#I understand you’re old and broken-down but you lack self-awareness in all the worst places

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

My dad at any given opportunity: “I used to have an as good or even better memory than [my name] and you know how good her memory is.”

I feel like this guy is competing with me by remembering how he was at my age — always has.

And (unrelated) if I criticize him or say anything at all with anything other than happiness or neutrality in my voice, his response is always “Sorry, but you have to understand I’m not feeling good right now. I’m trying to be a father to you; I wish I had a father at your age. I’m suffering. I have [this this and this] wrong with me; and THE ELDERS—“ Dad, Dad… you NEVER feel good; you know this and you’ve lied to me COUNTLESS times by saying you’d try to get help. Go to therapy for fuck’s sake.

“But Jehovah’s organization!” Fuck Jehovah’s organization. If Jehovah’s organization really cared about its members, you wouldn’t be so frightened of defaming its good name at the expense of your mental and PHYSICAL health. If Jehovah’s organization really cared for you, you wouldn’t be hiding your trauma from people who can help “because it’ll hurt Jehovah” like a wife who developed Stockholm syndrome from being beaten by her love-bombing husband.

[youbloodymadgenius]

Over and over again (Modern!Ivar x reader)

A/N: Please, read the warnings!

This is for @a-mess-of-fandoms ‘s 400 followers writing challenge. The prompt I chose was: But I choose you, even when you’re not an option. This is the first time I've ever taken part in a writing challenge. Thank you 🌺

Ivar is significantly older in this one, in his early to mid-40s probably. 

@inforapound: I know how much I owe you 💖

Warnings: smut, angst, fluff. Breast cancer implied. 

Words: 1669

The gif belongs to @honestsycrets​ 💜

Light kisses…

Light kisses on your inner thigh wake you from a deep sleep. Dizzy, it takes you a few seconds to realize what is going on.

"Ivar…", supressing a yawn, you stretch lazily, "… what… what are you…"

"Shh… Don't talk my love. Just let me take care of you…"  

Even if you wanted to, you don't have time to object as his hot breath against your clit and his fingers grazing your folds make you moan.

"Hmm... So good…"

You manage to say, arching your back while gripping the sheets, shivers running through your body. He stops for a moment. The darkness doesn't allow you to see his eyes or his features clearly, but you know that his piercing blues eyes are looking towards you and you're sure that a cocky grin stretches across his handsome face.

"That's all I want, my love… I want you to feel good…"

His husky voice sends chills down your spine and you can't help but giggle, feeling free and oblivious to everything from the numb pain in your upper body to the struggles in your mind.

"Shh… Keep quiet and don't move my love, I'm not finished yet."

Adding force to his soft yet bossy words, his left arm settles down over your belly, preventing you from moving, as he lowers his head once again. Immediately whining as his mouth finds your core, you gasp when his tongue licks your folds before twirling around your clit. There's no rush though, and no harshness. In the privacy of your shared bed, Ivar has always known how to be gentle when necessary, even if he prefers rough sex.

Still, since you've been discharged, gentleness has become his mantra, soft kisses on your cheek or in the crook of your neck, grazing fingers along your thighs, delicate words of love whispered in your ear… Sometimes you feel like a porcelain doll… The truth is that's probably what you are. And that is definitely what you need.

Gliding his fingers in and out from you, you can feel him smile against your thigh as he readjusts his position, faintly groaning. You should be worried about his comfort but you cannot, not when his fingers are working wonders.

"Ivar I'm…"

"Yes my love, let it go."  Curling his fingers inside you, increasing the pace of his tongue on your clit, your fingers tangle themselves in his hair, clenching and unclenching, endlessly pulling his braids. Wrapping your shaking thighs around his head, your hands scratching at his scalp, you can't breathe anymore, stars blowing up in your head, tears filling your eyes. You come hard, shuddering, moaning, crying his name. Hopelessly.

Still slightly dazed, you suddenly freeze, barely able to talk.

"Ivar, what are…" His hard cock presses against your leg, his hand runs across your belly, up to your chest as your voice breaks. "Stop Ivar, I..." Your hand grabbing his arm, you beg him, swallowing before you can go on. "Ivar, no. I… I cannot…"

Placing his hand just above your navel, which he knows is a safe place, he speaks softly.

"I'm not turning on the light, you know that?"

"Ivar," you respond in a shaky voice, almost pleading, "you don't need your eyes to feel it."

Or the lack of it.

Moving you to tears, the thought makes you feel sick and you hiccup before freeing yourself from his grasp. You don't want to reject him but there's nothing you can do. You cannot. You cannot. You cannot.

Rolling on your side, curling up on yourself, you let your dark thoughts get the better of you. Ivar deserves so much better. You're not worthy anymore. You’ve denied him for so long, barely allowing him to pleasure you. He never complains. You'd like to, no you'd love to make love to him, again.

But you cannot.

You cannot.

You cannot.

Sobbing, you drown in self-pity, hating yourself for what you put him through, and for what you've become.  

You can hear him shift in the bed and when he groans, you raise your head to look at him, sitting straight against the headboard.

"What's wrong, Y/N?" His soft voice stirs you up, making you cry even more.

Fighting the panic setting down in your heart and your head, you take a sharp breath. "You know what's wrong, Ivar. Look at you! Look at us! Look what I am doing to us! I know you, you're craving for more. And you have every right to. But I can't give you more and that's not fair. You deserve better, better than me. You deserve everything I can never offer you again. You deserve joy and happiness and bliss, and you deserve to cum and—"

His pointer finger grazing your lips, he shushes you tenderly. "It's not about me, my love. I'm fine. Don't worry, I promise I'm fine. For now, it's all about you. So please, talk to me and keep in mind that I love you, no matter what. You do know that, don't you?"

One of his hands strokes your hair and baby kisses brush your temple, overwhelmed with his love, you wish you could let go. But as much as you would like to, you cannot.  

"I do. But sometimes love is not enough, Ivar.” Catching a half-choked and obviously outraged cry, you feel the need to explain, your entire body shaking. "Love is not pleasure, Ivar. Love is not sex. I cannot pleasure you. I cannot have sex with you. I. Can. Not. Not anymore." Your uneven breathing gives away your distress and you try pointlessly to steady it, inhaling deeply.  "Look at me, Ivar. Look what I am. I'm a mess. This… this fucking disease stole my femininity, stole who I was. I'm no longer the woman you knew, Ivar. I cannot be this woman anymore. I don’t know where she is, and I don't even know if she will ever come back. I'm not sure. Now, I'm just an empty shell, Ivar. A scarred and broken empty shell."

Anger. That's what you expect. You know Ivar, and you know your words hurt him deeply. But you have to tell him. He must understand.

You cannot. You cannot.

But there's no outburst. No fist hitting the mattress. No tightening grip. There's nothing but silence for a few longue minutes. When he speaks again, it's with a quavering voice.

"What are you trying to tell me, Y/N? What does it mean, my love?" Fear and distress noticeable in his words, you know he doesn't really want to hear what you're going to say. But you have to. He must understand.

"You deserve a whole woman, Ivar, and not who I became; an ugly and misshapen body. I can't look at myself in the mirror anymore. How could you?  How could you even look at me? Ivar, I'm no longer an option."

Your words exhausted you, drawing on what little strength you had left.  Weeping and crying, you bury your head into your pillow, wishing you could disappear and forget.

Ivar has a different take on it.

"Come here, Y/N, please."

Whispering and softly grasping your arm, he pulls you close, resting your head on his chest. Too weak, you don't try to fight back, allowing him to do so. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, he grabs your hand, putting it on his thigh.  

You may be numb, but you know he's doing it on purpose. His thigh. His right leg. The worst. Scarred, bony, bumpy. Gruesome. Disgusting. Useless. They're not your words, they are his.

"You have no right to talk about yourself like that, my love." His firm tone startles you. "And I don't intend to hear any more of this nonsense."

"Ivar…", muttering, you wish you could argue, convince him, but he's talking again before you can collect your thoughts.

"No, my love. Now, you're going to listen to me. I wasn't an option. I couldn't be an option. Because of my temper. Because of my legs. Shit Y/N, I couldn't even walk when we met. A fucking cripple stuck in a fucking wheelchair because of his fucking repulsive and stupid legs! That's all I was. Nonetheless, you chose me. You did choose me, Y/N.  I still can't understand why, but you did. And for that I'm grateful every day. You taught me love, Y/N. But most of all, you taught me to love myself."

Sighing, he gently kisses your forehead as you snuggle into his arms. "And that's exactly what I'm going to do now. I'm going to teach you to love yourself again, as much as I love you. Because you deserve it, and because you're everything I want. The disease took a lot from you, I'm aware of that. I won't deny it and I will be patient. I can wait, Y/N. I will wait. But fuck, my love, you're alive. And as far as we know, you're healthy. Your body is different, it's true. But it doesn't change anything for me. To me you're perfect the way you are. You're perfect how you are. You may not believe me but I choose you, even when you're not an option. Because I love everything about you. I love these tiny wrinkles in the corner of your eyes. I love your stubbornness and your bad faith. I love the way you laugh, even if it's too loud, I love that you always want to have the last say. I love your old stained, patched jumper you refuse to throw away, I love that you keep making sure I took my meds, even though sometimes it pisses me off.  I love all your flaws, I love all your scars… As you love mine… And above all, Y/N, I love you for who you are, and not for how you look. I love you very, very much, more than my own life. And that's why I choose you. And I'll choose you, over and over again."

🛡⚔️🛡

@honestsycrets @lisinfleur @waiting4inspiration​ @gearhead66​ @readsalot73​ @hecohansen31​ @saldelys​ 

[bubonickitten]

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 13 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 13: all the usual Buried-related warnings apply (claustrophobia, inability to breathe, etc.); panic/anxiety symptoms; just a smidgen of internalized aphobia; brief mention of past passive suicidal ideation; internalized victim blaming; canon-typical trauma (including discussion of victims targeted by the Fears as children).SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 13: Center

The darkness and overwhelming pressure of the Buried make it nigh impossible to orient oneself. The only conceivable directions are forward, down, into, deeper. Jon’s only choice, when he has one at all, is to keep moving – and so he does, digging and clawing his way through the muck, making a transient pathway for himself as best he can.

“Daisy?” It comes out as a rasp. He tries to swallow, but succeeds only in upsetting his already-sore throat. It feels as though the dirt and debris have taken up permanent residence there, clogging his airway just enough to leave him chronically short of breath without cutting off his oxygen supply entirely. “Daisy, can you reach me?”

“Jon,” comes the weak reply, “I’m – I don’t know where – I c-can’t – can’t see –”

“I hear you,” Jon says. “I’m here, I’m coming to you. Just – keep talking, and –”

As he talks, he inhales a cloud of dust, dissolving into wracking coughs.

“Jon? Jon, are you still there?” For a long moment, Jon cannot speak. Daisy’s next words are steeped in panic. “Where are you? I can’t… p-please be there, please –”

“I’m still here,” Jon forces out hoarsely, stretching his arm forward as far as it will go. “I’m not going anywhere. Follow my voice, I – I think I’m almost –”

Chill fingertips brush against his, and he throws his weight forward as much as possible. He hooks her fingers in his and pulls, and with a burst of energy he manages to clasp her clammy hand in his.

“There you are,” he says, smiling weakly.

“You’re real,” Daisy says in disbelief, crushing his hand in a bruising grip. “You’re real.”

“I am.” He intertwines their fingers, as grateful as she is for a hand to hold. “I’m here, Daisy.”

“Daisy,” she says dreamily. “Yeah. Daisy. That’s me.” A pause. “Just – just me.”

Jon closes his eyes with a relieved sigh. There are no signs that the Hunt still has its claws in her. He had no reason to think that reaching her a couple weeks earlier than before would change anything, but there was still that nagging doubt.

“J-just me,” she says again, but this time there’s a waver in her voice. “Just – alone –”

“No,” Jon says hurriedly, squeezing her hand several times in quick succession, “not – not alone. Not anymore.”

“Yeah.” She grasps his hand even more tightly, as if to reassure herself.

“I’m here.”

“Yeah,” she says again, and this time it sounds like she’s starting to believe it.

“How – how are you?” Jon cringes. It’s as stupid a question now as it was the last time. Moreso, seeing as he’s already heard the answer. “S-sorry. That’s – probably obvious.”

Daisy answers anyway, likely glad of the chance to talk to someone else after so long in isolation.

“I – I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t…” She trails off, hesitating. “But it’s… it’s quiet here? I can’t…”

She seems to be struggling to find the words.

“You can’t feel the blood,” he supplies.

“Y-yeah. How did you…”

“I can’t feel the Eye, either. It’s… it’s just me. All me.”

“Where are we?”

“In the Coffin. The Buried. It’s… the powers don’t have much sway within one another’s domains. The Hunt, the Eye – they can’t reach us here.”

“The Hunt,” she echoes.

“Yes. You’re a Hunter.”

“I… I guess I was. But – not here.”

No, not here. But once they leave here…

Stop, he tells himself. One thing at a time. Escape the Buried, then worry about the Hunt.

“Come on.” He tugs on her hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“Can’t – can’t move, and – and even if I could, there’s no way out –”

“No, I – I can get us out. I have a plan.”

“Is this like all your other plans?”

Jon chuckles, but it comes out as a wheeze.

“Yes and no. But – but don’t worry, it’s – I can do this. I just – need to – to find it.”

But when he closes his eyes and concentrates, there’s… nothing there.

“Come on,” he says under his breath, keeping his voice deliberately calm. “Come on, where are you?”

There’s nothing there. Why is there nothing there?

“Just need to… need to focus. Just – focus, think of…”

Think of Martin. Martin is your anchor. Clever, brave, loyal, compassionate Martin.

He was kind to you even when you didn’t deserve it; he cared for you even though you did everything you could to push him away. He reached out to you through the Lonely when you were at your most monstrous to remind you of the humanity you’d thought you lost. He made you want to do better, to be the person that he saw when he looked at you.

You followed him into the Lonely because you love him and because he deserved to know it. You need to return to him now, because this version of him doesn’t yet know that he is loved. If you don’t get back to him, if you don’t reach out to him – he’ll get lost, and he –

Jon’s breath hitches. The fear is starting to move in as inexorably as the earth surrounding them, settling cold and heavy in his gut.

Stop that, he tells himself. Just think about Martin, not the worst case scenario.

Everyone underestimates him, because he spent his entire life striving for the perfect balance between useful and unobtrusive. But he’s not helpless; he’s not a pushover. He took master manipulator Jonah Magnus by surprise; he fooled Peter Lukas for months. Sometimes, you think that Martin Blackwood could outmaneuver the Web if he cared to. If anyone could, it would be him. You don’t think you’ll ever fully forgive yourself for taking so long to notice.

No, Jon tells himself once more, recognizing the warning signs of a guilt spiral. That won’t help. Redirect.

In those early days after the ritual, you briefly defaulted to your old habits, withdrawing and shutting him out. He stood up to your brooding, gave your self-loathing no refuge in which to thrive, because he saw right through your sharp tongue to the vulnerable parts of you that it was meant to hide.

He is intuitive, stubborn, and patient in the best of ways.

You have a tendency to stare. You always have; you typically don’t notice you’re doing it. After you became the Archivist, it went from being an awkward habit to evidence of your inhumanity: all eyes, always watching, always demanding more, more, more until every secret is exposed and any semblance of privacy has been demolished.

But it was never just the Eye urging you to record things. You know from experience that nothing lasts forever, that anyone and anything can disappear without a moment’s notice – sometimes leaving no trace, no memory that they ever existed. It only makes sense that you would develop a compulsion to document everything for posterity. The tape recorders were only the most recent manifestation of that preexisting obsession. Before that, you made lists, you took pictures, you wrote on your hands – and, of course, you stared.

During your first few days together at the safehouse, Martin called attention to the staring. You were mortified, launched into a rambling apology – but he shut it down, reassured you that he was only teasing, that he didn’t mind it, that it was… endearing, in a way. And once you were given permission, you began to consciously catalog every little detail.

He has thirty-six freckles on his face, seventeen on his hands, and constellations of them besides: on his back, on his shoulders, on his arms, on his belly. He blushes easily, and you love it, because you’ve never been good at reading body language, and you can always use a hint. His hair is soft, and the way he leans into it when you run your fingers through it – you think he would purr if he could. You were hesitant, at first, to spend too long looking at his eyes – but unlike most people, he showed no signs that he found eye contact with you unsettling.

You gave him permission to stare, too. And he did. He never shied away from your scars. He liked looking at you – and you knew he was genuine when he said so, even though you didn’t understand it.

Martin is self-conscious about his size, painfully aware of how others see him. He rarely stands to his full height, tending to curl his shoulders in, maintain a curve to his spine, keep his arms pulled tight to his body: anything to avoid towering over others, anything to take up as little space as possible. He saw his stretch marks as flaws to be tolerated; spent most of his life assuming that his weight and soft edges made him unattractive.

There are so many things he hates about himself. It broke your heart a little, to see how difficult it was for him to believe that you like looking at him, that your boundaries regarding physical intimacy weren’t a comment on his desirability. (Though he never voiced that last concern, never wanted his own insecurities to make you feel self-conscious about that part of you. Never made you feel guilty or lacking or… or broken.)

You regularly stole his jumpers; the first time you did it, he went speechless and flustered at the casual domesticity of it all. You took turns ambushing one another with affirmations and small acts of affection like that. It became something of a challenge, a game: springing a pet name on one another here, placing a soft kiss on a hand there, delighting in the reactions it got. It’s strange how easily you settled into that routine, how natural it felt to let down your guard.

At night, he would curl around you like he belonged there, like there was no place he’d rather be – and it made you feel like you belong, too. The first time he held you in his arms, you realized that you’d never truly known what it was to feel safe until that moment – and isn’t that its own special kind of vulnerability, isn’t it such a cliché? You still had nightmares, still jolted awake several times throughout the night frantic and disoriented – as did he – but it felt so much more endurable with someone to coax you back to reality.

When you first led him out of the Lonely, it was still clinging to him. He couldn’t understand what you saw in him, any more than you could understand what he saw in you. You made it your mission to make him understand. And eventually, he did. It wasn’t the first time you told him you loved him, but one morning when you said it, he looked at you and his lips parted ever so slightly, and you could practically see the epiphany dawn in his eyes, and he whispered that he believed you.

You still haven’t found a word that accurately describes what you felt then. You kissed him, and hoped that it would say what words could not.

You never gave up on each other, even when you’d given up on your own selves. He never stopped caring for you, even when you were at your most fearsome and fearful. Despite everything, you communicated, you compromised, you comforted one another. You never stopped loving one another.

You lost him once before. You cannot lose him again. You need to find him. Why – why can’t you find him? Why can’t you feel him?

Jon feels his breath quickening, terror needling at the edges of his mind. He jumps slightly when Daisy speaks.

“Jon?”

“It’s – it’s okay,” he says, his voice shaky. “I’ve – I’ve done this once before. I can do this.”

There’s no rule saying he can only have one anchor, right?

He thinks of Georgie.

She took you in when you had nowhere else to go, even though you hadn’t spoken in years, even though you hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Staying with her felt more like home than you’d experienced in… you don’t know how long. It made you realize how much you missed her – her humor, her ingenuity, her confidence, her tenacity, her generosity, and, yes, even her perceptiveness, daunting though it may be at times. She speaks her mind and you can take her at her word. You can appreciate that, as someone who has always had trouble parsing the implicit and unspoken aspects of social life.

You trust her judgment, and she believes in you, and it makes you want to believe in yourself. You want to be there for her in the same way that she’s chosen to be there for you.

He thinks of Melanie.

You disliked one another at first meeting, even though – or perhaps because – you have so much in common. Over the years, you saw more sides to her. She’s brave and resolute, not just when it comes to fighting back, but when it comes to making the conscious decision to heal. She’s capable of kindness to those who are receptive to it. You’ve seen how she is with Georgie, how her hard edges relax, how her devotion is as fierce as her anger can be – perhaps moreso.

You know that she never deserved to suffer like she has. You know she deserves a happy ending. You want to try to reconcile with her. In your future, she went so far as to suggest that you could be friends. You think you would like that.

He thinks of Basira.

She’s had no one but herself to rely on for months. She feels trapped and alone; she hasn’t had a moment to grieve; she’s forced herself to compartmentalize and detach because if she breaks down, she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to put herself back together again. She’s told herself that her own comfort and wellbeing don’t matter. She has a job to do and she’s the only one left who is willing and able to do it. The only solid thing left in her life, the only thing giving her purpose is the mission. The mission is her anchor, because she’s lost everything else.

When she found out that Daisy was alive, she was almost angry with you for making her dare to hope. You promised that you would bring Daisy home to her, and you mean to keep that promise.

And Jon has a job to do, too, doesn’t he?

You need to stop Jonah Magnus, you need to –

His stomach clenches as the dread grips him.

Okay, no. Don’t – don’t think of Jonah. Not helpful, not helpful, not –

He reaches further. He tries to think of Naomi, of the Admiral, of –

The faraway rumbling starts up again.

“Jon,” Daisy says again, urgently, perched on the edge of panic right along with him.

This is forever deep below creation, some self-sabotaging part of his brain reminds him. Where the weight of existence bears down. This is the Buried, and we are alive. There isn’t even an up –

“I just – I just – I just need to calm down,” he stammers. He can feel his pulse beating in his throat; would be hyperventilating if he could breathe at all. “I – I can’t think straight, and I just need to…”

He thinks back to the physical details of the world just outside the Coffin.

The arrangement of the tapes –

…CASE #0160919 sits 34.2 centimeters west of the Coffin, turned at a 45-degree angle. Approximately 20.6 centimeters south-southwest is CASE #0172904; the casing of its recorder is slightly cracked at the lower left corner. 2.4 centimeters to its right is CASE #0171302; the rewind button on the recorder housing it tends to stick…

– on the floor of his office –

…where fingernail scratches are still visible in the northwest corner of the room, left there by Enrique MacMillan on 4 November, 2003, after he gave his statement regarding his encounter with a Buried-touched Leitner…

– and the tape he left on his desk –

…on top of a softcover Moleskine notebook – black, 12.7 by 21 centimeters, ruled – belonging to Martin Blackwood; the Archivist knows every word written thus far on the 68 used out of 192 total pages within…

– and on that tape are pleas that went unanswered for far too long, laced with desperation and grief and rapidly dwindling hope –

…We really need you, Jon. We – I need you …

– but Jon cannot hear it anymore.

His mind wanders to the single folded sheet of paper tucked away in the top drawer of his desk. A second message for Martin, to be read only in the event that Jon doesn’t return. A transcript, to be precise.

On their way to the Panopticon, they had been separated when they traversed the Lonely’s domain. Jon had searched frantically, resisting the urge to simply Know because he had promised. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t feel right forcing Martin to See him the way he did before. It was Martin’s domain, and he had the right to decide for himself whether to leave it behind. Even if Jon had wanted to, though, he suspected that he wouldn’t have been able to actually find Martin this time unless he wanted to be found. And in the end, he did.

Just before Jon found him, he managed to catch the tail end of Martin’s statement. Naturally, the Archive memorized every word and dutifully filed it away without any conscious effort or consent on Jon’s part.

…I am Martin Blackwood, and I am not Lonely anymore; I am not Lonely anymore. I want to have friends. I – no, I have friends. I’m in love. I am in love, and I will not forget that; I will not forget…

Before he entered the Coffin, Jon copied it down and left it behind. Just in case. Just in case something goes wrong. If he goes missing in action for too long, he trusts that eventually someone will clear out his desk, find it, and hopefully pass it along to its intended recipient.

It was a last-ditch effort to impart the truth: that a future exists wherein Martin isn’t Lonely; that he can be and is and deserves to be cared for; that it isn’t just an unattainable fantasy. And, most importantly, Jon is not the only one who can provide that, nor is Jon alone enough to fulfill that need. In the end, Martin chose to turn his back on the Lonely. He can do it again.

There’s every chance that it was a meaningless gesture, but Jon doesn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t at least try – and if he does get lost down here, he’ll be forced to live with himself for as long as the Buried itself exists.

But Jon doesn’t want to leave Martin alone with that inexplicable scrap of statement, hoping that it’s enough to get the point across. Jon has to get home. He has to; there’s no other choice –

“Jon?” Daisy says again. “You sound like you’re… what – what’s wrong?”

“Sorry, I’m – I’m just… I can’t – I can’t feel my anchor.”

“Anchor?”

“Y-yeah. Something to ground me, help me feel the way out. It’s – there’s a void where it should be, and…” His short exhale shudders on the way out. “I think – I think we might be here for awhile longer.”

“N-not alone, though,” Daisy says, almost questioningly.

“No. No, not alone. And – and I can still get us out, I think,” he adds hurriedly. “I just – I need to… I need to come down from the panic, and it’s hard to do that when I can’t – I can’t breathe –“

His breath catches and he closes his eyes. Stop, he tells himself, you’re – you’re spiraling, talking yourself into a panic. Just… listen – listen to the quiet.

“Jon?”

“Still – still here,” he says, squeezing her hand again. “I’m not going anywhere without you, I promise.”

“Do you – if you need a break from – from whatever you’re doing…” She falters for a moment before blurting out: “C-can we… can we talk? I haven’t – I just want someone to hear me.”

“Of course. I’m listening.” When Daisy doesn’t reply, he offers a gentle prompting. “Daisy?”

“I’m – it’s difficult. I can’t find the words.”

“Would it help if I… ask?” The last time, it did help her get her thoughts out.

“Y-yeah,” she says with only a slight delay. “Do your… thing.”

“Right,” he says. For a moment, he worries that he’ll have difficulty concentrating long enough to compel an answer, but his mind clears almost as soon as he opens his mouth. Of course. “How are you feeling?”

The question buzzes like static on his tongue on its way out.

“S-scared. I – I’m – I’m s-scared…”

Daisy’s words do not deviate from the last time he was here, but he does not interrupt her as she speaks. He latches onto her voice, focuses all of his attention on her story, and tries to ground himself in the present.

“Y-you know what I thought, when I woke up here? I thought this was hell. I – I was dead, and I was in hell. And I - I knew I deserved it.” Daisy stifles a sob as she nears the end of her statement. “I don’t want t-to b-be a s-sadistic predator again. I – I don’t want to hobble around like some – pathetic wounded prey here. I don’t know which would be worse. But I’m scared now – that I won’t ever get the choice.”

One thing I’ve learned, Daisy, is that we all get a choice, he told her last time. Even if it doesn’t feel like one.

Now, though, he’s not so sure. Or, rather, now he thinks it isn’t quite that simple.

“It’s… complicated,” Jon starts slowly. “Choice, I mean. We all have choices, but – but when all the alternatives are unendurable, or impossible to achieve, or – or even conceptualize, then… well, it’s not a fair choice, is it? Sometimes because that’s just – how it is, and sometimes by design. There – there are people, and – and things out there that will abuse their power to deceive you, keep you ignorant about things that would affect your decisions. Or – or convince you that you have no options, no autonomy – or even that you can’t trust your own judgment, your own senses. Some choices can hardly be called choices at all.”

He begins to grind his teeth as he considers his next words, but stops as soon as he feels the grit between his molars when he bites down. There are a lot of things to hate about the Buried, but its refusal to allow him to engage in any of his usual nervous habits definitely adds insult to injury.

“You say you deserve to be here, but – do you think you deserved to be marked by the Hunt in the first place? Because one thing I’ve learned is… most people who become Avatars – we don't necessarily do anything to deserve the attention of the things that take notice of us. To be put in these positions, to be given impossible choices about – about things we have no right to decide in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems that a common thread is… well, um, I think Tim hit the nail on the head, actually? In his testament before the Unknowing, he – he said, ‘The only thing you need to have your life destroyed by this stuff is just bad luck. Talk to the wrong person, take the wrong train, open the wrong door, and that’s it.’”

“You remember that verbatim?”

“It’s – it’s an Archivist thing.” Well, technically. Jon can’t access the Archive right now, but some statements have looped so many times in his head that he has every word memorized by now. “But the point is that our transgressions, they… the punishment often doesn’t seem to fit the crime.”

Daisy is quiet, so Jon continues.

“Uh, Jane Prentiss, for instance – stumbled upon a wasps’ nest in her attic, and then the Corruption infested her. In her original statement, she was afraid of what was happening to her, she was asking for help, but it… it was slowly hollowing her out. Appealed to her insecurities, whispered to her that it was the only thing that could love her, that wouldn’t abandon her. Maybe eventually she embraced it on her own, but at that point, how much of her was left to make that choice?

“And – and Michael Crew. He was struck by lightning when he was eight. The Spiral never stopped stalking him after that. He spent his childhood in fear, obsessively sought out information about – lightning, and fractals, because understanding it felt like the only way to resist a thing that feeds on uncertainty.”

Jon can relate to that, can’t he? He was always curious, but his desire to know and understand things became more obsessive after he encountered his first monster – as if he could solve any problem if only he learned enough about it. But it was never enough, and that impulse never actually kept him safe. It only offered him a flimsy illusion of control, which was something he desperately needed after the Web showed him what it was like to have none. Still, an ineffective coping mechanism was better than not coping at all – or so he told himself then.

“When Mike realized that there was no escape from the supernatural once he’d been marked by it,” Jon continues, “he decided that the next best thing was choosing which Fear to submit to – to serve. Obsessively sought out Leitners until he found the Vast, and… it offered him safety. The most basic of human needs, something he hadn’t known since he was a child. The things he did to feed his patron were – indefensible, but I can’t help thinking about the person he might have been, if the Spiral hadn’t come into his life. He… he was only eight. How is a child supposed to process something that even an adult would have trouble coping with? I’m sure many children don’t even physically survive an encounter with one of the Fears, but even those that do… they never actually escape, do they?”

Daisy makes an indistinct little noise in her throat. Jon can’t Know for certain, but he imagines she’s thinking of her own first encounter with the Hunt. When enough time has passed that she doesn’t seem ready to say as much, Jon continues.

“And there’s – there’s Oliver Banks, he’s an Avatar of the End. He just started having dreams one day, became a death prophet. As far as I can tell, nothing provoked it. It just… happened. And early on, he tried to use that ability to help people, but… the powers granted us as Avatars, they aren’t for helping or saving anyone. When you realize that, after a long string of failures, you start to become… despondent – numb, even. Maybe some misstep along the way piqued the End’s interest in him, or maybe it was completely arbitrary. I don’t know. I don’t know that Oliver does, either.”

It’s difficult to speak at length here, and Jon’s speech is punctuated by frequent gasps and stops and starts, but he plows ahead. Granted, he’s always had a tendency toward intense, rapidfire speech whenever he gets invested in a topic of interest, but it’s also that he needs to cover as much ground as he can as quickly as possible. There’s no telling when the Buried will constrict again. Sometimes there are long intervals of relative peace; other times, the bouts of crushing pressure come one after the other in a barrage. The inconsistency makes the dread all the more potent: you can never predict when the walls will close in.

“And Helen,” he says, moving right along, “before she became the Distortion, she opened a door. That’s all. Most people would have probably done the same. A door that wasn’t there before, that can’t be there – of course the human mind wants to test its perceptions, make sense of the discrepancy. Which is exactly what the Distortion preys on. It let her escape its corridors, because it would make the fear that much more potent when it came for her again, when she realized that it had never actually let her go, that there was never any way to escape. It was… it was just playing with its food.”

Like with Benjamin Hatendi, Jon thinks. ‘The blanket never did anything.’

The Fears are never merciful. For an earthly predatory animal, the pain and fear of the prey are only relevant insofar as their utility in capturing it. Granted, the majority of animals may have no qualms about eating their prey alive so long as it’s incapacitated, no concept of putting their food out of its misery – but still, sustenance isn’t derived from the experience of the prey, only from its organic matter.

For the Powers, though… terror is the food source. If anything, the misery is deliberately drawn out. The suffering is primary to the meal.

“I still don’t know how much of Helen Richardson was left by the time she embraced her new existence and began feeding” – by the time she chose to stop feeling guilty, Jon notes privately – “but she never asked to be in that position to begin with. She just… opened a door.

“And you… all you did was trespass on a childhood dare, right? You and Calvin Benchley. I did hear the tape – of your interrogation with Elias. Maybe the Hunt chose the both of you, was deliberately waiting for you there. Or maybe you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, you… you did something that most children do at one point or another, exploring out bounds – I did plenty of that myself. And – and you’d done the same thing many times in the past, there was no reason to think that things would go any differently. But that time, that time you stumbled into something that most children – most people never do.”

Jon debates whether or not to share his own initiation into this world. He never told Daisy about it last time, but he knows – and Knows – about her childhood encounter. It seems only fair to include his own.

“Actually, I… I had a similar experience, when I was eight,” he admits, pushing through his habitual reservations. “Unlike Michael Crew, though, I was an active participant in my own fate. There’s no dodging a lightning strike, but me – I… I opened a book I shouldn’t have, knocked on a door I shouldn’t have. I could’ve just… not.”

“That’s a funny double standard,” Daisy says flatly.

“P-pardon?”

“Couldn’t you just as easily say that Crew could have chosen to not stand outside during a lightning storm?”

“He – he actually wanted to go inside, but his friend pressured him to keep playing,” Jon says, almost defensively. “By the time they decided to go in, it was too late.”

“Like I pressured Calvin.”

“That’s –” Jon gives an agitated little exhale. “It’s still different.”

“How?”

“Did you have a bad feeling about the dare, or was it just like any other day? You had no reason to think that things would go wrong. I… I knew that book was wrong, and I opened it anyway.” Daisy scoffs. “What?”

“Has anyone ever pointed out to you that you’re capable of some truly infuriating mental gymnastics?”

Jon puffs out another exasperated breath before muttering, “Yes.”

In fact, she said almost the exact same thing to him the last time around. And Georgie – she used to say so all the time, especially when they were dating.

“You always do this,” she’d pointed out once during an argument, hands on her hips and a shrewd look in her eye. “Any time a conversation gets a little too uncomfortable for you, you just – throw your hands up, say it’s your fault and shut down, and nothing ever gets resolved. Why are you so eager to take the blame for things? Is it that it’s better than admitting there are some things you can’t control, or is it just easier than actually talking about your feelings?”

The answer was yes on both counts, and he had been angry with her for putting it into words. He’d already known on some level, but he studiously avoided that sort of introspection. Now that it had been verbalized, the knowledge would always be there, floating around in his mind – yet another thing to overanalyze, to obsess over, to ambush him in moments of doubt.

Since then he’s gotten better at communicating in healthy ways, but the self-blame thing… well, Martin still had to periodically call him out on it, right up until the end. It became a common refrain: “It’s still victim blaming even if you’re the victim, Jon.” The reminder did help – at least some of the time – but it wasn’t enough to undo a worldview that he’d spent his entire life internalizing.

“Y-yes,” he says again, less sullenly now, “I – I see your point.”

“Good. So – evil book?”

“A Leitner, yes. The Web.” Jon has no desire to go into all the gruesome details, not when he’s – when they’re both already being suffocated by fear. “And I only escaped through… I don’t know, some combination of mundane human cruelty and luck – or… or someone else’s misfortune, more like.” He gives a tired sigh. “Or it could have been deliberate interference by the Web, taking someone else in my place because it had other plans for me. I’ll never know the exact reason why. If there even is a reason.”

He pauses, expecting the Beholding’s characteristic objection to the idea that he should accept not knowing anything, before remembering with grim satisfaction that the Eye can’t reach him here. Nor can the Web, for that matter. A small mercy, but he’ll take it.

“But the experience led to an obsession with the supernatural. I suppose I thought that if – if I could just understand it, I could conquer the fear. It didn’t work, but an obsession like that – it persists regardless of whether it’s successful or productive or – or healthy. Eventually it led me to the Institute. Which led me… here, ultimately.” He bites his lower lip as he considers his next words. “I’m sure many of my choices along the way were mine alone, and – and I’m responsible for my actions regardless. But that first domino… it was just a restless child ignoring gut instinct, all because he needed to know.”

“Jon,” Daisy says, the hint of a warning growl underlying her tone.

“I – okay, yes, I know, I know. Double standards.” He takes a shallow breath before continuing. “My point is, most of us are just… unlucky isn’t the right word, but it’s as close as I can get. Sometimes the Fears seem to seek out victims who are already uniquely susceptible to them – people with phobias, or specific traumas. Other times it seems… arbitrary. And sometimes it seems like the difference between an average victim and those who eventually become Avatars is… compatibility, or – or in some cases, a sense of kinship, even.

“I’ve always been too curious for my own good, a natural fit for the Beholding. Jane talked about being seen as toxic, and it was the Corruption that found her. Annabelle Cane said she was well-versed in manipulation as a young child, the sort of gift that the Web favors. Jared Hopworth always had a sadistic streak, but the difference between him and any other bully is that he found The Boneturner's Tale. I… don’t really know what to make of Jude Perry. The way she told it, she always had the disposition for the Desolation. She would likely have been a nightmare with or without supernatural help, but there are plenty of people like that in the world. She just happened to be one of the few who caught the attention of the Lightless Flame.

“But – but I also don’t think preexisting compatibility is a requirement to be an Avatar. Some people really do just – stumble into it, probably. Grow into it, maybe, after enough exposure. Especially if the same Power keeps coming back.”

Jon can’t help thinking of the Distortion and its tendency to dog its victims for years. Helen said once that she couldn’t just force her victims into her corridors, that they had to open the door on their own. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? Marcus MacKenzie refused to open the door every single time it appeared throughout his childhood and young adulthood. It started to take increasingly drastic measures: disguising itself as other things, at one point even opening up in the ground in front of him, hoping he wouldn’t notice until he already stepped over the ledge and gravity did its work. When that didn’t work, it took his father. And then, even after evading it for decades, Helen eventually took Marcus anyway. Choice didn’t come into it. It didn't matter how many times he walked away – it followed him wherever he went.

“Either way,” Jon continues, “whether it’s part of some grand plan or just happenstance, the Avatars… we catch the attention of something predatory, and it sinks its hooks into the vulnerabilities it finds. There are plenty of other people in the world who may have the same… flaws, or inclinations, or experiences, but most are lucky enough not to be drawn into this world. I’m not sure exactly what determines who is, but I don’t think it comes down to fairness, or deservedness, or – or some sort of cosmic punishment. I – I don’t think the universe works that way.

“And – and after we’ve been marked, maybe we can make choices along the way. But as far as I can tell, none of those choices ever lead to complete freedom from the Powers that lay claim to us. We’re still accountable for our actions; we can fight back, we can resist – but we’ll always be struggling against our natures. Sometimes it seems like there’s… there’s really no choice we can make where things actually turn out okay. Doesn’t mean we stop trying, or give up hope, but…” He pauses to gnaw on the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. “It can be hard to ignore the fear when it’s become such an intrinsic part of you, is all. When it makes its hunger your own, and hollows you out if you don’t feed it. It can make the concept of choice seem… empty.”

When he trails off, Daisy blows out a forceful exhale.

“That was… a lot.”

“Surprised the Buried let me get it all out,” Jon says, a bit sheepishly. “Sorry, I’ve… had a lot of time alone to ruminate.”

“I think I can rela-”

Daisy’s words are cut short when all at once the earth crashes down around them with a vengeance, as if exacting payment for the courtesy of staying its hand for so long. An indeterminate amount of time passes, weight pressing down on them from all sides, leaving no room for breath or words or thought. Jon focuses on their hands, still linked tightly together, the only anchor to be found here in the dark.

Eventually, the walls begin to withdraw in tiny increments. The sinister, sibilant shifting of soil is a constant, unknown variable – it sounds the same whether the earth is compacting or moving away, and often there is no way to tell until it’s already too close and pressing down. Jon can feel his pulse hammering in his throat, can hear Daisy’s gasping breaths overlapping his own.

“I was gonna kill you,” she blurts out eventually, breathless and rushed. “You know that?”

“Yes.”

“I – I don’t just mean that day in the woods,” she clarifies. “Af-after the mission, I was planning on killing you.”

“I know. You – you realized I wasn’t human. That I needed to die.”

“H-how did you –”

“I’ve been here once before. And – and I should apologize for the dreams, I –”

“Jon –”

“I know it’s not an excuse, but I never meant to compel you that time – didn’t even realize at the time that that was something I could do, and –”

“Jon –”

“I didn’t realize then that the dreams were real, and – and when I finally did, I still didn’t have any control over them, but I –”

“Jon! Shut up a minute.”

His mouth snaps shut a little too quickly and he winces as he bites down on the tip of his tongue. The metallic taste of blood just barely registers on his tongue in the few seconds it takes for the cut to heal.

“Just – back up,” Daisy says, toning down the intensity this time. “That thing you said about… you’ve ‘been here once before’? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s… a long story. And difficult to believe.”

“Well, it’s –” Daisy huffs. “It’s not like we don’t have the time?”

“I suppose,” Jon sighs. He’s already told this story to the tape recorder at length, but… the idea of telling it to another person, in his own words this time, feels both terrifying and cathartic at the same time. It’s just – difficult to talk about, no matter how many times he recaps it. “Where to begin… oh, I should probably preface this with ‘time travel is real.’”

Daisy sounds far too nonchalant when she says, “Okay.”

“O-okay? That’s… that’s it?”

“Sorry if it’s not the dramatic response you expected. Encounter enough – vampires, and people made of sawdust, and – and this, here, and… I don’t know that anything would surprise me anymore.”

“R-right,” Jon replies, still a bit incredulous. “Well, I’m – I’m from the future.” He pauses again, but she doesn’t interject. “And… and I came back to stop the apocalypse.”

His inflection pitches up into a near-question on the last word, certain that this will be the point at which Daisy calls bullshit. Instead, she just gives a dry chuckle.

“And how’s that going for you?”

“Well, uh, actually…” Jon’s laugh manages to sound slightly hysterical despite its brevity. “Being stuck here actually does – put it on hold indefinitely?”

“H-how’s that?”

“Because – because it can’t go forward without the Archivist.” He takes a shallow breath. “Just like the Stranger has the Unknowing, the Eye has its own Ritual. I was – I am a part of it. I – I didn’t want to, Elias – he orchestrated the whole thing, f-forced me to –” He nearly bites his tongue again when he cuts himself off. “But that – that doesn’t change anything,” he continues, almost viciously. “I’m the one who opened the door. It wouldn’t have happened if not for me, s-so it’s as good as my fault.”

“Don’t know about that,” Daisy says.

“What?”

“Don’t think I can see you making a choice to end the world, if you had any say. Doesn’t sound like you. You – Jon, you just went on about having choices taken away.” Jon is silent, teeth clenched; Daisy jostles his hand insistently. “So – so how’d it actually happen?”

“I, ah…” Why is this still so hard to talk about? “So you know how I – I… need the statements?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I – it – my appetite only got worse as time went on. Started craving live statements, and – and hunted for them. The others intervened eventually, and I stopped, but I still needed – need – statements, or else I’d… starve, for lack of a better word. So I made do with the old statements like before, but they were – less and less filling as time went on, and – and I needed more of them, and more frequently, even though I tried to – to spread them out, ration myself. And, uh, some things happened, and Martin and I went into hiding – used your safehouse, actually –”

“Which one?”

“Scotland.”

“Ah,” Daisy says softly. “I like that one.”

“So did we,” Jon says, smiling fondly. “I – we only had a couple weeks, before… b-but the time we did have, it was…”

He clears his throat.

“An-anyway, I went – hungry, for a bit, until a box of statements could be sent to us. And the first one I read, it was – a trap, by J- Elias.” He can explain about Jonah Magnus later. If he takes that detour now, he’ll never get through the rest of this. “The heading looked – just like any other statement. Statement giver’s name, date – but as soon as I started reading, it was Elias’ words. It was a, uh, statement about – about me. About what I am. I’m not just the Archivist, Daisy, I’m the Archive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I – when I take or – or consume a statement, I, ah – experience it like I’m there, and it – it becomes a part of me. I’m like a – like a living record, a library of – of people’s worst fears, nightmares, moments that I have no right to witness, and – doesn’t matter. Elias needed a fully realized Archive for his ritual to work, so he – he created one, and he fed it a statement. And I – I tried to stop reading, but I couldn’t, even though I – I tried, I really did, I –” He laughs nervously. “Even tried to – to blind myself, but it just – healed. Then, at the end, there was an – an incantation. To open a door that could let all the Fears into the world. And when I read it… it did.”

“Wait – all of them?”

“Yes,” Jon says quietly. “Just before she died, Gertrude figured out that a ritual to bring one of the Fears into the world could never succeed on its own. The Powers can’t exist without minds to experience them, and our minds – they’re highly associative. The experience of fear is just… far more convoluted and subjective than any artificial taxonomy can capture. The Fears have overlap, and – and some of them are defined by their opposition to the others.

“A Vast ritual would collapse without the existence of the Buried, for instance. Or – the Stranger and the Spiral, they’re both tied to unreality, to not being able to trust your perceptions – which can feed into paranoia, which the Eye and the Web also thrive on. The Hunt and the Slaughter run together, and the Flesh can tag alongside. Both the Corruption and the Desolation are equally efficient and thorough in ravaging a home or a body or – or even the general concept of safety.

“Even here – we’re too far deep below creation for the Eye or the Hunt to reach us, but there’s still more than the Buried to fear. The Dark, for instance, or being Forsaken. Even the Vast can be found down here, if you start obsessing over your own insignificance in the grand scheme of the universe. The Powers are just – too interconnected, and their rituals never accounted for that.”

“So the Unknowing…”

“Would have failed even without our intervention,” Jon says bitterly. “Same goes for all of the rituals that Gertrude stopped, and all the others that have been sabotaged throughout the centuries. All of that sacrifice, and for nothing. Michael Shelley, and Jan Kilbride, and – and Tim, and you ending up here –”

“Tim?”

“He… he died during the mission,” Jon says quietly. He hears a sharp intake of breath from Daisy.

“And Basira?”

“Alive. She got out before the explosion.” He can just barely make out Daisy’s sigh of relief. “She… she told me to tell you that she’s waiting for you.”

“Oh,” Daisy says softly. “I’m s-”

Before she can say more, the Buried begins to writhe around them again, this time closing in molasses-slow. They both instinctively tighten their handhold on one another. As horrid as the crushing force is, this time it at least has the decency to press them closer together. Daisy’s free hand tentatively brushes against Jon’s free wrist. Understanding the unspoken request, Jon interlocks their fingers, and they wait.

“S-so,” Daisy wheezes when the earth finally relaxes and settles again, “about – about the rituals?”

“R-right.” Jon coughs lightly, still catching his breath. “Well, ah, Elias found out about Gertrude’s theory. Came up with a – ritual that would bring all the Powers through at once, but with the Eye ruling over the rest. It required an Archivist – Archive – directly marked by all the Powers. Elias – chose me. Made sure I’d encounter each of them, and… when I was ready, he laid one last trap and waited for me to wander in, because he knew from experience that I would.”

And it could happen again, Jon’s brain helpfully supplies.

“Huh.”

“Yeah. S-so it probably goes without saying, but if you thought I wasn’t human before, I, ah…” He gives an exhausted, humorless chuckle. “I’m definitely not now.”

Daisy is silent for a long moment before saying: “I take it you – you didn’t come here the first time.”

That wasn’t the comment that Jon had been expecting.

“No, I did.”

“Then… how –”

“I told you, there’s a way out. I just – I just have to find it. Last time I found you, and we escaped together. We can do it again.” She doesn’t respond to that, and he kneads the tops of her hands with his thumbs. “Daisy?”

“You’ve been here once before, and you escaped, and… and you came back?” She says it in such a small voice, it almost doesn’t even sound like her. “After – after seeing what it’s like, you still came back for me?”

“Yes…?”

“Why?” she whispers. “Why do that for me? I – I had a knife to your throat, I would’ve killed you if Basira hadn’t found us first, I saw the fear in your eyes and I enjoyed it – and you knew that I’d still planned on killing you the moment I got a chance, so – so why?”

“We’re –” Jon stops himself, rephrases. “In my future, we became friends.”

“What?”

“W-well, we – we were both Avatars trying to resist our darker natures. We went through this together. We just – we had a lot in common.”

Daisy offers no comment.

“I… don’t know what I would have done without you, honestly,” Jon continues, jiggling one foot nervously as best he can in the confined space. “You were… you were the only one I had, most days. The only one who knew what it was like, having the hunger consume you because you refuse to feed it. And – and you had Basira, but she… there were things she didn’t fully understand, couldn’t relate to. So you would come to me. We, uh… we helped each other. Trusted each other.” He adds, a bit timidly: “I… I’ve missed you.”

Still, Daisy says nothing. Jon is about to start rambling again – about what, he doesn’t know; he just needs to fill the awkward silence somehow – but Daisy speaks first.

“But – but what about before all that? Why did you come down here the first time around?”

“I was… in a bad place,” Jon admits. “Tim was dead, Sasha was dead, Melanie hated me, Basira saw me as a monster, Georgie wanted nothing to do with me, and Martin was… gone. I had no one, I wasn’t human anymore, I was afraid and ashamed and guilty and tired, and I… I was starting to doubt my decision to live. Not wanting to die had started to feel selfish, and I – I needed some way to justify living, some way to make myself useful.

“When we found out that you were alive, I – I just didn’t want to lose anyone else. If there was a chance of bringing you home, I had to try. And… there was nothing to lose. If I got stuck down here, it – it would be no great loss. The world would have even been safer for it – moreso than I even imagined at the time. I… honestly didn’t think that anyone would care if I didn’t come back.”

“That’s messed up,” Daisy says, a hint of wry amusement in her voice.

“Yeah,” Jon says with a self-deprecating laugh. “That’s what you said last time. Like I said, I was in a bad place. But – but in the end, we got out. I know I can get us out of here again. I promised Basira I would bring you home, and I – I – I will. I just… I need some time to find the way.”

“No pressure,” she deadpans.

Jon makes a strangled, exasperated noise in his throat.

“Seriously?”

If he could gesture at the tons of dirt pressing down on them, he would – but he can’t, because of the tons of dirt pressing down on them.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Daisy says, just the slightest hint of a self-satisfied smirk in her voice. Jon feels one corner of his mouth quirk in spite of himself.

God, he really had missed her.

The concept of time has no meaning within the Buried. Without any real way to observe or calculate its passing, things tend to feel stagnant. One long note of boredom and desperation and restriction. If not for the unpredictable tides of the soil around them, it might even feel as if time is at a standstill. In a way, it is: there is only one time here, and it is forever – or until the End of everything, at least. To make things worse, true sleep is impossible in the Buried. Sometimes, though, there is a lull in the movements of the earth, and within that liminal space, the mind may be allowed to drift.

Jon isn’t sure how long he’s been drifting when Daisy tugs on his hand.

“Jon.”

“Hm?”

“You’re muttering again.”

“Oh.” Jon clears his throat when he realizes how groggy he sounds. “Was I?”

“Care to share?”

“I’m just – I keep thinking about how Basira escaped the Unknowing,” he says, rousing himself. Out of habit, he tries to stretch, only to remember that he can barely move at all – which, of course, only intensifies the urge to fidget.

“Oh?” Daisy shakes both his hands in hers, prompting him to continue. Judging by the waver in her voice, the silence must be getting to her again. “How – how’s that?”

“She… thought her way out. Like a – an ‘I think therefore I am’ thought experiment.” Jon smiles to himself and shakes his head slightly. “She put Descartes to shame.”

“Not even a fair comparison,” Daisy scoffs.

“Agreed.”

“Were you thinking of trying that here?”

“I… don’t think it would work.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re not that level-headed.”

“That’s –” Jon’s indignation fizzles out just as quickly as it emerged. “That’s… okay, yes, that’s fair.”

Daisy snickers; Jon can’t help a small grin in return.

“But what I was actually trying to say is that it was a strategy uniquely tailored to the Stranger. The Unknowing was all about – unreality, about not being able to trust your senses, even your own identity. Basira figured out that the best way to anchor herself in that situation was to boil her entire reality down to simple logical premises: She existed. She existed in a place and time. The place was dangerous at that time, so she had to not exist in that place at that time. Places have ends, and if she kept moving, she could reach a different place.”

“Huh.”

“Straightforward. Elegant, even.”

“It’s Basira,” Daisy says, unmistakable fondness creeping into her tone. Jon snorts. “Shut up, Sims. You were saying?”

“The Buried doesn’t operate in the same way. Basira reasoned her way out of the Stranger’s domain by denying unreality. If we tried to do the same thing, we’d just be denying… well, reality. The earth, the pressure, the – the ‘too close I cannot breathe,’ it’s all real.”

“Good pep talk.”

“Sorry, that’s not what I –” Jon sighs. “I didn’t mean to sound… morose. I was just thinking about different kinds of anchors. Basira managed to center herself and use her own mind as an anchor, and I – I find that impressive, is all.”

“That’s one way to describe her,” Daisy says. “She’s… always been like that. Practical, reliable… centered.”

Wait, Jon thinks to himself, brow furrowed. What if…

“Daisy, tell me about Basira.”

“What?”

“I – she’s your anchor, right? And – and you’re hers.”

“I don’t know about –”

“She called you solid, a – a – a fixed point,” Jon says excitedly. “When you’re there, things make sense to her. You ground her. And now, without you, she’s… she has trouble knowing where she stands. She has no backup, no one to orient her. What she did during the Unknowing – it was impressive, but it isn’t sustainable over a long period of time. You can only go it alone for so long before you lose your bearings. She – she needs you. And you need her. Right?”

“She’s the fixed point,” Daisy murmurs, as if that explains everything – and maybe it does.

“Exactly, s-so – tell me about Basira. From your perspective.”

“Why?”

“Because this is the Buried, where we’re at the center and everything is weighing down on us,” Jon says, mind racing five steps ahead of him. “The dirt, the pressure, it’s all real, but – but the Fears are also about state of mind.”

Jon can feel his heart rate pick up, the way it does whenever he’s talking his way through a puzzle. If he could, he would be pacing right now, burning off that restless energy. Instead, he finds himself tapping his fingers rapidly against Daisy’s hands. She doesn’t stop him, though.

“I’m not saying that we can solve this with ‘mind over matter’ thinking, but it might – help, if we can both focus on an anchor – a different center point, that is, one outside of this place. Move from this center to that center. There’s a better chance of figuring out which way is up if we’re both feeling for the way out. We can orient each other. If we both feel a tug from the same direction, we know we’re going the right way.”

“I can’t feel anything, though,” Daisy says. “Or – I can, but it’s – it’s everywhere, pushing in one direction – pushing down –”

Jon grips her hands more tightly when he hears her breathing start to grow ragged.

“That’s why you need to tell me about Basira – until you do feel a pull. I could be way off, but it’s worth a try. And – and if nothing else, it might help clear my mind, so I can give finding the way out another shot.”

“A statement, then?” Daisy asks sardonically. “Recharge your battery?”

“I wish,” Jon says with a grim smile. “The Eye only likes horror stories. If any story would sate my appetite, I could just watch biopics any time I was feeling a bit peaky. Hell, imagine if a fictional story was enough. An episode of the Archers would be like an afternoon snack.”

“You like the Archers?” He doesn’t have to see her to know that her eyebrows are raised as high as they’ll go.

“You know, I said the exact same thing to you once. And no, I don’t, but you do, and you used to make me listen with you. We didn’t even make a dent in the back catalogue, but I’m an Avatar of terrible knowledge and the Beholding loves spoilers, so guess who Knows every episode now?” Daisy barks a laugh at that. “There are over nineteen thousand episodes, Daisy!”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Anyway,” Jon says, squeezing both of her hands in lieu of nudging her shoulder, “a story just… helps take me out of my own head sometimes. Always has. You’re humoring me, not the Eye. Besides, do you have anything better to do?”

“S’pose not.”

“I mean – you don’t have to, of course, if you’re uncomfortable. I don’t want to pressure you –” Jon cringes. “Bad choice of words. I –”

“Stop babbling, Sims.” He knows that tone of voice, knows that she’s rolling her eyes right now. “We only have so long before the walls close in again –”

Daisy cuts herself off with a strangled noise, which she tries to cover by clearing her throat. She was likely trying to lighten the mood again, but the inevitability of the Buried’s ebb and flow is still too real, too close.

“Do you, uh… do you want to hear a story or not?”

“Please.”

“Back again?”

Martin jolts at the sound of Georgie’s voice. He tosses a brief glare over his shoulder at her where she stands just outside the doorway to the office, a safe distance from the Coffin. Martin discovered quickly that the Coffin’s compulsion has no impact on him, likely muffled by his allegiance to the Lonely. Georgie, though, has no such protection.

Coincidentally, it also means that as long as Martin keeps close to the Coffin, Georgie has to keep her distance from him as well.

“It’s been a week,” Martin says in a quiet monotone, tearing his gaze away from her.

“Yeah.”

“He should have been back by now.”

“Well, he didn’t really give a timeframe –”

“But you said he implied that it wouldn’t take more than a week,” Martin says impatiently. “And knowing Jon, he exaggerated how long it would take, just so no one would worry if he was late.”

“I… yeah, I know,” Georgie sighs. “I was expecting him to be back by now, too.”

Martin nods in a clear ‘I told you so’ gesture – then immediately feels childish. Why is he acting vindicated by her admission?

“Does Peter know you’ve been coming down here?”

“Don’t care.”

“Oh?” Georgie says, her voice suspiciously bland – and only then does Martin register the significance of what he just said.

“I just meant – it’s –” Martin huffs. “It’s none of your business.”

“Of course.” Martin can hear the smirk in her tone.

“Why are you here?” he snaps, swiveling to look at her again.

“Same reason you are, I expect.”

Martin says nothing to that, simply turns his back on her. For a few minutes, the only sound is the low, indistinct chatter of the tape recorders, still spooling out their horror stories on a loop.

“Have you tried calling to him?” Georgie asks. Martin continues to ignore her, teeth clenched until they ache. “It could be worth a shot. He left all those tapes running – don’t know if he can hear them exactly, but they’re meant to call to him.”

Go away, Martin thinks, his hands curling into fists on his knees.

“Your voice might be better than a recording.”

Why is she so persistent?

“Just – think about it, okay?”

When Martin doesn’t respond, Georgie sighs, knocks twice on the door frame, and takes her leave. He doesn’t look back around until the sound of her footsteps fade away.

“Sure, just leave the door wide open,” he grumbles irritably, rising to his feet to remedy the issue.

He pulls the office door shut with more force than intended, practically slamming it. The lone tape recorder on Jon’s desk, previously standing on end, topples over with a light clatter. Martin exhales heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to suppress the static buzz of nervous energy simmering inside him.

“But we need you, Jon,” the tape recorder grinds out. “Jon, please, just – please.”

“Fuck,” Martin says, voice thick and strained. He takes several deep breaths – in through his nose, out through his mouth – trying to clear his thoughts. Eventually, his shoulders slump and he sighs. “Fine. You win.”

He settles himself on the floor in front of the Coffin again, closer this time.

“Jon,” he says, then falters, unsure of what to say. “I –” He lets out an agitated breath, then follows it up with a bitter chuckle. “This is stupid. You probably can’t even hear this, can you?”

There is an uncomfortable, stinging pressure in his eyes and he reflexively tries to swallow back the tears, only to realize how dry his mouth has become. He rubs his eyes instead, digging the heels of his palms into the sockets and applying pressure.

“I – if you – if you can hear me, I… I already lost you once. I can’t do this all over again, I just – I can’t. I’m – everyone is waiting for you, and I still…” Martin sniffles and clears his throat. “Just – come home, Jon. Please.”

“I think I’d forgotten what it was like to just be… present in the moment? A – a quiet moment, anyway.” Daisy sighs. “On a hunt, you always have to think a few steps ahead, anticipate the prey’s movements so you can get out in front of it. Even when you’re present-thinking, like during a fight, it’s – it’s instinct and reflex, quick movements and jagged edges. You can never just… be.”

“I think I understand,” Jon says. “Not the Hunt aspect, but – but the intolerance of stillness.”

“But in that moment – laying back in the grass, Basira going on about the stars – I was… I was just me. I was focused on her – she gets so excited, so animated whenever she has a chance to talk about something new she’s learned, and I – I let her go on for” – Daisy laughs – “going on forty minutes, probably, about – about the Wow! signal before she looked over and saw me staring. Got all embarrassed that I let her talk so long.”

Jon can feel himself grinning.

“In her defense, the Wow! signal is a fascinating topic.”

“I thought so,” Daisy says warmly. “I mean, I must’ve, right? The whole time she was talking, I never felt the blood calling to me. Afterwards, it felt wrong, somehow – unnatural – that I’d been ignoring it. Not even resisting it, just – tuning it out altogether. I didn’t notice until then how loud it was – like for my whole life there had been teeth at my throat and I just never noticed until that moment.” She pauses. “It’s strange, but I – I think I liked it. The quiet.”

“I don’t think it’s strange at all,” Jon says softly. “I think –”

Suddenly, there’s a distinct wrenching sensation within him – like having a hook yank upwards, painless but abrupt enough to make his breath catch in his throat.

“Jon?” Daisy says warily. “What’s wrong?”

There’s something there.

“Do – do you feel that?”

“No? What – what is it?”

“It’s – wait, just let me…”

Jon concentrates, holding his breath as he waits, and –

There. Another pull, like a fish tugging at a line. And another, gentler but just as insistent.

“Daisy, I –” Jon lets out a breathless little laugh. “I think I know the way. C-come on, follow me.”

End Notes:

tbh I was tempted to split this into two chapters but it felt like it wanted to be all one thing, and also I didn't want to end on an angsty cliffhanger because:

I know I was managing a loose every-7-to-10-days-ish update schedule for awhile there, but it miiiight start looking more like an every-two-weeks schedule going forward. I've been on split shifts at work but we're supposedly going back full time soon, so that might effect how much writing time I have each day. Just wanted to give a heads up in case it takes longer than usual before the next chapter is ready.

There are several snippets of dialogue borrowed/reworked from Jon & Daisy's conversation in the Buried in MAG 132 - they're scattered throughout the chapter. (The "This is forever deep below creation..." and "One thing I've learned..." internal dialogue bits are from 132 also.) Probably goes without saying, but Martin's Lonely statement is from MAG 170 and there's also a previously cited usage of his dialogue from the S4 trailer. The Tim quote is from MAG 117. "The blanket never did anything" (still one of the creepiest lines in the podcast i s2g) is from MAG 086.

[homestuckexamination]

What do you think about the characters becoming who they are in epilogues and HS2 like Dirk, Jane, etc.

For them, as people, it’s a step in the wrong direction. Dirk succumbed to the multiplicity of Bad Selves he’d been trying to fight back against for years due to Bullshit Ultimate Ascension Shenanigans. Jane fell for toxic systems of old Earth, mixed with a good slathering of biases stemming from subliminal influences and a wrong reconciliation with her Aspect that Maids go through. They’re not irredeemably evil, though. Dirk is afraid to show weakness, doubts and fear and tries to cover it up with a mean brand of narcissism. Jane pushes away her doubts through sheer stubbornness and doubling down on what she’s doing through emotional outbursts. They’ve gone really far, SPECIALLY Candy Jane, but also they don’t mark an unchangeable and inherent evil in their characters, just a bad road taken, a lack of communication with the people they used to care about. It’s painful to see them fall for their worst flaws.

As characters though it’s kind of really cool for me, I actually love Dirk’s verbosity and his justifications for his actions, while embracing the role of the Villain, and Jane going off the deep end and mirroring Condy’s ideals and Aesthetics, to the point of being called the Batterwitch? That’s fascinating to explore.

Other than them though, each character develops in different ways. Jade, isolated all her life, starts to crave excitement and action and other people, and I love love love love her new characterization personally, but you all know that. She’s made some major mistakes in Candy, yes, but I adore the... I don’t know. Open bluntness of her? Taking no shit attitude? All packaged into a still extremely-loving dog girl that adores her friends and family.

Rose, manipulated in Meat? Heart-wrenching, missing Kanaya but trying to justify ‘her own’ actions. In Candy? Spur of the moment decisions, past mistakes. Inability for foresight. But still a deep care for her friends, and now, the conflict with the wife whom she loves so much, but whose trust she’s betrayed and couldn’t DARE to tell her for over a decade, in fear of the retaliation. Unable to face the consequences. What a disaster of a woman, I love her.

Kanaya? Heart-broken, Rose taken away by Dirk in Candy, she sets out on a Galactic Quest, pinning over her, to get her back, rescue her. In Meat? A rebel leader, fighting for the freedom of Trolls, alongside her wife, and just having found about this major breach of trust. Angry, but trying to be understanding, a balancing act of high emotions, with knowing their love for each other has not faltered, but will need time to mend. The drama-

Dave and Karkat? Comfortable, domestic, in Meat, but complacent with the little pocket they have built for them, eventually pushed too far by Dirk, and deciding to take matters into their own hands before others can push them to it of their own accord. Actively dating, and searching for Rose, and Dirk. In Candy, lovers, split. Karkat cannot leave his race to suffer again, not like in Alternia. And he doesn’t want Dave and Jade to risk their lives. Dave, who keeps pinning after him, even with Jade by his side, Jade, who stays with him to cheer him up, because he lost Dirk, too, and knows it doesn’t work as a relationship, but can’t simply abandon him. And in the end, he just can’t, he succumbs to an offer from another Dirk, and finds catharsis in Other Iterations of Himself, led down a path of Narrative Relevance, but abandoning those he seemed to care so much about in the process.

Jake, oh poor Jake. He gets a rough deal, complacency, inaction, a lack of drive to push forward, he remains rather static. Dumped and manipulated by Dirk, in Meat, is left lost and aimless. Making bad choices in Candy, ending up in a loveless and abusive marriage, but eventually, oh, eventually, better late than never, takes his Kid from Jane, and stays by her side as a counter-spy attempting to outdo her. He hasn’t done much yet. But he’s in a fantastic position to actually show some drive for his family, and stop Jane from doing something even more awful.

John, depressive, isolated, fated to fight a fight he doesn’t want to and die in one Timeline, and stuck seeing a surreal and fake reality on the other. Aware that something is ever so slightly OFF with Candy, it consumes him, as the Heir of Breath he is, detaches himself once more from those he loves- But finds catharsis thanks to Jake, the drive to actually talk things out. Revelations, introspection, the slow return to form of the Protagonist, the realization that there may be more in them than they ever thought there was.

Roxy... The exploration of their gender. In Meat, leaning transmasc, non-binary, trying something that feels right for him. Friendly and open to those around him, going through his own journey of self-discovery. In Candy, they don’t transition. Finding solace in a familiar structure, she is stuck in complacency. Inaction. Not standing up to Jane and trying to gloss over that things will just work out! They won’t. She cares deeply for her family, and has found a purpose and happiness in trying to just, be a good Mom. One she never had herself. And although those potential feelings are still in there, isn’t life about being happy with what you’re doing, rather than torn up about what could have been? Mistakes can be made, bad things can happen, but... You keep pressing on.

Terezi, fuuuuuuck. Her pinning for Vriska? Vriska, stuck in Candy, isolated from contacting with her. Giving up on Vriska JUST as Vriska would’ve tried to contact her. Unable to let go of Dead John, clinging to him still. No place for her on Earth-C, no home to return to, torn up about her feelings, she joins the Narratively Relevant Journey of Dirk and Rose, only to find what she’s seeing is two broken up people who try to act tough, but are entirely unsure of what they’re doing. She’s trying to make Rose See, but those robot eyes of hers are too closed. Pitch feels arise. A fling, to try and stave off the need for a connection they both have lost.

Calliope, poor sweet dear Calliope. A Muse of Space. In both Timelines, cast aside. Ending up an Observer of what’s going on. Unable to assert their want to still be with Roxy, and ending up scared away by Alt Calliope, they at least seem to have been with her and Harry off-screen, so she’s probably Harry’s cool alien... Aunt? Gender-neutral aunt. In Meat, shocked out of their wits by Callie’s Jade-possession. Venting through gruesome art- Maybe even influencing the Candy Timeline unknowingly, which would explain so much of the Candy Timeline in general... Jade is now awake in the ship, and they may stop being so reclusive and coming back into the picture, which may also mark a shift in some things, as the scared, horrified fan regains their trust on the story, and takes on a more positive outlook on what’s to come.

Like I would love of they were all HAPPY on EARTH-C and exploring these things in healthier environments instead of being thrust into Angsty Space Adventures or Fascist Dystopias, but I looooove these characters, the good AND bad, their ties with each other, the unwarranted lashing out sometimes, the driving others away, the self-blame, the healing, the trying to make things better, the realization they have made something wrong... And the NEW characters? The Omega Kids... Just. *Chef’s Kiss*

[gofancyninjaworld]

Why do you think Genos isn't weak? I agree that he can fight monsters but he won't stand a chance against strong monsters. He has been with Saitama for the longest time but he never learned anything. His naivety is the reason why he is weak, he is still consumed by the "normative awareness". His reaction to Amai Mask's transformation is a proof of that. His mindset never grew. He respects Saitama but does not understand him, which is why he is weak.

Please let me apologise in advance. First, this is long. Second, I do have a lot of thoughts.

Yeah, But

There isn’t a character in this series where the fanbase disagrees with the writer so deeply as this guy.  When interviewed, ONE insouciantly said ‘Genos is rather strong, even for a Class S hero,’ and fans went, ‘huh? You could have fooled us!’  It’s not without cause.  No matter how well his fights go, ONE always makes sure that we can append an asterix to it, that we can go yeah, but*

Right from the get go, every victory is downplayed. He thrashed Armored Gorilla, but we had no idea how strong Armored Gorilla was. Not for many, many chapters, until a much-shrunken, unarmored Armored Gorilla killed a tiger-level monster with one punch.   He clears a city and defeats two troublesome demon-level monsters in a matter of minutes? Yeah, but look at the state of his arms and oh! see, see, he just got flattened by that other monster!  Bang needs to save Garou from his clutches?  Yeah, but what if Garou was well?  He’s turning monster after monster into Cubist expressions without getting a speck of blood on him? Yeah, but it’s not like we can see what’s going on – the camera pans everywhere else.  He does the unbelievable against Elder Centipede?  We start going wow, followed quickly by – yeah but the monster regenerated, he’s fated to always lose.  He destroys G-5 without effort?  Oh My GAWD!  The Honour of Atomic Samurai [1] Has Been Besmirched!  (me: huh how does that follow? No, don’t explain – I do understand. Because Genos is seen as weak, if he does what another character couldn’t, then it’s seen as a disgrace to the other character, not an achievement for him.)

battle without honour – if he beat Garou, then he’s a bully, if he didn’t, then he’s a wimp

Of course, the converse is also true. If Genos is having a bad time, the camera lingers in 4K with extra slow-mo. And if the action switches, like when he went from struggling against G-4 to working out how to shut the robot’s lasers down and pull it into punching range, the camera pans away, returning only to feast on the grisly aftermath.

The final clincher is Genos himself, who never reacts with the slightest sense of celebration or triumph no matter how well a fight goes.  His lack of joy in fights is something that ONE has emphasised to Murata.   Being able to celebrate with characters is half the joy of watching them fight.

by contrast, hell yeah, Metal Bat! The story leaves no room for doubt that Metal Bat’s to be found awesome. And he is!  :)

The reason I go into all this is that I get it: Genos is presented to us in a way that gives us cause to doubt his strength.  In that, he’s like the opposite of Saitama, who is presented to us so we can have no doubt as to his strength, but to the internal audience in a way that keeps raising doubts in their minds.

But Genos is strong. He’s physically very strong, very fast, and versatile.  And he’s far less fragile than he is popularly made out to be. There is no reason he shouldn’t be able to take on very strong monsters, subject to match up (like almost every other hero [2]). However, ONE will make damn sure that Genos does not get to appreciate how much more powerful he has grown. What’s it going to be? What’s it going to take this time to knock down Demon Cyborg? Are several cadre going to attack him at the same time? Or will the super-insane monster that looks like the lovechild of Smaug, better-looking Sauruman and a hydra perched at the top of the mile high tower do him in first?  What’s going to *keep* him down? Place your bets, folk: the outcome is sure to be gruesome.

Which actually brings me directly to addressing your assertion: “…but he won’t stand a chance against strong monsters.“  Because it presupposes that Genos MUST be weak, any monster he defeats can’t possibly be strong.  A more honest rephrasing would be ‘I’m not prepared to accept that any monster that Genos could defeat is strong.’

No mental growth? Really?

That’s the physical part.  Let’s go onto mentality.  Annoyingly, I have to treat the manga and webcomic as separate entities at this point.  If you like the detail, I’ve written an extensive side-by-side comparison essay: link. You can skip it for this answer. :)

You know what would have made me think Genos weak?  If Saitama’s fears for what might be happening to him the morning he caught up with Garou had come true:

Before Elder Centipede showed up, Genos had told Garou that he’d finally begun to understand what Saitama had been saying to him about strengthening his spirit.  And then ONE put that to the test when he put Genos in the worst pinch the latter had ever been in: chopped in half and about to be devoured by a monster, with the only heroes watching those who’d proved impotent [3] to do anything to the monster.  Instead of giving up the way he had against Mosquito Girl, Genos dug deep and not only saved himself, but counter-attacked and burned the monster from stem to stern.  That is excellent: there is no place for a character who cannot find self-efficacy in a pinch.  

Without doubt, Genos has further to go, but in the manga it is wilful blindness to claim that he hasn’t developed mentally.

Now, let’s move onto the webcomic.

Even though ONE has done far less with his character in the webcomic than he has in the manga, Genos is back and fighting when most of his classmates are still rolling on the ground, unable to come to terms with losing. There is a real strength to getting up again and moving forward. 

It’s not that Genos doesn’t have any doubts: he does.  From his crushing realisation that he had made a mistake in giving up his human body to asking if he can really become stronger by changing his parts, Genos is very aware of a sense of stagnation and appears very worried by something.  But still, he’s not giving up and he’s not stopped looking to make progress.

even as Saitama despairs of being able to help, he cannot fault Genos for his determination

Still, why cheer for a loser?

There’s a real cognitive dissonance in fans who praise to the high heavens and write as inspirational Saitama’s words to keep trying and moving forward, no matter what, and yet are happy to mock Genos for doing exactly that.

There’s no honour for you if you laugh at characters taking Saitama’s advice

It’s amazing.  Does anyone imagine that before Saitama became too strong, he never failed? Really?  Saitama himself will disagree with that!  Sometimes success looks like reaching the summit of a mountain, but often, it’s only visible in the rearview mirror.  We saw it took Saitama a long time to finally accept that yup, he was just the strongest.

Something I came to realise a while back, people say they love seeing struggle, but real fights don’t sell well in mass media (yes, I have more extensive thoughts on this, here). We like the struggle, but we want the assurance that the underdog has something in their favour that will guarantee that we’re backing a winner.  At one level, we know we’re just watching *how* Garou is going to succeed… at least until Saitama body-checks him to great dramatic effect.

Goodness knows that everything is arranged against Genos and success. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble recounting most of them:

His lack of a biological body to train up.

His dependence on a mechanical body with its set in stone limitations.

His dependence on the cleverness and resources of others.

His lack of innate talent or heritage (and if he had any, they’ve long since been binned).

His stubborn persistence on a pathway we’re sure cannot possibly succeed.

His mentality, which is getting better, but isn’t there yet.

His persistent psychological problems that put him at high risk of turning into a monster instead.

The unresolved mysteries surrounding him, which make lots of fans think there’s a devastating revelation at hand from which he cannot recover.

And oh, he’s not the most likeable or relatable character out there. It shouldn’t be a factor, but it totally is.

And yet, Genos hasn’t stopped moving forward.  No idea how far he’ll get, but so far, Genos has not set himself a limit to the number of times he’s willing to get himself up and try again.  Not only that, he’s raised his sights higher, not lower.

For that and more, I’m not only happy to call Genos strong, but I’m willing to follow along with him however far or short his journey ends up being.

The risk of heartbreak is worth the excitement of seeing a real fighter working out his uncertain destiny.

no one can accuse him of lacking ambition. Gambatte!

Asides

[1] I know there’s a meme going round about Atomic Samurai being weak, but it’s as much in jest as the one about King being strong.  Anyone believing Atomic weak has piss-holes for eyes.

[2] There’s a reason Phoenixman highlights four heroes in particular – Blast, Tatsumaki, Metal Knight and King (Saitama).  They’re the heroes who are so strong that they’ve broken out of the tyranny of match up.  Everyone else has something they can’t deal with.

[3] You’re calling two old men impotent? Have you no shame?! In general, no, I haven’t much shame.  In this specific instance, it is entirely warranted.

[secret-engima]

Snippet of There is No “Us” in Number One Chap 4

(A wild AU drama has appeared! Also, tagging @wolfsrainrules @north-peach @suolainensilakka cause this might interest ya’ll)

     “So what you’re saying is-” Toshinori stopped mid-sentence, head tilting to listen to something else.

     Naomasa stiffened subtly at Toshinori’s freeze, eyes drinking in their surroundings for a threat, “What’s wrong, Toshi?”

     A shriek and an explosion echoed several blocks down, followed by loud, angry yelling. Toshinori felt his shoulders relax in an exasperated sigh even as Naomasa’s hand went for the gun hidden under his shirt, “Villains-!”

     Toshinori shook his head and placed a bony hand on his friend’s to keep him calm, “No. It’s fine. I know who that is. Come on, I should probably break it up before the neighbors start complaining again.” He took off for the sounds at a light jog, Naomasa following behind and radiating incredulous disbelief.

     More explosions sounded along with more cursing and a feral shriek that Toshinori knew from experience was a challenge. Naomasa felt like a tight wire at Toshinori’s back, no doubt imagining the worst, but any comment he might have made over Toshinori’s lack of alarm faded when he saw that everyone else in the area was the same way. The pedestrians were all calm, having relaxed as soon as they heard the animal shriek, and several were even rolling their eyes. An older man complained as Toshinori passed, “You still haven’t taught those boys of yours to be quieter? I swear it’s like living next to a warzone whenever those two get going.”

     Naomasa gave a high pitched, strangled noise at the man’s remark of “your boys”, but Toshinori just laughed apologetically and murmured, “I know, Abe-san, I’m working on it.” Abe-san sniffed officiously but if he intended to make another comment, Toshinori was already too far away to hear it.

     The sound of explosions, yelling, and draconic roars led Toshinori in the direction of the neighborhood park and he allowed himself another sigh. He had a feeling he knew exactly what was going on. He’d had two years to learn the routine around here after all. Naomasa still seemed to be having trouble processing the events though, as he broke his tight silence to demand, “You have children, Toshi? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

     Toshinori managed to suppress the bloody cough that tried to rise at his friend’s accusing tone, “Um, I have? I mean, they aren’t actually my boys it’s just everyone calls them that because they’ve taken a liking to me, and Izuku doesn’t actually have a father figure in his life but really-!”

     Something like understanding and disbelief crossed Naomasa’s face, “Wait, those two boys you’re always bragging about? The ones who want to make the other kid the Number One hero? The ones you’d keep pictures of in your wallet if you weren’t terrified it would somehow put them in danger? They’re at the source of those explosions?”

     Toshinori felt heat bloom all over his face. It wasn’t his fault he bragged —a little— over the boys. They just had so much potential and heart, it was enough to make him cry sometimes. Izuku’s depthless kindness and truly genius mind for strategy. His courage and warmth despite having a quirk that came with a plethora of complications and disabilities. His passion for helping people that seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing. 

     Then there was Katsuki, with raw talent practically coming out of his ears, a protective streak as wide as China and a level of humility that bordered on an inferiority complex when it came to just how much good he did for the community. A boy with the natural disposition of a rabid porcupine who was trying so hard to better himself, even when it went against every instinct he had. Who had come so far but still held himself to some kind of invisible standard that made him fight and push and struggle to reach even higher.

     They were unquestionably the most heroic kids of their generation Toshinori had ever met. To the point where he had even begun to consider- Well. Passing the torch. He was just having a terrible time picking which one to pass it to…

     Okay yes, maybe he did brag about them too much to the few people he trusted, but he could hardly be blamed for it.

     Naomasa was still waiting for a response, so Toshinori swallowed his embarrassment and answered, “Yes. That would be them.”

     Another explosion echoed over the neighborhood and Naomasa gave him a look like Toshinori was insane, “And we aren’t running to help them … why? They could be in serious trouble!”

     Toshinori followed the sound off the paved park trails and into the deeper parts where the trees almost looked wild, “Because unfortunately, they are the trouble.” They had probably either gotten too intense in their sparring or had gotten into another fight with a pack of hoodlums who thought they could move in and bully the other kids in the area. Or, considering the explosion size, a single adult who thought he could sell them illegal drugs. Both boys got very angry when drugs were involved —even Izuku, who was usually the voice of calm reason— and while their fights were technically vigilantism, they’d never been arrested because they always had an excuse for why the fight was not their fault. 

     The usual excuse was for Katsuki to downplay his short fused temper while Izuku spun a sob story about how the other side had started it and it was just overenthusiastic self-defense. Since youth suicide and drug rates had been at a record low in the area ever since the two started having “self-defense encounters”, the local police had quietly turned a blind eye as thanks.

     The part of him that was All Might very much disapproved of it —they were just boys, the police shouldn’t rely on them to keep the peace like that—. The part of him that was Toshinori was just … so proud that they stood up for their neighborhood and so terrified they’d hurt themselves without proper training. He’d ended up making a compromise between his two halves by laying down ground rules for engagements —they couldn’t start the fights, they had to stay as non-violent as possible, they couldn’t hospitalize their opponents, and if they saw an actual villain they had to call it in instead of fight on their own— and then training them in self-defense by giving them “tips” he’d “picked up from being a Pro Hero’s secretary for so many years”.

     Naomasa opened his mouth to ask another question when an explosion ripped the air with enough force to bend trees. A fireball was visible in the near distance —he could feel the heat of it— and Toshinori caught a glimpse of a black figure winging out of the sky with a high scream that sent all his neck hairs on end.

     That was not normal. That wasn’t even Katsuki’s version of overkill when he lost his temper. That explosion had been made to do as much damage as possible and Izuku’s scream had been a call for help.

     Something was very, very wrong.

     Toshinori rounded the bend at a dead run. The Pro Hero part of his brain slammed to the forefront, cataloguing the situation —armed confrontation, five high-school age teens with bats and pipes down and out from minor explosions and controlled dragon-induced blunt trauma— and searching for Katsuki and Izuku.

     Katsuki was up against a half-broken tree, red eyes intense as he struggled upright. One of his wrists was at a bad angle and the smoke curling from the palm told Toshinori that he’d injured it making that last explosion. His forehead was bleeding —possible concussion, he’d have to check later—, his shirt was gone, and there was a nasty collection of bruises forming on his left arm and side.

     Izuku was crouched in front of Katsuki, wings flared protectively and blood dripping from a collection of shallow gashes on his side. His pupils were nothing but paper-thin slits, back arched like a cornered cat and his lips were peeled back to reveal sharp, bloodied teeth. The blue light of a fireball danced in the back of Izuku’s throat and his eyes had a maniac, wild gleam Toshinori had never seen in them before, like he was less a thirteen year old boy and more a rabid animal.

     Across from the boys was a teen with spiked metal plating covering every inch of his body save for a part of his arm where the metal appeared to have been bitten through. Blood dripped from some of the spikes on his hands and he was laughing at them with a mouth so wide Toshinori had no trouble seeing the black tongue within. Sh*t! Naomasa leveled his pistol at the metal spiked aggressor, “You! Down on the ground! Now!” At the sound of Naomasa’s voice both boys glanced frantically over at the two of them and Toshinori cursed as he realized that he couldn’t transform now —should’ve transformed earlier stupid, stupid—.

     But the drugged up teen didn’t seem to even be aware of their presence, just screamed something at Katsuki and Izuku —something about respecting betters and killing them for this— and lunged. Izuku reared up to meet the assault, blue plasma slamming against the oncoming metal chest of his attacker without effect. Toshinori saw the sharp hand spikes —already dripping blood, already proven capable of piercing Izuku’s hard scales— plunge for Izuku’s exposed chest and Katsuki lunge to try to pull his friend away and take the blow for himself somehow and-.

     A controlled —just enough not to kill, if only barely— Texas Smash sent the drug-using teen flying through several trees before he hit the ground and slid with enough force to form a trough in the dirt before stopping. All Might stood before the boys —Toshinori’s boys, his boys, that he had spent two years coming to love with all his heart for their determination and courage despite their secretly broken parts— and couldn’t find it in himself to smile. “Take a piece of advice. Stay down and give yourself up to the law.” His voice boomed over the suddenly quiet area, deep and dangerous.

     The black-tongued teen struggled to sit up, slurring angry nonsense the entire way and All Might brought his fist down on the teen’s head —lightly, couldn’t break the teen’s skull no matter how angry he was—, knocking him out cold. Naomasa was across the clearing in a heartbeat, one hand holding his phone to call in backup while the other pulled out the handcuffs he carried even off duty —both of them knew that All Might’s presence attracted trouble in either form—.

     Silence reigned heavy and angry in the area before it was broken by a shaky, slightly electronic, “Toshinori … san?” All Might startled and looked over his shoulder at the question, having forgotten for a moment that the boys were still there, still watching. Gleaming blue eyes locked first with wide, catlike green, then with worryingly blank blood red and All Might knew that nothing would ever be the same.

[piipedreams]

47 + Sharon plus anyone! Your choice!

(it’s shillam again bc i’m weak n i love them. pls send all ur love to @artificialmeggie for checking through this for me too pls. also i’m on mobile bc i’m on holiday so sorry if this is horribly formatted)

for the prompt: “no one needs to know”

“FUCK!” Sharon exclaims, lashing blindly at her altar before storming to the other side of the room, her enraged stomps drowning out the sound of things tumbling over. She thinks about giving up entirely and throwing herself into the hammock Aquaria had insisted on erecting only to never use, but the combination of her current lack of luck and her lack of faith in her daughter’s carpentry skills convince her otherwise. Thus, she resigns herself to lying face-down on the wooden floor, booting the ground with the toe of her scuffed Dr Martens just for good measure.

“And you wonder where I get my dramatic streak from…” drawls an all-too-familiar and all-too-frustrating voice. Sharon’s daughter Aquaria is perched like a princess upon Sharon’s king-size bed, lounging back against a plethora of throw pillows and lazily waving a hand in the air supposedly to dry her nails. Sharon loves the little nightmare, she really does, but she’s not in the mood, knows that she’ll snap if she opens her mouth to respond and doesn’t want to put that on her. Luckily, Aquaria knows her all too well, not even giving her a chance to retaliate.

“Oh, and be careful with the altar. If you kick a candle over and set the place on fire I’m not taking the blame like I did when you burnt dinner last year. We’re both too old for that now, it’d be embarrassing.”

Aquaria is ten.

Sharon still doesn’t dignify her words with a coherent response, letting out a long, low groan just to remind her daughter of her current suffering and torment. She hears the sound almost immediately echoed from the bed, is unsure whether she’s being mocked or watching her daughter become herself and is unable to discern which option she’d hate more.

Lifting her head, she watches Aquaria flounce off the bed and flick her long, blonde hair over her shoulder with purpose, tiny heels clacking as she makes her way across the room, pausing to reassemble Sharon’s altar with what Sharon just knows is a hidden eye-roll. The little brat.

“Fine,” she announces in a sharp, impatient tone, as though Sharon had just made a decision or request she wasn’t aware of. As well as her flair for the dramatics, it seemed the kid had also inherited Sharon’s general distaste and impatience regarding other people. She was so proud. “If you’re not gonna talk to me, I’ll go and fetch somebody else for you to rant to.” And with those words she struts out of the room, her little wedge heels clicking against the wooden floors and her hair bouncing behind her, completely ignorant as Sharon calls out half-arsed protestations in an attempt to change her mind, get her to stay instead.

“Well don’t you look fucking pathetic?”

“No. Not you.” The smugness of the voice she hears, clearly revelling in the sight of Sharon, collapsed and defeated at her feet, kills any trust she had in her daughter. Because she could not have made a worse call than fucking Willam if she was really trying to provide her with any modicum of emotional support. When people told her having a kid would be the catalyst of her long impending breakdown, she’d never imagined this would be how. The little traitor.

The sound of stilettos, almost definitely red bottoms, grows louder and a pang of dread blossoms in her heart as she hears the woman approach, flippant and sarcastic in all the worst ways as she exclaims “Wow, okay. I thought we were friends!”

Sharon doesn’t have fucking time for her and her dumb games. “You thought wrong.”

Apparently Willam doesn’t have time for her either though, because her snickering suddenly stops, toes digging under Sharon’s side and then lifting as though trying to push her up, obviously to no avail.

“Get up.”

Sharon tries to ignore the way such a demand makes her jaw clench and muscles tighten somewhat.

“No,” she groans in response, long and whiny, determined to be as difficult for Willam as possible, to wield all her brattish and stubborn parts like a weapon and prolong the experience as much as she possibly can. It’s probably petty, definitely antagonistic, but she’s still frustrated and maybe Aquaria is smarter than she’d thought because she’d provided her mother with the greatest outlet - someone to wind up.

She relishes in the aggravated sigh she gets in return. “Get off the fucking floor and into that fucking hammock.”

The bite of the demand, the scratchy growl underlying in Willam’s voice as she speaks so plainly and apathetically, as though Sharon is nothing more than a mild inconvenience that won’t behave does something to Sharon. It’s the indifference of her voice, the way it essentially yells that she knows exactly what to do with Sharon, how to deal with her and why and that she has no doubt she’ll execute this control flawlessly causes a stir inside the woman, her teeth grinding ever so slightly and an involuntary shiver wracking her which seems to be the final straw.

Willam stamps her glitter Louboutins against the ground with enough force to snap the flimsy kitten heels in half, centimetres from Sharon’s head, her ankle brushing the outermost wisps of her hair in the movement and Sharon tries to ignore her body once again, biting back a whimper she knows would be pathetically high and embarrassingly needy as heat pools in her stomach. She mutters a resolute “fuck!” all hard vowels and spiked fricatives, finding comfort in the knowledge that Willam is just enough of a dumb blonde not to understand the true target of her exclamation.

Body protesting, she hauls herself to her feet and plods obediently over to the mesh hammock that hangs low in the corner of the room. Despite her best efforts, she has to admit that perhaps Willam did have a somewhat decent idea, collapsing into the fabric after feeling the pull of temptation deep in her stomach and letting out a small, audible groan at the way her body is so graciously welcomed. Her muscles relax, the brain fog and electric anger causing her current storm-like state beginning to ebb away as she closes her eyes, lies back and just breathes, deep, heavy, slow, and full, like she has all the time and all the oxygen in the world to enjoy. For just a moment, she forgets her not-quite-friend is even there, losing herself in the onslaught of sensations and sinking into her own, private, relaxed little haven of a world. Hell, for a moment she almost considers thanking Willam, a notion that leaves her head almost as immediately as it crosses it, the thought broken apart entirely by the interruption of none other than the woman of the hour herself.

“Cute.” In spite of their differences, Sharon has always found great pride in being the only one smart enough to be able to decipher Willam’s different tones and meanings, always picking up on a fake comment, sarcasm and every tiny emotion bitten back behind polite, uncharacteristic words. But when she says that one, tiny little word, Sharon is lost completely, unable to recognise whether it’s her own intrusive and self-absorbed thoughts causing her to detect a chink in Willam’s armour of sarcasm, some modicum of genuine emotion and belief behind the comment. Once again, however, she reminds herself that this is not the time nor place and pushes every thought stemming from it to be suffocated in a dark, faraway corner in her mind. She traps every branch within the area and blocks it up, pressing a label onto the jar of thoughts declaring it for a rainy day. She starts to miss her pre-Willam irritation as the woman clears her throat and continues. “...Anyway. Budge over.”

Still on autopilot, her body made of clay that moulds itself to Willam’s words, she finds herself obliging before she’s even really processed the words or what they imply, body shuffling closer to the window. With just a half-second of hesitation, Willam gracelessly kicks off her heels and plops herself right next to Sharon, a little off-centre so the hammock swings slightly as her shoulder collides with Sharon’s chest, grappling helplessly for an anchor to the rocking fabric and finding it, unfortunately, in Sharon’s t-shirt, her fingers clinging so tightly to the neckline that the tips dig into the soft flesh of her tits. A small part of Sharon - a wayward thought that had just about escaped the rainy day trap - secretly hopes that Willam has pressed hard enough to leave little marks in her skin, a visual reminder of her touch, the collision of her body with Sharon’s.

As the choppy movements of the hammock slow and eventually still, Willam begins to maneuver herself into a more comfortable position, rolling onto her front and overlapping the leg closest to her with her own. Her grip on Sharon’s top remains tight, her body seemingly trying to accommodate that one point of contact in the most convenient and comfortable way, resting her head atop and then above Sharon’s shoulder when the former doesn’t work out, face tilted towards her so that her breath bats softly against Sharon’s cheek and the slight bulge of her small chest pressed against Sharon’s left arm, rendering it dead and absolutely useless. Not that Sharon minds. Not that Sharon’s not going to pretend she does mind.

“Uh…. Will?” she asks cautiously, humiliated by the way her voice cracks ever so slightly, how overall delicate and gentle it sounds. Willam bumps against her in acknowledgement. Every part of her body that has the luxury of feeling Willam’s burns, the originally warm feeling growing more scalding and deadly the more she thinks about and accepts it. So she tries to amp it up a bit, this time almost obnoxiously loud and abrupt as she asks, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Cuddling you.” She halts for a moment as though that’s it, a horrendously obvious and yet cryptic answer, smirking at Sharon’s disapproving frown. Apparently, the expression was yet another step too far, and the stirring in her stomach starts up once again, this time the heat a result of a chemical reaction as lust and fear mingle together in the most addictive of ways as Willam’s face hardens, eyes stony and cold, her whole demeanour, despite being wrapped around Sharon, clearly indicating her aggravation. When she speaks, it’s snappy and abrupt again, the Willam that Sharon knows and therefore knows how to deal with - a no-nonsense bitch with a heart layered with stone and gold that knows exactly what she’s doing and why, and that it’s not really any of your business, thank you very much.

“Fine!” she snaps, eyes rolling so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t do herself permanent damage. “I tried to be nice about it!” Sharon isn’t sure whether to believe that, the push and pull between them being so off and inconsistent all day that she’s actually never felt more on edge around Willam yet somehow never felt more comfortable around her either. She’s not so sure how nice that really is. “Like it or not, you’re a repressed little dyke who’s throwing her toys out her pram like a fucking toddler because she needs a hug and she’s touch starved by other woman. I’m trying to deliver.”

This time, the heat that had been pooling in her stomach doesn’t burn her or frighten her, instead spreading through her body as an almighty warmth, accomplices to the warm arms that wrap around her as Willam finishes speaking. It’s horrifyingly difficult not to react, as always with Willam, for an entirely different reason. Because Sharon has always prided herself on understanding Willam and the emotions and messages underlying in her words, and this one is clear as day - Willam cares. She notices, knows Sharon even if neither of them like the thought of that, and cares enough to want to help even when she knows she’s going to get nothing good out of it️. Sharon had wondered why of all people Aquaria had approached Willam, but the painstaking tenderness of her words and her touch leaves her wondering whether Aquaria even asked her at all, a thought far too exhilarating for her to continue thinking. Nevertheless, she makes a mental note to thank her daughter when she eventually returns, considering that maybe the new sewing machine she’d been begging for isn’t too expensive after all. Her head spins as she bites back a grin, trying to return to her permanently antagonistic state and diffuse the tension between them so thick, palpable and tangible it feels like a weapon.

“This is still too weird.” Her tone is so unconvincing, so wobbly and quiet and indirect she doesn’t even believe herself. Willam snickers.

“Well suck it up, bitch, I’m not here to ruin your image! No one needs to know Emo Goddess 666 needs a good hug sometimes.” She shuffles closer, every bitchy and humorous facade long gone from her expression. The thought of such vulnerability and trust between them threatens to swallow Sharon whole. Willam winks, nosing at Sharon’s chin as the arm clutching Sharon’s shirt finally releases the garment and rests lazily over the woman’s waist, a warm, protective anchor against all the shit she’s thought all day, week, year. “Or that she gets them.”

This time Sharon hums, too content and heavy-lidded to try and muster up a response. In another universe, she corrects Willam, reminds her that she’s goth, not emo, biting her lip and squeezing her thighs together as Willam tells her to shut the fuck up before she makes her. In this universe, however, Willam accepts the hum as a sign of Sharon’s begrudging complacency and trust, the sparks of hope that signify a new beginning almost visible were it not for how deeply she’d buried her face into the crook of Sharon’s neck at this point, the two of them entangled as though they belong this way. And maybe they do, so Willam pushes her luck, it seems.

“Hey, how about a kiss too?”

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #207

“it’s late, and you’re still staring at the light; to call it an addiction’s impolite.”

Nevermind what gender you ARE, what gender do you WANT to be? Happy being a girl. Do you ever feel ashamed revealing your age? When it's to people who are aware of how behind I am in the adult world in any context, yes. Very. If they know nothing about me, then I don't care. Are you confident enough to reveal your height and weight? Height, I don't care. Weight, fuck no. What do your parents call you? Both usually say "Britt," but Dad's more likely to use terms of endearment like "sweetie" and such. Well, Mom does use "hunny" a lot too. How old were you when you first got to go on the computer? Idr. About the "normal" age for little kids that played Neopets, probably. Would you say you’re an emotional person? Way too emotional. What’s a color that suits you the best? Black. And a color you just can’t pull off/don’t want to? Probably most... I wouldn't know, almost every single thing I wear is black. I have literally one light purple shirt, and I think that's the only non-black shirt I own. Describe yourself when you were 6 years old? Very talkative, extremely imaginative, outgoing, I was definitely weird, tomboyish, very happy... Man, I miss being that kid sometimes. A type of personality you just can't stand? The older and older I get, the more I cannot STAND a closed mind. I like people who accept they're far from always right, and sometimes, your "right" isn't such for someone else, and that is fine. You don't have to see the same way to still get along perfectly (though of course, there's no need to respect an opinion that spits upon, invalidates, or is just plain hateful towards another person/group). Like just as an example 'cuz I feel like I explained that poorly; I'm really not into the idea of polygamy at all, but I'm not against it for people it works with. You do you. Your appearance in one word would be? "Abilify." :^) City type of person or country? I like the live in a more country-ish area, but I found through Chicago I LOVE /visiting/ cities. What’s something you’re obsessed about right now? When am I not obsessed with Mark, meerkats, Silent Hill, opossums (a newer addition), WoW, etc. etc.? My whole life runs on obsessing over something, fren. Your reaction if someone told you you look 10 years older than your age? ZOINKS that would suck ass. Do you really badly want anything right now? For the past couple weeks, I've become more and more antsy to get up to Sara's again. When I land a job, fancyin' up my tattoo just because as I've said again and again it is SO important to me and must be perfect, then I'm saving up to go back up there. What’s something that makes you really stressed out? With all this job searching and such going on, it's like all I can think about, so why not mention what fucked me up at my previous ones: Putting me in a position of responsibility and expected knowledge. Ex., when I was a sales associate and was asked "Oh, do you have this?"/"Where is this?", it was CONSTANT PANIC MODE because I never knew and had to ask somebody, when I was expected to be a knowledgeable employee to the customer, and then comes the horror of feeling like I'm inconveniencing and annoying them. Have any particular standard look you look for in a significant other? I don't have a "standard look," no, but I am more likely to be drawn to a gothic appearance. But I don't actively search for someone that meets that criteria or anything. Do you listen to Wiz Khalifa? No. What are your opinions on marijuana legalization? Please legalize medicinal use already. Recreationally, idk. Do you date outside your own race? I'd have no reservations against it. I dated a Hispanic... less than a day, but still, you get the point that I don't have a problem with it. What are some of your turn-offs? SEXIST/MISOGYNISTIC, too old-fashioned, racist and/or homophobic, raunchy, arrogant/self-centered, lack of sincere interest and enthusiasm in conversation, poor hygiene, I'm gonna get SHIT ON for saying "too slutty," not taking dating seriously... that kinda stuff. I'm so picky. Are you gay, straight, bi, or trans? Bisexual. Are you vegetarian? If not, would you ever consider becoming one? I'm not now, but I hope to return to it after I get to my goal weight... In my few months of vegetarianism, it was proven that my immense pickiness with food was making the diet unhealthy for me, as I was strongly lacking in certain vitamins and such. I'm going to have to somehow overcome that if I want to return to it, which I REALLY do want to do the more and more I get into animal welfare and care. Are you in love? Yes. Are you more of a pessimist or an optimist? Pessimist, I think, out of the two. But I like to see myself as a realist. How much money is in your wallet? Literally just $11 lmao. What’s your favorite sex position? Only experienced in these with a man, so answering with that in mind. I like sitting on his lap, facing him, with my legs around his back. What do you ultimately wish for in life? Happiness and peace. Have you ever been pregnant? No. What do you think about tipping at restaurants? Tip your goddamn waiter/waitress, assholes. I do believe in tipping based on the quality of service, BUT at least give them SOMETHING for working. Do you have your driver’s license? No jkajdsklfaj;wer. I haaaave to practice more. Whenever I'm in the car, I always strongly prefer to listen to my music, controlling it from the passenger's seat, and at least right now, I can't drive with loud music, barely any at all really, so I have a hard time giving up blaring my music while Mom drives lmao. Have you ever passed out from drinking? No. What’s your favorite carnival food? Idk, I don't go nearly enough. Who did you last kiss? Romantically, Sara. Platonically, either my niece or nephew when leaving. Have you seen the final Harry Potter movie? I haven't even see one. Ever been called a slut? No. Would you ever have sex with someone not of your preferred sex? I'm bisexual so like- Would you ever get back together with any of your exes? No. Do you take any meds on a daily basis? Yep. What did you do today? Watched LPs as always; did some job searching; played WoW, way shorter than usual though; took a nap; made a new icon; took a shower; listened to music; did some social media scrolling. The usual stuff. What do you wear to bed at home? A tank top and pj pants. What do you wear to bed when you're somewhere else? The same, but with a bra. Is there a place you keep any prized/secret things whilst you’re away? No. Do you have any phobias? What? Why do you think you have this/them? I'll just talk about the unordinary ones, 'cuz I have a lot. The ones I'd consider "weird" are vomiting, whale sharks, and pregnancy. Vomiting is because it's just incredibly unpleasant, but also because I know what goes down is not supposed to come back up. Like no one likes puking, no shit, but I'm legit afraid of it and lock up on what to do when I feel it coming, like I don't know what to do. Whale sharks... ahaha. It literally came from World of Warcraft. The design of their mouths is fucking horrifying, and I hate hate hate how they sometimes phase in-and-out of the Vashj'ir map so just like pOP UP. NAH, SON. It's just their damn mouths, even though I know their esophagus is far too small to swallow a human. As for pregnancy, just... ew. I'm afraid of parasites, and it's a parasitic relationship. Something should NOT be growing inside of you. What skill do you possess that you are most proud of? I'm very compassionate, especially when it comes to others enduring emotional struggles. I really feel for hurting people. What is your greatest strength (e.g. honest, loyal, brave)? I have strong morals and stick to them. I'll always stand up for what I feel is right. What’s your greatest shortcoming or flaw (e.g. cowardly, alcoholic)? Ah jeez, there's a lot... but probably my anxiety. It's held me back and manipulated my actions since middle school. I struggle not followings its rules, but I'm sure trying. Who do you most admire? Mark, my mom, Sara, Sara's dad, Steve Irwin... man, there's too many great people. Who do you most love? Sara, my mom, and my pets, Teddy especially. What three things do you look for most in a partner? EXPRESSING OF THEIR EMOTIONS/TRULY FEELING!!!!!!!!, compassion, and a cool head. If you could ask God (to atheists - IF there was one) one question, what? Hm. Good question... There's a lot, but mostly little wonders; I feel like I have a decent understanding of the god I personally see, so don't have any magnificent questions. Perhaps regarding why they created our world. That'd be interesting. Rate yourself on these traits from 0 to 10: 0 - do not possess this trait. 10 - you have great amounts of this trait. Calm temper: 7. Charm: *big shrug* Cheerfulness: 3-4. Confidence: 0-3. Courtesy: 8-10. Curiosity: 6-10. Forgiveness: 9-10. Generosity: 8-10. Greed: 0-3. Helpfulness: Well, I like to try to help, but I don't feel I'm very successful at that, so idk. Honesty: 5-9, depending on who I'm talking to and what the subject is, I guess. Loyalty: This is very flexible, and I don't feel like I can put a number on it. It depends on how deserving you are of the trait, and yes, you can lose my loyalty in a heartbeat if you give me reason to take it away. Optimism: 0-4. Patience: This can go from a whopping 0 to a 10, lmao. Very dependent on the situation. Self-sacrifice: 8-9. Wit: -10. Briefly describe your family. Kinda broken. Tight bonds scattered between certain people, no bonds with others. What is the worst thing that has ever happened to you? The breakup. I wouldn't wish that night upon Satan himself. How did it affect you? We know. Have you ever had any recurring nightmares or themes in nightmares? Speaking of that... Jason is in most nightmares I remember. The common theme is it's either after the breakup and we have an awkward running in with each other, or it's long before when everything was "perfect." All things considered, I'd call even that a nightmare. Those fuck with me the most. Do you currently have a boyfriend/girlfriend? Yeah. Do you have any close friends? I can count those on maybe two fingers. Of what are you most proud? Letting Jason go. Of what are you most ashamed? I've talked about the Joel situation multiple times. What is your religion? Theist. Where do you stand on abortion? Mostly pro-choice. Where do you stand on the death penalty? Sometimes justifiable and one's deserving end. Felons are lucky enough it's done humanely. Where do you stand on wearing fur? If you're not surviving out in the arctic, fuck you and all you stand for. Could you kill somebody? I'm perfectly aware I could in defense situations. For what reason would you kill somebody? Defending myself or loved ones. Hell, probably even strangers. I'd kill a rapist with zero fucking hesitation, even if they were assaulting someone I'd never seen before. Would you SERIOUSLY CONSIDER killing anybody right now? No. Do you trust easily, or not? NOPE. What, if anything, would you sacrifice your life for? Defending peace, gay rights, or if it was to protect most of those I love. What are your dreams/ambitions/goals? Be a successful photographer, reach financial stability, come to a point where I'm actually proud of what I've done, play a roll in wildlife conservation, be happily married, and just overall be content and satisfied with my life. How do you plan to reach them? Working my goddamn ass off and not taking "no" for an answer (not about the marriage part tho lmao). Do you ever want to have a family someday? With children? No. Who would you want to start this family with, or do you not yet know? I just want a pet family with Sara. What do you see yourself doing next year? Man, I don't have a clue... What do you see yourself doing in twenty years? I don't want to think of that. That's too far ahead. I'll be 43... I've gotta work on too many things now. Would you ever have an affair? I'm very curious as to who would actually answer "yes" to this. Would you ever have a one night stand? No. Lmaoooo actually this is sad as fuck, but I think I've said in a previous survey just knowing myself, if we were both single and clicked, I'd be doomed if it was Markiplier. My morals would sadly go out the window. If you had a month of nothing (no work, no obligations) what would you do? That's literally been the story of my life for years now, especially the past two. And it's torture. Would you ever choose a career or job where your life was at risk? No. Well, actually, I do want to do wildlife photography, and it can be pretty dangerous. Were you present at any major historical events (e.g. 9/11)? No. Do you have any famous relatives? No. Ancestors, yeah, but not close relatives. Are you a loyal member of any organizations? No. What type of criminal would you be? With how forgetful I am, I'm certain I'd be a very clumsy one that gets caught very quickly, lol. What are you listening to right now? "Voices" by Motionless In White. If you had to choose a stripper name, what would it be? Um idk. If your phone started ringing, who would you hope is calling? Someone for a job interview. Do you drink? Rarely and/or for some special occasions. Never enough to get drunk. Do you smoke? No. What is the first thing you notice in someone? I guess posture? How they carry themselves? Do you get attached easily? BOY! DO I!!!!!!!!!!! Do you like your eye color? I wish they were more blue. Would you go bungee jumping/sky diving if given the chance? Definitely not bungee jumping, I know how I react to that kind of up/down movement, and probably not skydiving, either. Have you ever been to a psychiatrist/therapist? Both regularly since middle school. Are looks important in a relationship? Not very. What is your favorite thing to do? Binge a new song I fell in love with for like days lmao. What was the last thing you downloaded onto your computer? PhotoScape. It's easier to move watermarks for photos on there, and I was working on the ones I took a few days back. Do you like to gossip? No, I feel super guilty. What kind of computer do you have? An Acer. Do you know all the words to your national anthem? I think? Have you ever failed a grade? No. Have you ever made the opposite sex cry? Yes. Have you ever had a crush on a teacher? Nah. Have you ever slapped someone in the face? No. Do you own a designer purse? Hell no. Waste of money for a goddamn purse that's just gonna get dirty and scratched. What’s the weirdest rumor you’ve ever heard about yourself? Jason and I magically had a baby over summer vacation when I was very obviously never pregnant. Do you say the "h" in the word “herb”? No, though I did for a super long time 'cuz I had no idea it was wrong. Do you speak any languages besides English? Not fluently. Can you run in high heels? I wouldn't really know, but boy do I doubt it. Do you have to take stairs or an elevator to get to your house? No. What do you usually order at Subway? Ummm I think white bread, ham, American cheese, bacon, jalapenos, banana peppers, and Chipotle sauce. I think that's it. Did an alarm wake you up this morning? No. How long is your mother’s hair? Past her shoulderblades, near the middle of her back. Is there any particular place you’d like to vacation to next? Surprisingly, I'd love to go somewhere tropical, like Hawaii or some shit like that. Somewhere with clear water and unique, beautiful wildlife and nature. What is your beer of choice, if any? Never tried beer, never want to. The smell is bad enough. That and I associate it with when Dad was an alcoholic. Did you share a bed with anyone last night? No. Well, other than with my cat. Do you know anyone who volunteers regularly? Yes. Have you ever ruined a nice pair of shoes, and how? Maybe, playing in puddles or biking through them and mud as a kid or something. Who were the last friends you went to hang out with? Sara. How many chairs are in the room you’re currently in? None. Have you texted a relative in the past week? Not besides immediate family. Are you doing anything important today? No. If I were to bring you any type of food right now, what would you pick? If I was actually hungry, I have been craving hotdogs on the grill like CRAZY lately. No clue why. When did you move into the house you’re currently living in? April-ish 2017. Do you ever sleep with the light on? No, I can't. Do you pray to Jesus? 20+ years of that did nothing. No. What was the last thing you ordered at Starbucks? N/A Do you have a bonfire pit in your yard? No. Would you consider being homeless if it meant you could travel the world? I don't know; there's lots of factors to consider. Would I be willing to leave my pets (but Teddy, probably; I'd want him with me) with my mom? Would I have something like a camper? Where am I getting this money to travel and provide for myself? Do you know your next-door neighbor? Mom knows one, but I personally don't. What’s something you have never done? Lots of things? As an example, uhhh... I've never done a cartwheel, despite childhood efforts? Name someone you know who is a true risk-taker, adventurer, and free spirit. Do you admire that person? Idk. Do you wish you were more of a free spirit? I think I already am, but it'd be cool to be more of one. Are you allergic to any medications? No. How do you feel when someone says something you’ve experienced doesn’t exist? Tell me depression isn't real, my PTSD isn't genuine, I can "get over" my anxiety if I want to hard enough, stuff like that, and I will not fucking associate with you. These are things that have massively affected my life; I dare someone to tell me these experiences aren't real issues. What worldview do you have? A realistic one, I think. I'm positive in some areas, negative in others. Hm... I'm probably more pessimistic about the world's future, though. Do you have friends who have different religious beliefs than you? Duh? If applicable, who was the first person you “came out” to? Sara. What’s one thing you’d like to do more? Travel. What was your style in high school? Some emo/metalhead hybrid that wished with all her heart to be capable of affording a goth wardrobe and bitch I still do. What’s one thing you are jealous that other people got to do but you didn’t? Have a healthy teenage experience. Have you ever taken birth control pills continuously? I have for years for my cycle. I had just about debilitating cramps and sometimes periods that lasted over a week. Who is your personality twin? Sara is probably the closest. What’s a common name that you hate? Edward, above all. Not a big fan of William, Robert, or Allen, either. Who do you wish you were best friends with? If you don't count my girlfriend as "best friend," maybeeee... Alon still? Or Baylee. I need to talk more to her, she's awesome. Do you own a camera tripod? Yes. Did you ever believe in mermaids? I don't believe so. …in fairies? I believed in the Tooth Fairy. …in Santa? Yes. Have you ever purchased alcohol? Yes. What is your newest hobby? Hm, I don't think I've found a new one for a long while... What gives your life meaning? I don't know. What motivates you to do what you do? The pursuit of happiness. What was the weather like the last time you went out? Too fucking hot. Do you go for walks often? No, though I really want to around a lake at a local, small park. Problems consist of no way to get there myself, it's WAY too fucking hot with my sweating issue, and my knees just wouldn't have it; I know I couldn't walk the full lap around it. Also expect some art installations around the path and probably the gazebo are PokeStops for Pokemon Go and really wish I could play it, so that's bait to do it lmao. What color shirt are you wearing? Pink. What is your favorite type of YouTube video to watch? It really depends on who I'm watching. Favorite on the face of the planet are Mark's ego projects, then my second fave are probably Shane's conspiracy videos, then I love let's plays. Do you need any new clothes right now? I seriously need more pants. And new bras. Do you collect anything? If so, what? Silent Hill merch and meerkat stuff. ^and if not, what would you like to collect? When I can buy shit myself, ya girl is gonna have way too much Markiplier merch. YouTuber stuff in general, actually. Too shy to ask for that kinda stuff now lol. Have you ever experienced a miracle? I don't think so. What was the last thing you ate? A burger. Do you ever eat food that’s intended for kids? ...? Like, baby food? No. Or maybe you mean shit like Lunchables? In cases like that, sometimes? What was the last stupid thing you did? Oh boy, who knows. Do you get embarrassed easily? You. Have. No. Idea. What are your top three names you like for a daughter? Alessandra, then uhhhh... I like Chloe and Adrian. Would you ever film a vlog of yourself giving birth? Hell no. I'd never wanna see it, I'd never want my hypothetical child to have to witness that, etc. Do you like getting caught in the rain? No. Wet clothes are no. Do you think your hair looks best straight, wavy, or curly? Straight, I guess? Though my hair does swoop to the right, so it's kinda a wave? What was the last craft project you completed? Oh, yeesh. I don't do crafts. The closest thing was I guess Sara's Valentine's Day gift for last year? Name 3 YouTubers you would like to meet in person: Markiplier is literally the only one that matters lmao and it's not "would like to meet in person," he will be forced to endure meeting me ok. Meeting Shane Dawson would be amazing, he's such a relatable sweetie, aaaaand #3 would probably be Rhett and/or Link, as similar to Mark, they deserve a tear-filled thanks as well as back-breaking hugs for seriously helping in keeping me alive through my suicidal year. I mean it when I say they genuinely helped me keep going. What color are your nails painted currently? They’re never painted. Do you use a pill box? No. List 3 people you know who were loving and then turned cold: Jason, Jason, and Jason. Have you ever felt threatened for your life? No. Which did you like better: high school or college? My college experience was horrid. High school had great memories, but of course negative ones, too. Which year of your life stands out to you as the most significant so far? 2017. …and why? It was my year of recovery from the breakup. What was the last store you shopped at? I went to Wal-Mart with Mom. I think that was the most recent, anyway. Do you have a favorite pharmacist? No. Do you have a favorite cashier at the grocery store? No. What’s something you discovered recently? I'm a Billie Eilish fan. What makes you more creative? Music. What’s the last magical thing you experienced? YO okay so when my brother and nephew were here, we went to the science museum and into a 360 VR-esque show about astronauts. I got SO nauseous and dizzy, but it was nevertheless extremely cool. What is the theme of your bedroom? It doesn't have a theme. Have you ever lived in a dorm? No. When was the last time you stepped outside of your comfort zone? Just tonight! I ordered at a drive-thru myself. Would you rather ride a camel or an elephant? An elephant! Do you want to lose weight? You have no fucking idea. Which insects scare you, if any? Lmao most. Especially rhinoceros beetles, big beetles in general honestly, cockroaches, earwigs, centipedes... like a lot okay. I like observing praying mantises, but I would probably have a fucking heart attack if one was on me. Do you think it’s silly to be afraid of a tiny insect? Well, yeah, though I get the likely survival reason, that being we know many are venomous, so we're naturally averse to them, especially if we don't recognize the type. Were you raised religious? Yes. Have you ever been abused? No, thankfully. Is there a coffee shop you like better than Starbucks? N/A If you could afford to get your hair professionally done, what would you get? Man, I have SO many color combination ideas. If I could get it done in the safest manageable way by a pro, I saw this look once with totally bleached/pure white hair that fades to blood-red tips, and BOY would I get that in a heartbeat. If you had a lot of money, do you think you would use it wisely? I hope so. I think so. The only thing I imagine myself being weak with are tattoos. Do you know any rich people who are very irresponsible? I don't think so... List five careers that you’d like to have: Meerkat biologist, paleontologist, artist, poet, something in wildlife conservation/protection. List five far-out things that you’d like to do before you die: Scuba-dive, I'd LIKE to ride a rollercoaster (far-out for me, trust me), but I know I never will, and uh... idk. Riding a motorcycle would be cool, but that's another thing I hiiighly doubt I'll do. What was your first imaginary friend’s name? I never had one. What was the name of the first pet that you loved? Chance, a cat my mom rescued. She was our very first family pet. She was absolutely incredible. Do you like to go barefoot? Unless I'm in a house, no. Do you like the same colors now that you did as a kid? Yeah. Do you have a YouTube channel? Yeah. Is there someone who stopped talking to you for no reason? Oh, who to begin with? Did you ever get called horrible names like whore, skank or bitch? "Bitch" more than once. Where did you sleep last night? My bed. Have you ever slow danced with anyone? With Jason, yeah. And I don't think so, but maybe Sara briefly? Have you ever cried in public? Yeah. What would you do if you were pregnant? I don't have a fucking clue. Do you like cuddling? With someone I love. Have you ever cried in school? Yes, but I think I kept it private. Who’s the last person to send you a message on Facebook? A woman whose wedding I'm shooting this Saturday. Have you ever witnessed someone else engaging in a sexual act? Just making out. Where did you get drunk last? N/A What’s your relationship with the last person you texted? She's my girlfriend. If someone went through your pictures, would they find a dirty one? No. How did you do on the last test you took? I haven't been in school for a long time. How come you’re not going out with the person you love? I am.

[not-so-secret-nerd]

The Weirdo Club

Basically wrote this off my own prompt (Give me stories where the girls come across a gang of kids viciously picking on a wee Holtz and chasing the aggressors off). Just a fast and loose little snippet of our favorite Ghostbusting ladies as kids. Have fun!

“Yeah, you better run, you sons-of-bitches!” eleven-year-old Abby Yates shouted at the retreating backs of three older bullies, one of them pinching the bridge of his broken nose, blood staining his fingers red. She contemplated chucking a rock at them when they mounted their bikes to further drive home her point but figured the good smacking she’d schooled them with had been poignant enough.

Behind their fuming, centurion friend, Erin Gilbert and Patty Tolan ditched their backpacks and rushed over to the motionless form on the ground. From a distance, it looked like a discarded pile of brightly colored clothing accented with a poof of blonde hair that appeared more wig than natural locks. Then the huddled mass jerked sharply against a hard, wet cough, revealing the skinny, spindly body beneath like a turtle coming out of its shell.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” Erin squeaked when she knelt to get a good look at the small blonde girl starting to uncurl from her self-preserving tuck against the chain-link fence. The wee thing must have just regained her bearings because the second her eyes focused on Erin she skittered back with a whimper, eyes huge behind her funny-looking yellow glasses.

“Hey shorty, it’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt yah,” Patty soothed, crouching next to Erin. She showed the little thing her hands so she’d know neither of them were a threat. “They got you pretty good, didn’t they? Anything broken?”

The girl didn’t answer, dragging the sleeve of her obnoxious orange shirt across her face to clear away the tears, mud and blood marring her puffy features. A hard sniff worked a wince free that made Erin’s heart clench. The girl looked no older than maybe nine or ten, but it was hard to accurately gauge around her baggy, ill-fitting clothing and yellow glasses that made her look like an alien, eyes wide and green behind the lenses.

“Christ, those guys were pricks. I hope they—“ Abby pulled up short when she saw the sad state the bullies left their latest victim in, her anger draining away like a Millar balloon left out in the cold. “Oh damn.”

“Can you please stop cursing?” Erin soured, already tense from the altercation. “You’re scaring her more.”

“Sorry,” Abby shrugged, peering over Patty’s shoulder.

“That’s a nasty scrape you go on your forehead,” Patty tisked, trying to draw the girl’s attention away from Abby’s sudden and brusque appearance. Understandably, she was as skittish as an outfoxed rabbit and looked poised to bolt. “Erin, don’t you have a first-aid kit in your backpack?”

Brightening, Erin nodded enthusiastically and jumped up with renewed purpose, but a gravely, “I’m fine,” from the girl stopped her short.

“But—“

“I’m fine,” she reiterated a little more firmly, standing on wobbly legs. Clutching the fence, she stooped with a barely hidden wince for her silver duffel lying next to her, trying and failing to hide the reddening embarrassment crawling into her cheeks. Without looking at the staring trio, she began her slow limp away—hand pressed against a particularly tender bruise— tail proverbially tucked between her legs.

Glancing desperately between Patty and Abby, Erin tried to decide what to do, but Abby beat her to the punch.

“Hi Fine, I’m Abby,” the shortest of the three friends suddenly said, jogging up beside the limping blonde and sticking out her hand as both a greeting and a way to keep her from leaving.

The girl looked down at the offered hand and back up at Abby, brows wrinkling. “Did you just dad-joke me?”

“Uh, yup. Yup, I did. Names Abby Yates, and these are my best friends. Erin Gilbert,” Abby gestured to a shy-looking Erin who offered a little wave, “and Patty Tolan.” Patty nodded with a friendly half-smile, standing to her full height next to Erin. “What’s your name?”

“Why are you being nice to me?” the girl cautioned, not taking the bait but at least lingering long enough to talk.

Abby threw up her shoulders in a sharp shrug. “I don’t know. Seems the thing to do when you meet someone new.”

“No one’s nice to me,” the blonde said off-handedly, casting her gaze down at her threadbare shoes. She’d fixed them this morning, getting the noxious green Duct Tape just right over the holes. Now they were scuffed and dirty. All that work had been for not. It made her heart sink further into her stomach. Couldn't she go two days without the Decker brothers giving her trouble?

“Seems you been hanging out with the wrong type of people,” Patty declared, planting her hands on her hips, giving the girl her best ‘mom look’.

The blonde offered up a wan smile that lacked the ability to reach her eyes. “I only hang out with ghosts. Dead people like me more than the living do.”

She thought the off-color comment would be the final blow and drive these strange vigilantes off, but she was shockingly mistaken. She watched with confused fascination as Abby whipped around to look back at a distinctly startled Erin, the two sharing an unreadable look.

“No shit?” Abby breathed excitedly, turning back to the newcomer. “You really see ghosts? Like distinct spectral entities?”

“If you count the weird old guy that stands under my streetlight every night, then yeah,” the girl shrugged, the motion sending an unforeseen lance of pain through her shoulder. Hunching against the white-hot sensation, she dropped her duffle, hissing through clenched teeth.

“You might have dislocated it,” Erin suggested timidly, craning her neck like she’d be able to see for herself. “I’d see a doctor if I were you.”

“Mom and dad can’t afford one,” the girl husked a reply, doing her best to rub the sore spot. “But like I said, I’m fine.”

“That’s such a weird name, but okay,” Abby teased lightly, stooping to pick up the silver bag between them. The girl must have caught the motion in her periphery because she spun and snatched it back with a shout, clutching it to her chest like it was her only life-preserver. The outburst made everyone freeze.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I wasn’t going to take it, I swear,” Abby reassured, raising her hands once again and stepping back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The blonde remained locked in semi-petrification—eyes a little wild—weighing Abby’s sincerity. Eventually, she loosened with a ragged sigh and a single word pushed past her swollen lips. “Holtzmann.”

“What?” all three asked in unison.

“My name. It’s Holtzmann. Holtz for short.”

“Wicked,” Abby grinned. “Well, Holtz, my gran was a nurse for a couple of years. She could look at your shoulder for you.”

“No,” Holtz shook her head sharply, blonde curls swinging. “I need to get home.”

“We’ll walk you then,” Erin suggested, retrieving her backpack from the ground.

“Why would you do something like that?” Holtz asked, wrinkling her nose as if prolonged exposure to her presence was something unsavory. Then again, ask anyone at her school and they’d tell you you’d catch something from the weird street urchin if you strayed too close. Apparently, they thought poverty was contagious.  

“That’s what friends do, baby,” Patty grinned, getting her backpack too.

“I don’t have any friends.” It wasn’t said in a combative or aggressive tone: instead closer to mystified. Holtz looked between the three girls, one of which had successfully chased off three of her worst bullies singlehandedly, unsure what she should do.

“Well, you do now! Us weirdos need to stick together!” Abby declared, clapping the smaller girl on the back only to belatedly remember she’d just recently been kicked into a self-preserving ball. “Sorry.”

“Ow…” Holtz winced, fighting to uncoil her shoulder blades.

“Here,” Erin offered shyly, finally stepping next to Holtzmann and digging something out of her pocket. It was a bright pink band-aid with hearts on it, the only one she’d found in her first-aid kit. “Can I put it on your forehead? The cut looks nasty.”

Blinking in obvious surprise, Holtz removed her yellow glasses—squinting at the blue harshness rushing into her exposed sockets—and allowed Erin to sweep aside her curls and lightly place the band-aid across the abrasion.

“There,” the brunette beamed with pride when the errand was done, admiring her work. “Not really good as new, but it’s something.”

“Thanks,” Holtz mumbled, reaching up to touch the band-aid’s slick surface, aware her ears were starting to burn with a flush that would soon make it into her cheeks if she didn’t look away.

“I like your yellow glasses,” Erin prompted bravely, falling into step when the four of them started walking out of the alley. “Do they help with your headaches?”

At that, Holtz stuttered to a standstill, mouth agape. “How did you know?”

“Girl, Erin’s our little Miss Medical Dictionary. She knows all kinds of weird things on account she a hypochondriac,” Patty laughed good-naturedly.

“I am not!” Erin protested. “I just have a delicate disposition.”

“You have allergies. That’s literally it,” Abby added over her shoulder from the front of the procession. “And the only reason your armpits itch is because you don’t shave them.”

“Mama said I wasn’t allowed until I was thirteen,” Erin muttered, face literally on fire and eyes glued on her shiny black dress shoes. Holtz couldn’t help but laugh, the sound drawing looks from the other girls on account it was more snorts and giggles than an actual laugh.

“My mom said the same thing, so I burned my hair off.”

“No way,” Abby gasped, spinning so she was walking backward. “You so did not.”

“Totally did,” Holtz countered. “I used my dad’s blowtorch and a can of hairspray. Caught the curtains on fire, but that’s beside the point. See?”

Setting down her silver pack, Holtz hurriedly shed her funny gray jacket that looked more like an oversized lab coat, hiked down her overall straps and pulled off her orange top with the nonchalance of someone who didn’t give a flip about public nudity. Then again, in the right light, Holtz could be mistaken for a boy with how flat she was…so it might have not mattered.

Sure enough, her armpits were devoid of hair but the trio wasn't looking at the smooth skin under Holtz’s arms but rather the literal skin and bones the girl seemed to be. They could count ribs just below the bud of her nipples and were sure if she turned around there would be vertebra visible.

“Ppft, you won’t get me out of my top that fast. At least not for free,” Abby jested stiffly, breaking the ice forming around them with a joke, but they were all sharing concerned looks Holtzmann thankfully didn’t catch.

“I’ll remember that,” Holtz grinned and winked, pulling her clothes back on.

“Man, you all are weird,” Patty huffed.

“But you love us,” Abby sleazily smiled, bumping her shoulder against the taller girl.

“Unfortunately. Hey…” she hedged, glancing back at the newest member of their group. “I’ve still got food left over from lunch, and Mama will whoop me if I come home with leftovers. Any of you want them?”

Erin and Abby caught on immediately and both shook their head.

“No, I’m still full from lunch.”

“Nah, I’m fat anyway,” Abby laughed, poking her stomach. “Plus dinner will be ready when I get home. Holtz?”

The smaller girl thought about it for less than a New York minute before nodding, trying and failing to hide the hunger just below the surface. “Sure. If it’ll help you out.”

“Man, you a lifesaver, girl. Thanks a bunch.” Patty handed over the contents of her lunchbox, the three pretending to miss how eagerly Holtz dug into the food, wolfing it down in hurried gulps.

“Hey Holtz,” Abby called from the front. “Tomorrow we’re gonna get together at my house and watch the new X-Files episode. You wanna come? I’ve got plenty of room.”

Holtzmann’s eyes lit up, Abby apparently striking a very wide nerdy vein in the smaller child. “Hell yeah, I would!”

“Awesome! We’ll meet after school, okay? I’ll give you my number so your mom can call my mom. That cool?”

“Definitely.”

“Awesome. Welcome to the weirdo club then!”

[morrisbrokaw]

10 Ways to Set Intentions While Grieving

Perspective is everything. Perspective keeps you in check, sheds light on unseen features, and endeavors you to seek inspiration. Perspective also circumnavigates intention. But… grief has a way of robbing you of it and everything else in-between.

When grieving, perspective (and thus intention) becomes hard to maintain. It feels unwieldy, erratic, and painful. Perspective ends up transforming from being “the end in sight” to “there is no end in sight.” And because of that shift, setting intentions is no longer the thoughtful, personalized task it once was. So as I settled into a livable cadence with grief, it dawned on me that I wasn’t just grieving—I was depressed.

I’d experienced depression before and have had various diagnoses surrounding it since the age of 12. But this time around it was different. My usual tricks to evade its clutches simply didn’t work. For the first time in a long time I was stuck and that sensation alone was suffocating. So, as you can imagine, the notion of “keeping things in perspective” flew out the window. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, the experience itself and resulting impact was out of my control. I knew that I would and could eventually regain my sense of self, but in order to do that, I had to let myself linger just beyond the outskirts of what I felt to be my truest self.

I’d soon realize that was a pretty lonely task.

It took a few months of Self-Imposed Solitary Strategy for me to realize that it wasn’t working. Serendipitously, a chat with an old friend changed all of that. He and I commiserated over depression’s directionlessness and how frustrating it can feel to want to get off the couch, only to end up dissuaded or disheartened moments later. As in: I can have the best of intentions to do something, but, it might not always be rewarding at the start. From here my friend reminded me that intentions can be flexible—I simply have to get up, go, and let the wind take me a teensy bit. Even if I feel a little uneasy.

For me, it starts by sitting with that discomfort. I do my best to offset triggers and embrace the stillness, tears, and lack of motivation. And most of all I do my damndest to be kind to myself. It’s been hard to let go of expectations. I find myself asking: ”What is my “normal” now? What do I want to work toward? What feels good anymore?” I often feel overwhelmed by those questions. But I make a conscious effort to I step back, sit down, and ground myself however I can. Take a deep breath. Nothing requires an immediate answer. I don’t need fixing. I’m not broken—I’m just figuring out what grief and depression means to me relative to my sense of self.

(Reminder to self: That’s a big ole thing to figure out.)

I’ve also learned that I have to leave labels and timelines behind. I say that because labels or timelines come with expectations. And expectations for myself when grieving or depressed can further exacerbate the well I feel stuck in—because, what happens if I don’t succeed or simply don’t feel like doing it? I “fail.” Rather than set myself up for “failure” I created a list of reminders to help me keep my intentions and perspective in-line with my heart song. Note: this list may or may not work for everyone. Please be cognizant of that when reading.

Be kind to your mind, body, and soul—It’s easy to be your own worst enemy, but it’s harder to be your best friend. Remember to be your best friend.

Stay honest—With yourself and others about how you’re feeling. I found myself saying “I’m fine” a lot when I actually wasn’t. However, when I stopped saying that and told a friend how I really felt, it opened up a huge door for me.

Reach out—Grief and sadness are isolating. But you really, truly aren’t alone. I find myself often reaching out to friends and family to say “Hey, I just wanted to say I love you. That’s all.”

Know that not everyone will understand what you’re going through—I found that some folks have a hard time navigating other people’s grief. I get it, it’s tough. I had to make an effort to hear the love that people were trying to send me: not just the face value message.

Don’t hold time hostage—Take as much time as you need. Some people might give you a hard time about the personal quiet time you’re taking. But, trust me, time is on your side and you will still be you on the other side of all this.

Just try—As sage as Yoda might’ve been, he didn’t quite get it right when he said “do or do not. There is no try.” You can always try. Try running, then walking. Try talking, then being quiet. And so on. You get the point.

Set loosely defined intentions—You will change throughout this and your intentions will too. As you navigate loss, be sure to loosely define your expectations. Clarity can be helpful, but it can also be hurtful. Simply keep expectations to a minimum.

Establish boundaries—As I mentioned before, some folks won’t understand what you’re going through and they’re bound to cross some boundaries. It will take some time to understand what those boundaries are, but, you’ll know them when they pop up. And when they do be aware and make note of them for future reference.

Create safe spaces—Discomfort and sadness can pop up where you least expect it, so it’s important to create safe spaces at home or on the go. When I’m out and about, my car is my safe space. When I’m at home, the office or bedroom is my go-to spot.

Take as many breaks as you need—As you set your intentions, take as many breaks as you see fit. Whether they’re social media cleanses, time away from people, or a hiatus from alcohol consumption, take the time and space you need in order to feel like the best-ish version of yourself.

Remember your intentions—It’s easy to get lost in the muck and the mire. But remember why you set the intentions in the first place. From there you can decide if the intention works or doesn’t work for you anymore.

Image via Kate Pugsley

Monique Seitz-Davis is a writer, crazy plant lady, and snack aficionado based out of Salt Lake City, Utah. She runs uphill for fun and believes in magic.

      The post 10 Ways to Set Intentions While Grieving appeared first on Wit & Delight.

10 Ways to Set Intentions While Grieving published first on https://workbootsandshoes.tumblr.com/

[seemvyv]

Two months ago I was sitting in my apartment alone absolutely broke, absolutely broken spirited. Could not care less about what would happen to me. Life was not relevant anymore. There was not hope no goals in my head and I wouldn’t say I was suicidal but I’d say I wouldn’t have  been disappointed if I didn’t wake up the next morning. I was stressed and alone and had absolutely no idea how I was going to pay my rent (once again).

I felt absolutely unworthy and hopeless. I was so scared of losing the one man I did have around that anything he did that slightly hinted that he might be leaving caused the hugest reaction. Thus, coming across (or actually being) crazy.

I was unemployed or very underemployed. I spent my entire adult life and college education going in one direction. I had all the tools and opportunities to back me but just couldn’t succeed. Last month, When decided to take another post bachelorette course going towards a goal I cared nothing about I was miserable and a  big question came over me “ What am I doing?”

I knew damn well that none of this in any way shape or form was something I truly wanted to do. And so I think my inner self was screaming out “nope” every time I tried to be successful going in that direction. And although I had all the tools in the world I would inevitably fail. I was rejected from countless interviews and applications.  As sappy as it sounds I think it rings true that no matter how successful you are or how hard you try to outrun your truth. If you don’t listen to your soul or “heart's desire” you will always lose.

And I surely was losing.

People terrified me, I had  become a recluse. I’ve always been  an introvert but now I could barely stand human interaction at all. Besides the visit to the grocery store or the trips out to do laundry, I did not leave my house. I would wake up early prepare breakfast and then migrate to the couch. Turn on YouTube and go back and forth between the kitchen and the living room until it was time to go to sleep. I hated myself and nothing in life was worth doing. Besides on the rare occasion I decided to take a job which would be me surrounded by children. Children were a blessing to be around before but with my growing self-loathing and lack of energy even that seemed like a task. I was hopeless and alone and the hard part about all of this is that I was doing it to myself and I knew this but I felt like I couldn’t change.

So what happened to make the changes?

I’d love to say it was an “aha” moment where I realized something and my entire life just flipped upside down the next day. And actually I can say in some ways it has been like that but not quiet.  

I committed to being more organized

As  I said I had become quiet the recluse and my only window to human interaction inside my apartment was  watching YouTube vlogs.  I came across a Youtuber, Kayln Nicholson. This girl has the skill of organization, planning, commitment  and overall “getting your shit together” down. Organization has never been one of my strong suits, but as I watched her videos she broke it down in such a way that I felt like I could take some of her steps towards goal setting and organization. I wanted to have my shit together too and so I took small steps towards doing that. Small steps like organizing my closet or writing down a budget, following a routine, cleaning my apartment or creating a goal journal. Every time I achieved one of these goals it made me feel accomplished and a little bit better about myself which then made me want to do more organizational things. And so the cycle continues to build.  

 I had a mini mental breakdown

I was stressed as hell. A part of me wanted to succeed but all the evidence in my life showed that I was so far from it. And in the midst of all this, I was trying to stay rigid and not go completely under. But sometimes going completely under is exactly what is needed. So, in the privacy of my own home, I lost it. I broke down in a flood of emotions and then I wrote a very Jerry Maguire-esque  letter to my parents explaining that I had fucked up my life (Later I decided that it was better suited as a private letter for my eyes only) .While having that release and writing that letter I realized I was lying to myself and everyone around me. I wasn’t unaware of what I wanted to do. All these years I knew exactly what I wanted to do as a career path and as a person in general. I just never perused it out of fear or inadequacy. That mental break down allowed me to see what it was I wanted. Which by the way, is to be involved in holistic health and wellness. So out of the depths of that I realized a goal of mine. Which is exciting considering just a month ago I was convinced I didn’t have any. So moral of the story I’d recommend a good old fashion mental break down to anybody. Preferable private but hey, get it how you live.

 I prioritized my health

As I mentioned in the previous mental breakdown section It’s a goal of mine to be involved with holistic health and wellness. Prior to this realization I was eating the worst of the worst. I must say I am vegan, simply because as a vegan it’s a requirement to impart that wisdom on everyone any chance you get ;p. But I wasn’t one of those health plant based vegans. At the time, I was  eating the cheapest processed foods, canned Items, soda and alcohol you name it. I decided money was tight and  food didn’t  matter and as long as it was cheap I’d  throw it in my body. I’d forgotten the effects that good clean eating has not only on a persons body physically but also on your mental focus. Dr. Mark Hyman’s Ultra Mind series is a good reminder of this fact. When you prioritize your health you’re telling yourself and the universe/source/God that you give a damn . You’re teaching yourself that you’re important and also just showing yourself that you actually can do something . I realized I’m worth giving my body good nutrients and it makes me feel altogether energized .

I committed to doing one spiritual practice a day

Whatever it is even if it’s just five minutes out of your day make this a PRIORITY and watch your world change. I wrote down that I was just going to commit to 5 minutes a day where I sat down and did “Inner child work” . I would lay down on the couch take deep breaths and then ask myself what was bothering me. Also, each morning before I left bed I’d play a brief meditation. Even if I was not totally aware and mindful, having it on in the background is better than the nothing I was doing before. Now I’m doing close to  45 minutes a day because it allows me to questions my sometimes neurotic thoughts. I see big improvements and I simply feel good. And who doesn’t want to feel good?

 I learned the value of taking little steps

I’m always seeing  quotes and mindsets pushing people to be these driven machines. Basically to  be a workaholic and if you’re not you’re wasting space. And I feel like that mentality is great if you’re personality and truth lines up with that or you’re in a militant setting and need quick short term effects.  But I understand that when a person is in a place of hopelessness hearing those things can have the reverse effect. Making a person feel more ashamed and like they SHOULD be somewhere they’re not. But as shame researcher and author, Brene Brown, and just basic human experience will tell you SHAMING DOESN’T WORK. If you’re not there right now that’s ok, if you’re so far from the finish line you can’t even see it that’s ok too. What matter is you’re taking steps. Meet yourself where you are. The little steps count if that’s all you can take. Force usually doesn’t work, will power doesn’t work, shaming yourself into being better will backfire. The little steps and promises you make to yourself everyday add up. If you have a goal you want to reach take  steps towards that goal each day. Not because you should or because it validates you as a person but because you’re being companionate to yourself and acknowledging your importance.

 I’m learning the universe has my back

Whatever your religion is the universe is companionate. “life is happening for you not to you” The trials are simply  showing us things we can tweak to reach a  life so perfectly crafted for us, you  can’t even imagine.

I’m learning to love myself

At the end of the day if everyone leaves me. If the Pope and the Dali Lama themselves named me as a bad person and If I lost everything material thing I’d still have myself and so why not cherish the one thing I truly have. If I mess up, ok. Who hasn’t? Self criticism doesn’t work  . Think about that.  It never has and it never will. Change on the other hand does. But I’m learning to look at my mistakes and say “Wow, that didn’t work let’s change that” instead of “Wow I’m such an idiot why do I do these things I’m a fuck up” One of these self-dialogs  works the other just sends me down a hole I have no business being in. It’s a process, it’s a practice. Like brushing your teeth. I don’t just do it one day and  it’s finished. I’ll have to commit the time to loving myself and bettering myself for the rest of my life every day and I’m learning that I’m worth it .