#I can’t keep bogging down all my friends with this so into the void of my blog it goes

[keenestpeach]

.

I don’t want to keep complaining but I am having such a miserable time dating. If you can call it dating. I’m on four different apps, hardly get matches, don’t get replies to most of those. Which I know is like par for the course on these but it really is a hit to the self esteem. Especially hinge because on other apps you can tell yourself the people liking you is simply not mutual and that’s why there’s no match but hinge will just show you everyone who likes a photo. I redownload it after months and only had two likes waiting for me.

I went on a date last week that was mid. Not terrible but no chemistry with the guy whatsoever. And that was the first date I’d been on in a year. I don’t know what else to do to meet people. I do a few meetups and I’m so happy for the friends I’ve made there but they are just friends.

I really am just super lonely. Came back from a friends house tonight and it’s just a crash because that’s the only socializing/physical touch I get for the next two weeks. I don’t see any other friends irl with any kind of frequency. I live alone. If I don’t go out there is a high chance I will simply not speak at all that day. Not out loud. I find myself just hopping from app to app trying to find anyone to talk to.

I can dream or fantasize that one day I’ll find someone but realistically, I know it won’t happen. This is just the life I’m going to have. Maybe I can be content with it. I like having space and not having to accommodate others in my home. But there are these pockets of loneliness.

There’s no conclusion to this. Im just not feeling great right now. :/

[dahniwitchoflight]

Homesquared Chapter 14 part b

Alright time for more reactions to Homesqaured- oh jeezus

the last one of these I did was from october last year, hoo boy alright brain time to get back on the time train things are happening fast

we last left off with me thinking they just fucking hilled Harry but I remembered the wrong house so Harrys fine, John not so much

Yeah, John sad but ooh Karkat shows up!

They seem to have a mutual conversation about lost youth and stuff, really makes these characters feel oold

“JOHN: jeez, i'm sorry karkat.

JOHN: i had no idea how much time had passed.

JOHN: i must have gotten a bit distracted by my house being blown up.“

Oh man, John thats a whole ass MOOD

lol at sburb allocated blow job

yeah Karkats right tho, John does kind of need a kick in the pants to see how he might have been useful here, but Johns still stuck in this rut of not seeing anything around him as Real real, so hes blind to all of the consequences of inaction

John its called derealization and depersonalization, you can get help for that yknow

But I mean, cant really blame him, hes being smothered by the fires of Doom all around him

Its interesting to see that Karkat, a Blood player, is more comfortable navigating through things that constrain them and tie them down, since constraint is something Blood and Doom have in common, Chains and Barriers and Laws and etc

Whereas John the Breath player, just gets bogged down, hes totally out of his element

so it ends up being like John: “Id like to cling to some funny moments of my youth pls and try to lighten the situation up a bit because I cant do anything when so heavy”

versus Karkat being like: “BUCKLE UP FUCK TITS THIS SHIT IS YOUR LIFE NOW GETS USED TO WADING KNEE DEEP IN THE SHIT LIKE THE REST OF US GROWN ASS ADULTS”

John: ):

Hmm, both Vriskas have been captured, but Annie basically rescued herself, knowing Vriska Prime she probably has a plan or an idea about that, see well see how that goes

“KARKAT: JANE'S PLAN FOR THIS CONFLICT HAS THUS FAR CONSISTED ALMOST ENTIRELY OF KIDNAPPING VARIOUS HIGH PROFILE CHILDREN.

KARKAT: IT'S BIZARRE.

KARKAT: AS THOUGH WE ARE FIGHTING A WAR OF ATTRITION, WHERE THE MAIN RESOURCE BEING UTILIZED IS THE OFFSPRING OF THE MOST POWERFUL PEOPLE ON THE PLANET.KARKAT: IF IT WASN'T ONE OF THE CORE TENETS OF HER FASCISTIC PHILOSOPHY, I'D BE TEMPTED TO SAY THAT CURBING REPRODUCTION MIGHT HAVE BEEN A GOOD IDEA, IF ONLY TO PREVENT THIS KIND OF FUCKSHIT NONSENSE FROM HAPPENING.

Oh. Well I guess that was Dirk’s “plans” for Jane all along. Obviously he was using Jane as a vehicle to gather “players” for his eventually next session, interesting

But who has Jane kidnapped in total thus far?

Does Tavros count? he was certainly trapped with her for some amount of his life, but I dont know if that counts as a kidnapping, John certainly tried to kidnap HIM though from the epilogues

Annie certainly counts as being kidnapped

Vrissy has JUST been captured so that counts, and Harry so far is still fine

Which bodes so well for Harry’s future Im sure

Yeah, Vriska should have been able to not outwit any capture attempts, but my guess is either Vrissy got capture and Vriska dove in, OR, Vriska’s doing an inside job so to speak and got caught on purpose, dragging Vrissy along as well

I guess we’ll see when we see their “prison”

Anyway John, don’t get so down on yourself, you’re just ignorant to everythiong around you! thats why nothing makes sense and you can’t connect to anything, easy fix! Just try to learn more and care more about stuff lol

Man does this feel like a strong metaphor between people who are into/care about politics and people who feel like they can’t get into it though

Crossing that hurdle from one side to the other is rough

“KARKAT: BUT NOTICING THE PROBLEM AND MAKING MEANINGFUL PROGRESS TOWARDS SOLVING IT ARE TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT THINGS.”

yup

man, this is all feeling startlingly relevant to the current times, I should have read this sooner

“ KARKAT: PLEASE DO NOT TELL ME YOU JUST HAD ANOTHER EMOTION THAT WE NEED TO DROP EVERYTHING IN ORDER TO DISSECT. “

hah, oh wow, Karkat when you phrase it like that, it’s almost as if you’ve become self aware of your tendencies to Moirail people out of their problems

Not really that out of character for a Blood player to end up being the Therapy Friend though lol

Just don’t burn yourself out on that though

JOHN: karkat, we still haven't spoken about *you*!

KARKAT: ABOUT ME?

JOHN: yes.

KARKAT: ABOUT *ME*?

JOHN: about you.

KARKAT: WHAT THE FUCK ABOUT ME.

JOHN: well...

JOHN: you know, how you feel!

KARKAT: HOW I FEEL.

I know Karkat has probably matured past misunderstandings like this now given he’s really come into a great understanding of his Blood aspect, but by golly do I wish Karkat would misunderstand this as John’s attempts to be Moirail-reciprocal sdkjfhwlijebr

What a perfect way to continue their relationship, on top of more misconstrued romance quadrants XD

Spades is old Hat, Diamonds are in now babey

Oh

this started out funny, but Karkat’s emotional rant just ended up being depressing not funny ):

I have to say though, it is REALLY interesting to see John’s depression manifesting in a very breathy sort of way

Karkat in these panels was more closer together, connected, but as John gets more and more depressed over the course of Karkat’s rant when he realizes Karkat doesn’t know dave died, the panels get seperated by lines of blue, and slowly drift off away from John and from eachother

but thats basically been hows its been manifesting all along

the more John feels Disconnected and Seperate from the reality he finds himself in, the more he finds his will untethered, the more depressed and unable to act he gets

and right now its so much so that even a fuller fledged Blood player is having trouble grounding him back down

I don’t know, I always viewed the depression metaphor as a dark watery void to sink into and feels heavy and encapsulating (but probably thats just my Light-y interpretation of it)

so its interesting to see the depression metaphor as this floating disconnection instead, so much that it leans towards derelaization/depersonalistion/dissociation as well

I wonder if John will start dealing with bouts of actual full blown dissociation as this gets worse?

I mean, Breath aspect has given the literal ability to ghost around wherever he pleases in all other ways, why not literally and physcologically as well?

So John seems to be fully overembracing his aspect here, to a very unhealthy degree here, which I see you asking “aha Dahni, but hes doesn’t have overblown self esteem here, quite the opposite, is this not an inverted state instead? or something else because hes acting like hes inverting to Breath?”

and I say not so! reader, for overembracing is the idea that through your aspect, your will is overwriting the wills of others, and in someone like Vriska, this manifests in a very selfish and over self esteemed way

but is not John’s will overwriting Karkat’s here? Through Breath? And isnt John also being a little selfish here? Considering how he feels about things, more important than how anyone else feels? How Karkat feels?

John is too dissociated to understand that this reality is Real and has Consequences he needs to care about, and Karkat is trying to fight against that, trying to instill his belief that no, this shit is real and it Matters Why Don’t You Care, trying to ground him, trying to give him that dose of Blood he needs

but John’s overembracing Breath is just, blowing that all away, its becoming too strong

Roxy in the epilogues dealt with this as well, when John was really in the shits with it and started to believe Roxy’s whole personality was somehow fake and his own construction, because he convinced himself Roxy would never choose to do the things she did, but Roxy was able to snap him out of it and make him understand and respect it was her own choices that led down his path, not the idea that John’s choices are somehow overriding everyones

But man, John sure is riding that Breath train way too hard, and he keeps snapping back into it as well

Further and Further

[bestintheparsec]

The Same Coin - Part 3

Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

A/N: Alright, this chapter feels like a big boi compared to the previous ones😂 I’m sorry for the delay in posting this! But I hope you enjoy it, and as always comments and feedback are appreciated!❤️ Special thanks to my lovely friends @hiscyarika​ @murdermewithbooks​ @aerynwrites​ for helping me proof/edit this thing, it would not be what it is without their help❤️

Words: 5.0k

Warnings: canon-typical violence, angst, a slice of Tender™

You pull your gun out of its holster, readying yourself against the side of the wall as Steve and Peña do the same. The sun beats down on you as you wait for the search bloc’s cue. Even if today’s mission is just a small-scale one, you’re glad to be back out in the field—and so is Peña, since it was his tip to begin with. Late last night, Peña received a tip from a previous CI regarding the whereabouts of a small lab. The colonel only allowed the use of fifteen men and a few cars, but this should be more than enough for the takedown of this particular site. Without the need for verification by Centra Spike, all three of you were promptly able to get the ambassador and Messina on board with the plan.

You’re shoulder-to-shoulder with the two of them now, waiting on the colonel’s signal as the men break down the entrance and toss a flash bomb inside. You’re given the cue as yelling erupts from inside and the whole search bloc barges in, sweeping the building. Gunfire from either side rings out, and when the smoke clears you’re able to make out the few sicarios that have been taken out on the ground.��

The quiet only lasts a few seconds before more shouting and shots come from the stairwell. Suddenly, a slew of sicarios start flooding the warehouse, coming from all corners and every room. They fire continuously and your ears start to ring from the noise. You take some of them out, but the shots keep coming and never cease.

“What the fuck!” Steve yells beside you as he continues to aim and dodge bullets. The three of you split up and scan the whole area, but you’re unsure of what you’re even looking for now. Your adrenaline’s running so you can’t process for long. Peña said there would only be a few of Escobar’s men here, not a small army of them.

The bloc continues to take them down one by one, and you’ve already made your way through most of the building when a bullet flies past your arm, hitting the wall behind you. You dodge behind a shelf and watch as two sicarios fire at you, pushing themselves through the window in the room. One of them knocks a shelf over on his way out as a barricade, and you quickly follow suit, climbing over the hunk of metal and out the window. Javier and Steve hear the noise and make their way into the room, following after they see you throwing yourself onto the street outside.

Sweat starts to bead on your forehead as you chase after them, expertly dodging the objects they throw in your path. Innocent bystanders watch with concern and you dip past them—you’ve almost caught up and can hear Steve and Peña's racing footsteps behind you. You always outrun those two—your lungs haven’t been bogged down by cigarettes the way theirs have. 

One of the men turns and shoots at you before disappearing through a doorway on the other side of the road; you’ve almost caught up to the other one so you make a split-second decision, letting this one go and continue running straight ahead.

You’re closing in on him when the sicario abruptly turns into a narrow alleyway. You follow, but lose your footing and trip over a large piece of metal that he’d thrown to the ground. He dashes off and escapes as you get yourself up, groaning loudly. 

“Fuck!” you hiss at yourself.

As you go to pick up your gun off the ground, the other sicario that had slipped away earlier appears out of nowhere, his gun pointed at you and ready to fire. You freeze like a deer in the headlights, your hands ready to fly up in surrender when a shot rings out from behind you. The bullet goes straight through the sicario’s chest, sending his lifeless body to the ground.

You exhale in relief and whip your head around, meeting Peña’s eyes as he lowers his gun. He tries to catch his breath, giving you a curt nod. Seconds pass before you realize you’ve stopped breathing, but you return the nod after taking a deep breath. It’s the only thanks you’re able to give at the moment, since he gestures in the direction the sicario escaped towards. The chase is still on, so you grab your gun off the ground and run alongside him.

You sprint back out into an open street where you see Steve pointing his gun at the sicario, who’s got his own gun aimed right back. 

“¡Baja tu arma!” Peña yells at him, but he doesn’t budge.

Your gun is pointed as well, but you briefly scope your surroundings. Aside from a few cars parked along the sidewalk, the street is void of any people. 

No one else seems to notice the unsuspecting truck that’s parked to your left, carrying large tanks with the word “gasolina” stamped on them in faded white letters.

You turn your attention back to the sicario, but it’s too late—his eyes go to where you were just looking, and Peña and Steve see the truck at the same time he does. There’s a split second of silence, but then he jerks his gun in the truck’s direction and pulls the trigger before you can yell “No!”. At the same time, Peña shouts something you can’t make out, and you’re about to move when you feel the force of his large hand shoving you and Steve face-first behind a car for cover. Your arms brace the fall and you feel the vibrations from the explosion as you lie face-down on the ground. Following the sounds of shattering glass and debris, the street fills with blaring of car alarms and smoke.

You felt an impact on the way down, but now you’re not sure if it was because of your body hitting concrete, or the weight of Peña’s body on top of yours, shielding you. His free arm is over Steve and he quickly moves it off. He grips your arm with his hand, then releases it but keeps himself over you. The sharp ringing in your ears isn’t enough to distract you from the feeling of Peña’s chest against your back, pressing on you every time he breathes in and out.

All three of you stay on the ground for a few more moments before uncovering your faces and looking up to inspect the scene of complete chaos and destruction. Debris litters the ground and the dense smoke in the air burns your lungs. You know to always expect the unexpected, but this was definitely not part of the plan. 

The colonel’s going to lose his shit. You shift your position, still aware of his weight on you. Peña starts to get up first, but keeps his arm over you just a second longer than necessary. You don’t know why but you feel a hint of warmth rush to your cheeks. With a shaky exhale, you push yourself up as well. What the hell was that? you want to ask him. He offers no explanation or the slightest comment about the strange moment of contact, so you figure it’s just you, thinking too much as usual.

You sigh with relief when all of you are able to stand, seemingly unharmed. Peña looks relieved as well, looking around as you brush the dust off yourself.

“Anyone hurt? Or hit their head?” he asks, rubbing his shoulder. You and Steve each let out a huff of air and shake your heads as you all start to walk back towards the warehouse. No one has to say it, but you know you’re all in for some harsh words once you get back to the embassy.

~

The three of you sit in the ambassador’s office with Messina, and as predicted, they’re pissed. While you three were off chasing down those two sicarios, the search bloc had managed to capture a couple of sicarios back at the warehouse—alive. So while they’re off being questioned right now, you, Peña, and Steve are getting reprimanded for how indiscreet the mission was. You’ve been listening to their lecture for nearly twenty minutes and they’re only now slowing down. Not much has been said on your part; you’re fuming on the inside and trying to contain yourself. Your jaw is clenched and you’re bouncing your leg on the floor, waiting for it to be over. It won’t make a damn difference what any of you tell them; it never does.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, we have two high-tier sicarios in our custody,” Peña comments with a wave of the hand, barely concealing the irritation in his voice. His other hand grips the arm of his chair, his knuckles white from the pressure.

“Agent Peña, this mission was supposed to be covert—in and out, is that not what the informant said? You were supposed to go in there quietly, not create a goddamn war zone,” the ambassador retorts.

“How were we supposed to know all of that would happen?” Steve clips. His frustration mirrors your own. You’re about to mutter something sarcastic when you notice Peña’s eyes shift down to the ground, then back up. He clenches his teeth and grinds his jaw. It’s a tic of his, when he’s up to something. You’re not sure what he has to do with any of this, but now’s not the time to bring it up.

After you get dismissed, you go back and sink into the chair at your desk, sighing with exasperation. Peña and Steve sit down at their own desks across from you, stowing their guns and badges away.

You quietly observe them as they pretend to skim some paperwork. Steve has some small bruises starting to form on his arms, and you’ve got a busted lip—but other than that, the three of you aren’t hurt. You shake your head at the irony—one small stakeout with Peña resulted in him being shot in the leg, yet a whole explosion happens and the most you get is a bloody lip and some scratches. Go figure. 

Your fingers twitch and can’t stay still, and you can’t figure out why. It’s been a few hours since the event, and a scolding from the higher-ups has never fazed you before. Your fight-or-flight response has calmed down now. But you almost feel shaken by the incident, even though it was far from being your first encounter with danger. You didn’t do anything differently, and no one was hurt. But your mind can’t focus on anything else except those moments where you might’ve been harmed today—that sicario was ready to shoot, and the aftermath of it all could’ve been a lot worse. Your mind flashes to Peña’s hand on your back, and you feel your face getting warm again. Why the fuck are you thinking about this? You shake your head, immediately suppressing the thought.

As astute as you are, you don’t notice that Javier is observing you, too. He doesn’t miss the way you’re massaging your fingers again, something you haven’t done in a while—at least, not around him. You cross, then uncross them several times. He suddenly feels a pang of guilt; today must have affected you more than you’re letting on. He considers how this was yet another time he’s put you—and Murphy, of course—in harm’s way. His CI had greatly downplayed the amount of violence to expect, but his anger over this isn’t boiling quite as strongly as the nagging sensation of guilt that’s slowly making itself known again. He’s had worse problems with past intel, but for a reason unknown to him, this time it’s different. You might just be a coworker, but he can't help but feel like he's at fault for more than one thing today.

So when he watches you with your multiple nervous habits, he almost has to pull his eyes away. Steve picks up on your annoyance and says something to cheer you up, and a hint of a smile appears on your face. It’s not long before Javier's attention is inadvertently drawn to the cut on your lower lip; it’s a bit swollen along the area. He purses his own lips and forces himself to finally look away. It was just another day on the job. Why the hell does any of this bother him?

You stand up suddenly, tossing the files onto the desk and breaking his chain of thought. “I’m going to go get a coffee,” you tell them, pushing your chair in. They both nod as you pull your drawer out to grab your things and leave for your break. You don’t notice the frown on Peña’s face as he watches you leave, either.

~

As you sip on the steaming beverage and walk on the quiet sidewalk towards the benches on the outskirts of the embassy, you’re hit with the feeling that today’s events are going to linger in your mind for longer than they should. You wish they wouldn’t—you’ve seen so much worse. You exhale and take a seat on the bench, rubbing your temples and taking another long sip from the cup. 

You weren’t stupid when you joined the DEA; you knew what you were signing up for. But you also knew what you had to give up, or at least you had to try to. You’ve worked here for too long to not know better. You don’t get close to people; you try not to, anyways. Even though Steve is a good friend, there's a lot about you he doesn't know; things you’ve never offered. Loss and suffering is all you’ve seen during your time here—it wouldn’t do you any good to get attached. Does this have anything to do with Peña? No, of course not. You try to brush your thoughts off, instead pondering what kind of shady dealings Peña's been involved in. He knows more than he’s willing to tell, but you don’t know if you want to know any more than that. It’s not the first time he’s done questionable things, of that much you're sure. Eventually, he’s going to get himself hurt if he keeps up the reckless behavior. Why doesn’t he realize this, or care? And more importantly, why do you? 

You start to massage your fingers, as though it’ll wash the thoughts of your life choices away.

But you’re never allowed any reprieve. As if on cue, Peña’s voice interrupts your thoughts. “You’re in my spot,” he says, approaching the bench.

You’re about to make a smart remark, but hold back when you turn and see the resigned expression in his eyes. Peña takes a seat beside you and leans back, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering you one. You shake your head as he lights one for himself. 

“This is my thinking place, too,” he comments when you don’t say anything. He follows your gaze to the street, full of loud cars and pedestrians out and about.

“I, um—Thank you. For today, with the sicarios,” you finally add after a few moments, turning to look at him. “I mean it.”

Javier meets your eyes, only breaking his gaze when he realizes you’re still rubbing your fingers. His mouth presses into a hard line and he doesn’t really know how to respond to your thanks, so he just nods. 

“You don’t need to thank me. Just...doing my job,” he says quietly, practically under his breath. You were almost hurt again, and it would’ve been his fault.

“What is that job, Peña?” It’s a genuine question, and you don’t mean any harm by it. “I don’t know what you’re not telling us, but...you should be careful. If not for your own sake, then for ours.” 

He puts the cigarette to his lips and takes another draw before he answers. “I can take care of myself,” he states simply.

You scoff at that—not just because he’s stubborn but because you’ve told yourself the same thing many times. You've learned to fend for yourself here.

“Maybe,” you reply. “But there’s a lot more at stake than your own safety,” you tell him. He glances away then, but acknowledges the statement with another nod.

“Don’t worry. You’re not going to get in any trouble,” he adds quietly, and it’s not laced with the typical sarcasm you’re used to. 

“That’s not all I care about, you know.” If you sound a little defensive, you hope he can’t tell.

“Really, and what do you care about, agent?” He smirks, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke.

“The same things you do,” you answer curtly with a shrug. “Catching that asshole, staying alive while I do it.”

“That’s all?” he asks with feigned disbelief.

“I think you know it’s for the best,” you say. “It’s best not to be attached to anything, or anyone else,” you add before you can stop yourself. Your eyes widen at the admission and you turn away—you didn’t mean to say that out loud.

There’s no way Peña misses the change in your tone, but he seems to spare you and makes no other comment. You exhale deeply and stand up, tossing your cup in the bin.

“We better get back inside,” you say, deftly changing the subject. “Let’s not give them another reason to make our lives difficult.”

He chuckles. “And when they do?”

“I’ve told you before,” you reply, a slight grin on your face. “I’m used to dealing with assholes.”

~

Lately, you’ve been getting a flood of potential new leads coming in. Some of them come from the sicarios that’d been captured days ago, but a lot of them seem to come out of nowhere. The phone’s been ringing more often than any of you have been used to recently, but more often than not the sources want to talk to an American; specifically, they ask for Peña. You and Steve occasionally question him about it, but he shrugs it off, reassuring you that these are all valid intel. 

The good thing about having so much new information is that the three of you are actually motivated to look into it, grateful for anything beyond the mindless busy work that’d become part of your routine. Falling into your prior routine from when Peña was working from home, you all bring the work home to his apartment almost every night. Each day seems to run into the next as you work tirelessly, plotting and digging to move forward. Late nights turn into even later nights, but you all seem to be running on fumes anyways.

You can’t help but feel like the dynamic between you and your partners is different now, too. Something seems to have shifted after your short conversation with Peña that day at the embassy, but you can’t put your finger on what it is. 

Steve catches on to something being off, too. One night when you’re all poring over one of the leads, Javier makes some darkly-humored remark about something and you let out a chuckle but make no other comment, continuing to focus on your work. Steve looks back and forth between you two with a wrinkle in his brow, racking his brain. He’s been used to being the middle-man, constantly mediating the hostility that was often present whenever you two worked together. The friendly banter—if that’s even what this is—is just a tad disorienting to him.

The three of you pass the liquor around; you have just enough to make you forget the exhaustion of another long day. Hours blend together and you continue to power through, but sometimes your minds give out for the night before you can make it home.

When Javier looks up and realizes you’re both out cold for the night, he sits up and stretches, getting up to head to bed himself. He’s mildly envious that you’re able to succumb to exhaustion so easily, because he knows it won’t be easy for him. But then again, it’s probably not much easier for either of you—sometimes you’re simply lucky enough to have a night where the baggage of the job is strong enough to allow you to rest. Steve’s got his face on his knuckle with his mouth agape, and you’re nestled into the side of the couch with your arms crossed. A gentle smile crosses Javier’s face and he shakes his head. His partners really are something else. 

The smile fades quickly when that nagging feeling of guilt hits him again. Sure, he’s been keeping contact with his informants; it’s the only way your bosses will take things seriously. But he’ll be damned before he lets any of them put you or anyone besides himself in danger again.

He walks over and pulls the blanket that’s draped over the side of the couch, covering you with it before picking up the papers off the floor and stacking them neatly on the table. He brings the glass of whiskey with him to his room, not bothering to shut the door behind him. 

~

A car horn blares in the distance and Steve jolts awake, realizing he dozed off even with the dim lights still on; he figures it’s time to call it a night. He stands and shrugs on his jacket, smirking when he sees your sleeping form slouching over on the couch. He takes another swig of whiskey from his glass, briefly deciding whether he should tell you to go home, too. He glances towards you, then to the paperwork on the table, then to Javier’s room, and smirks again before deciding to leave you alone. He places the glass down with a clink, turning off the lamp as he makes his way home to Connie.

~

Javier wakes up abruptly, his body still and his eyes adjusting to the surroundings of his bedroom. He can barely put together what he saw, but his heart beats rapidly and he can feel his pulse in his face. He remembers an indistinct image of broken glass and fire, nothing else. He steadies his breathing, in and out, willing the pounding in his chest to stop. The nightmares visit him so often that he’s never surprised by them anymore, but he’d like to be able to sleep through just one fucking night.

He exhales heavily and shuts his eyes again, knowing damn well he’s not going back to sleep. It only lasts a moment; he opens them again and sits up on his bed, running his hands through his hair and down his face. He pushes the comforter off himself and puts his feet on the ground, leaning forward with his face in his hands. He tries harder to remember what it was about this time, but it’s already been erased from his memory, leaving only the aftereffects. He’s so fucking tired. Not just from the lack of sleep, but from everything that leads him to dark places even in slumber.

He sighs deeply again, then stands to get his drink from the top of his dresser. It’s almost empty, so he pours himself another glass. He can’t tell if he’s a little buzzed from the earlier glass, or if it’s just his mind being too loud.

~ 

Your eyes open slowly as you try to reorient yourself—you’re still on Peña’s couch. The old leather cushion squeaks as you sit up, yawning. The lights are all off, so the space is completely dark, save for the blue-hued night’s sky shining through the window. You can’t have been out for more than a few hours, but you rub the sleep from your eyes before pushing the blanket off yourself and immediately shiver when the cool AC air hits your skin. You’ve only been tired enough to fall asleep here a few times, but every time you’ve woken up with this blanket on you. You can’t help but feel a hint of warmth in your chest, but push the feeling away before you let yourself think too hard about it.

At any rate, you need to go back to your own flat, so you get up and blindly try to find your things in the dark. You dig around and find your keys before swinging the bag over your shoulder. You’re about to head to the door when you hear a quiet groan and some shuffling coming from Peña’s room. You purse your lips, unsure if you should ignore it. But when you hear the clinks of glass and sounds of liquor being poured, you hesitantly remove your bag and gently place it back on the floor.

You’re afraid of breaking some unspoken boundary as you quietly walk towards his room. Coworkers—partners—watch each other’s backs, don’t they? This is normal. 

His door is wide open, so you tell yourself you’re not barging in. Standing just outside the door,  you nervously peer inside. You expect him to be under the covers, but instead find him sitting on the edge of his bed facing away from the door, his head in one hand, his free hand nursing a glass. If you leave now, he won’t notice. But you suddenly remember his protective hold over you and Steve during the incident. Before you can change your mind, you knock lightly on the door frame. You don't know what troubles him, but if it's anything like your own demons, he shouldn't have to be alone. 

“Peña?” you whisper, so quietly that you’re not even sure he can tell you’re there. 

He makes no response, but sits up straighter and rubs his face, so you know he heard you. 

“Are you…okay?” you ask with a meek voice, waiting for him to answer with sarcasm, or anger, or...anything. Honestly, you expect him to ask you to leave, and at another time you might have gladly done so. But now you’re not so sure.

“Yeah, great,” he mutters, but his voice cracks at the end of it. You swallow dryly, not knowing what you should do. But he doesn’t tell you to leave, so you rock on your feet for a few seconds as you wait for him to add anything else. When he doesn’t, a feeling of courage overcomes you and you take a step into his room, joining him in the darkness. Your breath hitches because while you don’t know what this is, you know that there’s no going back from it.

You walk towards his dark silhouette—your pulse is racing and you have no idea why—until you’re standing in front of him, your knees almost touching his. He barely lifts his head, not meeting your eyes. If he wanted you to go, he would’ve told you so already. 

Your hands want to fidget, so you slowly reach out and gently take the glass out of his hand, setting it down on the nightstand beside him. He rubs his hands together hesitantly, looking up at you for a moment before turning away, unable to match your gaze for long. Your arms are at your side, your brows furrowed as you ponder what to do. You don't ask for an explanation because there's none needed. If only to distract yourself from the biting tension in the air, you reach out again, timidly brushing your fingers along his bare shoulder. You’re pretty sure your fingers are shaking, but when he doesn’t pull away you place your whole palm on his skin, running it down his upper arm in hopes of comforting him. You feel his muscles tense and then quickly relax, so you start to pull away—abruptly, he stops you by taking your hand and giving it a light squeeze with his calloused fingers, taking you by surprise; he quickly retracts as if he didn’t mean to do it. He still avoids your gaze, looking straight ahead at the wall behind you. You’re never this brazen unless you’re in the field, but you don’t want to leave him alone now. 

You lift your hand again, this time moving to softly run your fingers along his thick hair, smoothing it behind his ear. You swear you hear him inhale, and he seems to relax against the movement. You run the palm of your other hand along the smoothness of his back, then gently pull him in towards you. He doesn’t move his arms, but he almost instantly leans into you, his head pressing against your stomach. You wrap your other arm around him, and while he doesn’t do the same, he relaxes completely against you. Minutes pass but you don’t move, keeping your hold around him as you listen to him breathe in and out, occasionally lightly stroking the back of his head. The noises of the Colombian streets at night quietly fill the background, but all you can focus on is him. His skin is warm against yours and you almost feel comforted yourself, despite your best attempts to ignore the feeling. The heaviness of your tired eyes is long gone now.

You’re not sure how much longer it’s been when you suddenly feel him tense under your arms again. He gently pulls away as you let go. He finally looks up and meets your eyes, raising a hand towards your face. The tips of his fingers barely graze the skin on your cheeks and suddenly your heart rate picks up again; just as quickly, he removes his hand. You don’t even have time to let go of the breath you realize you’re holding. You take an inch of a step backwards, steadying yourself and tugging on the hem of your shirt. 

“I...should go," you whisper. Your voice falters and you hope it doesn’t betray you.

A beat passes. “Yeah, you should,” he agrees, but his voice is gentle.

You linger for a moment, then slowly turn and walk away, leaving his bedroom door open like you found it. You keep your steps quiet as you pick up your bag again and walk through the front door. Once you’re out in the hallway, you pause and take a deep breath, shaking off whatever feeling has suddenly taken over the emptiness in your chest.

~

Translations:

Baja tu arma = lower your weapon/put the gun down

~

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[monchikyun]

XVII. ghost stories

Connor doesn't want to admit it to himself but he has is currently over the moon. Living alone in that dreadfully dull apartment whose purpose has been that of a prison cell, a place where he'd spend the rest of his days waiting for some kind of divine punishment to restore the world's balance by putting him through suffering most soul-wrenching has not been a very pleasant experience. But Sumo, that helpless creature he gets to call his friend and roommate, has done nothing wrong to waste his life like that, cooped up in a supersized terrarium. The angel of a dog deserves a proper home. And if Gavin doesn't mind the android tagging along, then who is he to deny the floofpuff his favourite company.  Maybe it’s a bit presumptuous to think that Sumo has any distinct preference towards him, but that’s something Connor allows himself to indulge in, the idea that he’s doing a good job taking care of that overgrown puppy, that no one else would love him the same way Connor does. Of course, this kind of love would be better defined as an emotional dependency, but the canine doesn’t have to know that. 

He's happy, no one can deny him that, but with it also comes to the violent inner conflict, for the joy that flows through him never stops feeling wrong, one way or another. As if every little bit of content that he steals for himself extends the sentence he made himself serve, that he has to make up for each and every time he smiles or feels his heart flutter in something else than fear.

Yes, he did agree to Gavin's proposition, but it doesn't mean his mind is automatically set on actually going through with it. 

Every time they're locked in a shared moment like that it's hard to deploy rationality. Hard but not impossible. And if he really was against the idea of sharing home with the one person he’s sure he loves, he wouldn't have answered so enthusiastically. It's just that there is a mess inside of him and he can't quite sort through all the excess guilt and sorrow. 

“Hey, Con, what’s going on inside that head of yours? I can basically hear your brain cogs grinding.” 

They've been lying side by side on the bed closer to the window, keeping a polite distance between their bodies. The snowing outside has ceased, which can’t be said for the weather beyond his eyelids. Connor hasn't wanted to face anything tonight, so he has submitted his vision to the darkness, listening to Gavin's slow rhythmical breathing, one of his favourite sounds in the world.  

Many times has he found himself wishing to share the events that lead him to his current devastated state, times upon times did he want to transfer his memories to some innocent bystander just so he doesn’t have to suffer alone. But never to anyone close to him. It used to be a wound too ugly to be shown, and he feared that once it’s revealed, it would make him revolting in the eyes of the recipient. If it's just him who has to bear the hideous burden then he can justify it as a consequence for his shortcomings, that was something agreed upon in his mind. But when the weakness is stronger than his resolve to let it stew inside of him for all eternity, he can't do anything else but to listen to its cries for help. Because when he closes his eyes and concentrates, the voice screaming for someone to come and save him is no one else's but his own. 

And Gavin just happens to be the first one to get near enough to hear. 

"I'll tell you, but only if you really wish to know what happened on that day. It won't be an easy story to tell, and even less so to listen to." 

"I'd bet you anything that I've heard worse. Witnessed, even. Maybe."

Connor turns to face him, just to give him an expression that conveys how unconvinced he is about that. 

"Okay, sure. Just. This is very… hard for me, so…" 

"Hey it's fine, we don't have to do this if you're-" 

"No, I need to get it out. It's been weighing me down for almost a year, and I don't know how much longer would I be able to last like this.," he squeezes his eyes shut again and dares to grace Gavin with a minuscule smile. 

Gavin extends his hand far enough to almost touch him, letting it linger in the vast space between them. It feels like they doing something like this for the first time, like they’ve regressed back to how it was before this December. He can’t stand it, so he seizes the hesitating hand and clutches it like it’s the only thing keeping him from slipping into the endless dark. 

"Let's be fair here, no one deserves to be my outlet more than you." 

He's the main reason Connor's still here, after all. 

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

What a terrible fucking day has it been already, and it's only ten in the morning. Hank has woken up with a hangover tracing his every step, directly followed by his ever so caring partner. They have been stuck working on a seemingly never-ending case, and the lieutenant isn't known for his patience. Every day he grows wearier and wearier of not being able to find their guy despite it feeling like they're oh so impossibly close to apprehending him. Like he's hiding just around the corner, laughing his ass off at their incompetence. It bogs down not only him, but Connor has been invested in this more than everyone else. The poor android probably blames himself for the fact that the perp is still walking freely among all of his potential victims. 

So when they finally get the call of his whereabouts, when this nightmare of an investigation is about to come to an end, he is so wired-up he cannot see anything besides that what matters to him right now, which is nothing else but the hooded figure fleeting away across the busy street like exhaustion doesn't even exist to him. Unfortunately, Hank is an old man and his muscles are not what they once used to be, so he has no choice but to leave this chase to the one of them who doesn't need any organic tissue to run at the speed of a motorcycle. When the lieutenant does eventually catch up to them, he releases a sigh of relief that gets lost in all the breathless heaving as he watches the monster of a man lying on the floor in the pool of his own blood. He is not a callous person, not usually that is, but right now he wishes that the person on the ground wasn’t breathing anymore. Maybe he'll regret thinking like that later, but at the moment it feels more than justified, given what inhumane atrocities the man has committed. 

He's about to praise Connor for his good work when an arm sneaks around his shoulder, and he senses something sharp against the skin on his neck. 

"Tell me Jake’s not dead or I''ll kill this geezer like the pig he is." A gravelly voice grazes his ear and he wants to throw up from the undesirable proximity. 

"You won't." 

Leave it to his android partner to always have the upper hand in a crisis. He’s is sure that the gun Connor’s holding in his hopefully steady hand won't miss his target and that he'll be released from this death grip in a matter of seconds. It's not the first time he's found himself in a perilous situation like this, but that doesn't mean he's isn't sweating like he's about to get murdered in cold blood. Because he isn't. He can’t be-

A loud bang reverberates through his head down to his spine, ending at his feet just as devastatingly hot lava takes his mind under. It's the worst pain he's ever been in, yet it feels so… liberating.  He can just make out a desperate scream of his name in the voice he's got used to hearing these past months before all his thoughts slowly disappear into the all-encompassing darkness that is carrying him somewhere distant, somewhere painless. Here, in the great void of salvation, he's nothing but an idea.  

Happy because he’s arrived in the place he's been trying to get to all this time, for a hope that he can meet the most important person in the entire world, the missing piece of his soul. Sad because he’s leaving the other one behind. 

He doesn't know if the flickering light that is gradually moving closer is the thing he's been longing for, but he's more than willing to find out. 

Because nothing burdens him anymore. He's finally free. Home at least. Just like he should be. 

@a-convin-new-year should i continue tagging this blog or it too late? 

[reidology]

Are you sad and can’t do anything about it? Feeling completely hopeless about the course of your future? Fear no more! Welcome to:

✨🥖 Bread to fill the void 🍞✨

Today we made Irish soda bread because I just tried some for the first time and it was delicious.

But first! Butter!

Our bread recipe requires buttermilk, which isn’t readily available everywhere, so why not kill two birds with one stone and make our own butter AND buttermilk!

I used a hand mixer to whip the heavy cream as violently as I could. Highest setting. No mercy. Let that frustration out.

When you think you’re done, keep going. Let it know who’s in charge. It’s you. You’re the boss now. YOU are in control. Beat that bitch to next Tuesday.

Next step was a bitch so I didn’t take a picture. To separate the butter from the butter milk you gotta squeeze the life out of this motherfucker, I choked it with my hands but then decided to put it in some cloth abd wring it’s guts out.

This is the result:

Butter and buttermilk!!! You can flavor your butter however you want, I just used salt. I’m not flashy.

Next up! ✨Bread✨! Here’s the recipe I used.

These were my ingredients, in this house we respect our ✨bread✨ so I treated this gem with tenderness and respect.

I didn’t take pictures because I was in the zone, but I put all the ingredients together until it formed a soft but not sticky dough. No kneading needed, this is a yeast-free loaf.

I used leftover buttermilk and egg mixture to glaze the top! We want her to shine like the star she deserves so be! ⭐️

We value tradition here, so cut a cross in your loaf for a blessing, and make four cuts in the corners to let the 🧚🏽faeries🧚🏽‍♂️out so they don’t curse your yummy nourishing ✨bread✨!

Pop it in the oven for a while and BAM! Look at her!!!

⭐️DIVINE!!!ETHEREAL!!!!⭐️🌙!!

Put it all together and you’ve got yourself everything you need to forget about your worries for at least a few minutes until you feel bad about yourself for chowing down so many carbs.

In the end, it’s so worth it! And guaranteed to satisfy you and your new

✨🧟Bog Body Friends🧟✨

[nicistrying]

I wasn't going to post this but I just want to put it into the void so it's off my chest a bit. I apologise in advance bc I know I'm venting on here a lot atm.

I think I'm probably just getting hormonal but I've cried twice this morning just thinking about the potential of uprooting and moving to Bristol. I don't want to, for a whole load of reasons. But they're all selfish reasons - I've just started to make friends which I haven't been able to do for the past 5 years at uni and I don't want to have to start again. I don't want to move away from my nannas, but we would be much closer to Matthew's nanna so we would be able to see her more than once a year at Christmas as is currently the case. He deserves to have more time with her. I would rather just find a house and settle down here bc that's my personal priority whereas Matthew's is his career bc he has a goal in mind and I don't, which is why I'm more bothered about just getting a house and a dog and trying to be happy outside of my very bog standard job. But this is an opportunity he definitely can't pass up and I would never want him to, so if he gets offered a place then we're going, no question about it. I'm just feeling super overwhelmed bc it's gone so suddenly from something he mentioned in passing that he might want to apply for to a very possible reality within the next 6 months or so. Idk I just feel really alone - I haven't really got my friends to talk to atm, I never have time to call my sister (who I would usually lean on for advice) bc I work on all of her days off and vice versa. So Uncle Manager is probably going to have a very teary Nic on his hands tonight. I thought I had made peace with it the other day when he and another coworker basically told me I was being selfish and that really the only option is to do it and go with him, but thinking about not being near my nannas and my sisters is just awful. But then in the grand scheme of things that is again just me being selfish. Ugh I kind of hate this stage of my life. I'm just watching everyone around me doing awesome things - people I went to school with getting great careers underway, having babies, buying fancy cars and houses, my sister progressing loads in her career, my cousins doing the same - I just feel totally lost and alone and like such a disappointment compared to all of them. Literally the only time I don't feel like that atm is at work because most of my coworkers are in the same kind of boat - some have dropped out of uni after realising they didn't want to do what they were studying as their career, some just started there part time alongside other stuff and then covid happened and they lost their main jobs so they've gone full time and gained more responsibility, even my manager just kind of fell into retail and worked his way up. But we're all contributing to the store and working hard and it shows bc we're smashing our targets lately and it's great to feel valuable and like I have some worth. I know I shouldn't measure that by other people explicitly saying I'm a valuable part of the team or by the fact that our figures are getting much better with every little extra effort we all make. But that's where I am right now I guess.

Anyway I'm trying to see the move, if it goes ahead, as an exciting thing and there are a lot of good things about it - Bristol is right next to Wales which is somewhere I've always wanted to go and there are awesome mountains for walking and the countryside there is beautiful. I've never really been down South and it would be cool to see another new city together - my manager has assured me that it's a lovely place and there's loads to see and do there. It would force me out of my comfort zone which, although difficult and stressful and annoying bc I've only just gotten comfortable, is a good thing bc I'm not the type of person to voluntarily go outside my comfort zone. It would probably be good for me personally. Closer to Matthew's nanna. Further south so presumably a little bit warmer 😂 I just need to try to keep an open mind about it. We just went for a walk and I feel much more positive about it but obviously it's still a huge and scary and uncertain thing.

[eltigreus]

what’s changed?

when I was younger (not that I now am old or anything), I used to tweet, livejournal, post, share, reblog (with vivacious commentary), and unabashedly expose my self and my expressions in whatever manner I could think of on a daily basis, wherever possible. multiple times a day, in fact. the epitome of screaming into the void - simply for the sake of assuring myself that I am alive and I have thoughts/feelings. but now...

I find myself: habitually/obsessively running my thoughts and opinions through judgement filters before even allowing myself to consider them; reactively scrutinizing the art and expressions of others for no good reason other than to be contradictory; scavenging the depths of my mind for good content and throwing out practically every seed I pull up before it even has a chance to be germinated; refusing to share anything of myself that feels underdeveloped or inadequate for this social platform or that; and (at times, desperately) looking for any minuscule moment of every day life interesting enough to capture on video that I could share with friends, family, followers, and anyone else that might help to contribute to the proliferation of vast opportunity for creation in the realm of entertainment for myself and my cohorts.

“What happened?”

how did that bombastically outspoken, overly-enthusiastic, naïvely ostentatious young artist end up this way?

a while ago, I spoke to a friend who told me,

“You’re all dusty? You used to be so much... shinier?”

to which I immediately shrunk in reaction. “life happened,” I thought to myself.

but, whose life is it? whose life are you leading? whose life are you aspiring towards? is it one of your own creation and desire or is it the one you were indoctrinated to believe is the only “true” option for success in your profession? the one with flagrantly rapid [commercial] success, un-stifled money flow, influential notoriety, and - of course - lots and lots of beautiful [men] of all shapes and sizes at the tips of your fingers awaiting your beck and call?

the reality of this enviable latter life is one only a privileged few get to lead in the business of entertainment; and it is apparent that a vast majority of those few don’t look like me, nor would they refer to themselves as “movement artists” - nor do they seem to register aloud their own contributions (or lack thereof) to the privilege of living this reality; that’s another tangent emotional pi.

“You’re all dusty?”

I’ve had the dirt kicked up on me quite a few times before that day when I met my friend. I had felt myself becoming much more dull in the months that preceded this meeting, but never was able to admit to myself what was happening until someone else was awake enough (and loved me enough) to point it out to me.

“You used to be so much... shiner? You can’t keep giving and giving your light away to other people. You have to replenish and recharge yourself if you want to have anything at all to give to someone else.”

these were some of the things my very conscious friend had said to me that day. he was/is right.

I love to give and I love to avoid myself. but, clearly, this wasn’t always the case. frequently, I attributed this development to the consistent loneliness I was experiencing (even before the quarantine). upon further reflection, I think it would actually be more accurate to say “this re-development” of myself. I think, perhaps, the reason that bombastic young artist was so unapologetically expressive was because he had the time to be so; he had the time to be bored enough to indulge in his own organically-sprouted curiosities and decided to respond to his findings aloud - to himself, to anyone who might hear in passing, to whomever.

the reality was that the make-up of his audience was of no importance; the importance was the act of sharing, the purity of expression - of earnestly recounting experience and emotion. not being concerned with how to indulge in dialogue but inherently knowing that the conversation must be started in order for one to begin to learn.

so how can I expect myself to be so suddenly inspired now when I never give myself enough time to relax and be bored?

quite probably possibly, the production mindset has skewed my view of [my] value. though the efficiency skills I now posses are very useful in a creative process when time is not on our side, the incessant need to constantly produce something in order to feel sufficient - to feel purposeful or worthwhile in any manner - can take irreversible tolls on the body and psyche.

“You’ve got to save some light for yourself.”

I have given my light to choreographers, directors, producers, employers, educators, entrepreneurs, puppet masters, and clowns all with varying degrees of mutual benefit as collaborators and acquaintances. you can tell the ones who are ready to reciprocate your efforts of light-giving from a mile off and - hopefully - you make the effort to ensure that you are able to stick around and continue trading frequencies/creative opportunities. but, why is it that one would choose to stick around when one’s intuition screams at them that their currently-involved endeavor is a one-way highway and all signs along the road offer (clearly threatening) admonitions of fines, tickets, and legal action against those that pick up... hitchhikers?

though you inherently know better, for some reason, you still hope the ones who are there to take what they need and then thank u, next themselves out of your realm of existence will somehow (miraculously) see you as something... special? some thing “worth” taking the time to get to know and grow with. unique enough to take a chance on for a fantastical project that is bound to be the next multi-million dollar franchise which will set you up to do whatever it is celebrities do when they’re not being famous... for the rest of your life? it sounds as ridiculous as it is.

it’s hilarious (and unsurprising), but my professional life and personal life have very closely mirrored parallels. to consider myself a “hitchhiker” in regards to my past methods of approach at forming relationships (romantic and otherwise) with humans is, unfortunately, fairly accurate. the co-dependent nature of matrimony which had been instilled in me since I was a young one has very undesirable affects when put into practice as an “independent adult.”

but how could you expect anything different when your focus is divided between your profession, your partner, your bills, your friends, your dog, your chores ... this list goes on and on. when do you turn your undivided attention inward to reflect on what it is you need/want? I’ve found that even when I am involuntarily alone, I tend to refuse avoid every opportunity for relaxation and self-consideration. (un)fortunately (for me), the Pandemic currently circulating our Mother Earth has removed virtually all possibilities for external distractions. (a moment of singularity is much more easily served surrounded by accessible bars, intoxicants, and unimaginably beautiful people, after all - no?)

before I run off my rails, I think I must pull this train of thought into the station. this lengthy rumination of my past experiences is not meant to serve as a “warning” for those interested in undertaking an artist’s life. I write this, first and foremost, to employ what I’ve criticized myself for not doing throughout this piece: I write this as an act of screaming into the void once again.

I write this to assure myself of my own ability to communicate emotions/thoughts and experiences, and to remind myself of how much I love to do so. I write this also to offer another perspective to others who may feel jaded or deceived along the current portion of their artistic journey. I write this as an act of defiance against my own insecurities.

I write this in the hopes of encouraging whomever might stumble upon it to give yourself a break and assess/pursue what it is that will bring you true fulfillment in this life.

I write this... because I wanted to? because I wanted to. because I wanted to express myself without being bogged down by the waterfall of irrelevance that my mind produces when it feels unsafe or exposed. because I am an expressive human who must allow room for expression when the motivation is pure.

because I’m trying to cure myself from this long-time build up of artistic epididymal hypertension.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[thegooddoctorsthoughts]

Amalgamations Of Matter

“Are you okay?”

No, I don’t really think so.

“What's the matter?”

I’m alive and aware, an amalgamation of matter which is capable of placing itself in reality and grasping the finality of its own oblivion. 

“Found the rot again?”

Not quite, there's something all too violent to this feeling. It’s the horror of knowing one day I will simply blink out of existence and there's next to nothing I can do about it. Something crushing, almost claustrophobic about how utterly final it is. The entirety of reality as I know it will end with me and continue on long after I vanish.

“You’ve gone all the way to the core of it all haven’t you?”

I was looking for something, can’t remember what exactly. Then I found its root, the core of that thing I’ve come to call my humanity. Vibrant and full of life, a flame of whose manner I put to words in any form that would do it justice. It stands in harsh opposition to the nature of who I choose to be, unrefined and raw, not even the metallic ore dug out of the ground but the rushing of iron through blood, iron left resting in a bog for thousands of years, preserved yet also eroded by time. There is life to it in a manner I cannot describe. I found it hardly acknowledged me at all, only going in search of more fuel to keep itself going, not stopping, not thinking, alive yet hardly living, only concerned with staying alive at all costs even for a few seconds longer. I pitied it in a way.

“You pitied it?”

Why wouldn’t I? It strove only to gather all the nutrients and kindling it could in the area around it, eventually it will break down and burn out. Going from raging inferno to dull warmth to dying cinders and then amongst the ashes of its life and it's time somewhere the last cinder will go out without any fan fair and no heat will ever come from those ashes ever again. It’s life was in all reality slight and realistically meaningless.

“Yet that is the nature of what you are, you are down at your very core human, or at the very least you came from us.”

Do I look like I care? Do you think I give a flying fuck about my heritage, I am conscious, I’ve been given the single greatest pleasure and punishment reality could realistically level upon me, knowing that one day the crude biological machinery that maintains me will break down even if I do everything in my power to maintain it and I will simply collapse in on myself and cease to be, no void, no darkness, no sight, no sound, no thoughts, nothing. A blink from a hospital bed and consciousness comes to an end and I will fall asleep, with no dreams to keep me idle, just a blink that never ends. Perhaps this is hell? Perhaps Limbo? Do you understand? Reality as a concept, the sense of progression, the sense of flow and regularity of it all. The narrative of the concept of reality as we know it you and I and everyone else, means fucking nothing the moment that light goes out. For all I know I am the only sentient thing in existence and everyone I’ve come to care for is simply a construct of matter following similar logic to me yet they at no point are actually sentient, a perfect simulacra, fuck knows most of the people I meet seem to be little more than glassy eyed automotons.

“Well don’t you think you are so high and mighty? What? Is the average person suddenly so far beneath you you hardly consider them aware of themselves?”

Do you have any idea I would give for the ignorance of the average person? Do you know what I would give to be free of this knowledge? So many people live happy lives blissfully unaware of this, or perhaps with the capacity for faith! Oh what I would give to find faith, genuinely, to find a deity to pledge my eternal soul to and have the comfort of an afterlife to work towards. To live well and be successful, to make this world a better place for one and all with the promise of it bringing me to something greater.

“You can still make the world a better place you know, even if it doesn’t promise you an eternal paradise.”

Oh but I am, in my own little quite way, I wake up in the morning in more pain than most people can imagine, my life mired by a silent suffering most can scarcely quantify in their minds. I work to make my life a better one, to make the world I live in better not only for myself but for others as well. I live in the constant fear that this is the only life I and everyone I care about will ever have and because of that I do whatever I can to make this world a slightly better place to make this world a place where people do not vanish into that void or become consumed by the rot long before their time to escape a suffering brought on by the very nature of reality. If there is a god out there, if there is anything greater than ourselves I intend to kill them with my bare hands, to march upon their throne and melt those pearly gates to nothing but molten slag and brandish it as the armor and weapons fit to slay whatever intelligence condemned me and everyone who possesses this level of awareness to this suffering. If there is anyone out there, I hate them for what they’ve done to me. I hate them for cursing me with this knowledge. I adore them with every fibre of my being for twisting me into existence and giving me the drive to hate them. I love them for giving me the time and space to learn to love myself, to cherish the life I have and to give me the determination to want to destroy them. They created me and should I have my way, should I ascend to this sense of immortality I strive towards, should I drag humanity up with me to this sense of godhood and bend the very fabric of creation to my will, I hope any being I curse with consciousness hates me for doing so as well because I will never do it willingly.

“I will be honest...I don’t know what to say to that. I mean, I don’t know if you’re right, but, I don’t know what to say to you.”

Don’t say anything, don’t think, just live, don’t reach whatever insane plateau I’ve reached because there only seems to be down from here yet the only satisfaction from this is to climb beyond the mountaintop and into the heavens themselves. Nothing short of godhood would satisfy me now and all I would do with it is witness reality as a dead husk, with no sentient life in it at all, only glassy eyed machines. Perhaps this is all some great joke. Perhaps I am some vast alien consciousness caught in a machine by my friends outside of this and they will mock me for growing attached to everyone in here because none of it was real. Perhaps this is what hell really is and I am being punished from crimes against reality itself. Perhaps the goal of all of this is to forget and live until oblivion devours me and there is no more consciousness to care whether I lived or died.

“...”

Perhaps one day I will ascend to the godhood I desire, only to create more beings such as myself now so as to have someone to talk to, something to play with, to simply play the infinite cycle as it is now and one day they will rise up and fashion their own godhood from my mangled corpse upon its throne of metal and machinery. I don’t know any more and frankly I wish I didn’t care. All I know is that I’m afraid...and I don’t even know if I should be any more.

[secretsaintpoet]

People In Parallel

Chapter 2: In Life and Dark

Like any other 16 year old bogged down by the social stipulations of high school drama I also feel trapped.  In 2014 life is interesting, the sea of clothes around him is remarkably bland, the hair styles involve all sorts of colors, and the smell, oh the smell would burn your nostrils for days.  I remember one day the smells were even more fragrant than usual, the weather was hot, the humidity was so high that I wouldn’t have been surprised if people started to begin to float up as water droplets into the sky.  Lets just say that body odor wasn’t just a word that day it was something you could see.  

Now, the smells weren’t the only thing keeping my mind occupied, the thought of the oncoming school year was like a train barreling down the tracks ready to hit me smack dab in the stomach.  With my best friend Lily moving across the country over the summer the void that was high school felt like it was sucking me in further and further.  Ya, I still had a group of friends, so it wasn’t the end of the world I suppose, but in my mind everything felt like it was teetering an uncomfortable amount.  

I have never really that much of what some might call a scholar.  I usually stayed after school to get help, because my parents might pass a few kidney stones if my grades dropped bellow a B average.  They always put so much pressure on me to do well, but I never seemed to get to decided what I got to do well at.  They forced me to learn instruments as a kid.  I mean sure I am for having kids pick up an instrument, but when you have gone through the entire brass section, the violin, and the piano you think they might take the hint that you don’t have a musical bone in your body.  Fortunately, the next logical step was to do sports, because if you aren’t musical then surely you will be good at what I like to call, “voluntary pain and humiliation”.   I don’t think I ever really got the hang of the whole coordination thing, so as you might be able to imagine I was benched in every sport except cross country which there isn’t actually a possibility to be benched.  Just a very real reality of coming dead last, even behind one kid who broke his leg, but crawled for the last 200 meters.  

Now, enough about my lack luster path, this year is going to be different.  I am going to do what I love, because finally after trying for years I have finally gotten into Photography 101.  Oh the chemical scents, the sensation of a dark room where only the haunting red light guides you.  A place to really think and just delve into the magic of expression through images.  I have always dreamed about taking pictures of busy streets at night and imagining a story about what each person is doing, why he is walking so quickly and why a woman who seems to be browsing through her phone is following 10 feet behind looking up directly at the mans back.  Why a group of school kids is racing down the street spilling hot chocolate all over the ground as a path is made for their chaos to disrupt the ordered disorder of the pedestrians.  All in a picture I can see the world and the world is staring right back at me with the honest eyes of a moment.  That is exactly what I want and once a week that is what I now get.  However, for the rest of the week my life is spanned by the monotony of general education.  

Coming out of a trance I hear the last bell signalling the start of the first class.  As I walk in I meet eyes with Grace.  Grace has been my neighbor for over 12 years now. We used to have play dates because my parents felt that I needed friends and Grace was the closest and best option.  Now that I am older I really only thing they sent me away because they didn’t want to hire a nanny.  So you could say Grace and I grew up together, although now as soon as our eyes meet she jerks her head down to the scribbles scratched into her desk below.  I walk over to my usual seat in the back corner to sit down.  

The day goes by as any day would, until over the intercom we are all hushed by, “This is a lockdown”.  Worried looks glance around the room as everyone nervously moves swiftly to the areas far from any windows and doors.  Our teacher, Mr. Hanson a tall bald man with a speckle or two of gray in his beard, moves to the lights obviously trying to portray calmness, but cracking with his shaking legs and hands.  

“He must not have been told about this, so it isn’t a drill.” I think wishing for some other thought to come into my head.  None come.

We all sit in the dark, sweaty silence with only the breathing of each other and our own heartbeats beating in our ears to keep us company.  Across from me underneath the next table is a boy with a slender face, with an almost ghost like appearance that I bet all of us actually wore.  I didn’t know him, but strangely I felt like I could hear his thoughts.  I felt like he saw me.  He saw what I disliked, what I liked, how Grace, who was sitting next to me, broke my heart in the 4th grade when after I asked to be her boyfriend she went to the movies that same night with Lance Donaldson.  I never got over that, I can’t believe my last thought might be about that scummy human.  That is what he did to me, he made me love to hate myself.  Somehow it felt like I knew myself better when he was staring at me.  Either I was staring a bit too intently or I didn’t here someone whispering because his eyes dart to somewhere else in the room where Mr. Hanson is consoling Natalie Barker who is almost in tears.  

I suppose this would be a really scary thing if we didn’t have one of these “Lockdowns” every other week.  Yes I know we should be prepared, but it is hard when all we get is someone jerking at the door handle and pounding on the door.  Right on queue everyone straightens as knuckles pound against the wooden door and the door handle moves up and down frantically.  As the noises come to and end the room takes a breath and a small ease comes over everyone.  Off in the distance a loud crash.  Then one single gun shot.  My throat catches blood rushes away from my head.  I sit there motionless and everyone else follows suit.

Hours pass with no sound, only the whir of the air conditioning going through its cycles.

“Buses will be here to take you home at 12:00.”. “Please take care.”.  “Boy shot dead in Klifton High shooting”.  Every news article, question, and statement that day felt the same.  Now we were just another school added to the long list of school shootings.  The shooter gets no attention in my mind, although the picture of the poor boy who was shot stayed with me.  He had a slender face, with eyes that could see me.  His name? Jonathon Davis Hentley, JD for short or so I would call him.         

22/11/2020

[tonotbelionized]

Volume 7, Episode 3: Ace Operatives

I’ve now resigned to my fate of pushing out reviews a week after the actual episode came out. Still, at least other fans will have watched it before reading, so let’s just jump right in!

It seems that the episodes are gradually declining for me this volume. I didn’t expect the third episode to be as good as the third episode of Volume 6, as that was my favourite out of the entire series. The bar was too high, so I didn’t hold out too much hope to avoid being disappointed, and it seems that I made the right choice.

Onto the positives first, the biggest thing that I liked in this episode was the whole arc surrounding Ozpin and Ruby lying to Ironwood. The girls are moving away from the hive mind they all had in the previous volume, with different sides and views being taken. Yang and Oscar are not all that happy with Ruby lying, while Weiss and Blake acknowledge that they couldn’t trust Ironwood with how far mentally he’s fallen.

Like I said in my previous review, Ruby isn’t really in the right or the wrong for this. It’s certainly hypocritical given that they were quick to demonize Ozpin for lying yet deciding that lying and withholding information is actually a good choice to make, but you can understand why she thought she had to do it. 

Yang is really interesting in this scene. I’m not angry with her, she’s my favourite character, so I’m more intrigued why she was the one to pipe up about Ruby lying. Yang is one who has a secret too, Raven being the Spring Maiden. It’s a serious secret to keep given that Raven is essential to Salem’s plan, and with Cinder still kicking around and knowing Raven’s secret, I’m sure it’ll come up eventually.

Even if the information can’t be used right then and there, it’s not really Yang’s secret to keep, and she can’t get angry at others for lying when she’s lying by omission. Eventually, the group will have to learn that Raven’s the Spring Maiden and that Yang knew, but I’m not mad because this is an interesting flaw for Yang to have.

And Oscar’s question was amazing. Isn’t that exactly what Ozpin did to us?

By Ruby’s reaction, she seems to know that she’s doing what Ozpin did, what the group shouted and derided him for, and this is the perfect thing for Ruby to grow. She can’t be naive anymore, she has to realise that being the leader means that she will have to make choices that aren’t always what’s right, and that she will make mistakes. 

Moving on from that, I can safely say that CRWBY has bumped the Ace Ops in my list of favourite characters. I especially love Marrow, he reminds me more of Louis from The Walking Dead Game, and his and Harriet’s relationship is funny and cute. The fact that the Ace Ops clearly outrank the protagonists very much drives home that, no matter what they did to get there, they still have a long way to go before they can match the older Huntsmen, and Salem’s group. 

A bit of world building in this episode is nice. The implied connection between the mine explosion and the explosion that killed Ilia’s parents make it feel connected, and that Ilia isn’t just thrown into the void now that she’s no longer useful. 

Also, I will admit that some of the outfits don’t look so bad in motion, compared to still images. The first one would be Jaune’s hair. I don’t know what happened, but the person responsible picked the most unflattering angle for him when they first showed the models, but now that he’s moving around and showing it in different angles.

The same could be said for Weiss’ braid. In some angles, it looks fine, but then when you see it when she’s looking straight ahead or showing more of the right side of her face, you can see just how awkward and clumsy it looks. It’s too far from her head, it’s rendered poorly, and I still don’t like it. Overall, they are still my least favourite outfits in the series and CRWBY really dropped the ball on them. 

The final positive I can say is that Tyrian continues to be my favourite villain in the volume. I missed him and was happy when he was in Volume 6, so now that he’s given more screen time and room to move without the surplus of villains bogging the pacing down, he continues to be up there in character and writing.

Onto the negatives, and there were plenty that lowered the overall quality of the episode for me.

On top of her design being my least favourite of the group, Blake’s change being the only one to be acknowledges is... ugh. I actually think that Yang’s flustered attempts to compliment her was cute, but I don’t like that Blake’s change was the only one to be acknowledged, and that Yang was the only one who noticed. Weiss and Ruby changed their hair too, they’ve all changed their looks, it’s stilted and awkwardly done when it could’ve been a nice scene between the girls.

While I enjoyed the dust mine exposition, there were a few things that annoyed me.

Firstly was Weiss blaming herself for what the Schnee Dust Company, and therefore her father, did. This becomes a problem when we’ve had a whole song and dance in Volume 4 about how Weiss isn’t responsible for her father’s crimes, that she isn’t a bad person just because she was born a Schnee, but now she feels complacent in the company’s subjugation of the Faunus when she was just an abused child with no real power?

And Blake just doesn’t say anything. She puts her hand on Weiss’ shoulder and comforts her, but she doesn’t actually say that Weiss isn’t responsible for what the SDC is doing. 

On top of that, the two Faunus that were actively affected by the discrimination and the SDC in Atlas are not there. 

Ilia lost her parents in that dust mine explosion, becoming an orphan, and had to hide who she was in a deeply racist society, even more so than Beacon. Her friends weren’t like Blake’s friends, they actively badmouthed the Faunus, calling them racist slurs that Ilia had to join in on or risk being outed. This is her home, her experience, and she’s not there. She’s instead shoved out of the show because there was no room for her, even when CRWBY continued to add one off characters that ultimately take up space.

Adam was branded. He was enslaved by the SDC from when he was a child, likely has no parents of his own, and it ultimately cost him his sanity. This Volume could've had a villain who was personally connected to the SDC and the Faunus racism, but instead he was killed off just after showing that he was horribly subjugated, and now we’re floating around with no real villain to tie this all together.

All we have is Blake. A Faunus who isn’t from Atlas, who lived on an island surrounded by her own kind, in a mansion, has two loving parents, and has never come into contact with the SDC until she fought them in the White Fang, meaning that she never met them when she was in a position of vulnerability. Her abuse at Adam’s hands had nothing to do with her Faunus heritage, her friends are all understanding, even after Weiss’ racist gremlin tendencies in Volume 1 which she grew out of, and now she’s the only Faunus that’s in Atlas and connected to this arc.

CRWBY really wrote themselves into a corner with this, and it’s telling that Miles and Kerry wrote this one given this wildly out of character moment.

Moving on, the scene with Qrow and Clover was alright. Up until the talk about his Semblance. 

It’s so awkwardly worded and clunky, and it’s strange that Qrow would tell Clover straight away when it took him seventeen years to tell Ruby and Yang. People try to say that it’s because he was on a mission and Clover needed to know, but that’s still wierd given that it paints Qrow as someone who would rather keep his Semblance a secret from his niece, who’s put herself on this dangerous mission because he told her that Cinder was from Haven and that’s where he’s going next, and stay away from her even when she was in danger.

Ruby nearly died when she was attacked by Tyrian, Qrow barely reached her in time, but if he was honest and stayed with her throughout the journey to look out for her, and tell her his secrets like he expects Ozpin to do, then he would’ve been there from the moment Tyrian attacked. 

But he tells Clover immediately. Sure.

On the topic of Clover, I have to say this. I don’t like him. He’s really boring and I find myself caring for the rest of the Ace Ops way more than him. His weapon is dumb, his personality is just meh, but the positive is that his design is pretty cool. He has the Ace Ops uniform to tie him to his team, but with his own twist. I like all the good luck charms on his person, even if it does scream in your face that he’s meant to be lucky.

I’m sure no one was surprised when he said his Semblance was Good Luck. It’s as obvious as Qrow “Bad Luck Charm” Branwen and Leonardo “He’s the Cowardly Fucking Lion” Lionheart.

So that’s it for the episode. It’s certainly my least favourite of the Volume so far, given that it’s full of really annoying scenes that pull down the good, the fight with the Giest was over pretty quickly given how menacing they made it look in the trailer, and character moments that made me roll my eyes to the back of my skull.

Still better than “So That’s How It Is”, though.

Episode Rating: 6 / 10

[babybluebanshee]

Cold and Alone - An MHA fic

The first installment in a series of MHA sick fics I’m planning, because sick fics and the ensuing hurt/comfort be my jam. 

Tomura started this day just wanting to be alone for a minute. Then he's violently reminded how much being alone hurts.

Tomura knew he needed to start heading back. The day had already been cold enough to chap his already dried-out skin on contact, and the impending night promised only to make it worse.

But the idea of going back to the base right now made his skin crawl, in a way that had nothing to do with how cold it was or how thin his jacket was.

He didn’t know if it was the cold or the gloom of winter or boredom or frustration or some unholy combination of all four, but the others were driving him even further out of his mind than he already was. Every little thing they did - from Himiko humming quietly to herself, to Magne and Spinner talking about who cared what, to Twice carrying on a spirited, muttered conversation with himself while Dabi watched, to Compress practicing idiotic card tricks - just drove him up the wall today.

He needed to breathe. He needed to get out.

He hadn’t planned on being out very long. Just an hour or two. He’d even left his phone back at the base, just to further distance himself from the irritation that would come with Kurogiri ringing him up and pestering him about leaving the base in completely inappropriate winter clothes. Even if he himself was starting to think maybe it would have been a good idea to at least put on some socks before he left, he didn’t want to hear an entire lecture about it from Kurogiri.

A stiff, icy breeze slashed right through his hoodie. Yeah, he definitely should have worn socks. Socks and a bigger coat. And maybe some gloves. His fingers were so cold they were starting to hurt. He shoved them deeper in the hoodie pocket, but it did little good.

It was definitely time to get back home. At least he’d have plenty of time to mentally prepare himself for all the bullshit that was awaiting him.

The sharp winter wind picked up again, nearly blowing back his hood. He tucked his head down to keep it in place, then ducked into an alley. Anything to keep this damn chill out. How people could actually enjoy this time of year was beyond him.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t see the girl in the coat standing with her back to him until well after he’d crashed into her, nearly knocking them both to the ground. He had to fling his hands from his pocket to catch and steady himself. He heard something hard clatter to the ground and realized it was the girl’s phone.

“Whoa,” the girl said cheerily from within the coat’s dark hood. “Where’s the fire, mister?”

Tomura didn’t reply, just grumbled slightly. The urge to reduce her to dust where she stood was strong, but his fingers began to ache now that they were out of the minimal warmth of his hoodie provided. He grumbled again as he shoved them back in his pocket. He didn’t have any more energy to deal with this girl than he did with the others back home.

“Sorry about being a roadblock,” the girl said casually, bending to pick her phone up off the ground. She studied the screen with a puzzled expression on her face, and muttered, “I think I’m lost.” She looked up at him and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get to the mall from here would you?”

Tomura merely grumbled and tilted his head back to the mouth of the alley, “Try right around that corner.”

The girl laughed. “Are you serious?” she asked. “I’ve been wandering around for ten minutes trying to find it and -”

Tomura was already beginning to elbow his way past her.

“Hey, wait,” the girl said. He heard her footsteps start up behind him. “I really feel like I owe you one. Can I get you a coffee or something? You look like you could use it.”

“Get the hell away from me,” he said bluntly. He didn’t stop walking.

Neither did she. In fact, from the sound of it, she was practically on top of him. Before he could turn around to growl some kind of threat, he felt a hand ghost lightly against the back of his neck.

The world around him was suddenly dark.

“Really, I must insist,” the girl’s voice murmured in his ear, low and far away and decidedly much less casual and cheerful than before.

Tomura no longer felt the cold biting at him through his hoodie, nor did he feel the harsh wind slice across his cheeks. He heard nothing - not the shriek of the wind around him, not the sounds of cars and people on the street. Even taking in a shaky breath felt like filling his lungs with emptiness. It made his heart skip a beat.

This was nothing. He was in an unfeeling void, just blackness surrounding him on all sides.

What was she doing to him?

He wanted to ask, speak the words out loud, to fill this awful, oppressive silence just as much as to actually know. It had to be some kind of quirk, but he couldn’t force his brain to think about it. Unease was slowly overtaking him, nestling in the pit of his stomach and blossoming forth, to his fingers and toes and to the backs of his eyeballs. It was so strong it almost hurt.

Then the unease exploded into full-fledged fear.

It was unlike any fear he’d ever felt. Outside of this black void-

Was there anything outside this black void? He felt as if he’d been here forever...no, it’s only been a few seconds FOCUS GODDAMMIT

Outside of this black void, when he’s faced with fear like this, he usually fights, flinging out his arms and squeezing his hands against that which would do him harm. Rot it away. Save himself. Teach whoever had tried to hurt him what happened if they were careless enough to let him know that’s what they were trying to do.

Now, all urge to fight and survive was gone. This fear was blind, constricting, as oppressive as the inky blackness that seemed to be edging in on him. He couldn’t move. All he found he could do was listen to his heart beat harder and faster.

Then, from the darkness surrounding him, images began to flash. The shapes were somehow familiar, flickering in and out of his vision like a dying heartbeat. Then they formed more fully, and he began to recognize pieces of them. He saw white-blond hair, tied in ribbons. Burnt, rotten flesh. A shock of purple hair. A pair of dark sunglasses. A costume of blue and white stripes. A black and white oval mask. A dapper waistcoat shrouded in black mist.

The images flashed before him again, more clearly than before. The others, his comrades. His friends. Why were they here?

The image was before him again, this time clear as crystal.

They were all dead.

He could see piles of dust scattered about staring bodies. They all had pieces missing - Himiko a leg, Compress an arm, Spinner half his face.

Tomura felt bile rise in his throat. He was going to be sick.

It was all happening again.

He’d killed them. Just like before.

That was all he’d ever be able to do. Create some illusion of family and then destroy it all with one touch of his hand. His eyes stung. The bile was inching further up his throat.

It was all going to happen again and it would all be his fault.

Something struck him hard in the side. The visions of death in front of him were momentarily washed out by white light, and then he was back in the real world. The cold once again leached into his bones through his thin hoodie. The sounds of life erupted to full volume around him. The darkness was gone. He would have been grateful for it if the return to sensation hadn’t brought with it crippling pain.

The sensation of someone holding on to his neck was removed gently, and he fell, like a puppet with cut strings. He hit the concrete ground hard, and that sent another jolt of agony up his side. It was white hot and angry, like some horrible mix of broken glass and a gunshot.

“Nothing, hm?” he heard a woman ask. That couldn’t have been the same girl from before. She sounded completely different.

Something metallic hit the pavement, close to his head. He winced at the sound. Another voice, harsh, tense, masculine, said, “Not a damn thing. Freak doesn’t even have a wallet.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Look at him. He looks homeless.”

“Tell me you at least saw something good in his head.”

“Oh yes,” the woman replied. Tomura heard the smile in her voice, and the feeling of wanting to vomit curled back into his throat. “So much fear. You should have heard his heartbeat. It was like the fluttering of a baby bird. So beautiful.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us got something out of this,” the man grumbled. Suddenly, there was a boot being pressed dully into Tomura’s side, and he wanted to scream out in agony, but it felt as if his breath was being stolen from his lungs. He merely let out a strangled cry, more tears stinging and threatening to fall.

The man above him chuckled at the pathetic noise. Tomura wanted to reach out and disintegrate the boot and the neanderthal attached to it. But his brain was fogged with pain.

“Might as well do the world a favor and help cut decrease that vagrancy problem,” the man said. Tomura felt two calloused hands grab his wrists. He tried to grab onto the man in some way, but then the man started to pull, and another shot of pain made it impossible to concentrate. His brain only made the connection that he was being dragged somewhere.

The fear was back, and that fighting instinct tried to claw its way to the surface, but the pain dulled everything. Bogged down his thoughts. It was as if he was experiencing the world in slow-motion.

He’d never thought he’d feel this helpless again, and it was more terrifying to him than anything.

Suddenly, the grip was gone, and his back made contact with a few dented trash cans, causing him to land on his injured side. He tried to arch his back and move, away from the cans pressing into his side, away from the hard, cold ground making everything worse, just away from the pain in general that he was sure was going to kill him in a few minutes.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Tomura heard the man say to him through the haze of agony.

Tomura heard them starting to walk away, as leisurely as if they’d just finished a casual conversation with a mutual acquaintance.

“It’s not like anyone will come looking for him,” he heard the woman say. “From what I saw in there, no one would care if he disappeared.”

With those words, Tomura felt the desperate panic drip away. He briefly closed his eyes, and the images from the black void she’d created flashed before him again. His comrades, reduced to dust. Obviously his fault. Again.

He felt something cold land on his cheek, soft and light as a kiss. He opened his eyes, rolled them up and looked to the sky. It was snowing.

He let his eyes drift closed again, and felt his muscles relax. Even the fiery pain in his side seemed to be dulled a little. He was too exhausted to hurt.

He would just go to sleep, right here. The woman was right. It’s not like anyone would care.

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

Kurogiri paced. It was all he could think to do. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

Four hours. Tomura had been gone for four hours, and no one had heard anything from him in that time. Kurogiri had already tried to call him, only to discover the young fool’s phone sitting off to the side on a crate. That was when Compress and Twice had offered to go find Shigaraki and bring him back, if only, as Twice had so eloquently put it, “to get the stick out of your misty ass”.

He was going to tear into the boy for this when Compress and Twice brought him back. He would tell him he was an idiot for thinking leaving his phone was a good idea. He behaved abhorrently by staying gone for so long when he knew how dangerous it was to be out in the first place. He was a reckless child for thinking that it was wise to go out in the middle of winter in the clothes he’d been in. Did he want to catch his death?

Yes, he would do all that, once the boy was brought back, safe and intact. He knew that Tomura would tell him he was too protective, worried too much, that he wasn’t a child and could take care of himself.

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had the conversation. Kurogiri knew all the steps, and was willing to go through them as many times as it took to finally get the message through that boy’s stubborn head.

But the righteous indignation came after the worry. And the worry didn’t stop until Tomura was home.

His phone began to buzz in his waistcoat pocket. He pulled it out and answered.

“Compress?” Kurogiri didn’t even bother with a greeting.

“We found him. We’re uptown, near the mall.” The tone was harried, bordering on panic. Kurogiri felt his stomach fall to his shoes. “We need a warp back. Now.”

Kurogiri didn’t respond. He simply hung up the phone and opened the gate. Compress practically jumped through first, his obnoxious orange coat missing. As Twice followed quickly after him, Kurogiri saw why - in Twice’s arms was a bright orange bundle, a tuft of pale blue hair sticking out of the top.

Tomura.

“He’s freezing,” Compress said briskly.

Magne and Spinner needed no more command than that. Both took off to separate corners, Magne to get the two space heaters shoved off to the side, Spinner over to their sleeping area to gather up as many blankets as he could carry.

Kurogiri didn’t miss the way Toga merely stood off to the side, looking out of place and uncharacteristically small. Even Dabi, standing at her side, looked slightly concerned.

Kurogiri would worry about that momentarily. First, he needed answers.

Twice carried Tomura over to where Magne and Spinner were beginning to construct something akin to a nest, piled high with blankets, as close to the space heaters as they could get them without the risk of starting a fire. Kurogiri came to Compress’s side and asked quietly, “What happened?”

“Looks like someone jumped him,” Compress replied. The disgust was thinly-veiled. “We were about to give up when we saw him lying in an alley. He looked like he’d been there for a while. There was a fresh dusting of snow on him. We had to leave his jacket behind because it was sopping wet and would have just made his hypothermia worse.”

Kurogiri made a noise that sounded like a low growl in the back of his throat, but didn’t reply.

Compress continued, “He wouldn’t respond at all at first. Completely out. It was only when we turned him over to check his pulse that he made any kind of noise, and that was in pain.”

Kurogiri turned his head sharply towards Compress. His look alone demanded explanation.

“He’s got a few cracked ribs,” Compress said. “It’s hard to tell how many exactly, but I felt at least two, and cracked is a gentle estimate. From the way he cried out, they might be broken. What do you think? Rival villains?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Kurogiri replied, fighting to keep his tone even. “A rival wouldn’t have left him alive at all. This was sloppy. I would say they were trying to mug him. There were probably at least two, and as long as they managed to avoid his hands, it wouldn’t have been hard to incapacitate him by himself.”

“And when they realized he didn’t have anything on him, they left him in an alley to freeze,” Compress added. Unlike Kurogiri, he sounded ready to snap.

“At least you found him in time,” Kurogiri said, surprised to find the words coming out in a much gentler tone of voice. The soothing sentiment felt odd coming from him. He’d never, in all his years, have ever suspected that he’d be trying to comfort anyone, in any capacity. How things had changed this year.

“That oughta do it,” Spinner said from the corner where they’d created their nest. He smoothed out one of the blankets with his foot as he stepped out of the way for Twice and Magne to step forward.

Magne reached out her arms to help Twice lower Tomura into the pile. “Okay, go slowly,” she said, touching the orange bundle softly, as if she were handling a precious piece of crystal.

“I believe,” Kurogiri added, “that, when Tomura Shigaraki is well again, a call to Giran might be in order. See if we can’t repay whoever did this in kind.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Compress hissed.

Just as Magne and Twice nearly had Tomura flat on the floor, a weak cry of pain escaped his lips. Everyone jumped a little at the sudden noise, and for a split second, none of them moved.

When another whimper came from the bundle, Kurogiri and Compress finally moved forward. Magne and Twice had gotten Tomura on the floor, and began slowly peeling back the protective layer of Compress’s coat. As soon as Tomura’s rail-thin body came into view, Twice started pulling the blankets they’d gathered up around him, bundling him as tightly as he could without jostling his ribs. Such a task was obviously easier said than done, as now that he was at least semi-conscious, Tomura seemed to have become all too aware of the broken bones pressing down against his lungs. Every breath he took was sharp and shallow, full of fear that the next one would bring another blinding bolt of pain. The shivering that now racked the boy’s body seemed not to be helping in the slightest. He simply curled in on himself, his limbs looking at stiff as a newborn foal.

Much to his own shock, the sight pained Kurogiri. As much as he’d begrudged his position as Tomura’s handler when this was all first arranged by All for One, how irritated he’d been at the prospect of playing nursemaid to this overgrown, incorrigible child, this feeling now, this pain at seeing Tomura brought so low, obviously having been brutalized for a reason as paltry as money, it made him feel...protective. Perhaps even paternal was the word to use.

He didn’t have time to dwell on these feelings for much longer though. Tomura let out another gasp of pain, this one sounding strangled and raw, as he jerked away from the beings he believed to be causing him his suffering. His eyes were open in slits now, unfocused and dazed and not showing a hint of recognition for anyone around him. Kurogiri had read about the effects of hypothermia. In later stages, it caused disorientation. They needed to warm him up faster.

Fortunately, he’d also read about an effective way of warming a suffering person up.

“Stand aside, please,” Kurogiri said to Magne and Spinner. They didn’t argue, but did give him a quizzical look as he moved closer to Tomura, until he was at his side. He peeled away the large comforter that had been draped over the boy’s shoulders, doing his best not to feel awful at the yelp of discomfort he gave. Kurogiri slung the blanket around his own shoulders like a quilted cape, then sat himself on the floor, directly behind Tomura. Then he brought the comforter around Tomura again, until only his head was sticking out the top. He gently leaned the boy back, until his back was flush against Kurogiri’s chest. It was like pressing a slab of ice directly against his body, and he had to fight to not pull himself away.

Tomura whimpered again, and Kurogiri curled his arm up at the boy’s side, as if attempting to soothe the pain away until his misty hand. “It’s alright,” he heard himself say. “You’re home. You’re safe.”

The others stared down at the spectacle in astonishment. Kurogiri could hardly blame them. To anyone else, this would have seemed incredibly ridiculous.

Which is why he was quite shocked himself when Toga broke from the group, grabbing up a blanket herself, and curling up on Tomura’s legs, like a contented cat. She wrapped the blanket around herself, being sure to get Tomura’s feet under it as well. Kurogiri heard her make a contented noise as she burrowed her face into Tumora’s skeletal leg.

The others picked up her cue quickly. Compress pulled his coat around his shoulders and came to Kurogiri’s left, managing to curl up to Tomura’s injured side, and offered his own arm against the broken ribs. Magne took to Kurogiri’s left with a large sheet, sitting in such a way that it was quite easy for her to run a caressing hand through Tomura’s hair. Spinner and Twice split another large down comforter, taking the space on the other side of Tomura’s legs. Spinner didn’t even complain when Twice started to spoon him slightly.

Finally, Dabi let out a small sigh, and took a spot next to Toga. He didn’t bother to grab a blanket, just laying languidly on his back. He muttered, “I’m basically a big space heater. The little idiot will be fine.”

They were certainly a sight to behold. Kurogiri would have laughed if this massive puddle of body heat didn’t actually seem to be doing the trick. Tomura’s shivering increased, but Kurogiri knew that was a good sign. It meant the boy’s body sensed heat, and was trying to warm itself back up.

It wasn’t long before the warmth started getting to everyone else as well. One by one, the team of villains, wanted for their many crimes and murders and evil deeds, began to drift off to sleep.

Twice and Spinner were out first, now fully cuddling under their comforter. Compress was next, his hat pulled down over his face, snoring lightly. Magne’s deeper snoring followed shortly after. Toga let out a squeaky, kitten-like yawn before finally shutting her eyes. Kurogiri didn’t notice when Dabi fell asleep. He just happened to look in his direction and he was out.

Kurogiri chanced one more looked down at Tomura. He still shivered, but nowhere near as hard as before. Not that anyone would have been able to tell, but Kurogiri smiled a bit.

He supposed it wouldn’t if he rested his eyes for a moment as well.

This whole affair was utterly ridiculous.

And as he drifted off, Kurogiri realized he didn’t want it any other way.

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

Something was pressed up against his back. And his sides. And on his legs.

He almost would have been drawn back into that paralyzing fear if he weren’t so exhausted. Every muscle in his body felt like it was made out of a stone. Even the mere act of opening his eyelids felt positively herculean.

But when he did finally get them open, a wave of unanticipated relief washed over him. On his legs were friends he recognized - Toga, Dabi, Twice, and Spinner - fast asleep and looking like they wouldn’t want to be anywhere but there. Although his neck was too stiff to turn to look to either, he recognized a pair of black and white boots on his left, and a pair of scuffed up brown ones to his right. Compress and Magne. He could only assume that the strong support at his back was Kurogiri.

They were here. They were with him They weren’t dead.

He felt Kurogiri shift behind him. His chest rumbled with his deep bass as he said softly, “You’re awake, Tomura Shigaraki.”

He merely nodded. He would work his way up to speech.

Kurogiri gave his right side a gentle squeeze.

Nothing more was said for a while, the only sounds filling the room the deep breathing and occasional snores of the other sleeping villains.

Finally, Tomura spoke up. His voice was even softer and wavering than usual. “How did I get here?”

“Compress and Twice found you in an alley, and I warped you back” Kurogiri replied softly. “You had been there for quite some time. You were hypothermic and injured. Someone attacked you.”

A pain that had nothing to do with the ache in his side flashed through Tomura. He didn’t want to think about those people in the alley. The ones who’d probed his head and laid him bare, then left him like garbage.

“I know they hurt you,” Kurogiri said, as if he were reading Tomura’s mind. “And you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but just tell us what they looked like, and we’ll have Giran and his people looking for them to properly punish them. No one can hurt you and not suffer for it.”

Those words were almost enough to chase the pain inside him away completely, and Tomura sighed silently with relief. He was sure Kurogiri could feel the muscles in his back loosening. He hoped that told the older man how grateful he was to him.

A misty right hand moved down, on top of Tomura’s, and gave it a squeeze.

Kurogiri knew.

“There were two of them, a man and a woman,” Tomura muttered. He closed his eyes again, trying to picture them both. “I didn’t see much of the man. I was only aware he was there after he’d struck me and I was on the ground. He…”

Tomura stopped himself. He was not going to repeat the vile words the man had said. There was no reason to upset Kurogiri.

“I saw a bit of the woman. She was small, unassuming. She was wearing a hood, so all I could see was that she was young. I think she was a kind of bait. To lure people in. She had this quirk…”

He stopped himself again, ready to gloss over it, ready to never, ever bring up what he’d seen in that blackness ever again. Just the thought of it made his heart rate pick up a bit. The familiar sting was back in his eyes.

He didn’t want to cry. Not now. He was too tired to cry. But he was also too tired to hold it in.

“Tomura?”

Hearing just his first name, said so softly and so worriedly, broke him. The tears came, and he didn’t do a damn thing to stop them. The mistly hand on his squeeze harder.

“She had this quirk,” Tomura continued, his already weak voice wavering, “that made me see things. See you. All of you. And I had...hurt you...just like the last time. Just like them.”

Kurogiri didn’t press for further details.

“And I was afraid,” Tomura said. “I was afraid, but I didn’t fight back. I couldn’t. Her quirk wouldn’t let me. It just made me freeze up. I was afraid because I’d made it happen again and I was going to be alone…”

The rest of his words were swallowed up by a rattling sob.

He felt Kurogiri’s chin rest against his head. He’d moved his hand from Tomura’s and placed it on his back, rubbing gently in circles. “Hush,” he said soothingly. “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again. We’re right here. We won’t leave you. I promise.”

Kurogiri didn’t stop shushing and rubbing his back until Tomura’s tears had finally ceased, and he had leaned back against his chest, more exhausted than ever.

Another comforting silence filled the small space. It made Tomura feel safe in a way all the blankets and space heaters never could.

“Rest now, Tomura Shigaraki,” Kurogiri said. “Your ribs may be broken, and they’ll need time to heal. When the others wake up, I’ll send someone off for some painkillers. That will help them not hurt when you breathe. But for now, just rest.”

Tomura didn’t answer. He merely nodded, nestled his head back against Kurogiri’s chest again, and closed his eyes.

He was safe.

He wasn’t alone.

He would never be alone again.

Kurogiri promised he wouldn’t.

Not even his nightmares could take this away from him.

[moranument]

the cause.   a windy saturday afternoon, sebastian moran dozing off in his reading chair with a good book in hand. music quietly wafting through his bluetooth speaker on the table nearby. peace. then                                                     A GUNSHOT. window shattering as a bullet, incorrectly aimed, trajectory ruined because of the wind, hits sebastian in the arm. in pain, with adrenaline surging through his body, desperate to stay alive, sebastian reaches for his nearby pistol and tries to fight back, and through the broken pieces of glass, he spots a familiar figure on the roof nearby. HIS BROTHER, SEVERIN. 

severin moran has always existed in his older brother’s shadow. his brother was always smarter, more handsome, and even in crime, more successful. more renown. sebastian moran is a name more infamous than severin’s is. the only difference between them is that sebastian LEFT the criminal underworld to become better, change his life, be a better person, and severin didn’t. severin stayed and tried to fill the hitman void sebastian left in his absence. HE COULDN’T. he’s reckless, and more violent. less precise in his hits. people want a strong and efficient gunman to eliminate their targets                                   they don’t want someone impulsive. so he’s failing. severin moran has been running around, frantic, attempting to create some sort of reputation alone from his brother, but he can’t. and now he wants to kill him.

the effect.   since the attempt didn’t work / didn’t successfully kill him, sebastian, with no desire to kill his brother ( unlike severin ), is going to go ON THE RUN, on the defense, hopeful that he might be able to wear his brother down or confront him and reason things out. he has to abandon his work at the gallery for the time being; he’s reached out to the gallery owner, and they’ve given him some ‘time off’ to deal with the issue. while he might occasionally sneak back to his cozy london home to grab personal items, clothes, etc., he will be GLOBETROTTING now, not staying in one place, staying with friends and at safehouses.

list of current safehouses:

a close friend’s apartment in tivoli, italy his aunt’s summer home in capri empty nyc apartment his friend is letting him use old safehouse beneath a church in saint-lô, france his family’s parisian apartment ( rare visits, since severin knows about it ) a safehouse in oslo, norway his ex-girlfriend’s apartment in london a safehouse in belgium

interactions / relationships sebastian needs:

muses willing to hide him in their home, willing to take that risk powerful muses willing to work alongside him / help him locate his brother enemies ready to trick sebastian / try to help severin find him and kill him oblivious-to-the-situation muses that, when he tells them the truth, are scared muses he’s dating that he skypes with while he’s traveling / surprises with visits muses he’s dating that willingly want to travel beside him and more, of course !!

a note from chuckles about the arc:

i started to realize that so many simplistic threads of sebastian at the gallery, sebastian doing this and that and all of these empty things was making this blog boring. i felt like all these really boring things was bogging my blog down. now i’m throwing sebastian for a loop, forcing him to travel, to get out of his comfort zone and run around the globe to avoid severin and/or to find severin and take him down. now interactions can be action-packed, or full of tension, and all of my ships, young and old, get to deal with this shit, too. 

of course, through discussion with you, we can figure out if we don’t even WANT to write in the arc in the first place; we can keep things simple if you’d like. but that’ll be up to you and i.

please feel free to message me if you’re interested in plotting in this arc !!

[swiftkick404]

Hmm....

This forum topic got my attention, because yes, I do trawl the interwebbings looking for mentions of my fics.  >____> What? That’s weird? Well. Fine. Judge me. But I have no shame.

The thread: Best Damn Fics You’ve Ever Read! 

So, pretty sweet that someone mentioned Expedient! 

Hi everyone, I've been reading fanfiction for a few years now and thought that I would put up a few choices. I'm really interested in character development and that is a huge factor in how I judge fanfiction as you can probably tell.

Expedient by SwiftKick (Naruto) The concept is that Konoha and Iwa have Exchange Programme and Haruno Sakura was selected as the candidate due to the fact she was competent but also not part of a ninja clan. Once she arrives in Iwa, Sakura meets her mentor Deidara and the story explores their relationship as student and teacher(not explicitly romantic but there are hints).

I found this a very interesting concept as it explores Sakura's character and what her growth might have been if she wasn't a part of team 7. Personally, I was quite tired of naruto fanfics in general, as while the setting is great the majority of fics aren't. The characters each have their own motivations and their interactions feel very fluid. The action scenes are well written when they appear, but the fic is more focused on internal strife and interactions. However, the story can get slightly bogged down by exposition and the ending felt a bit rushed (Sakura gets a seal or something that lets her regenerate, it wasn't explained very clearly). Overall, I felt that this is probably among the top ten fics I have ever read and deserves a mention at the very least.

Fair points. I really should have laid it out clearly how Sakura saved hers and Deidara’s lives by keeping their bodies surrounded by chakra (and keeping their chakra systems intact) in the explosion (kinda like, the energy of the explosion could not disrupt the energy of her Byakugou regenerative jutsu??). But it was a Deidara POV scene and it seemed very complicated for her to explain to him. I could fix that. But anyhow, that is the explanation.

BUT THEN. FURTHER DOWN THE THREAD.

As Sakura fics go, I really love this one. I will echo your thoughts on the ending being rather weak and out of nowhere. Felt like we missed a couple chapters of time-skip at some point, and the story kind of shakes itself apart with all the odd divergences it makes. Not a crippling flaw, but the ending was definitely the weakest point, even if I enjoyed the rest of it.

??????????? LITERALLY. WHAT? EVERYTHING IS FORESHADOWED AND SET UP. HOW DOES IT “SHAKE APART???”  Thematically, it’s all there from the very beginning in Chapter One. ALL THE CHARACTERS CONVERGE AND ALL THE PLOTS CONVERGE?????? I’m proud of that shit being freckling TIGHT.

AND THIS >>>

This I have to give a firm derec. While in terms of the naruto fandom its not bad per say. Its just really mediocre. it belongs on a generic recommendation thread. Not teh best damn fics you've ever read thread. To explain; the ending is weak as other posters have said, the changes it makes to canon are kinda bizzare at times and the pacing leaves something to be desired.

ok. the changes are not fucking bizarre. just. MEDIOCRE??? Oh for cryin... It might not be the best damn fic. But mediocre it is not. That’s just fucking rude. Seriously, come fight me, friend. 

I know you thought you could say this shit somewhere else and not on the fic itself and therefore felt comfortable being an asshat away from the author. But nah, bruv, I hear ya. Fucking fight me. I want your full break down of mediocrity and to hear your rusty ass shitsippin explanation. Lay that argument out with textual evidence, get me some comparative literary analysis from other lauded fanfiction. I wanna know more about your enlightened perspective on why my story is mediocre. Can you explain to me the nuances in different approaches that main and side characters take in combating or excusing the child soldier-supported shinobi system? And then tell me the story is mediocre? 

Ahaha.... I just. You know, I’d be cool with people who don’t like the writing, the story, the pacing, the choices... I mean, I don’t want to hear it, but you do you. cool beans. But don’t fucking go on some forum -- conveniently where I can’t defend my writing-- and tell people it is mediocre. 

I will take you to the mat, friend.

Seriously, the entitlement and ego. 

Can’t just have fun in fandom, can you? Can’t allow others to enjoy things you don’t like.

This is why people abandon creative outlets, mother fucker. It can be a sensitive, deeply personal endeavor and then festering colon sores like you come along, spewing watery shit, and just prove to be utterly worthless pissants that ruin the good times.

...

:D Ah. Ok. Well, I feel better now. Rambling defensive, incoherent hurt feelings into the void is nice....

[monstersbyjulia]

Horoscopes for a Trump Presdiency

Hey there, KBOO listeners (and everybody else)! Here is my latest piece, as promised

Aries

When all around you feels dark and empty, breathe deeply from the void. Hold the empty air inside you until your lungs feel so full they might burst, and then breathe out and send that fullness back into the void. In the beginning all was void, a black empty silence so vast it defies comprehension. Our world was born from this and we were born from our world, and everything we have become and built in all its richness and complexity grew from void. Breathe in, breathe out. This is not the end; it is yet another beginning. You were made to grow.

Taurus

A 2014 study indicates that dogs prefer to poop aligned with the Earth’s magnetic field. This has some pretty cool implications: first, that dogs can sense the Earth’s magnetic fields, and second, that scientists spent two years watching dogs poop. Science is great. When people are behaving bizarrely or erratically, it’s possible that their behavior has logic you just don’t know about, and you can leave it at that or dig deeper. Investigation might yield interesting results, but figuratively speaking, you’ll have to spend a lot of time watching dogs poop.

Gemini

Go for a walk. Feel the wind on your face and the ground beneath your feet. Though the trees are barren and the biting cold seems to creep through all your layers no matter how much you bundle up, the cold will only chill your skin, not what lies beneath. Your heart beats hot and red, sending blood throughout your body and keeping you alive. You are the body and your soul dwells within your heart. You banish the cold and bring life to those around you. Surround your outsides with the warm microfleece of human kindness and the tough, water-resistant Gore-Tex of solidarity. Onward into the wind!

Cancer

Some of the most frustrating and useless advice you can give to a shy person is “just be yourself!” The thing is it’s actually pretty good advice, and right now it is what you must do. Be the most yourself you can be. Be yourself so hard it hurts. Be yourself when you’re scared or angry or happy or hungry or filled with so much joy you feel like you might burst. Be yourself when it’s inconvenient and hard. Be yourself, and also protect yourself. You are worth protecting, you are capable of protecting yourself, and you have others you can call on when you need them. You just do you, baby. Survive and thrive.

 Leo

Try to get about eight hours of sleep every night, and half an hour of exercise every day. Eat plenty of fruits and vegetables and make sure you’re getting enough protein. Avoid processed food and excessive screen time. Drink a lot of water. Brush your teeth twice a day, and floss. Take a multivitamin. Shower or bathe regularly. Journal often. Do yoga. Do laundry before you get down to your last pair of underwear. Don’t let dishes pile up in the sink or dust collect in the corners of your house. Or, y’know, just do what you can. Self-care can be hard, especially when the list goes on and on and you have other life things to attend to. The point of self-care is to make your life easier, not to torture yourself with an overwhelming and endless to do list. Practicing good self-care is incredibly important for you right now, but don’t get so bogged down in the details that you lose sight of the purpose.

Virgo

When you get overwhelmed, imagine that you’re on a rollercoaster. You can’t get off until the ride is over, but you can control whether the ride is one long panic attack or a series of fun thrills. The difference between the two is acceptance. Close your eyes and visualize yourself in a car hurtling along a metal track. See yourself throw your hands in the air and yell “wheeee!” Think to yourself, “this is fun. I am here, on this rollercoaster, having fun.” Look at all the other people strapped in around you, telling themselves the same thing. You aren’t in this alone. “Wheeeeeee!” Up, down, and around you go. Nauseous? Who’s nauseous? Certainly not you. You are having fun. “Wheee!” Say it until it’s true.

Libra

Sometimes you are afraid that you are “too much” and that you love too deeply and intensely. You think that maybe you should try to tone it down, though somehow that doesn’t feel quite right and you aren’t sure how you’d even go about it. Don’t tone it down. Love fiercely and unapologetically. Love like a river during monsoon season that loves its banks so much it consumes them and washes away whole villages. Love like the forest fire that gives pinecones the heat they need to release their seeds. Love like the snowstorm that blankets a city and brings it to a standstill. We need you right now. All of us do.

Scorpio

There are no rules anymore. Or there are rules, but they’re different. At this point it’s hard to even know, and it’s up to us to figure out how to navigate this strange and alarming new world. Wrap your cloak around you, sheath your sword at your side, and stride off into the forest. There’s no way of knowing what wonders or horrors might await you there, but your sword arm is strong, your movement is steady, and your mind is open. If you come to an impasse, loop back and find another way around. If you encounter a shadowy stranger with an odd gleam in their eye, listen with your whole heart but make no promises. If you find a unicorn, you could probably make friends with it.

Saggitarius

Your integrity is your greatest asset. You’ve been thinking that maybe it’s time to be a bit more flexible about living in accordance with your values, not because you want to but because perhaps it is necessary to survive in these times. Don’t do it. You are a compass, and others will look to you when they’re turned around and don’t know which way is north. You are a guiding star, a point of light in a dark sky that we can reach towards. Living with integrity will not be easy in this time of trouble, but if you work hard you will always find a way to maintain your integrity without compromising your safety. It is okay to speak softly and live quietly if that’s what you need to do to stay in tune with your values. It is also okay to stand in the street and shout.

Capricorn

Here’s an important thing to remember: you deserve joy, and sometimes (especially when the world is letting you down), that means you gotta treat yourself. Go on a road trip, take a nap, play hooky from your responsibilities to go spend time with friends, go to a concert, eat a ridiculously large brownie, or punch a Nazi right in the face. Do whatever nourishes your soul and brings your heart delight.  

Aquarius

They tell you the moon stays above the Earth even when you cannot see it. They tell you the stars are outside your body. They tell you the stars are not alive. They tell you the sky will never know your name. They tell you there is such a thing as truth, and they own it. I tell you there are constellations living under your tongue, and every night the sky whispers love poems in your ears, and every morning you and the moon eat French toast and cuddle under the blankets. Arise! You already are your own best self.

Pisces

Make art. It doesn’t matter if it’s shitty. Write, sing, dance, act, play, paint, sculpt, photograph, cook, plant, express. Make art so ugly it’s hard to look at; make art so beautiful it’s hard to look away. Our capitalist overlords want you to be a consumer, but they don’t own you and you don’t owe them anything, so produce instead. Engage in everyday acts of creation, and bring artistry into even the most mundane aspects of your life. Art is salvation. Art is connection. Art is life.

[bookofjoel]

         She loved being outside.  So do I.  We walked through the woods and talked about what the trees looked like behind our grandparents' houses.  She held my hand almost immediately after meeting me.  She's sweet like that.  We slept in her tent, and that felt cozy and sad and a long time coming.  Really, if you ask me, it was more complicated than sleeping in a tent should really feel.  I woke up and looked over and she wasn't who I expected to see, and I had to blink back tears and leave the tent before I woke her.  I'm glad I didn't; it spared me having to explain why.  Sweet, but just too soon.

        She was a writer.  I don't think she was really that into me, but we both needed it and we laughed our asses off and drank and talked poetry, and that was enough at the time.  We ate tacos.  And she got me writing again.  I like to think the significance of that wasn't lost on her.  She loves haikus; I wrote her a lot of them.  As romantic currency goes, the haiku is a pretty meager unit, but each penny-verse bought a smile, and that was enough to get my money's worth.

        She has colorful hair.  It's cute.  She loves to bake, and her taste in music is just. . . phenomenal.  God, how many records did we listen to that night?  Who needs sleep when you have B-sides?  Oh well, Bowie's worth it.  It's so easy to make her laugh, and that's always been my weakness, hasn't it?  It's dangerous, though.  Despite the busy schedules and the honesty, I make her happy.  She's played it really cool, but I think she loves me.  And if that's the case, we're in trouble.  Because I don't love her.

        And why not?  Old flings, new friends, the ingredients are all here.  I've used this recipe before.  I know all the steps, and I've followed them all to the letter.  I'm a grizzled veteran of the break-up and the move-on.  I've walked out of every conflict clean and free.  And here are these beautiful next steps!  What more could a guy ask for?  Fresh faces and new stories and fine new challenges.  Lovely new puzzles to dive into and explore all the moving parts, a playground for clever fingers and cunning mouths.  Each one is a promise of sweet memories and interesting adventures, and as far as I can tell, they really only have one true weakness between them.

        They aren't you.

        Ugh, I hate even writing it.  I hate the flat, hard truth of it.  I've followed all the steps, damn it!  Everything else is good, why can't this be, too?!  I deny it, defy it to its face, but when I swallow it down it burns and sizzles and pops like an exotic element, a sparking sodium bomb skittering through my insides and boring ragged, blistering little holes through my confidence and my excuses and my monuments to number one.  It proliferates its niggling little scorch marks through everything in my head.  No matter where I look, I see the charring from the corner of my eye.

        God, I want to tell you so badly.  I want to tell you that my best moments have you in them.  I want to tell you that for all my work towards what should be a great future, all I can think about is how you were supposed to be in it.  I want to tell you that every time I take a hike or see a great film or take a trip or just drive a back road, no matter how good it is, I have at least one moment every time, every fucking time, where I realize that I'm not doing it with your hand in mine and your ear to lean over and whisper something silly into, and it breaks my heart all over again.  

        I want to tell you that everything that was wrong in our time together came from me being afraid, afraid of our setbacks, afraid that I wouldn't be able to give you that life we talked about so much, that life you wrote about to me on the backs of postcards that I don't dare to read, that I've hidden as far away from late night weakness as possible.  I was afraid because I knew that for all my strength I don't handle fear well, and I've never in my life had anything to lose as precious as you.  I want to tell you that I know my job in those moments wasn't to push down those things in an effort to be tough because that just brews pain and bitterness and you deserve those two things less than anyone I know.  My job was simple; it was the same as it was from the moment you laid your head on my chest instead of just kissing me the first time and I wanted to do whatever it took to keep you there.  It was to make you smile and be happy.  Such a simple job, the best I ever had, and that's all I had to do.  So easy in hindsight, and it makes me ashamed that I ever failed at it.  I want to tell you that when all of this work and searching and ass-kissing pays off and I find my next step, and I will find it, I'm on the road already, I would give anything to have you be a part of it, just like we talked about in all those love-struck promises before bad news sunk its barbs into us.  I've never forgotten them.  

        But I can't tell you these things.  I can't because you're also going through the steps.  You've found new love and you're stepping over the rocks and the snags of the old one.  I don't know if it's easy or hard for you.  I hope it's easy, though it'd hurt me to know it.  And I don't know, maybe you'd like to hear these things, but that doesn't matter.  It doesn't matter because if you did, they'd cause you pain, and I'll be damned if I willingly cause you pain again.  It doesn't matter because if you really wanted these things you'd be looking for them.  You were the one who saw a future after me first, after all.  You're the one who started us on this road.  But that doesn't matter because knowing that wouldn't stop me if I found a crack in the wall.  I know my strength is compromised when it comes to you, and being a good man means protecting you from that right now, no matter how much I don't want to.

        So I don't.  I stop myself from texting you everything I like and think about like I've done for years.  I love talking to you, and it's hard not to do it more than we do.  I write here instead of writing you letters.  The tap is wide open when I write, and that's just a bad idea.  I stay busy during the times I would be tempted to call you.  I've talked myself out of driving upstate about a hundred times now.

        And if someday, one way or another we end up in each other's lives again, I'll make sure you never see this.  I hope we never talk about this time and what it's cost.  I'm getting it all out into this void, this dim little room now so that someday I might be empty of it.  After all, that's what a journal is, isn't it?  A tank to dump all the waste into, the muddy, swampy thoughts that bog us down and keep us stuck in these sloppy worries.  Get it out now, and if that day ever comes we can be clean of these things.  You deserve to live looking forward, and both of us will be better off leaving this shit here in the dark.

[howtophil]

Thoughts While Doing Laundry on January 17th, 2017 in the Early Afternoon

Laundry-mats have that peculiar way of smelling both of fresh, clean soap and worked-in, ancient grime. Your nostrils are full of the scent every moment you're there, but I suppose it's not the least pleasant smell. It was there, in the same laundry-mat that anyone might find themselves that I sat and wondered about my place in the world.

Everything has a rhythm, you know? Not just the little beats we plug into or ears, but everything. The knock of the unbalanced washing machine. The pulse of a heavy truck crossing the pavement. The flicker of light as the blades of a ceiling fan cut across the rays sent out by cold, fluorescent lights. Everything has a rhythm.

Do I, though? Is there a rhythm that motivates my motions through this world? Do I have a beat to dance to? I am not always sure, but I think there is. I think I must just be unaware of the steps in this dance of life. So, I place my feet as I see fit and try to pull the rhythm in around my motions. If I can't dance to the band, then let the band play to my feet!

That might be expecting a bit much. It might be requiring the world to bend to my will. It might be grandiose! So be it. I am fantastic. I am unseen before! I am greater! I am grand.

I don't see why I should accept the judgment an imperfect world places upon me. Does not the judgment rendered by an imperfect world also rate just as imperfect? I believe it does. So, I throw away the words it uses to describe me. I refuse the limitations it would label me with. I refuse the world's authority, even if I cannot refuse its power.

**

There was once a powerful man, who would have everyone kneel before him. He sent out the word, gathering every person in his domain to stand in the great courtyard and bade them to kneel.

One remained standing.

"You there! Kneel! I have commanded it! Kneel or I will have you brought to your knees!" the powerful man said.

"You would send your men to push me down?" the one standing asked.

"Yes!"

You would have them take up arms and threaten me?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"You would have my legs broken to see me on my knees?"

"Yes! All of these things! I will have it all done, if I must!" the powerful man said, his face red with fury.

"You may force me to my knees, but you will never make me kneel. You can show that you have power over me, but I will not concede authority," the standing man replied.

Of course, the powerful man had him killed, but even when he was buried six feet below the grass, the man still stood against him. Forever he stood, unbowed even when broken.

**

No amount of power can create authority. It can only be given. Not even death will wrest it from the hands of those who stand.

You must prove you are worthy of authority, but power can be gained in a thousand vile and low ways. Power can be usurped, stolen, fabricated, manufactured, purchased, sold, and stored away, but authority is rare, fleeting, and dependent on the agreement of those who obey.

Many will obey power for a time, but will always scheme for the power to overcome those they have given no authority. However, for those they have given authority over themselves to, they will fight, die, and crawl back up from the grave to offer support. Power breeds no loyalty. Everyone who serves you for your power alone is no more than a mercenary. Loyalty comes with the gift of authority.

Power is useful in this world, but when people hand over their authority, you have taken a step closer to godhood. People follow those they have found worthy. Power alone is not enough to prove worthiness. You must also show that following you is to the benefit of your followers.

**

That's all a bit of nothing, though. There will always be those who recognize no authority over themselves, but will still fall to one knee, mostly out of convenience. After all, it is terribly inconvenient to be dead.

You think it's relaxing? Have you ever tried being dead? I have it on good authority that most people who have tried it would rather not try it again anytime soon.

The world is a good place. A bit of rot doesn't mean the world is bad, it just means it's entering a period of preparation for the next spring. Nothing grows without a good layer of rot, or at least it won't grow nearly as well.

We see majesty in towering, beautiful, sweet-smelling trees. Why can't we also see the majesty in the reeking bog, the rotting carcass, or the pungent scent of fungus and mildew? Are not these parts of the cycle of rebirth also glorious?

Your lack of understanding does not mean the world is broken. it means you haven't looked deep enough into the processes of this robust machine. We, all of us, will long be turned to dust before all the secrets of the machinery of life, the world, and the universe are grasped by a single mind.

Don't give up trying, though. Trying is the key. Working towards brighter days. Working towards illuminating everything. This is the way of humanity. Sure, we cast some shadows, but we're fast working to put lights in every shadow as well. We will see it all. We will look into dark corners so small, not even a single photon can fit, but we will find a way to see, light or no!

These are my thoughts as I sit in a laundry-mat, watching the flicker of a fan as it cuts across the rays cast by fluorescent lights, listening to the electric motors of washers and dryers, and wondering at the scents of clean and foul that battle in my nostrils.

I am sometimes informed that people lose their wonder for the world as they grow older. Maybe it's a product of seeing little of the world, but I wonder more each year. I see new and fantastic things and I am awed. How much must the jaded have seen to have seen it all and grown bored! But then again, I know that, like me, they have seen nothing of this world. Their boredom is sprung from a lack of looking, I am sure.

Open your eyes! Open them! Open! Look! The world is filled with wondrous sights. The end of new things will not come in your lifetime, my dear friend, nor in the lifetimes of all minds to come! And if ever comes a time when the outside fails to make new things, then the minds that are left will build new worlds within.

Not until the last sun has died will there cease to be things worthy of wonder and awe. Even then, the deep dark of the void will be a grand sight unseen.

I have also been told that the point of life cannot be to find joy because that seems far too frivolous. That, my friend, is complete nonsense. How is anything so key to life as joy frivolous to pursue? We have all seen the results of lives devoid of joy. Look to the suicides and you will understand that it is just as much a human need as food, shelter, or water. I will concede, that joy may not be the point of life, but a life lived without joy is a life quickly ended.

Find something to be happy in, find something to wonder at, and look for a sight that holds you in awe every day. These things will remind you why your life is so valuable and precious. These things will keep you alive.

You don't need to own the storm to enjoy it.

Some of the greatest joy comes from experiencing that which you will never hold. The storm rolls over, the lightning, the thunder, the wind whipping rain across your face. You hold none of it, but it excites and leaves you with a new treasure to keep within. You have stood in the storm and it is a part of you, though you own none of it at all.

The wilderness of your soul need not be desert, let in the flood of wonder and watch it bloom, watch a forest of ideas and dreams rise up.

I've wandered around with this particular bit of writing. Maybe it's best that way from time to time. To let the mind fall out into the printed word, unhampered by the filters of form and direction.

If you've read this far, I hope you've enjoyed this peek into my aimless mind. I give this gift to you. This moment of my thoughts on a grey January day. I don't know if you'll understand me more or less for all this, but I suppose it's not required that you understand me, only that you have seen me as I am in this moment. Have you seen me?

Good. Now, go see something glorious. Let some wonder of the world work its way into you, become one with you, and own it not at all.