need to stop second-guessing yourself. And try to just…breathe. I wanna get outta here, too. You know I do. But we gotta get Kieran back. He’s put in his time, and his heart. He’s one of us, and we owe him this. And you gotta deal with Dutch, Arthur. We can’t—there’s too much at stake.”

“I know,” he said. He closed his eyes, thinking. “I just—I know I’m talking nonsense, Mary Beth, but the more time we spend, heming and hawing in the swamps, the more foreboding the feeling in my gut. Like, the longer we wait around, the closer we get to the end. I can feel it. And riding out with you tonight, it’s bringing all that to the surface.”

“The end of what?” she said, watching him in the coming darkness. “What are we getting to the end of, Arthur?”

Arthur sighed. He shook his head again and again, staring off into the darkening path ahead where Dutch rode his pretty white horse at the helm. “Everything,” he said, real low and mean. He looked at her. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember what it felt like to be free. “Come on,” he said, opening his eyes again, picking up the pace a little. “We can talk more later. I’m good with you being here, I just—I need you to listen me, okay?” he said, switching gears, looking at her. “Whatever happens, Mary Beth, when we get wherever it is we’re headed, I need you to listen to me and listen to what I say to you.”

“Okay,” she said, earnest.

“I’m serious,” he said. “And I ain’t saying this because you’re a woman, and not because I love you and I’m terrified that something might happen to you. Or, maybe that second one, just a little, but mostly I’m saying this because you ain’t never been out on a job like this before. Because you’re a rookie, and I’m your lieutenant, and I need you to do what I say when I say it, or else we ain’t standing a chance. You understand?”

“Yes,” she said, becoming eager. “I understand.”

“Good,” he said, and he gave her a strong nod, and then he led the way out ahead so they could catch up with the rest of the gang.

She felt validated by his pep talk. He didn’t altogether know how much she aimed to be strong.

They rode till they found a good valley to camp in south of the Heartlands, not far from the lake. The scenery, even in darkness, reminded Mary Beth of Clemens Point. She became full to the brim with sadness and nostalgia. She almost started crying. The romance of it all, its highness and mighty feelings, had started wearing off, and now it was just her and Arthur, and she looked at him, stoking their fire, and she felt such love in her heart so as to help her do anything. Such fortitude. But everything seemed much easier when they were up at Deer Cottage, all alone in what had felt like a primitive world.

At some point Dutch Arthur and Charles grouped up beneath a nearby tree smoking and discussing their manly options for the next day. Sadie and Marybeth were aced out of this conversation, left to their own devices at the fire where Sadie was cleaning her sawed-off, and Mary Beth was making them a batch of whiskey tea.

"What do you think they’re talking about?" said Sadie.

"Who knows," said Marybeth.

"Fucking egos," said Sadie, looking crass. "The only reason Dutch brought me along was because I made a goddamn stink in front of everyone. For such a drama queen, he sure don’t like it when others cause a fuss."

Mary Beth laughed. "I know what you mean," she said. "You want some tea?"

"Sure," said Sadie.

Together they sat, by the fire, sipping their tea and looking at their boots. Sadie drew real quiet. She held her cup with two hands, looking down into it like it was no tomorrow. She took it down in three gulps. Mary Beth offered her some more. Sadie nodded and held out her cup.

“I hate this damn Heartlands country,” said Sadie. "It smells like fish and buffalo shit. Where are you from Mary Beth?

"Kansas," send Mary Beth.

"Do you miss it?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

Mary Beth took a long drink of her whiskey tea. It was strong and dark and tasted good. "Too many reminders," she said.

Sadie laughed to herself, sounding resigned. “I hear that."

Mary Beth looked up at the wide open sky. The clouds had exited. The stars we’re bright and swimming like fishes. “Why did you want to come anyway?” she said.

Sadie swallowed down that second cup of whiskey tea. She set down the cup and went back to cleaning her gun, polishing it with a dirty linen rag. At first, she didn’t say anything. She just sat there, sullen with her eyes downturned. But sooner or later she spoke.

“I ain’t ever known a man as good as my Jakey,” she said, subdued. “Colm O’Driscoll took him away from me. I want my revenge.”

She said this with such clarity of mind. Such purity of darkness inside her. Mary Beth could feel the whole world narrowing around them, becoming a tornado, crushing into the walls ahead. She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t even begin to understand what you been through.”

Sadie looked up, surprised. She ceased cleaning that gun. “Sure you can,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You been in love,” said Sadie. “If somebody shot Arthur dead and left his body for wild animals to come and scavenge in the middle of a fuckin snowstorm, wouldn’t you do anything to watch them burn?”

Mary Beth got quiet after this. She was listening to the crickets. She looked down at her freckled hands, and then she closed her eyes.

Sadie swore under her breath. She seemed filled with remorse by what she'd said. She realized it was unforgivable. She set down her gun and leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees. She dropped her chin to her chest. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Mary Beth,” she said. She placed her hand on Mary Beth’s hand, just for a second. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just get so…mean sometimes. Without him.” She kind of sniffled, looked away like she was crying. “So angry. It makes me say and do terrible things.”

“It’s okay,” said Mary Beth. “You don't have to explain.”

“It ain’t okay,” said Sadie, wiping her tears on the back of her hand. “After Jake, up in Colter, you was nicer to me than anyone. You and Arthur, I mean. And here I am, scaring you and making you feel bad.”

“You ain’t. I promise.”

Then she pulled herself together and looked back at Mary Beth with a whole lot of resolve in her face. “Arthur is strong,” she said. “He’s a survivor. He knows what he’s doing, and he loves you. That much is clear. You got nothing to worry about.”

Mary Beth nodded. She took another long drink of her tea. It was starting to cool.

Together, they watched the boys talking under that tree.

“Is he your first love?” said Sadie, getting dreamy.

Mary Beth smiled. “Mostly,” she said. “I mean, I had puppy love once. With a boy back in Kansas City, but it wasn't nothing like being with Arthur,” she said. She didn’t know how old Sadie was, but she figured she was at least enough older to be able to understand what it was she was saying. “He gets real protective sometimes, you know? But I don’t want him to think I’m weak.”

“He don’t think you’re weak,” said Sadie.

“How do you know?”

“Because he knows you, and you ain’t.”

Mary Beth watched Arthur, smoking, listening to Dutch, flexing his jaw like he was thinking real hard. She nodded, following Sadie’s gist. She was pretty sure she understood.

That night, in their tent in the Heartlands, Arthur and Mary Beth lie side by side with a little lantern lit up by their faces. Mary Beth was reading her Yates while Arthur was drawing something in his journal and chewing on a toothpick. Outside of their tent, it was a quiet world. All was calm except for Charles out by the fire, sharpening his knife.

“What are you drawing?” said Mary Beth after a little while, turning her head to look at Arthur.

He took a deep breath, studied his work. “You,” he said.

It was a surprise. Mary Beth felt herself kind of pluck up and blush furiously. She straightened and closed her book and asked if she could see.

“Sure,” he said.

He showed her.

It was two pictures. One of her eating a peach, wearing a dress, sitting on a blanket by the river. The other one was her with that shotgun, shooting a turtle. She laughed. “Arthur!” she said, wacking him on the shoulder. “Not the turtle again.”

He laughed, too. “What’s wrong with the turtle?” he said. “I like that turtle. I like that day. I don’t wanna forget.”

“Me neither,” she said, gazing up at him. She felt that whole host of romantic dreams returning to her. Then she kissed him, getting breathless.

[angedemystere]

Bagginshield headcanon fic: wedding ring gemstones

Gemstones are not required in Dwarven rings, but they are common enough that they’re worth considering when the king smiths a ring for his consort. If there is a gemstone, it must perfectly suit the future wearer like the rest of the design. Everyone agrees that it’s an important part of the courtship process and should take as long as needed to complete. But Thorin hates deliberating as much as he does. He is dissatisfied with his uncertainty as he scours over the vast stores of jewels that have been harvested and cut, mostly before Erebor’s fall. Gems never fade in quality from just lying in untouched, moldering carts. As the physical and cultural structures of the kingdom are restored, many returning folk are eager to exercise their crafts, including the jewelers and gem cutters. Thorin is more than pleased for them, but he’s also anxious about making good use of the functioning workshops to hunt down the appropriate stone for his future husband’s ring.

“I doubt Hobbits care much about the meanings behind them,” Balin says after a couple months of fruitless, frustrated searching. “Bilbo certainly doesn’t care. He’ll appreciate whatever you make him.”

Bilbo’s Hobbit nature and only burgeoning knowledge of Dwarven customs is no excuse for laziness. But Thorin does know when too much fretting tips his efforts into self-defeat--eventually. In time, he lets other duties distract him. The matter sits for nearly a month. The respite untangles the complications he’s made out the issue. It shouldn’t be so difficult to decide if a ruby or an emerald or a sapphire or a diamond deserves to sit on his beloved’s finger.

Like most personal matters, it comes down to one essential question. What truly reflects Bilbo’s character and importance to him? There’s an obvious answer--no one gemstone could capture the breadth of Thorin’s feelings or Bilbo’s beauty in heart and spirit.

The real answer comes in two parts.

Thorin sometimes seeks reflective solitude in the Hall of Kings. The reason might seem obvious, but in fact it has only partly to do with the statues of Thror and Thrain now at the far end of the room. It isn’t comfort but a sobering reminder that grounds him. There’s still the gold on the floor. Removal might be possible, but it would be an extensive process, one not presently demanding urgency. Silver might be a welcomed change to better match the white light falling from high above between Thorin’s father and grandfather.

The Arkenstone, he decided shortly after the battle for Erebor, should not return to the throne. Some Dwarves questioned this, naturally. Was it not his goal to reclaim it with the very throne it once adorned? In another state of mind, Thorin would want nothing less than to have the gleaming jewel above his gold-wreathed head. That gives him strong reason to resist the desire. And he does believe, with encouragement from all the Company, that the Arkenstone does not make him the King Under the Mountain. Even Dain has relented and promised his full support if any Dwarf lords make a stink about it. So the Arkenstone stands guard above Thorin’s predecessors. It feels more and more right. It isn’t his jewel. It belongs to his family. It will forever shine on this proud legacy, and it will forever recall to Thorin the dangers that sprout from unchecked pride in that legacy, and from the desperation to meet its merit. In this very room, Thorin nearly lost himself, and he found himself again. In the piercing, unforgiving reflection of the gold floor, he heard the voice that brought him back.

“Hello.”

A gasp leaves him even as he recognizes the speaker. A playful apology comes as Thorin turns to meet him.

“Hard not to give you a start when you’re in one of your reveries, though,” Bilbo continues. “If I get through to you at all.”

Thorin smiles. “You manage, somehow.”

“I do hope so.” He soon has Thorin’s arm in his hold, almost like he’s anchoring him so Thorin doesn’t slip into the past. “Is there anything you wish to discuss?”

By reflex, Thorin thinks he means matters about Erebor’s reconstruction. A list of topics runs through his head before he knows better. He sweeps a look around the room before answering. “I’m not troubled, exactly. But I’m still ... anxious, I suppose.”

“About anything in particular?” Bilbo offers to give him some direction. He’s patient, knowing, calm and steady.

“Many things,” Thorin admits with a scratchy laugh. Bilbo’s mild reprimand in his tilting head is answered with a raised eyebrow, followed by a more sincere half-smile. “If I’m a little anxious, I take that as a sign I’m doing the best I can to be worthy of this crown.”

Bilbo brushes some hair underneath that crown--silver and more understated than its predecessor--before giving one of Thorin’s braids a gentle tug. “You’re allowed to be king and be at peace, you walnut.”

“You’re living proof of that,” Thorin teases.

“Hah. I’ll turn your whole head gray in a couple years.”

“Then it will match my crown.”

With a frown that tries to be truly annoyed, Bilbo grips the large hand that makes his own dainty in comparison. One of Thorin’s rings catches the soft light from the Arkenstone. Bilbo regards it with unsettled feelings. Thorin follows his sight-line and waits for him to speak.

“Up there, it looks rather pleasant,” Bilbo delivers dryly.

“I agree,” Thorin says, more lighthearted. “Like one of the stars that Durin the Deathless saw above his head when he awoke.”

Bilbo hums and absently strokes Thorin’s fingers, utterly unaware. Thorin’s pulse jumps a little happily at the chance to watch his beloved in his own reverie. His pensive scowl pulls at the lines of his face but brings out the strength of his stare. Such a stare, full of depths Thorin would never have seen in that cozy, warm domicile Bilbo once called home.

His thoughts run in a few directions. Perhaps there and then they realize they’ve hit on a gem of an epiphany. Consciously, though, Thorin only thinks of Bilbo’s dark, lovely eyes, then of the Arkenstone with radiance that’s both divine and deceptive.

Two days later, Thorin is taken by the inclination to visit the gem cutters’ workshop again. He warns himself not to look for anything in particular. If Mahal wishes it, the answer will make itself known. It might help being preoccupied by the most recent diplomatic meeting with Bard and his advisers from Dale. They still have much to negotiate, especially the pricing of goods on both sides. Bilbo threw in his own opinion, that they should err on the side of generosity. A fine sentiment for Hobbits, many Dwarf lords said, not entirely kindly, but they could not be expected to adopt Hobbit customs.

Dwarves are who they are, and they value their crafts very highly. Mahal instilled this love of precious metals and stones and the desire to fashion them into the most beautiful workmanship. It would be wrong to deny this simply to appease to a neighboring kingdom. Yet Thorin reflects on what the opposite extreme can effect. He recalls his own words when he was certain death was upon him: If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place.

No, Dwarves are not Hobbits. But he, a Dwarven king, loves a Hobbit and has learned much from him. Wisdom and courage, blended in measure. He will find some fair measure with these trade deals. Yes, even with the Elves of Mirkwood, Durin help him.

These thoughts tread through his mind as he treads through the workshop, attentive enough not to be in the way of the laborers so devotedly engrossed in their work. Not but a minute or two after his musings have moved on from the above point, a box of black gems snatches his eye. Not the blackness itself, but what catches the light within it. Thorin’s heart jumps. His feet stop. He respectfully but intently leans over the shoulder of the Dwarrowdam. She’s holding one of the gems, and he asks her about them. She has only to answer a few questions before he knows he’s found the answer. He wonders if he’s known for even longer.

Thorin asks Bilbo for a private audience almost a week later. They meet in the Hall of Kings, beside one of the pillars so they will not be surprised by anyone. He will make a formal presentation when the ring meets Bilbo’s entire approval. Custom allows any dwarf to consult the wishes of his spouse-to-be once a prototype is made. Bilbo, ever practical, insists that he does not demand perfection, that it matters more for Thorin to not lose sleep over an impossible ideal. Thorin nods, wise enough to respect his good sense while determined to take whatever pains necessary to please him. Still, he didn’t resist placing the ring in a little box and having Bilbo open it. For all his repeated assures that alterations can be easily done, Bilbo doesn’t pay it mind. He’s too busy gaping for close to a minute before even saying a word. That has to be a first.

“It’s stunning!” he finally proclaims. He fixes a narrowed eye on the stone. “I’ve never seen a jewel like this.”

“I’d quite forgotten it myself,” Thorin says. He scoops up Bilbo’s other hand and leads him to the middle of the hall so the light can dance on the stone. Another gasp leaves Bilbo. He sees now what Thorin saw in the gem-cutters’ workroom. When he holds the ring at a favorable angle, any light--from torch or lantern or starry jewel high above--the heart of the black deep flares into a rainbow.

“It’s a black opal,” Thorin says.

“Goodness! It’s quite mysterious. Why did you choose it?”

“The gemstone represents the character of the wearer and what he means to the giver.”

Bilbo smiles with a little mischief. “So this is how you see me? I must be quite the enigma.”

“In many ways, you remain so, and I cherish it.” Thorin needs only one hand to cup Bilbo’s wrist, but holds the ring-bearing hand with both of his. “At first, a black opal may appear to be a simple black stone. When we first met, you were, to me, just as plain and inscrutable. I underestimated your worth. But in time, and often in my darkest moments, your brilliance and beauty shined through.”

“Oh,” Bilbo grumbles, trying not to appear moved, though he swallows and struggles to hold Thorin’s gaze.

Thorin likes his Hobbit brash, yet it’s all the more satisfying when he is bashful, and grumpy over being bashful. But he has hopes for yet another reaction. “Look at the inscription inside the band,” he says.

Bilbo slips off the ring. Indeed, there are runes carved in a minute hand. He has studied runes enough to read them. These translate into Westron, so it does not take long for him to glean the message.

“For my ... greatest treasure, a light ... oh. A light ...” The words stop up Bilbo’s throat, no matter how he tries to clear it.

“For my greatest treasure,” Thorin says smoothly. He doesn’t need to read the words. “A light in the darkness.” He keeps holding and faintly brushing Bilbo’s fingers. “So, what do you think?”

Bilbo blinks, slightly shakes his head, still wrapping it around what he’s been given. He tries to hold the reins of his facial expressions, and does it fairly well. That’s why Thorin nearly falls forward when Bilbo grabs his collar and drags him down into a kiss. 

“Forget what I said about not wanting perfection,” he mutters after a long wordless embrace.

Thorin doesn’t doubt that anyone passing anywhere near the Hall of Kings can see him being claimed in another kiss. Any worries about propriety, witnesses and modifications can wait.

[writingcommons-blog1]

“The Key to Having an Epiphany: A One Step Guide” by Abby J.

Finding out that you are not the center of the universe is alarming. Terrifying. Humbling. It isn’t something that you can think too heavily into, either. We know that everyone has problems and struggles and things that make it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. This isn’t uncommon, and I knew this. I had always known this. However, I had met people that I considered to be the exceptions to this spoken truth. People who were happy. People who strutted through life, smiles widely pinned up onto their faces, running around helping others and never having an off day.

Superheroes. That’s what I knew them to be. The people I’d been striving to be my entire life, solely because I believed they were without pain and tragedy, and that these happy travelers had never, nor would they ever, have rough days or hard times. The moment that you realize these people are not all-powerful is the same moment that you realize you have never truly seen past your own struggles.

I am standing in the hallway of my freshman year of high school, hair straightened all the way down to the dead ends, thick layers of black eyeliner scribbled on my waterline, a navy blue jacket filled with pencils and handwritten notes around my waist. My best friends stand in a circle with me, their heights alternating between shorter and taller, making it look as if we stood this way on purpose. Of course it was an accident, but I knew that we had turned this into a routine. The same people, the same positions, and the same friendships every day for two years.

As we wait three minutes for the bell to ring, I turn to my friend, Alex. He’s wearing the same gray sweater he wears every school day, eyes almost covered by how long his snow white hair has gotten. His sapphire eyes look my way, and he presents me with that easy smile I’ve loved for so long. He’s been laughing all morning, like he always does, filling us all with joy and compliments and everything I love most that he offers. Not a care in the world. Happy to be here. Elated to be with us. As cheerful as anyone could ever be.

“I’ll walk you to class,” I say to him, not asking if I can. He’ll say no. He always says no. My friends and I all know that his myocarditis, the disease that makes his heart do everything that a heart shouldn’t, slows him down, and that he can’t make it to class on time. That’s why we switch off, one of us taking the excused tardy to walk him gently up the steps. I wish Alex didn’t feel so bad about letting us be the ones to take care of him for once.

“You don’t have to,” he says, like I knew he would. Always so sincere. The fluorescent lighting in the hallway highlights how pale he’s getting. More so than usual. I hardly notice that the charcoal circles under his eyes seem deeper because why would I? Why would I look for the insignificant little things like that about someone who is so content with everything? Someone who even in the midst of a life destroying illness can still prove how happy he is?

The bell rings, sending waves of teenagers off in different direction, all of them flurrying around to shut their lockers and take four steps at a time up to their classes. Alex takes a deep breath, and we walk gradually over to the stairwell, watching the aging brown tiles beneath our feet go by. The double doors in front of us are ancient, creaking in anticipation before we even reach them. Once we do, I let Alex take the first step, standing behind himself for half a second while he slowly but surely begins his ascent. We take it slow, his fingers with white knuckles to match his sallow hands wrapped tightly around the railing, moving up graciously as we climb.

By the time we reach the second floor, the bell has already rung again.

“We’re doing good,” I tell Alex, putting a hand gently on his back. He lets out a sigh that I don’t think much of. He stops halfway up the steps, but only for a moment. Always pushing on. Always trying harder. Nothing was impossible for him, and his optimism showed that constantly. Where had I missed every indication that I was wrong?

He stops once more on the landing leading up to the third flood. I wait for him to begin again, the light from the window behind us heating up my back. I don’t know why I wanted summer to end; the warmth feels so comforting. I wonder if Alex feels the same way, getting to stay at home, not having a carefully timed schedule, never having to climb these stairs. He sits down on the bottom step, elbows resting on his knees, head down. I run my fingers through my hair out of habit and say, “Only one more floor.”

Alex shakes his head, but he doesn’t look up at me. He doesn’t say anything. I decide to sit next to him, brushing the dust and dirt and grime off the step. I nudge his arm with mine, but he still doesn’t meet my gaze. I wrap my jacket around my shoulders, already missing the warmth of the sun, not quite understanding that this situation isn’t normal yet.

“We’re so close,” I say gently.

Alex lifts his head a little, the light from outside just barely touching the top of his head. He pulls his hole-filled sleeves further over his knuckles and takes a deep, shaky breath. “I can’t do it,” he whispers, voice almost cracking.

My heart just about stops. He’s breathing much heavier than he normally does on the steps. Something is harder for him now. “We can go really slow on the last flight,” I tell him, not wanting to sound too frantic.

He shakes his head again, and it’s now that I notice his tear stained cheeks. His mouth open, labored breathing more prominent than I had originally thought. “I mean that I can’t go to school anymore,” he says.

I wish that I could have understood right away. I knew things were heard, I knew his heart didn’t quite work, I knew his blood didn’t go where it should, and I knew his lungs were getting to be all but useless. How was I supposed to believe that my superhero of a best friend was incapable of doing something? How was I supposed to understand why those tears were there? He could do anything. I knew that. He was going to get through anything. He told us that. I had never in my life been so oblivious to someone’s internal pain. We all knew he kept his physical pain a secret; he would never let us know when he was having a bad health day. A day where he couldn’t breathe or stand up. He was fine. Always fine. Fine fine fine.

“You can take all your classes in the library,” I offer. “They’ll let you.”

Alex turns to me, tears dripping onto that soft smile, still so genuine. “It hurts so much, Abby. I wish I could tell you. I don’t know how I can do this anymore.”

And so we sit here for twenty minutes as Alex tells me just how bad it’s gotten. How much pain he’s been in that he never wanted to share with us out of fear that we would be upset. That we would be hurt. He drums his fingers on the edge of the step as we talk, anxiously pulling on his collar every few minutes. He tells me about wanting it to finally end. Wanting it all to be completely over because it was almost too much to handle anymore. And it all becomes so clear to me. The red eyes, the tired circles, the sleeping in class, the fact that he came in later and later to school every day.

I didn’t think about the fact that I had no idea how anyone else truly felt until I got home that day and my mom asked how school went. I sat there while I told her how shitty it was, thinking about how I could be so focussed on myself and the problems I could clearly see that I somehow managed to miss Alex’s deteriorating mental health entirely. Which is what I thought about for weeks after. Sitting in class, staring at Alex’s empty seat, wondering if he was doing any better at home. My pen scratching marks into the tables at lunch, skepticizing how my friends really were every time I saw them smile. I had always cared, of course I had always cared, but that was when my epiphany hit me like a ton of bricks. That moment on the step.

It truly is quite traumatizing to find out that there is no such thing as a superhero.

[kyokushinpunk]

Martial arts and personal epiphanies

(tw : mental illness, child abuse)

This is a very personal post.

Have you ever thought “I’m not doing this right at all” at some point in your martial arts career ?

I spent my frustrating two months off the gym thinking about what was wrong with my savate. After three years, I was still too slow, leaving way too much openings, easily losing balance and mostly way too sloppy with the typical savate footwork.

Since I can only hit the gym about twice a week, I’ve turned to do cardiokickboxing in my room, changing stuff like knee strikes to chassés.

And I realized something during a workout that’s a big game changer for me.

I’m not a southpaw.

Since I started savate and even when I was practicing vovinam as a kid, I had a southpaw stance. I’m right handed and it felt natural to have my strong arm and my strong leg in the front : I can take more damage, they’re closer to my target so I can hit better / harder / faster, etc etc. But during the cardiokick workouts, I had to switch sides each 10 reps. And the more I progressed, the more I realized : when I take an orthodox stance, I am insanely more balanced, faster and precise, my form is better and my footwork feels liberated, light, I feel like I can actually move and put weight in my strikes. I realized I’m not a southpaw : I was DEFENSIVE. I had a defensive stance, always, taking damage and hits and not actually trying to attack, be offensive and go forward. I was making myself into a goddamn target and was basically just trying to take as much punishment as I could.

And this is something that touches deep into myself, my life and my personal history.

Without going into too much detail, I had a hard life. I’ve known abuse, homelessness, PTSD and I suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder.

One of the deepest issues that I have, besides the symptoms of BPD, is that I’ve been raised by someone with narcissistic personality disorder, and was groomed into becoming a personal punching bag (both physical and emotional). I grew up with the sole purpose of being someone’s way of feeling better through abuse of power. And I developed bad defensive reflexes that have propped up in every aspect of my life. I curl into an emotional ball, “grey rock”, go numb, and just take the punishment. It creeped into the dissociating of BPD (and I’m 90% sure it’s partly responsible for my bpd). It was one of the survival reflexes I had to develop.

Another was to lean exclusively on my strongest features to exist / escape. Diving head-on into my obssessions (music being the first). Relying solely on them because they made me feel safe and in control.

What the fuck does it have to do with martial arts and my boxing stance ?

EVERYTHING.

I’m right-handed, I play guitar and bass and drums right handed, this is definitely my strongest hand. This is the one I know I control. THIS IS WHAT MAKES ME FEEL SAFE. So what do I do in a situation where I’m taking physical hits, fast, to the head ? I put up what makes me feel safe, my strongest ally : my right arm. Parrying, hitting... It comes naturally because it’s a defensive reflex built for survival purposes as a kid, because that’s what  I would put up when they came at me with volleys of slaps and backhands with sharp rings... It’s not a martial arts stance, it’s a survival reflex. It’s defense. It’s tension. It’s my lizard brain telling me I’m in danger, while I’m supposed to work and think about what I do.

Why was I exclusively defensive, troubled with offense and attacks and never stepping in to attack, barely moving, not using my strongest, most stable leg to move more effectively and keep my balance especially in a martial art that is based on KICKS and knowing that’s my better point ? Because I had been groomed into NOT responding to attack. When your own parents come at you for physical violence, you’re just a kid. You don’t have enough strength to respond, so you learn to take the damage. You learn to do with the pain, you go numb, you escape and just take it all in. You know that if you dare to answer, they have ten times your strength and you won’t be able to do anything. And... that’s your family. You’ve been groomed by everyone and  everything to trust them and that they know what they’re doing. So going into savate, going willingly into some place where I took the same kind of physical damage I’d get while a child... everything came back. I took the damage, I put up my strongest arm, I gray rocked and became numb and got depressed by my low level, while still having so much fun everytime I got to spar, learning technique and history and meeting more people.

I’ve been boxing with an orthodox stance for the past week. Everyday. Rethinking my typical combos, my form. Everything makes so much more sense now. My one-twos are fast and precise, my rear leg kicks (which are now with my right leg) much more precise and DON’T THROW ME OFF BALANCE, I don’t get dizzy after spinning kicks because my head moves the right way, I’m lighter on my feet because my rear leg, more powerful, propels the rest of my body and gives me stability...

I’m allowed to attack. I’m allowed to defend myself. Hell, I am LITTERALY practicing a sport which is about hitting other people and they’re okay with it because they’re here exactly for that (how often have I told beginners this when they hit me hard :  “it’s ok, I’m here for that”). Everything I know about technique, not only savate but all the other things I learned through reading, observing, discussing, sparring, makes so much more sense in that stance, in an actual martial art stance, from the point of view of someone who practices a combat sport for fun and not someone who is defending himself for survival. Maybe that point of view was why I understood more savate défense ? Honestly, at that point, I don’t care.

I feel like I hit a true milestone in my understanding of both martial arts and myself. A fellow tireur once told me “La savate, c’est l’école de la vie.”. “L’école de la vie“ is a french expression that means “the school of hard knocks”, where you learn about life itself.

Practicing martial arts allowed me to harness my rage, basically cured the rage fits I had about everything (something acknowleded by my therapists). But today, it taught me something about my own life, something about myself, something deep that no therapy or medication could have taught me.

I met myself at a martial arts gym, and it made me a better person.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Like Father, Like Son

Part 3 of 4

Find the previous two installments here: Revelations, Discovery 

“MUM!”

In less than a blink of an eye, she was gone. I sprinted the rest of the way to the stone she had touched, the screaming intensified then stopped. The wind had been knocked out of me and I found myself laying on the ground looking up at the orange streaks of dawn.

I groaned and rolled to my side, shakily trying to stand.

“Mum?” I croaked, the roaring in my ears seemed to echo off the stones, drowning my attempt to call out to her.

“Mum!” I tried again. Again nothing but the screaming roar reverberating from the stones. I scrambled to my feet and took off at a run down the hill towards the car, except it wasn’t there. The car was missing, as was any visible sign of a road. Trees grew in sparse patches across the grass of the rolling hills toward the water.

“Mum?” I whispered realizing with a sickening realization, she wasn’t there.

“Christ,” I groaned dragging my hands down my face. “What to do now? Think Brian, think! Where would she have gone?”

The momentary sunshine quickly disappeared behind clouds of gray and white, a storm was brewing. My pacing turned into a single direction run to a small cobbled, dilapidated cottage situated at the base of the hill. I made it inside the shelter of the cottage just as fat raindrops solidified and turned into snow. The air held a wet chill that seemed to seep into every crevice of the room, even the heavy wool of the clothing didn’t seem to be enough to stop a violent shudder from enveloping me.

I searched the room for any source that could be used to create a fire and saw a broken stool crumpled into a corner. Sighing in relief, I scrambled to the roughly hewn fireplace and sent up a prayer in thanks that mum took the time to teach me how to start a fire without modern conveniences. ‘A necessary skill,’ she’d always remarked.

“Where have you gone, mum? We don’t even know where Jamie went, let alone if he was still alive in the time we’ve arrived.”

Staring into the fire a sudden epiphany hit me like a sledgehammer. “Lallybroch.”

I didn’t know how many days ride or walk it would be to get to Inverness, let alone Broch Tuarach, but I wasn’t going to get there freezing in a hovel. Looking through the cracks in the stone, I watched as the snow fell then melted as soon as it touched the ground. I may just have a chance of making it down to the village before nightfall. But how to pay for what I need? My pockets were empty, but I patted them down anyway, as well as the cloak. A small jingling noise came from a hidden inner pocket of the cloak.

“Mum, you think of everything,” I said to the crackling fire as a poured small battered coins from a black leather pouch and a small roll of paper fell on top them.

Brian,

I understand if you decided not to follow me immediately, but if you do find yourself going back, these will be of use to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t procure you more, but if we find your father and our family, we shouldn’t need to worry overmuch about funds.

I hope you decide to find us, my darling boy.

All my love,

Mum

My eyes burned with tears that were threatening to form. Why couldn’t she have waited just a few seconds longer for me to catch up to her?

The walk to Inverness was longer than I anticipated. Dark had fallen and if at all possible, it got colder thanks to the persistent wind. I hobbled into the first establishment I saw, hoping I could find something warm, a place to sleep, and a horse to make this journey easier.

A frail-looking hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, squeezing tighter than I believed possible, “Ain’t ye a wanted man?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not.”

“Sassenach filth!” The man spat, “Be gone from here!”

“I’m not English if that’s what you mean, I’m from Am--the colonies.”

“Yer as good as ‘em. Crooky won’t serve ye, so be gone!” He threw my arm back hard enough that I stumbled into the door frame.

“Gibbons! What are ye doin’ to my customers?” A menacing man yelled from behind a bar.

“He’s a Sassenach, an’ claims to be from the colonies.” Gibbons spat at my feet, glaring. “It’d be better if he was that bastard of a wanted man. At least then he’d be worth a pretty penny.”

“A sassenach! Is tha’ so? Do ye have coin, lad?”

“Yes,” I said with surprising confidence. “Do you know where I can find something to eat, maybe a place to rest, and procure a horse? I will not be staying long, just ‘til morning.”

“Och, aye. I can help ye wi’ all of these, but it’s no going to come lightly.”

I pulled out a few of the Stirling pieces and handed them over. “Will this due?”

The barman’s eyes widened. “Aye, lad, tha’ll do nicely. What’s yer name, I didna catch it before.”

“Fraser.”

The man’s eyebrows disappeared beneath shaggy dark hair. “Fraser ye say? O’ Lovat?”

I nodded tersely.

“Yer a ways from Beauly.”

“I’m not headed to Beauly. My family isn’t too far off from here, Broch Tuarach?”

“Ach, yer wi’ the Fraser-Murray clan then. Good folk there.” He said, slapping a tankard down before turning around to snag a bowl of something from a passing barmaid. “Drink, eat. It’s no an easy ride in this weather to Broch Tuarach.”

I coughed at the sting of the whiskey, stronger and more bitter than I was accustomed. The warm burn met my stomach as the rich taste of meat broth met my lips. I wouldn’t be shocked if I fell asleep at the bar for all to see, nor did I care. My legs ached from the walk, my fingers felt as though they were frozen into a curl, and my head pounded from the whirlwind of events from today. Tomorrow would only increase the pain and unease.

The following morning, my head still pounded, but my body didn’t ache from the cold, yet.

“Here ye are lad.” Crook, said holding out a wrapped parcel and the reigns to a gorgeous brown mare. “Sorry I canna give ye my best stallion, but Butternut will get ye where ye need to go. She’s strong and hearty. This weather will no deter her.”

“Thank you, sir. For the hospitality and the horse.”

He let out a bark of a laugh, “Dinna thank me lad! Ye paid for the hospitality as ye say. I’m gaining a mighty better price than ye are wi’ my grub and horse.”

I shook my head and smiled back at the jovial man as I mounted the mare. “Thank you all the same.”

“Lad?”

I turned in question.

“If ye see a Gwenalin Crook, tell her Archie sends his love. Can ye do that for me?”

“Of course,” I said puzzled, he nodded then slapped the hindquarters of Butternut and we were off.

As the days wore on, I was struck by the landscape before me. The mountains and the sky, such contrasts to each other were something from the imagination. The size and beauty could not be contained with meager words or thoughts. I felt as though I had stepped into the epics of Tolkien, White, or even Lewis. I could fully understand the magical beliefs and wariness of these people, and the stories that the land inspired.

I was so lost in thought that I missed the sound of hoofbeats and a man’s call until he was right upon me.

“Can I assist ye?” The man, who couldn’t have been much older than I, said as he stared quizzically at me.

“Oh! Yes, do you know if I’m close to the place called Lallybroch or Broch Tuarach?”

The man’s face lit up in a laugh, “Aye, but what business do ye have there?”

“I’m looking for someone and I believe she may have come here.”

“Do I ken ye? Ye look familiar,” He said not acknowledging my statement.

“No, we have never met. Brian Fraser,” I said holding out a hand. The man’s face went pale.

“Brian Fraser has been dead longer than I’ve been born. So who are ye really?”

My eyes went wide this time, of course, he wouldn’t know about me but his knowledge of my grandfather meant he must be family as well. “Are you by chance Young Jamie Murray?”

He went rigid in his saddle. “Aye, and answer me now, who are ye?”

“I’m your cousin, Brian James Lambert Beauchamp Fraser.” I said reaching out my hand, “James Fraser is my father.”

Young Jamie’s mouth fell open as he grasped my hand in a handshake. “Damned if he isn’t! That’s why I thought I knew ye! Christ, ye have the look of him. I’m surprised ye weren’t stopped by the redcoats on your journey here!”

I laughed, “I was accused of being a wanted man at a tavern in Inverness.”

Young Jamie let out a bellow. “That doesna surprise me in the least. Come on, Mam isna going to believe this.”

We rode in companionable silence to the estate, and I gasped in awe. The house, no longer dilapidated and condemned, was full of life and movement.

“Come on,” Young Jamie said, nodding toward the stables. “Ye can leave yer horse there, but I’m sure ye’ll be wanting to ride again soon. Ye said ye were looking for someone, but no one but trouble has been through these doors in a while.”

“What--?”

He cut me off with the shake of his head. “Ye’ll see soon enough. I canna wait to see how this unfolds.”

He leads me through the house to a study where a woman, hair dark and streaked with gray sat beside a man with a wooden leg, pouring over papers on the desk before them.

“Mam? Da?” Jamie said. They turned, eyes wide, and mouth agape, as though they were looking at a ghost.

[askthenewhopespeak]

Epiphany

Miraz turns the knob, opening the door slightly, light shines from outside before it closes. The boy sighs before turning back to the seats. "It's not my time yet." "Well, the theatre is the spot where we all appear first... I've got no clue if you leaving would mean that you fully die, or if it wouldn't matter... nobody's really ever appeared here while still alive." Yukizome shrugged. "Huh?" Miraz is brought out of his thoughts for the moment seeing Junko fly, looking back at the new person, unfamiliar with her. "Who are you?" Miraz slowly opens his eyes with a groan, the room seemed dark. Was he dead? If he was...figure that the arrow didn't work. That Monokuma probably got up and killed him after he passed out. But again...where was he? Suddenly a light casts over a screen.

The screen shows Damian lying on an operating table, with Hiroko Hagakure standing above him. Before Miraz can fully comprehend the situation, a popcorn bucket is thrust in front of him.

"Eat up, kiddo! This is all you're gonna be eating for a long time if Mamakure can't patch you up!"

His eyes widen at the voice, this confirming his fears slightly. "I'm dying...is this hell? Otherwise I wouldn't be speaking to you would I?"

"Probably." Junko Enoshima tossed a handful of popcorn into her mouth. "Seriously though, this is the best show that's been on since... well, since Komaeda tried to kill that half baked copy." She chuckled slightly. "It was priceless, seeing him toss his arm off a roof like that...

Fear is clear in his voice and on his face as he tries to move away from the Ultimate Despair. "How do you know all this? How are we even watching what's happening to me?"

"You think I know how this place works?" Enoshima laughed. "Hell no! Last thing I remember from the land of the living was the big block coming down on me! Then i got to watch everything... the simulation, the old man's killing game, and this school's reopening!" Her face darkens. "And I saw what Storm's been up to... the bastard's been butchering my image..." A slight grin appears upon her face. "Fair enough, since I butchered... ah, no, nevermind, that's for a different blog..."

Slowly Miraz forces himself to breathe, subconsciously starting to eat popcorn as he forces himself to process everything. "From...from the looks of things I might be screwed. Doomed to watch things with the Ultimate Despair." A dry laugh escapes his throat. "I guess it could be worse. Storm has a better plan than what you did by the way."

"Feh. Storm's not a true Ultimate Despair. I always left my plans open to possible failure, that way I could feel the despair of them failing on me... your "daddy" likes his plans all tied up with a neat bow so he can win them." She grins again. "But I have an advantage over him... you see, I won all the time, because in the end, I either got to see the despair on other people's faces, or feel it myself. Storm though..." She shrugs. "If his plans backfire, he won't win. He'll lose. I would have won... plus, there are things not even your papa knows about..." She grins slyly. "For instance, he's got that gal in your group leaking info to the other ones, right? Does he even know who's in that group?"

"Feeling despair from failure? That's insane!" He says with an incredulous look on his face. "Why would that be a sign of....oh." He frowns, actually thinking on her words before picking up what else she said. "Leaking info? The only people I know in the group is myself, Nat....Red Eyes,and Father himself! Why would any of us leak?"

"Aw, you don't even know..." Junko laughed. "Kiddo, you're way behind the game... maybe you should talk to your papa about that if you make it out alive."

"I'm sure he'll be worried about me so he'll call first...if I live." Miraz says, slumping slightly as the screen changes to Natalie's conversation. "...she isn't going to help me?"

Junko shrugs. "Beats me. But come on, it's not as if you're her actual brother... so why should she care about you?"

"But she saved me!" He snaps looking back at Junko, not noticing Hiyoko's words on what needed to be replaced. "She started listening to me, she knows about this!" He flashes his scarred hand.

"Mm, sure... but you realize what we ultimate despairs do best is stabbing each other in the back, right? Unless you literally brainwash someone, they're always gonna try to one-up you. Man, I shoulda saved that anime for Storm and used it on him.. ooh, speaking of brainwashing, have Mitarai and Not Mitarai fucked yet?" She pouts. "The screen never shows me any of the good shit... pans away before anything exciting happens."

"...she wouldn't do that." Miraz says with less confidence than before, looking back again at the screen in worry. They were despairs...was his small talks with Natalie nothing? Could she have been actually planning to get rid of him from the start? Slowly his thought spiral down a darker train of thought, causing him to truly feel something he hadn't felt since his dad.

Junko grinned. She could tell she was getting to the boy... perfect. Even in death, she'd find a way to undermine Maverick Storm... and if Miraz ended up dying, well, there was simply a new chew toy for her here.

Enoshima was jostled from her thoughts and her seat when a foot shoved her forward, sending her crashing into the next row of seats. A woman who looked slighy older than Junko sat down in her place, kicking the bucket of popcorn away. "Sorry about her... Enoshima's just being a bitch, as per usual. And she's probably excited she's got a new person to mess with..."

"Huh?" Miraz is brought out of his thoughts for the moment seeing Junko fly, looking back at the new person, unfamiliar with her. "Who are you?"

"Chisa Yukizome." Yukizome smiled warmly at Miraz. "Former Hope's Peak teacher and Future Foundation member."

"And kiddy killer!" Enoshima yelled from the next row.

"Oh, hush you." Yukizome threw the mostly empty bucket of popcorn onto the former supermodel's head.

"Hope's Peak..." He mutters glancing down before looking back at the teacher. "She's right about real despairs still...guess that doesn't make me one. I guess I'm useless...my life is over."

"Well, there are a lot better ways to spend your time and effort than helping someone like Maverick Storm try and restore the world to the state it was during the tragedy..." Yukizome shrugged. "Like, stopping him from doing so, for example."

"Oh please, the little snot sees Storm as his daddy, there's no way he'd try to stop him." Enoshima sneered.

"...Storm took care of me during the tragedy. I was alone at the start of the tragedy. I had killed my dad in despair of not reaching Hope's Peak beforehand. I didn't know much to survive for the longest. I could only take what I was able to. Sometimes people attacked me and I'd barely get away. It even got to the point I had to kill others just to live on. Then one day...I got too risky." He says, recounting his time in the tragedy.

Yukizome listens, and as Enoshima opens her mouth to let out a snarky comment, she tosses a shoe at the younger girl, hitting her directly in the mouth. The heel sticks in Junko's mouth, causing the former supermodel to look incredibly ridiculous.

PreNHP Miraz sits on a window seal drawing the red horizon of the city. He uses reds, grays, and black color pencils as he works on sketching. I had already gotten supplies I needed that morning to last a few days so I was doing my best to relax. At some point I had taken up drawing to avoid thinking about the world. Miraz continues his picture until he finished, holding it up to see. A wind blew by, taking my drawing out my hands. Miraz looks in horror reaching out to grab it too late, groaning in annoyance.  I'd work pretty hard on it so letting this one go wasn't something I wanted. Going back into the room he'd barricaded himself in he shoots an makeshift arrow out to zip line after it.  I followed for a while, finally catching it before showing up to something I didn't expect. I saw a group of what I thought to be thugs getting ready to kill a man. Miraz peers down at three men surrounding a thin, dark haired man. At first I was going to move on. I'd seen this everyday. But this time I actually felt...different. So I saved him. Arrows fly into the thugs, supposedly killing them all. Miraz hops down, checking the bodies for anything helpful to him and putting it in his bag. He pauses, turning to offer the stranger food they had in their pocket. After that I moved on, not realizing that the men actually were under the Ultimate Yakuza. cut to a scene of Fuyuhiko standing over the men, taking an arrow in his hand before sending people in the direction Miraz went. When I got back home they had broken in. Any traps I had were useless and they had already begun to burn the place down. Cue Miraz sprinting the hall in fear, Yakuza men following him to a dead end. They dragged me out and I thought I was done for. That is...until the man I saved showed up. A few random civilians with guns attack, Storm trailing behind them. *flash back to the present* "Somehow Storm got me out and away from them, and he did his best to care for me since." 

"I... I can see why you see him as a savior, then..." Yukizome muttered. "But... oh, just hold on..." She clicked her fingers, and the footage on the screen seemed to rewind, before beginning to show a montage of Maverick Storm's life, focusing in particular on the cruel things he's done to others.

Miraz' eyes widen in horror at the things Storm did to his class and people during the tragedy. Among the images he sees Kin and her friends. "But...why did he save me? Was he...using me?"

"Chances are..." Yukizome nodded. "I wasn't in his class, I really only heard about what he did from others... but I believe every word of it. I'm almost certain that he sees everyone as a pawn."

"....I see." He says, looking away from the screen. "I trusted him..." He mutters, thoughts going down again. "I just wanted a normal father."

Yukizome placed her hand on his shoulder in a warm, caring way. "Often times, life isn't kind enough to give us what we want..."

"Yeah." Enoshima added. "Death too! I want butter on my popcorn, but noooo, it's just plain..."

"It certainly seems like life hates me in specific huh?" Miraz says softly with a laugh. Looking up, tears form and threaten to fall. "Mom leaves me behind? Okay, then I'll do my best to make do! When I actually find something I enjoy, I get scarred for it!" He shouts gesturing to his hand, voice slowly breaking as he continues. "Fine, let's go to a place that what I enjoy gets appreciated! NOPE!" He laughs again, tears freely falling as he stands. "Have a fresh dose of despair to take your pain out on your dead-beat of a dad until he's dead! Then you can wallow in guilt as the world goes to hell! Save a random guy and he takes care of you? Nope, he's only using you just like the other person you come to believe a sister! AND NOW!" He gestures at the theater they were in, spinning around with despair evident in his eyes. "I'M DEAD! THERE'S NO WAY I'LL COME BACK FROM THIS! EVEN IF I DO, MY LIFE IS OVER!"

Enoshima smirked, watching Miraz. This was beautiful... and in trying to stop her, Yukizome had only helped out. Though, that was fairly typical of her...

"I'll die...I'll die knowing that I've always been alone, and that with everything I thought I've done was simply useless like me!" He grins, scooping up a tub of popcorn and gazing back at the screen. "What a life, what a short useless life it was. And the best part is I have a seat to my end. Nobody will miss me, nobody will even care. This new Hope's Peak, the staff, the students, all were weary of me from the very beginning. I'm probably just another pawn off the board for my dear 'dad.' And now that I'll be gone, that'll be one less issue out the way.

Yukizome doesn't respond, but the screen splits into three, one part focusing on Kyoji, Hiroko, and Mikan trying to save Damian's life, while another focuses on Peko and Natalie in the waiting room, both looking intensely worried, and the final one showed Yukari's conversation with Fukawa.

Miraz' grin slowly melts away that the different things occuring at once. What were they doing? Sure there was Kyoji and company attempting to save him with bleak chancrs, but what of the others? Yukari seemed...sad for him? Natalie and Peko...they were worried?He doesn't say anything as he starts munching on popcorn for the moment. Anyone who noticed could see his eyes changing from despair to normal emerald color.

On the screen, Mikan wheeled Natalie in, placing her on the bed next to Damian while she began to prepare things for a blood transfusion.

"Please be the wrong type, please be the wrong type..." Enoshima began muttering. Another shoe flew into her forehead.

"...what is she doing? She doesn't care, why would she be trying to save someone who's done nothing but cause trouble?" He asks, expression growing more confused.

"Because she cares about you." Yukizome replied simply.

"But she just worked under him like I. Why would she care if I fell. She'd be better in his eyes." His voice wavers, almost as if he was asking a question he already knew the answer to.

"Maybe she doesn't want to look better to Maverick." Yukizome suggested.

"Or maybe she just wants to kill you herself!" Enoshima said.

A third shoe hit her in the face. "YUKIZOME I'M GONNA SHOVE THESE FUCKING SHOES RIGHT UP YOUR-"

"Oh, shut up, slut. We're dead." Yukizome smirked. "You can't hurt me unless I want you to. And, unlike you, I'm not a masochist.”

Yukizome's words set in his mind as his gaze turns over to Yukari, remembering how she reached out to him, setting up a party, having done nothing but share kindness to him. "...they do care. Why do they care?"

Yukizome smiled gently. "That's something you'll have to ask them."

"Yeah..." The despair in his eyes disappear completely, leaving only a sad smile on Miraz' face. "I will if I live."

"Which you probably won't." Junko scoffed.

"It does seem pretty bad. How badly did I get slashed up?" He asks looking at his body.

"Shirokuma fucked up a bunch of your organs. Including your heart." Enoshima smirked. "So you're pretty much fucked."

Miraz winces, tracing his fingers along his front. "There's no way they can save me in time. That's too much to fix..."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Yukizome shrugged.

"What am I supposed to do if...I don't live?"

"Well... let's hope it doesn't come to that." Yukizome muttered.

"Hope." Miraz' looks at her with deadpan expression before sighing. "I guess that's the only thing I can do now."

"If it's any consolation, it's about all I can do... well, that and babysit." Yukizome shrugged.

Miraz watches Kyoji work before looking to Yukizome with curiosity. "How did you end up here?"

"I died. Simple as that." Yukizome shrugged. "There's a whole bunch of people outside the theater... nobody wants to stay with Enoshima in here for too long, so we take shifts watching her."

"Fun..." He replies, looking back at Junko. "I guess I can see why."

Yukizome glanced down at her wrist, and scowled slightly. "Ruruka was supposed to take over five miniutes ago... ah well, I’m pretty good just sitting here for however long until you're... decided on, let's say."

"There's others out there though right? Couldn't we go out there? Or do I have to stay?"

"Well, the theater is the spot where we all appear first... I've got no clue if you leaving would mean that you fully die, or if it wouldn't matter... nobody's really ever appeared here while still alive." Yukizome shrugged.

"Try it, and let's see what happens!" Enoshima smirked.

Any advice from Junko Enoshima seemed like a bad idea, but while Miraz was concerned if he'd live or not, he was curious what was beyond the door. Looking around the room, he sees a lone exit sign on one side.

"You do what you think is right, Miraz." Yukizome said.

Miraz slowly stands up, walking towards the exit door. Reaching for the handle he pauses, turning back to the theater. Chisa sat to his left with a peaceful smile, Junko on his right with that smirk. Leaving the theater may mean he'd never be able to come back to the land of the living. Was it really better than staying and waiting in suspense? A choice had to be made...

"Do what you think is right." Chisa repeated.

"Wait hold-" Junko began, but Yukizome put her hand over the younger girl's mouth.

Miraz turns the knob, opening the door slightly, light shines from outside before it closes. The boy sighs before turning back to the seats. "It's not my time yet."

Yukizome nodded, returning her gaze the the screen. "Hmm... looks like they're getting close to finishing up... I think you were right about it not yet being your time."

Miraz looks up at the screen with a smile, sitting down next to Yukizome before yawning. "Is it okay to sleep in here?"

"I don't see any harm in it." Yukizome smiled.

Damian nods before his eyes drift close and in a few minutes he's asleep leaning on Yukizome's arm.

Yukizome smiled. It seemed like today was not the day Damian Miraz was going to die... her eyes turned to the screen as she had the footage fast forward...

"What's it looking like so far?" Enoshima asked. 

"Out of all of them... three are definitely going to survive. And two are definitely going to die..." Yukizome muttered. "As for almost everyone else... their fates are up in the air." 

"Heh." Enoshima smirked. "I bet those idiots will get everyone killed..." 

"I disagree. I have faith in everyone..." Yukizome said. "They'll pull through."

"And what happens after..." Junko smirked. "Upupupupu... I can't wait to see the look on their faces..." 

Miraz began to fade from the theater, and the two women watched him go.

"Godspeed, Damian Miraz." Yukizome muttered. 

"I hope he sends an arrow right into Storm's dick." Enoshima smirked. "And then a few more!" 

"You're messed up." Yukizome sighed. 

"Well duh."

[kintsugi-sheep]

The Villain’s Path to the Power of Love

So, look, this is what happened.

I couldn’t tell you how many lives were lost when we fought the Alliance that day. I don’t remember how many times we narrowly dodged a civilian casualty, how many buildings we toppled, how many heroes and villains were lost. When it all came to a head, only seven stood on each side.

I remember scanning over the rows of heroes, ready to pounce at whichever so much flinched. But then King Chrome stepped out of line.

That flashy suit he was so proud of was dented, scratched and burned to shit, he hid his limp as best as he could, and his eyes didn’t waver from the line of heroes in front of him.

I looked across the battlefield to my nemesis, One, the Last of the Atlanteans. He once claimed that when they broke the laws of nature, had their country drowned in the depths of the Atlantic, and had their history wiped from the collective conscience of all humanity, that their spirits remained and amassed into a great power.

One had that power. His memories, his strength, his moral code, all of it was from the collective will of a dead continent.

I had been proud to call him my rival for the past five years.

But, as his eyes were fixed on whatever King Chrome’s next move was, I held my breath and pulled my eyes over to the boss, waiting to see what he was planning, hoping he wouldn’t lay a hand on my nemesis.

Then, King Chrome removed his helmet.

He gave his name and age, where he worked, and what he fought for.

Everyone was stunned into silence. After all, King Chrome, the Silver Devil, the genius philanthropist behind the Pitch Brotherhood, was a twice over college dropout who worked as an intern in the Mayor’s office.

He said that he had friends and family and a wife at home worrying about him. He pointed out all the destruction around us and proposed a ceasefire. Everyone was tired, everyone needed to make sure their loved ones were okay. He argued back and forth with the heroes for an hour, debating why they shouldn’t just arrest him on the spot, declaring that they were still strong enough to take him, claiming that the destruction around us was our fault and not theirs.

Then Evernight stepped up from the hero’s side. And he revealed his identity.

The tightening in my chest stopped. There was finally some leverage on both sides. We could all actually walk away from this peacefully.

And then fucking Hoplite stepped forward and revealed his identity, which drove me crazy for two reasons.

First, we could always see his stupid fucking face through his stupid fucking helmet, so the reveal added nothing to anything going on, except maybe to suck off his own ego.

Second, it encouraged another hero to step up and reveal their identity.

At the end of the day, seven heroes, seven villains, all fourteen of us, knew exactly who the others were. Everyone had leverage.

Each side, holding power over their specific side of the law, was sworn to secrecy.

And everyone went home.

A month had passed and there weren’t any big-name heroes or villains running around. Some folks thought the heroes stopped their patrols because there weren’t villains to capture. Others thought the villains were committing crimes because there were no heroes to challenge. Sometimes a shitty C-list villain would try and rob a museum dressed as a giant chocolate bar or something, and then a shitty C-list hero dressed as a toothbrush wielding a dental floss lasso would stop him.

Otherwise, it all went back to cops and robbers.

Me and a few members of the Pitch Brotherhood met up a few times over the next few weeks. We couldn’t believe what had happened that day. And you know how things get. You’re drinking, you see a crime on the TV in the bar and talk about how you would’ve done it without getting caught, and then you have an epiphany.

See, the heroes were always open and honest about what it was they loved, believed in, and fought for. And those same things were always recited by the press when they’d get in the news. Somehow, we came to the conclusion that maybe we’d get a better reputation if we found somethings to love and care about.

And that’s how I ended up spending the next three days of my life glued to dating apps.

I downloaded Blaze. I loved all the sex, but didn’t feel like any of the girls were dating material. Especially the one that stole my wallet.

I downloaded Cross-Shaped Heart, but religious girls weren’t really my thing. And they didn’t put out like girls on Blaze. I went back to Blaze for a bit.

I downloaded Wedding Bells. The girls on there were even more intense than the ones on Cross-Shaped Heart. So, naturally, I went back to Blaze.

I downloaded The Cave at Hoplite’s suggestion. I learned two things from that experience. One, I learned what a bear was. Two, I learned that Hoplite thought I was gay.

Things finally settled down when I downloaded Venus. The girls seemed like actually people, interested in a decent commitment without being super clingy, and may or may not be down to fuck; if yes, great, if no, maybe on date two. And after heading back to Blaze for a bit.

I talked with Sophie for two months before she agreed to go on a date with me.

Meeting her outside of La Nourriture for dinner, I had to admit I lucked into a better girl than I expected. She was one of the prettier girls I’d met through online dating, she was friendly and funny, wasn’t afraid to disagree with me, and could actually keep a conversation going. She also had a habit of asking you to explain things in a way that made it seem like she really cared about what you had to say.

I’m not so macho that I can’t admit that when she greeted me with a kiss on the cheek my heart melted a little.

We’d just walked in and just sat down. Hadn’t even met our waiter yet, when some random broad approaches and screams Sophie’s name and comes running over to our table. I’m about to get pissed when Sophie got up and hugged her, apparently it was her cousin Dalia.

If Sophie was a nine than Dalia was a thousand. Long hair, thick lips, huge tits, and a cool tattoo on her shoulder.

A familiar tattoo.

A familiar tattoo of five woman intertwined going from her elbow to her shoulder.

That’s when it hit me. I knew who Dalia was. And when I managed to pull my eyes from her boobs and saw her staring me down, I knew she knew who I was too. And that she knew that I knew who she was. Even without touching me.

She was Muse.

Muse’s ability, by the way, is that she’s able to telepathically like with something by touching them. And if she opens a conversation, then you can talk back.

Also, a strange aside of her power was enough physical strength to punch a hole in an adult rhino from tip to tail. I’d seen it before; it was fucked up to watch. It was one of those rare white ones, too.

She quit the Pitch Brotherhood the previous year, deciding to settle for a life that didn’t explain all the blood to her drycleaner, and got the tattoo to remember her time with us. There were tears and hugs and well-wishes and an orgy of blood-filled chaos as we decimated the streets in her honor and cake.

And right now, she saw that I was on a date with her cousin, glaring at me with those icy green eyes. God, I wanted that bitch to step on me.

And when she called her boyfriend over to the table, I nearly shat myself.

He looked a few inches shorter, wore his hair differently, and had on a super thick pair of glasses, but I could tell who it was. If not for the unmasking three months before, I’d never recognized One in public.

She introduced him as Darryl, an elementary school teacher who was writing a screenplay in his free time. The fact that he was a teacher was made clear at the reveal, but he’d never said anything about writing a screenplay. That pissed me off. If he had the idea to recount his adventures as a hero and pass it off as some sort of creative masterpiece, he had another thing coming.

That asshole Hoplite demanded my only copy of my screenplay about my adventures as a villain that I wanted to pass off as a creative master piece last year and hadn’t returned it yet or even given me any feedback. I know that bastard lost it, and it would take forever to replicate because I couldn’t control my burgeoning genius and handwrote all eight-hundred pages on specialty paper that cost roughly four-fifty a sheet.

I got pretty nervous when One looked down at me.

He shot me a charming smile, we exchanged greetings, and he extended his hand.

I hesitated. I fought him constantly for the last five years and he’d finally seen me unmasked just a few months prior. What if he used this as his chance to take me out? I gingerly grabbed his hand and shook it.

He chuckled, told me I had the limp grasp, and muse playfully smacked him.

And then the waitress came to us, finally, and then made the assumption that we’d all be eating together. So of course, they joined us so that Dalia could catch up with her cousin.

Admittedly, One was good at keeping a conversation going. He kept probing me with questions, obviously; I was apparently the only stranger at the table. But the way he asked questions left plenty of room to expand on. And he was courteous enough to kind of facilitate the flow of my date in a pretty good direction. It was pretty nice.

Or it would have been if I couldn’t stop focusing on how Muse kept holding his hand. I knew she was talking to him about me. I could see it in her eyes.

Then, it happened.

I cracked a joke to make Sophie laugh. Sophie giggled. One chuckled. Muse, apparently, found it so fucking hilarious that she burst out laughing and reached a mile across the table to tap my arm.

The music in the restaurant got quiet, the interior grayed, and time ground to a stop. I could hear Muse in my head. And she wasn’t happy.

I explained, honestly that I was just on a date and hadn’t gotten up to anything. That Sophie was nice and I felt there was a genuine connection. Muse was skeptical, but accepting.

I pride myself on not being a snitch. I once lost a leg because I refused to snitch—luckily, it grew back. Were this a normal conversation, and were I able to control my mouth, I wouldn’t have said this. But, because she was directly in my mind and able to hear anything that was at the forefront of it, I uncontrollably asked if she knew that she was dating One.

I was stunned. She said yes.

He also knew that she was formerly Muse. They knew what each other’s powers were. They were talking about me the entire night. And, probably because she could hear all my thoughts about her breasts, she said that she knew she would leave after dinner the main course so that she could go back to his place and eat dessert off each other.

Moving past clouds of erotic imagery, and the inevitable truth that I’d be jacking off to it later, she found the question I had about what specifically they were saying about me. She told me that I seemed like a nice guy, if a bit too ugly to be dating Sophie.

I asked if that was it. She said yes.

I was confused and asked if he knew who I was.

She said he had no idea who I was.

I went blank. My mind itself went silent at what she’d said.

Muse took that as the end of the conversation and pulled her from me, finishing her laugh a bit more robotically than it started.

One didn’t know who I was? We saw each other unmasked. It was only three months ago, there were only seven fresh faces to remember. Did it not even click back into place for him when he saw me again?

Who the fuck did he think he was? I was his nemesis. Not some bank robber he’d down with a one-two combo, toss in a jailcell, and never see again. I was his nemesis! I devoted two to three days a week to messing with him for the last five father-fucking years. And this is what he thinks of me? Nothing? Fucking nothing?

Was it because I wasn’t writing him some lame limericks and dropping them all over the city to solve like some sort of asshole C-lister who got the short straw on the day when he had to pick a theme? Is it because I didn’t stalk him and know literally every facet of every action he took in every crime he ever stopped; because I didn’t know the exact number of times his heart had beat or how many hairs were growing out of his fat ass?

Was he staring at King Chrome, or should I say Orville, the whole time during our exchange?

I guess it’s my fault for not being a freak of nature science experiment with the strength to punch Washington’s face off of Rushmore. I guess it’s my fault for not being some tragic basket case with perfectly fine mental health. I guess it’s my fault for not inheriting a trillion dollars from my dead grandad and using it to building a gaudy silver suit, flying over cities on a jetpack and launching rockets from my cock.

What was I supposed to do now? Rob Fort Knox? Blow up the Vatican? Eat a baby? Fuck the elderly woman who adopted him?

That was the bullshittiest bullshit I’d ever heard. What a fucking asshole!

Apparently, I was a little too quiet for a little too long. Muse took the time to reach across the table and shake me back to reality.

When the world grayed again, she took the time to tell me that if I fucked her cousin, she’d grab me by the throat, leap into the air, and toss me into the turbine of a passing plane.

And that’s why I went back to Blaze.

 [WP] After repeatedly losing to the powers of love and friendship villains have decided to try to harness that power for themselves. They started a dating site and you're on your first date. Things are going well, until your arch nemesis barges in thinking this is another one of your plans.