#but i also want something i can identify with | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yuanist · 18 hours ago

Text

kuroo, you think, has been out here for quite a while now.

when you left to go meet with your study group—sometime between six-thirty and seven—the snow was just beginning to pile up. it hadn't started sticking to the roads yet, but you could see the vapor slip from the few leaves left on the trees; a symptom of early winter, you suppose.

now, though, there must be four or five inches out here. the old oak tree that hangs over your building is starting to sag, and the moon seems heavier than it did before, hanging lowly along the glow of street light.

kuroo is sitting on the steps up to your apartment, looking down at his phone. he has more than a few flakes in his hair, and if it wasn't for the ridge in the snow where he'd pushed it aside to sit, you'd think he'd been out here the whole time.

"cold?" you ask, shuffling towards him. you can hear the crunch of your feet under you.

"me? never."

he looks up at you then and, you'll admit, you like seeing him like this. lately, he's been against the whole 'text me before you come over' thing, and you know it's mostly because you don't reply, but, in part, that's so you can see him here.

his hands are half-tucked under the sleeves of his coat, and there's a stretch of pink from the tops of his cheeks to the tip of his nose. his lips are chapped (you can only assume from being out here so often) and there's a little smile tugging at the sides of his mouth, his tongue poking out from behind his teeth.

"oh, you want me to leave you out here then? give you a little more time?" you're smug—or, at least you're trying to be, anyway. the more time you spend with kuroo, the worse you are at pretending you don't like him. recently, you've been failing at that more than you'd care to admit.

"hey, i didn't say that." he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. "plus, what's the point of coming all the way over here if i can't see my favorite girl?"

you shake your head at him, aiming your chin towards the ground. in a strange way, you feel like you're suffocating.

"you mean the cat?" you ask.

and he chuckles, "sure."

a beat of silence hangs in the air for a second, before you plod your way up the steps, pulling your keys out of your pocket. you can hear kuroo rise behind you, attempting to brush some of the moisture out of his sleeves.

"y'know," you say, pushing the key into the door. "if you like coming over when i'm not home so much, i could tell the neighbor to let you in."

his hood rustles; he's shaking his head.

"where's the fun in that? kinda ruins my whole 'mysterious stranger' act."

"also kinda ruins the 'guy stalking the apartment complex' act." you swing the door open and make your way up the stairs. "i'm sure everyone is so enthused by the guy sitting on the stairs every friday."

a laugh, "oh i'm sure. if they report me for loitering promise you'll come bail me out?"

"depends on how much i like you that day." you can feel the heat of your apartment as you approach the end of the hall.

"really," he says. "if they took me in right now?"

"i would think about it." you pause. "maybe."

"wow." you can hear the rasp in his voice as he drags out the 'o.' "tough crowd."

your apartment smells like pine and vanilla—the workings of two little wax melters on opposite sides of the rooms. you turned them off before you left (you double and triple-checked), but the scent lingers, itching at your nose as you cross through the door.

kuroo follows close behind, scaping his shoes off on the mat before slipping them onto the little shoe rack in the corner. his jacket squeaks as he shrugs it off—a sound so distinctly made from the shifting of wet nylon that you barely have to turn around to identify it.

every time he follows you up here, you find yourself glancing around your apartment—looking for something that could possibly be out of place. something incriminating: three-day-old dishes that you know you already washed; your vibrator, forgotten on the nightstand, even though you remember putting it back in its designated drawer.

for some reason, you have a tendency to think that the things around your home that make you distinctly human are also the things that would make you distinctly unappealing. you're aware of how silly the thought is, but there you are, quickly looking over at your nightstand as you stick your coat back in the closet.

"so," you hum, rubbing a bit of the warmth back into your hands. "to what do i owe the pleasure tonight? you here to eat all of my leftovers again?"

"depends," he says. "you have leftovers to be eaten?"

"not this time." you make your way to the couch, and he pouts, following behind you. "but if i did, they'd be all yours."

"aw, you mean it?" you eye him. "i'm honored."

as much as you hate to admit it, this has sort of become habit. you come home a little later than expected and you find kuroo sitting on your front stoop. you're not exactly sure how any of it started—or, really, how the two of you became friends in the first place—but you ran in the same circles for a while and, eventually, you ended up here.

"well," he begins, slinging his arm over the back of the couch. "study group?"

"boring." you nudge your way beneath his shoulder. "practice?"

"thrilling, obviously. greatest two hours of my life, even. i think you could go as far as to—" you eye him again. "same thing as yesterday."

you chuckle, swatting a hand into his chest.

there's silence for a moment, something warm pulling through the air of the room. quiet breaths spill from kuroo's lips, and you resign yourself to listening to each one—in, and out.

he still smells cold; like the heavy, wet snow you have to shovel off of the porch the morning after a blizzard. for every breath, it lessens, bleeding into the heat of the room, but you let the scent linger at the base of your nose.

you're not sure how much time you've spent taking in pieces of kuroo, but you know it's more than you ever plan to tell. you know his hands take longer to warm up than the rest of him—he chalks it up to bad circulation most of the time, you know that too; he rarely spends a night at home because he doesn't like sitting in silence; he twitches sometimes, when he's nervous, a little flick of his hands; his favorite color is red but sometimes he's drawn to deep blues because he likes the sky better when it's absent of stars—he says there's something enchanting about the abyss.

he's too dense to know you're in love with him but too smart to think you're not. sometimes you catch him looking at you after you say something in a tone a little too far beyond friendly and you swear that he knows what you mean. sometimes, you think he's going to break the silence, and, sometimes, you think he never will.

tonight, he swings his head back, eyes lightly shut, slowly sinking into the back of the couch. you can hear the sputter of your vents and the sound of the wind against the windows—snow still trying to fight its way through the glass.

you're going to ask him to stay the night tonight—you already know it. you're going to wake up to him on the couch tomorrow, with his hair messed up, and his eyes half-lidded, and that stupid look on his face that makes you want to slip your tongue into his mouth.

you're going to think about that time you slept together last year—once, after a halloween party—and you're going to think about the way the inside of his mouth tasted; you're going to sink your teeth into your lips so hard that you're going to bleed.

you're going to consider telling him that you love him, that you always have and you think you always will, and then you're going to ask him if he wants coffee instead—hoping the smell of the pot is enough to make your head feel less fuzzy.

you're going to wait, and hope he says something, even though you'll know he never does. and then, next friday, when you come home to him sitting on your front steps, you're going to do it all again.

reblogs are always appreciated! ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

#hq x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #haikyuu x reader #kuroo x you #haikyuu #hq!!#aw this is so cute i wrote this one last november and look at us now #early birthday present for my little weirdo methinks

58 notes · View notes

felassan · 8 hours ago

Text

WBUR article: ''Dragon Age: The Veilguard' creators on their new vision for the fantasy series'

Rest of post under cut due to length and possible spoilers.

“Expectations are so high — whether from the fans of the franchise or the perspective of the company — there’s tremendous pressure.” says game director Corinne Busche. “One thing I’ll say about this team: They really rise to the occasion.” [...] “We sort of lost our way in a couple of previous titles, moving away from that character-focused storytelling that made ‘Mass Effect’ and ‘Dragon Age’ a success,” says John Epler, “Dragon Age” series creative director. “This project really coalesced when we consciously identified that central aspect of the experience: the characters.” “Veilguard” puts players in the shoes of an unlikely leader to a small band of rebels — think “Oceans 11” meets “The Fellowship of the Ring.” “It’s a deeply personal experience,” says Busche. “You’re creating your own character and that might be a representation of you, that might be reflective of the kinds of choices you'd like to make.” For the first time in BioWare history, that customizability allows player avatars to be transgender and access unique dialogue options around that identity. There’s also a prominent storyline about a party member coming out as nonbinary. “I'm an openly queer trans woman — I really believe that representation matters,” says Busche. “Everyone is welcome in ‘Dragon Age,’ and we want people to see themselves and feel like they can have a heroic place here.” [...]"

"4 questions for Corinne Busche and John Epler What makes “Dragon Age” stand apart from other fantasy games? Corinne Busche: “‘Dragon Age’ is a franchise that’s fundamentally always been about this really authentic team of companions that come together to take on insurmountable challenges. It's about people. It touches on some pretty deep themes as well. Injustices. The burdens of leadership. It really is about establishing this sense of found family to take on these challenges that lay ahead.” What feels different from previous iterations? John Epler: “I'd say this version of the game is much bigger in its storytelling, in its scope. We really wanted to put you in every one of the big story moments. So as an example, it's the difference between watching the Battle of Minis Tirith versus being someone who's fighting in the middle of it. You're much more participatory in it. We wanted you to feel like you were part of these big world-changing events. You were right in the thick of it and really focusing on making the story that is so big and epic feel personal just by how you interact with it.” What sort of hero is the player character, Rook? Epler: “One thing we wanted to steer away from very consciously was the sense of them being a chosen one because that's something we've done previously. They are the right person in the right place at the right time. But there is always a core personality to them. They are always going to be someone who needs to pull together this small but somewhat dysfunctional group and really lead them in a way that makes sense for that team.” Busche: “And it's one of the interesting aspects of each new game having a different protagonist. We do have a true blank slate, some say in ‘Dragon Age: Origins.’ I would put the Inquisitor in that category. Whereas Hawke in ‘Dragon Age 2’ has a very bespoke identity. So we kind of strike a balance between that. One of the defining properties of Rook, who they are as a character, is this idea of someone who's very competent, but as a leader, they're learning how to shoulder this responsibility.” You’ve put a lot of blood and sweat into this game. It’s nearly out. Have people already been telling you stories about how they connect with it? Busche: “Absolutely. One of the reasons that I felt so honored, so privileged to be able to join this team and work on this franchise is so rarely have I seen a game or a piece of media, for that matter, that connects with people so deeply. There's a real sense of ownership and an affinity for the franchise. It's a rare thing.” Epler: “I'll share a very personal anecdote about this game and people connecting. So I wrote the follower Bellara. Early on while we were making this game, I got a diagnosis of ADHD. So I'm writing this character who has a lot of the same mannerisms, a lot of the same views of the world, in a very specific way. And hearing people online, connecting to this character in the way she speaks and the way she interacts, they were able to point to and say, ‘That's me, that's how I deal with the world.’ And it's just such a cool feeling to have someone connect with a character you create and be able to say, ‘I felt seen in a way that I've never felt seen in a game before.’”"

[source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #mass effect #lgbtq #Ok!! i pretty much reached the bottom now of my list of 'articles and headlines that built up while i was playing' :)

51 notes · View notes

our-trans-punk-experience · 1 day ago

Note

im moving to ny with my parents this summer but am currently stuck in texas until then. i dont want to stop fighting, but the town im in is a small very conservative place. I've always been open about my identity and my parents have been open about supporting queer people, but im worried something might happen to me or my family. is there a way i can ensure safety while not censoring myself? (erm im also a minor if that means anything)

Shut down anything identifiable on your online presence. Don't ever have your face, queer identity, and anything that could lead to your location in one place.

Stick together. If you're walking around, especially after dark, have someone to go with you.

If you can, vary your route home from school

Punk specific tip that may or may not apply but have your politics and identity and gay shit all on your front, nothing like that on your back. And spikes go on the top of battle jackets historically go stop from getting grabbed by the shoulders

Carry a very plain hoodie or something if you need to make a quick change while out and about to be less conspicuous

Keep loving keep fighting! Standing with you across the world

Best of luck! Come back if you have more questions or for more general safety tips

#lgbt #punk #us politics #punk clothes #safety #our trans punk experience

53 notes · View notes

capitalisticveins · 2 days ago

Note

Seeing as how you're doing headcanons again i'd like to request hcs of Gavin,Milo,Sam,Vincent,and Guy( btw here's a thought for ya Guy as Hermes dangerous has stuck in my head for the past couple hours send help) also your previous hc were also great!(you could say they were ruthless ha ha ha im sorry that was bad lol)

~ Deviant anon （⊃◕ω◕(´ω｀*⊂)

idk if you can tell but I really like Guy

also I wrote headcanons for some character recently so characters like Gavin, Sam, and Milo have them a lil short than Vincent and Guy since it takes a while to think about possible in-character hcs for them. Sorry :(

Lots of Headcanons #3

Gavin

Believe it or not, Gavin’s social media accounts are usually blank. Save for Instagram. He just has them to comment under the group’s posts.

Despite never reading a book, Freelancer has told him he’d do best in the writing industry.

He does not know how to hold a baby. If you give him a baby for any reason he’d hold it with both of his hands under its shoulders.

The worst he’s been scared was when he played a horror VR game, but he didn’t scream or anything he really just jolted and went “shit” and moved on. Freelancer was not amused.

He likes being the big spoon when he and FL cuddle because he gets to breathe in their scent, hold them, and remind himself that this is real, and not just a dream he’ll wake up from.

Milo

You can’t beat him in cup pong. Digitally or physically. You just can’t.

The only reason David is considered a better cook than Milo is because Milo uses a lot of seasoning and the pack is full of babies who can’t handle oregano or sazón.

Whenever the pack goes somewhere tropical he has to wear a shirt or Sweetheart will constantly attempt to latch onto his torso.

Milo and cats have always gone together like peanut butter and jelly. He had a cat toy when he was a toddler, his first cell phone had a stray cat as his wallpaper, he’d feed the stray cats around his home, etc. So when he learned that he and the people around him could turn into “dogs” (wolves but still) he was DEVASTATED. Got over it after a day tho.

He likes juice boxes.

Avid Apple Juice “tastes like piss” hater, although he also says mint ice cream tastes like toothpaste so take that as you will.

Sam

Sam fucking hates cowboys.

Sam had braces from the ages of 19-21 and the only upside he had to being a vampire when he first turned was that he didn’t need his retainer anymore.

Sam always reads manga wrong and no matter how many times anyone explains it he’ll read it from left to right and never understands what’s going on.

The closest Sam has gotten to riding a horse is when he flopped on top of Darlin’s back while they were shifted and they walked around his house like that…he’s never been on a horse.

Sam has a lot of existential crisises, compared to like Vincent or Porter.

If something's flying and he can't figure out if it's a plane, helicopter, animal, or any identifiable flying object, he just believes it's an Alien UFO and moves on.

Darlin' gave him a wheat head for Christmas once. He was not amused.

Vincent

Wanted to be a youtuber for a brief period in time in 2010.

Had a weird obsession with those traced anime characters dancing tiktoks in 2020, a little after meeting Lovely.

He canonically has multiple cars he likes showing off to Lovely, but he also nearly never uses them and it’s Lovely who showboats them and takes them on joyrides.

He didn’t believe William at first when he was first told he’s a vampire now and was the only one who survived The Surge incident, until they both saw his funeral take place and see his grave, which took place a long time after the accident because his parents refused to believe he was dead.

He had 3 tomodachis at once and they all constantly died because he forgot feeding them was a thing.

He commonly "regrets" asking William to make him unable to lie to Lovely because they like to ask him embarrassing questions on purpose and he can’t help but answer them, even though he could just stay quiet.

His favorite memory as a kid was roller skating with his parents on his 7th birthday. Even though he fell on his face, sprained his ankle, and had a loose tooth fall out. Still his favorite day.

Guy

GUY IS SO HERMES CODED UR RIGHT

Turned a fanfic he wrote as his college essay and got in just because of it.

Was very afraid of Honey when they first met, they kept staring at him like he was the scum of the Earth. They just wanted to talk to him about the Animal Crossing pin on his backpack.

Whenever his friends order from Max’s, and he turns out to be their delivery guy, they make fun of him so much (playfully) and give him a 10 dollar tip

He borrowed his friend’s motorcycle to impress Honey

Cried over Gnomeo and Juliet

Dressed up as the Thomas Jefferson Miku Binder drawing in 2023.

He almost gave himself a buzzcut once when he was drunk, he had to be held down because everyone knew he’d regret it so hard later, not matter how funny it’d be.

#A wheat head is the thing cowboys have in their mouths #When I write headcanons it mainly consists of me playing Tower of hell on roblox and switching tabs to write a hc whenever one comes to min #its a long process but also very fun #its also why I only write HCs on my laptop #bc fuck mobile roblox #ALSO GUY WOULD ABSOLUTELY LOVE DANGEROUS especially the livestream animation holy shit #redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse #redacted sam #redacted darlin #redacted milo #redacted vincent #redacted guy #redacted honey

38 notes · View notes

amebanworld · 3 days ago

Text

So, here we are. Finally I’m dropping by to share something I’ve been pondering. I think it's about time to speak about this openly.

You know, I've been a TF fan since my childhood, since I saw G1 Cartoon till now.

But since I'm not a native English speaker and the TF TV series have been aired irregularly at my country, I just haven't be able to follow all series when they were broadcasted. I just wasn’t able to watch all of them. I'm not interested in every single series though, just in some of them. Same happens with comics and movies: seriously I like to think Bayverse just didn’t happen.

So I’ll will tackle the series/comic sI’ve watched/read only, and not every Screamer incarnation.

Let's start…

In 80's (and earlier) cartoons, it was quite common that one of the main characters was bashed by other characters under the premise that "this chara is problematic b/c he thinks different from the others, so he must be punished". As crazy as it sounds, this was encouraged by parents supervising children cartoons’ morality. That's why Eric (from the D&D cartoon) or Rudy (from Fat Albert) were made fun of, and that is what’s happening with G-1!Starscream. Yes, I mean the regular bashing he suffers by almost every other character in the series, and mostly from his leader, Megatron. Also, this was encouraged by the idea of "Hey! They're just aliens robots! We can be harsher with them since it isn’t an average cartoon for kids." And that's how it begun.

Since the G1 cartoon (and its comics counterpart, although the mood is quite different), Screamer has been portrayed as “selfish, a disloyal second-in-command, a coward yadda-yadda", but he also has been portrayed as somebody who endures punisment from almost every other character regularly, and mostly from Meggs, as I said before. This pattern repeats itsel over and over in all TF series, no matter the plot or the setting.

Despite being so popular, most of the fandom think that "he deserves it b/c he's a traitor", or just like it as a slapstick comedy. However, over time, and since certain series and comics have more serious plots, this issue was interpreted under a different perspective by older audiences.

Starscream, no matter the continuity, suffers from PTSD and is victim of abuse.

And I fully agree with that.

Over the years, I've met many fans (female fans mostly, perhaps b/c they usually have this kind of sensibility) who loved the character and felt bad for him because they identified with him on a personal level. I've met veterans too who indentified with Screamer. Both of them just felt really uneasy about how he’s treated in comics and especially in the series. Of course, there’re many fans that just think this is nonsense and don't agree with it. However, invalidating the opinion of these other fans and brush it aside as "nonsense" means to ignore the victims of abuse and their suffering too.

So, what do I mean with "victim of (domestic) abuse"?

First of all, it doens't mean just abuse from your romantic partner, but also from your parents or relatives, from your boss, your classmates, etc. The thing is, all that applies to Screamer. Unlike other characters that just attack him during battles and such, Screamer is punched many times till almost dying by Megatron. He’s also insulted and invalidated. There’s some examples of different continuities below.

The dynamic of abusive relationships is very complex, but in all continuities we can find the same pattern: "The victim tries to flee and does something careless, then he's caught and punished by his insolence". The problem is that the victim is also a traitor and a liar, and certainly he's not a saint. Plus the abuser keeps him around still.

Why?

Summing up, it's a vicious circle. The victim thinks he "deserves" to be punished, but since he wants to be free, he behaves carelessly and paying no heed to loyalty so as to “deserve” that punishment. Meanwhile, the abuser seeks to blame (and punish) the victim from his own faults. Then, when one makes a move, the other behaves accordingly. Meanwhile there’s also calm moments where things “seems” fine. That's why Meggs and Screamer seems to get along "nicely" when nothing happens.

Eventually, the victim copies the abusive behaviour, becoming also an abuser. This is quite obvious in the TFP continuity, where Screamer does the same things to KnockOut.

Of course, the abuser is guilty, but the victim has his own faults. Usually, these people suffer from PTSD and develop a nasty behaviour towards others. They become selfish, demanding, disloyal, etc. This explains why Screamer behaves as such with almost everyone in all continuities. Usually, the victim isn’t aware (or just doesn't want to ) that he's into an abusive relationship (no matter what kind), so he’s just seen as being disloyal, stupid or something like that. Usually, only people who have suffered abuse, or are close to an abuse victim, are aware of this problem, and of how hard it is to break the vicious circle and break free.

Many fans were aware of this problem, and some years ago a bunch of them decided to let know their feelings about SS to Hasbro, so they send the company a long letter, thanks to @tyrantofthefirmament You can read their letter HERE.

And how did Hasbro answered?

I guess they get a lot of letters from the fandom, and that their marketing team will be well aware about the fandom opinions at least now, b/c it's kind of obvious that the later comics and series portrays ideas that were born in the fandom. Anyway their answer to that letter sounded like "We're glad to heard from you. We'll think about it someday. Thanks!"

And that’s whay they did on the later series, it seems.

Let's check it…

*TFP: SS is written so randomly here. First, he's a serious threat; in the second season, he breaks free and joins the Abots or is just on his own (the best part), and finally, in the third season, he joins Dcons again, and Meggs punches him for any random reason. Finally, he dies.

*Armada Trilogy: he's written as a tragic character. He ends up being a hero and dies saving the day on the first season. Later on, he's resurrected as a zombie with no memories. Finally, in the 3rd season, he becomes… what the heck?? He doesn’t seems to be the same character!

*War for Cybertron Trilogy. Well. Here, he's closer to his G1 Incarnation, despite he wasn't a scientist and he was under Jetfire's command till the white jet joins the Abots. The same tropes are repeated, till Blacharacnnia teams up with him and he meets Unicron in a Lovecraft- like scene. Afterwards, the writers got wild and gave him the arc to be an anti-hero, warning everybody, who actually barely believe in him. At least, the writers tried here to give certain credit.

youtube

Starry meets Cthulhu... eeer, Unicron.

*IDW comics. Perhaps the most developed incarnation. Here, the problems of abuse and trauma, along his faults in the GreatWar, become an issue that must be solved. He becomes a Cybertron ruler, makes a friend (Metalhawk) then kills him… and later, he regrets it a lot. Bumblebee appears to him as an hallucination and befriends him (his only friend is imaginary). WheelJack has a soft spot for him, but this isn’t enough. Then, Windblae appears, who is oblivius of the Cybertronian war. And well, things happen and he isn't disloyal anymore and learns about his true self. Perhaps this is the only series where his fate is different.

Bee facing Screamer in his own hallucinations...

*EarthSpark. These series tries to mix up G1 with IDW. War is over, the Earthling TF are born and Screamer is jailed in a corrupted human facility, till he manages to break free. At this point, an Earthligh TF, Haghstag, knows about his trauma and helps him. The whole first season deals with Dcons as people with his own lifestory and traumas, and how important redeption is. Starscream fits this plot…

Haghstag and Screamer... and he's smiling.

Till the following seaons where the writers just ignore everything and they come back to the same old plots again and again in a very creepy way.

The thing is, Starscream nor talks about this with others, neither uses it as an excuse for his behaviour towards his companions. That goes against the Decepticons ideals, but also that would make him to look "weak", or he just doesn't want to admit it despite his pain. Dcon's are usuallly portrayed as horrible people, after all.

Anyway, the fact is Hasbro and their writers just don’t dare to tackle a character arc to give him some reliable background or credit. They show some hints here and there of "perhaps he's victim of abuse/he suffers PTSD", and later, they brush him off. This is kind of obvious for every continuity discussed here.

So why? I just don't get it. And that's why I find this is a problem. I just don't want to see the same old story again and again, with a character that is basically a punching bag on one hand and a baddie on the other. (Skybound comics aren't included here since it's an ongoing series by now). If the writers dared to write a redenmption arc for Megatron. Why not for Starscream?

(Special thanks to @sandalwood03, who edited my broken English into something nicer).

49 notes · View notes

regrettable-username · 2 hours ago

Text

Yes to this! I would also add that a reason why there is no single The Answer is because there is no single The Problem. We are living in a cacophony of many problems that each have their own different possible solutions. So if you're looking for some way to be involved as one small answer, start by shrinking the problem down to its smaller parts. If that's not something that you can do right away, then your first step is research. Watch a documentary, read a book, listen to a podcast, go on a wikipedia deep dive, etc. The information you want is accessible to you, but you will have to do some work to find it. For example, I'm not fixing "climate change" or "food access", but I am fixing up my mom's yard so that she can grow food for herself and others in the community. And I listened to a podcast on to learn how to compost correctly, and return carbon to the soil instead of the atmosphere.

Another easy thing to do is to ask your friends, coworkers, whoever you hang out with regularly if they are involved in anything. If you're on social media, put out an ask like "does anyone know a way to get involved with a local environmental organization?" or "i have some free time on friday afternoon and i'd like to start volunteering somwhere, does anyone have any recommendations?"

I also suggest doing a skills inventory, so you can figure out what you can tangibly offer (on your own or with an organization), and identify what you want to improve. Here's one that I like:

Doing something doesn't mean you have to have the whole thing planned out. There is no roadmap for how you, specifically, should start doing something. You have to figure that out for yourself. But the good news? The "figuring it out" part is doing something. If you want to know what your "answer" is, you need to figure it out. Try and fail as much as you need to, just don't stop trying until you find something that sticks.

#yes thats still sorta vague but that is the point! if you want a roadmap then you need to make it yourself

4K notes · View notes

thrashkink-coven · 2 days ago

Note

So i want to start my practice but unfortunately i don't have the tool incense tarot card pendulum and especially i still lived with my parent. The deity i want to work with is a demon from ars goetia andromalius, i already did the ritual but i Haven't got any respond what should i do?

I received this ask in June so you’ve probably already figured this out but keep on tryin!

If you don’t have access to tools like a pendulum or tarot cards you do still have the option to do some good old meditation on your demon’s sigil. In fact you’ll probably be doing this way more than using cards or other tools. All you need is a pen and a piece of paper. On the front you should write your demon’s sigil. Bonus points if you can find a coloured piece of paper or pen that you associate with them. For Leviathan I would probably use blue, whereas I’d probably use red for Asmoday and green for Belial.

On the back of the paper write a short petition or prayer. Be sure to address yourself by name (doesn’t have to be your legal name, just the name that you identify most with). Detail what exactly it is that you want from them and be precise about how you want them to manifest. If you hope to see them in your dreams write that down. If you just want some mundane sign that they’re listening write that down too.

For example: “To the Great Lord Lucifer, keeper of the hidden gnosis and liberator of all, I Shi, your loyal devotee, invoke your presence and healing light. I request that you appear to me in my dreams, in perfect human form. I wish to see your face and feel your warmth upon me. I wait patiently here, in this, your temple (referring to the altar) for your messages to touch my heart. So it shall be, as it has been, and shall be again.”

For first introductions it’s always a good idea to bring offerings. Something as simple as clean water is fine if you don’t have access to incense. A piece of fruit, a yummy pastry, or a piece of candy works too. Some demons are more particular than others, but they almost all unanimously appreciate alcohol. If you don’t have access to wine or rum, white vinegar also works.

Now, you can anoint the sigil with blood. I usually only do this for my patron who I trust and feel safe offering dna to. Some rituals will insist that you anoint all your sigils with blood but it’s not mandatory in my experience. A simple kiss can work, as can just charging the sigil in your hands. Focus all of your intention into the sigil until it almost seems to vibrate with energy. Then, when you feel ready, you can begin chanting their enn if they have one. If not, you can come up with your own mantra. For example, I wasn’t sure what invocation to use with Hermes, so I always just repeat “Holy Hermes, Holy Hermes, guide my spell.”

As you chant, focus your entire attention towards every syllable coming out of your mouth, feel your vocal cords vibrate as your intention becomes sound. I like to say Lucifer’s enn deep in my chest.

As you do, continue to stare at the sigil. There is a good chance you’ll experience some kind of imagery or physical sensation. If you see a terrifying face or a graphic image, do not freak out, this is very normal. Not all demons are pretty lol. You may altogether have an idea or voice enter into your mind out of seemingly nowhere, that is likely your demon responding. You can respond to them aloud or in your head. Try to stay focused on the sigil as you do, don’t think too hard about your answers.

As an added step you can attempt to do automatic writing. This is when you allow a demon to take control of the muscles in your hand to create a drawing or sentence on a piece of paper. Whilst holding the pencil, completely relax and continue to focus on your demon’s sigil. Don’t resist the subtle movements that occur involuntarily. Sometimes this can result in amazing communication and sometimes it results in a bunch of gibberish. It’s worth a shot but don’t be dismayed if it doesn’t work the first few times.

If you don’t see or feel anything, that’s okay, these things don’t always manifest right away. Do not beg your demon to show up. They find it very annoying. Continue the ritual for a few days until you get a sign. Pay very close attention to the subtle details in your life.

You should probably recreate the sigil every time you reach out rather than using the same one from last session. You’re also perfectly okay to destroy the sigil either by burning or just throwing it in the garbage. Be sure to say goodbye and close down the connection before you destroy the sigil. If you do get a solid communication, remember to say thank you.

#pagan #paganism #witchcraft #demonology #demonolatry #deity work #deity worship #deity witchcraft #magick #occultism #grimoire #witch community #luciferian #luciferian witch #theistic luciferianism #theistic satanism #ritual #baby witch

27 notes · View notes

frodopotter7 · 2 days ago

Text

The memories of Edwin Payne

(Or an interactive fanfiction)

Note: I had the headcanon that Edwin‘s notebook contains all his personal writing including the writings from his life as an Edwardian boy. So I wrote those entries in his notebook. Now this book is obviously all of Edwin‘s personal thoughts and I thought it would be fun to do a collaboration. So if you are a writer yourself or creative in any other way, feel free to use this entries as a starting point for another fanfiction. For example Charles finding the notebook and reading it or Crystal reading it or anything else. The only rule that I set is that you clearly mark my text and tag me, because first of all it was a lot of effort to write it and secondly I want to see what cool things you came up with. And if you don’t want to creatively interact with this fanfiction, then you can obviously just enjoy it by reading it.

Summary: Edwin Payne‘s most treasured item is his notebook, because it contains so much private information that no one else knows about him. Not even Charles. Including the struggles of a posh, gay, autistic Edwardian boy and his times before hell, in hell and shortly after hell.

Triggers: bullying, implied suicide, dolls

Shipping: Payneland, but you could also include other shipping in your part

The song that I thought of while writing:

One of Edwin’s most treasured objects was definitely his notebook. He had it all the time and he used it for every case they had. It meant a lot to him, since it was with him when he died. It was with him in hell and it was with him in his detective career. The reason why he never gave it to anyone, not even Charles, was that it had been with him even as a child. Well, back then he had several notebooks, but as he died every personal writing of his got transferred into it. The notebook always had enough pages and was still not getting thicker and his pen was always full of ink. And still even though it contained so many different notes, Edwin navigated through it without any problems. It was his own writing after all. His family sigil was carved into the black front cover and the word ‘Payne’ was written underneath it.

If anyone would open it and tried to start from the beginning, he would be greeted with Edwin’s signature under the printed words. ‘Family member:’ After that the handwriting would be harder to read. Scribbly, crossed out spelling mistakes and spilled ink from a little boy, who was writing for the first time. If you manage to identify the words it would read:

1905

Greetings,

my name is Edwin Payne. I am the only child of the family Payne. My father says, that mother wanted more children, but just failed every other time. You probably have heard about my family’s name. The family with the best lawyers of England. When I’m grown up, I will be a lawyer too. Lawyers are like detectives says my father. I like that. I like detectives.

My nanny told me to interact more with others. Why would I need to talk if there is no one to talk to anyways? My parents are often absent and my nanny is just not understanding me. My father says that I am too slow for my age. My motion skills too clumsy. My spoken words only contain information from detective books and I cannot properly respond to people yet. I know a lot of novels by heart though. Others just don’t seem to like talking about crimes as much as I do. Father sometimes lets me have a look in his older cases. They are interesting.

We visited a doctor again today, because of my slow development. We visit him quite often. Actually since I can remember. I don’t feel sick. He says there is nothing wrong with me. Still I know that something is wrong. I overreacted at loud noises. A lot of things stress me out.

1906

I haven’t writing about Cordelia Primrose Surname-von-Hovercraft. She is annoying, loud and a restless soul. She runs around the house and breaks rules just to get the attention. She is a bit younger than me, but that doesn’t justify her actions. I don’t like her. Although sometimes she be helpful. Like the time she stole the biscuit jar and gave me one of the special biscuits. They had to expel one of her nannies for this. But Cordelia had plenty nannies anyways. No one stays long with her. I had my nanny since I was born. I don’t like changes. Cordelia sometimes scares me with ghost stories. She says she would see them and that my fortune says that I will die a painful and early death. I don’t believe in this unscientific nonsense.

I take piano lessons now. It’s is fun. My mother seems to enjoy it. It is somehow the only way to get her attention for me.

Additionally to my regular private lessons I go to school now. Simon obviously needs to be in my class as well. I don’t like him. He bores me and he is too clingy. And sometimes he says mean things to me.

I had an outburst in class. Everything was just so loud and I was frustrated. The teacher hit my finger with the ruler and send me in the naughty corner. I don’t see why I get punished, when the other boys are clearly the distraction. Overall I am a good student. So it will probably not affect my grades.

My favorite subject is Latin and literature. I love books and translating old languages. It is like solving a code or a riddle. I don’t like maths, since it is all just numbers and no words.

1907

I had another outburst in class after Simon tried to touch me. He kept tapping my arm and I don’t like that. The teacher called a nurse, but I was too overwhelmed to respond to any of her questions to my health. I wanted to go home and I told her that again and again, but she didn’t understand. They called a priest. He said something in Latin. I think, it must have been biblical words. I tried to focus on translating them, but there was so much panic around me that I barely focused on anything. But I managed to calm myself after what felt like hours due to exhaustion.

My parents had a talk with the priest. He says that I am possessed by a demon. So now he straps me to a table and mumbled something in Latin again and again once a month or whatever I have an outburst. The robes around my wrist hurt. I am afraid. It is scary to know that there is something inside of me.

1908

I hate being possessed. Although I start to doubt that I have been in the first place. I did some research in the library and the real demonology books aren’t describing my symptoms. Even Cordelia, who usually always tells spooky stories, agrees with me. She said, if I was possessed she would have been the first one to know. She is a mystery to me.

1909

Today I saw a nice looking man across the street. I told my nanny that he looks like a basket full of oranges. My father uses that term a lot when he talks about young women, so I thought it is just a term to use if you think someone looks nice. She gasped and hit me lightly with the newspaper. It didn’t hurt but I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong. She told me that a man cannot say that to another man. I guess the saying is reserved for women then.

1910

I started to mask my uncomfortable feelings in public. It is difficult, but it helps. My parents and the priest both think that I am healed.

1911

I got called a Mary Ann for the first time. I asked my nanny and she started to mumble to herself how she must have failed. I told her that she did a really great job, since I would consider myself very well behaved and educated. She ignored me and told me to not tell my parents. How should I tell them if they are never there in the first place?

I did some research again, which mainly was asking Simon. I know, getting down on his level is a hard sacrifice. He told me that a Mary Ann is a boy who behaves like a girl and isn’t manly enough so they love other men. I thought about that for a long time. What is it about me that makes me a Mary Ann?

The writing in the book started to get better and appeared way more elegant. You could find little drawings here and there. Edwin was quite a good and realistic artist. Drawings of flowers, buildings, his nanny, his mother or Sherlock Holmes.

1912

Mother is constantly coughing loudly. It is irritating. Not even cocaine will help. They don’t let me in her room. They fear I would catch it too. Not that I was ever close to her before.

Mother is in a special hospital now. She took the train far away in a hospital in the mountains. No one ever returns from there. I know it. Everyone does. I will not see her again.

Mother died of tuberculosis. I miss her, I guess. I don’t know what I miss. It is a change. I hate changes.

1913

Father is sending me to a boarding school for boys. He says it’s for my education. I know, he just wants to get ride of me.

I hate the new school. Simon is here and people are still calling me a Mary Ann. Simon started to join them. I guess he sees it as a new opportunity to mock me.

I take fencing lessons now. It is nice, since it is not required any sort of touch with other boys. Nothing that I can be blamed for.

1914

I found a hideout in the school attic. It is a great place to read in peace.

The world has started a war. It worries me. They tell us that we are save in the school. But in the end all you can do is pray.

I came back home on Christmas. My nanny was gone. Father said they would be no need for her any longer, since I am in school now anyway. He looked like he knew something, but wasn’t going to tell me.

1915

The next page had some blood drops on its pages.

I want to go home. I want to be back in my room with my detective books. I want to be healed from this darkness inside of me. My nose is bleeding from another attack by the other boys. They started to get more violent now. Simon isn’t joining them, but he watches.

I came home on Christmas, but it wasn’t my home anymore. Just a house. My father didn’t speak a word. I asked him, if it was about the war and he looked up towards me. I could feel his cold gaze from across the table. He took out a letter and slammed it on the table. It was from my headteacher. I was confused. I am class best and the best behaved student in class? The only reason why I get to stand in the naughty corner is if I got caught reading in my comics or books. In my defense I am usually already finished with the exercises if I read in class. What could possibly be a problem with me? The letter was about the other boys calling me Mary Ann. And that they didn’t wanted a boy like that in their school. That I should stop whatever was wrong with me. My father told me in his absent voice, that he was not having a son like that either. He had exchanged letters with the headmaster for quite some time now and I didn’t seem to get better. I asked him that I had no idea. He interrupted me as always. Told me that the only way to make me a man would be to send me to war. I started to cry and he continued holding a speech about heroism and that his generation had understood this so much better than mine. I am too young for war, he knows that too. He told me that the only thing rescuing my life is my good grades. He sees potential in me as a lawyer. He has talked to the Surnames-von-Hovercrafts they agreed that I should marry their daughter as soon as possible. I mean I knew that I would be married to Cordelia one day, but not already when I turn 16. That’s only some months away.

As the train brought me back to the boarding school and as I saw my father standing in the doorway of the house with his usual expressionless face, I knew that this was the last time I would see him and that he wished to rather have no son than me. I just knew it.

1916

Simon stole my hat. I wouldn’t mention this minor form of his bullying, if it hadn’t been a special hat. My mother and I bought it, when her disease hadn’t been noticeable. It was too large back then, but it suits me now. Or rather suited. I don’t think I will see it again as Simon comes up with the best ways to either destroy or hide it. I cried about it. Childhood is over, but honestly I don’t think it ever started in the first place at least not for me.

The numbness is spreading inside my body. I think about the military and the forced marriage daily. I am too young for this. I cannot even properly cope in a classroom. How am I supposed to cope in the war? My hands are to soft. My brain is too precious. Please, spear me. They won’t. It is just a question of time.

I went to the lake today. It is spring and still fairly cold, but I went inside non the less. It was cold. Ice cold. I went under water and yelled out some poetic nonsense. I thought about staying under water. Turning into Ophelia. But I reminded myself, that this is something a coward would do. A Mary Ann. I would proof everyone’s suspicions as correct. Scared to live. Scared to die. I got out of the water. My gaze landed on my clothes and the letter. My father had written me that the marriage would be held in some days, since I am 16 now. I ripped the paper in half and tossed it into the ocean. Letting the water destroy the writing on the paper. Of course this would make nothing undone. I would still need to marry. I would still need to go into the military. I would still need to die. I am frightened. The other boys seem unbothered. They laugh and play like the world isn’t ending around us. Well, their world is probably not ending anyways. They will live. Their parents are rich after all. They have the privilege. I would have had this privilege as well, but they took it from me by putting this name on me. I took it from myself with my impure thoughts.

Cordelia sent me a telegram that just read that I would need to be careful as death was approaching me in the worst way. I hate her for that. As if I wouldn’t know that. As if I wouldn’t know that I needed to go into the army soon. Not a single word about our forced wedding. I thought we had always agreed to both be against it. But then again she isn’t even trying to love me. Not that I would try. Not anymore. I tried when I was younger, because I was told to. But Cordelia has just no idea how to react appropriately to a gentleman. Her behavior makes it hard to believe that she is from such a high rank.

I saw Simon with a weird book today. He told me it is from his brother and that it is about demons. I told him that this was total nonsense and that he should get a grip on reality. He didn’t spoke to me again after that. Weird for someone who is as annoying as him. I am going to put my notebook in the pocket of my sleeping clothes tonight just to make sure Simon cannot steal it. I have a bad feeling in my stomach. My heart is aching for absolutely no reasons. I am afraid as I try to sleep tonight and the worst thing is that it is irrational. I am going to die alone, this is all my head produces right now.

Now every page was covered with blood at the side of the pages and sometimes even on the writing itself. There were no drawings to be found anymore. Just drawings for the escape plan and hierarchy of hell.

I don’t know if my dates are correct. I don’t know how time works in here. I don’t even know how long I am able to write without this thing waking up. This thing with the many doll heads. This spider like creature that kills me every time I move or make a sound. I sometimes wonder what happened to the other boys.

I try to change my perspective. It is hard when you are in so much pain. My brain learned to be sharper now. I can think and act quicker. I need to see this as one of my old detective games or as the times that I had to run away from my bullies. Everything is achievable with logic. Although I would say after being in hell for such a long time that might be a delusional optimism.

1988

I think I made it out fairly well. I am still uncontrollably shaky when I hear any noises. I fear that this demon might comeback to get me. I am back in the old school attic where they strapped me down on the table and sacrificed me. I learned a lot from hell and from the books in the attic. Like the basic ghost rules or that my death and the death of my bullies were labeled an act of god. I compared hell to the war a lot. After all I would say that hell was definitely the worse death. Much longer torture than war would have been. In the war you die just one death after all. But maybe a Mary Ann like me would have ended up there anyway.

I finally was brave enough to get out of the attic. I figured out that the year is 1988 from a newspaper that one of the teachers was reading. 72 years of torture. I wonder how often I was torn apart in this time. But I shouldn’t think about that. That reminds me of the pain and of the times when I tried to count my own corpses. The school hasn’t changed a lot. The teachers are less violent, but still rather strict. They have more lower class people here now. I can see it by the ways they behave and by the clothes they wear. That is especially confusing for me. So rude, so explicit, so freely. It is not a boarding school anymore. Luckily that gives me the freedom to have my peace after dark.

I started to watch a specific boy. I am not a stalker. At least I wouldn’t use this therm for a ghost. He is just interesting for my scientific research about this time. The boy has a darker skin. Some children in this school have this skin and get picked on, but somehow he isn’t the one who gets pick on. He wears very interesting clothes. Especially the golden earring. Something I would just see a woman wear, but it fits him so much better than it could ever fit a woman. His clothing is mostly black, though I would say that the red shirt he once worn fits him best. His lips have always a smile on them and he cracks loud jokes. But I see the sadness in his eyes. I recognize my own sadness in his eyes. His name is Charles Rowland. I heard the teacher yell it at him. A little trouble maker in class. He seems to never be able to focus. Maybe he is also possessed like I was when I was a young boy. But after experiencing hell, I doubt that the priest back then had any idea what a demon was really like.

The following page is filled with a very realistic drawing of Charles, who is smiling so iconically and his eyes seem to be filled with emptiness and some smaller doodles of Charles playing Cricket or talking to others.

Charles Rowland. His name repeats itself in my brain. I am not obsessive. He is just the best way of distraction I can find in this school. Distraction from the fear of hell. The fear of death coming back for me. Analysis and observation keep me away from those horrible thoughts. I have less panicle outbursts since I started my observation of this boy. Although when I am alone at night in the school attic I often start to cry in silence and my breathing races again.

Charlie. That is what his friends call him. It doesn’t suit him. Charles is his name. Not Charlie. I don’t like his friends. They are rude. They remind me of the boys in my old life. I wonder why I like Charles then. Maybe because he points out obvious misbehavior of the group even if they mock him.

The most interesting time is when Charles thinks that he is alone. That is mostly in the dressing room, when he gets ready for Cricket. As a short notion he is a fabulous cricket player, but he always waits till the other boys have changed and are out of the room. He pretends to struggle with his shoes or shorts. Even if that sometimes means that it is getting really dark outside. His smiles fades completely then. I saw the scars on his body. I feel bad for even looking at him in that state. Seeing a boy my age without a shirt is clearly inappropriate and it triggers the Mary Ann inside of me, but sometimes my detective senses is taking over too much. Especially after I saw all the scars and bruises. You don’t need to be that clever to understand that his family probably his father beats him. Although beating may be a too mild verb for those scars. I appreciate the absence of my father when I see him. My father and teachers used to beat me as well. With a ruler or the flat hand though not as much as my classmates. And after being through hell, that all seems like nothing in comparison. But even in my time no father would have mistreated their sons like that. I speak from a higher class, maybe it had been different in the lower class, but they were happy if their sons made it through childhood without a disease or scars so they could work properly. Although maybe they did this with the child workers. Is Charles secretly a child worker? Is there still child labour? Why would someone bruise their son like that if their son could provide a great income for the family? Or how many things was Charles doing something seriously wrong?

1989

His friends talked about me last night. They had cricket practice until the sun had settled and on the way back home I heard them talking about a school ghost. The janitor must have heard my weeping last night. My hysteria yesterday was indeed a lot. Too much to handle for myself. I think I was shaking till dawn. This vivid fear must have crossed over into the living world. They told Charles, that this had scared the janitor and he quitted. Then they told him of Mary Ann who was sacrificed 1916 and killed all the boys that night. Charles questioned this logically, since it was an all boys school, so there probably was never a girl. I certainly appreciate his thinking, but this just triggered a lot in me. Being called a Mary Ann even after all this years. Being remembered only as a Mary Ann. Being blamed as the murderer. Those boys clearly had no idea of what the term Mary Ann actually meant, but it just triggered me so badly that I started to panic again. My panic must have bursted through the worlds again, because the boys suddenly turned white and ran home. Charles stayed a little longer. Looking in my direction. I know he couldn’t see me, but maybe he could sense my panic more than the other boys could. Again we are much a like if you observe closely. After this strange second of him just starting into nothing and me starting back, he ran away as well.

I need to leave this place. But I am too scared. Too scared of the outside world. Too scared of the changes.

I wanted to leave today, be brave enough. But I heard Charles ‘friends’ talking bad about him behind his back. How weird he behaved. They had no idea about his scars. Then again if I would be his friend, which is rather unlikely, I wouldn’t confront him. I know how horrible I panic if someone says the word Mary Ann, I imagine that it is a similar situation for him with his scars. I stayed. I don’t know why. Again irrational fears.

I wish I would have left. I saw Charles defending a boy who got bullied by his so called friends. I felt tears in my eyes, because this was the kind of protection I had wished for when I was alive. I definitely feel too many emotions at the moment or maybe it just feels like more emotions because I was mostly numb in hell. The younger boy could escape with only a few bruises, but his friends still were in this blood lust. In this moment of still wanting the fun even though there was nothing funny about the action in the first place. I have seen those faces before. The faces of murders who only realize their actions when it is too late. They stoned him in the cold water. The water of the lake in which I once thought about killing myself a long time ago. I wanted to help. I wanted to stop them, but I had no idea what I could do. I am too new in this ghostly body. I tried desperately, but I ended up only pausing them by holding them back for a short time. It gave Charles time to ran away to the school building. He hid in the attic. I wanted to help him. The least I could do was by giving him a light. He was in a state where a floating light probably was his least problem. It turned out that he could see me and that was the moment I knew it was too late for him anyway. It was a strange sensation to properly speak again. I had never spoken in hell and in my ghost form I had only weeped. Hearing my own voice was odd. I was shortly surprised that I still knew how to use my voice. Reading to him from one of my old comics in the attic calmed him and gave me the opportunity to adapt a bit to talking for a longer period of time. He stayed with me, which honestly stresses me out a lot. I am not made to be a friend. I have been isolated for too long to be a good friend. I have been in hell for so long that I am probably a horrible person myself. I haven’t talked in so long. I am just adapting to just have conversations, how should I teach him to be a ghost, if I haven’t figured it out myself? Even if that all would not be the case and even if we would not be from different times, still I never have been good with other people. I never had friends. The only person a bit close to me was Cordelia and she was always more a sister for me. And still he chooses a stranger his own afterlife. From my observations I would blame his intentional behavior. He sees something and does something without thinking long. Although this decision might be too big for only this explanation.

I really can’t understand why Charles is choosing me over his afterlife. I just read to him once and gave him a lantern. He barely knows me and now he follows me everywhere. I showed him some ghost tricks and somehow I can really impress him by everything I say or do. But he made me smile for the first time in my life. So I am impressed by him as well. Whenever I read in this book, I just tell him that I like to keep record of things. That I would plan were we can go next as we no longer can stay in the school and waking around without plan is never good for too long. It is partly a lie I really am making a plan. But I do this in my head rather than writing it down, but it is an excuse for not letting him see my private writing. I tell him that it is rather boring planning and he believes me. I feel bad for lying to him, but if he would know about my past he surely would leave me and I would be all alone again.

We mirror traveled together to London. Charles felt a bit sick after it. He seems to still need to adapt to his ghost body. I was a bit overwhelmed with his sudden mood shift. I have been too selfish all my life and in my death so much that I don’t know how to help. He didn’t notice or he just didn’t say anything. But we had to mirror travel, it was too dangerous in the school after Charles died. Besides Charles is a talented and athletic boy, he will get the grip of it. In addition death could have caught me in the attic. I didn’t tell him why I am on the run. Not yet. I fear that once I tell him that I was in hell, he will think I am evil. Maybe that is true. Maybe I am just doomed. I feel like it was my fault that he died. I watched him so long with this incorrect feelings of mine. Maybe this cursed him like in a Greek tragedy. For now I just want to make sure that Charles is not alone. I had been alone for too long to know how dreadful it can get and he is much more social than I am.

We visited his family in London. A real rural area. His mother was crying over the loss of her son. His father just seemed to see it as a natural thing to happen to those who aren’t careful enough. I made a mental note to haunt this man every year to Charles’ death day without telling Charles. The school, once again, swept the problem under the carpet and made it appear like an accident. How can someone possibly stone himself while being in the water and then run in an attic? No clever detective would see that as the solution. I said that out loud and it turned out that Charles and I both share a passion for detective stories. That was something to make him smile. But he started to cry again as he saw how desperate his mother and sister were. He hugged me, which was a lot. I never have been hugged before and at first it felt like this demon from hell was gripping around me again. I froze in place and pushed him away in a reflex. Charles stopped. I didn’t tell him about the hell part, but I told him that I am not used to hugs and touches in general. He took it in surprisingly well, but for his own sake I added that I might could get used to it. I hope that I am able to get used to it. Charles sees it as something that he can teach me.

It was just a matter of time till my hell trauma wouldn’t be able to keep hidden anymore. We were in an abandoned apartment, since we both are not staying out the whole night. We don’t have to sleep but it is just too awkward. He usually talks through the whole night and I like his voice even with his weird way of talking. He likes me reading to him. He even carries all my books for me. But as we explored the abandoned house, I discovered an old doll. I overreacted I know. But there was just so much panic inside of me all of the sudden. My fight or flight mood was activated again. I don’t know what Charles did. I don’t know how he managed to stop me from repeating the word ‘Please spare me. I don’t belong in hell.’ I vaguely remember his hands securely holding my head and his shining dark eyes and his calm voice, but I don’t remember his words. He was confused by my sudden changed behavior, but he tried to not show that whole calming me. Once he had calmed me, I obviously had to tell him the truth. I gave him the opportunity to leave me again, but he stayed and he understood, said that this is probably the worst thing someone could have been through. We didn’t speak the rest of the night, but we continued the next day as if nothing had happened.

It is harder to continue my writing as Charles could find out and I don’t want him to know about this. He is so lively. He is jumping and sprinting around, while telling me things and just appears from behind. I cannot risk that. We have a detective agency now. We don’t want that others have their deaths so badly twisted as ours. Another reason was that he had introduced me to a game called Clue, which is basically a detective game, and then we both came up with the idea of starting our own detective agency. He is the brawn and I am the brain. It fits perfectly. We even managed to get a abandoned flat in London. I probably have no time to continue this memoirs, but I will make sure to use my notebook as a case lock book from now own.

I will never tell him about the real meaning of the word Mary Ann. I will never tell him that I had been in the school for a whole year and not just shortly before his death. I will never tell him that I have watched and observed him. I appreciate him now too much. I don’t ever want to lose him.

After that only a whole lot of cases and notes and questions on them followed.

#dead boy detectives #edwin payne #charles rowland #dbd #dbd fanfic #dead boy detective agency #dead boy detectives fanfic #payneland #crystal palace #niko sasaki #Spotify #payneland fanfic #fanfic collab

23 notes · View notes

coquelicoq · 2 days ago

Text

Shuuichi had always found autumn a lonely time: his breath a haunting ghost in the air; branches stretching, naked and imploring, to an indifferent sky. His birthday, never a particularly populous occasion, was in November. After his first magazine profile, shortly before his twenty-first birthday, he had started getting mail about it from fans, which only made the lack of any in a personal capacity all the more jarring. The first time Natsume wished him a happy birthday, he barely kept the surprise off his face. Surprise, and something else, something tangled he couldn't quite name, despite his hard-won expertise in identifying and replicating emotions. There were too many facets, overlapping, mutually exclusive in a way that should have canceled out, but didn't.

Natsume said it awkwardly, of course. He seemed unsure if it was all right for him to acknowledge Shuuichi's birthday, given he'd only learned about it through some friend of his who was a fan, and only in the second year of knowing Shuuichi.

"Of course it's all right," Shuuichi told him, the wind pushing them forward as they walked side by side. "It's nice, actually." It was many things, but nice was one of them, so it wasn't a lie.

"It's just," Natsume said hesitantly, "I know birthdays can be complicated." Shuuichi had time to wonder how he could have found out (Did such a vast reserve of spiritual power allow a person to read minds?, he wondered, not for the first time), before Natsume continued, "When I was younger, it was easier if no one knew when my birthday was. Then there couldn't be any expectations."

Shuuichi thought, Garden variety childhood neglect, then. Nothing to do with those strange, fleeting years of having somebody to share birthdays with, or the years after, when he knew what he was missing. But Natsume wasn't wrong, either. He thought, briefly, of his own early birthdays, waiting to see if his father had remembered, and knew it must have been worse for Natsume. This kid, with his big heart, with his undampened spirit—or rather, dampened and in the process of undampening. Shuuichi felt a familiar rush of affection that didn't even hurt anymore.

"And now?" he asked Natsume. "How are you feeling about your birthday nowadays?"

He looked in front of him, at his breath, at those damn branches, giving Natsume time to respond. "I'm…still getting used to it," Natsume admitted after a moment. "It's weird, having people pay so much attention. It's hard to get used to. And…maybe I don't want to get used to it."

In case it stops, Shuuichi completed mentally. It was easier never to trust, and never to be disappointed. It hurt less. But it wasn't better.

Shuuichi turned and gifted Natsume a smile. He had so many different smiles: charming smiles, ironic smiles, selfie-with-a-fan smiles, smiles for when a stranger professes a desire to eat jelly beans out of one's belly button. Dozens upon dozens of smiles for every conceivable occasion, labeled and slotted into place in his mental storehouse. He had crafted them, each one; they were his tools, his currency. But this smile was one he felt like Natsume had created—or maybe it had always been inside him, in potentia, and Natsume had been the one to wake it up.

It was gentle, this smile. Like Natsume.

"It is hard," Shuuichi said. "But I'm proud of you." It didn't really make sense, didn't seem to follow directly from what Natsume had said, but Natsume ducked his head, embarrassed, and Shuuichi, feeling merciful, changed the subject.

Natsume took him home for dinner, where the Fujiwaras also knew what day it was, and where nobody said anything about why he didn't have anywhere else to be, anyone else to celebrate with. They thanked him for coming, like he was the one doing them a favor. Touko-san made a huge meal, a feast really, and in front of Natsume's foster parents that cat of his couldn't even make snarky comments about puny human lifespans. It was a good birthday, his best since…well, in a while.

They offered to set up a futon for him (it's already so dark, it's cold, all that time on the train!), but he had an early shoot in the morning. He was halfway home when he realized he'd left his glasses behind, but fortunately he always carried a spare. He wondered what the Fujiwaras thought his glasses were for, now that they knew he could see well enough to forget them.

Off the train, through the park, along the water. Twenty-five. A fake number. Most days he felt himself already an old man. The wind picked up, scraping the denuded branches against each other. He felt loud, present. With the noise he made wading through leaves, surely anyone could hear him coming from a block away. Unless, of course, it was drowned out by the sound of the wind, and their own wading.

A crack ahead, and something thumped to the ground. A small branch, snapped off, still covered in maple leaves. Ironic, that the bare branches should be fine, while this lively specimen, heavy with color, had fallen. But then again, those branches weren't dead, were they? Maybe it was their lightness that had saved them. And they would be green again, come spring.

His building now, thick with warmth. The elevator: a weary man, face and suit equally creased, heading home late from the office. His door, and now he was inside, taking his time untying his shoes, not wanting to turn on the lights, which were always depressing at night, glaring off white walls stark and unforgiving against the darkness.

He went over to the phone and plugged it in, in case someone tried to call him about the glasses. If Touko-san found them, she'd be sending Natsume out here with them as soon as possible, which wasn't necessary. In fact, maybe he should call them first and head off the possibility. What time was it now? Was it too late to call?

A ringing. Speak of the devil. He picked up the receiver, but suddenly it occurred to him this could be a curse call instead, not about his glasses at all. In his moment of hesitation, a voice came down the line.

"Shuuichi-san," it said, natural, like it hadn't been years since he had heard that name from that mouth. "Happy birthday."

A beat. His heart began to pound, knocking against his gums. The lizard burrowed frantically under a sleeve. Not Natsume, and not a curse. Or not the kind of curse he'd been thinking of. Shuuichi clutched the phone. He felt—what did he feel? Why must there be so many nameless emotions?

He didn't know what to call this. But he felt something stirring, a familiar sensation. A smile, a different one, dormant, waking up. It was groggy, and far from his mouth, but it was there, it was possible. It had been there, waiting, for spring.

"Seiji," he said, with a mouth that wasn't smiling but could learn how. "Hello."

#hexfest2k24 #natori shuuichi #horrible exorcists #my posts #natsume's book of friends #natsuyuu fic #natsume yuujinchou

20 notes · View notes

cryptid-deity · 6 hours ago

Text

[Images description: screenshots of a selection of paragraphs from the linked source. Contents copied below.

But even this, I think, is only part of the story. I've never met a progressive White person who holds any affinity for their identity as White. To be clear, they may hold quite a bit of affinity for their White privilege. But to be identified as White holds no positive valence for them -- there's no "White" traditions that they wish to pass down to the next generation, no "White" holidays they fondly reminiscence about celebrating. "Whiteness" holds no meaning for them other than as a repository of privilege. At most, there is a sort of a contingent pride in "acknowledging their Whiteness" as an awareness of their social positionality, the pride in not indulging in denialism surrounding their implication in White supremacist systems. But this is quite obviously a very different sort of "pride" than one might have in being, say, "Irish", or "Norwegian", or "Black", or -- at least in theory -- "Jewish". It's not pride in the substantive identity of Whiteness as something worth cheering and preserving; it's pride in recognizing a sometimes-obscured wrong and being committed to rectifying it.

This logic undergirds those who've argued for "abolishing Whiteness" -- as an identity, Whiteness lacks substantive content aside from its status as an organization point for unjust privilege. So the only thing that those raced-as-White would miss if "Whiteness" went away would be those privileges, and since those privileges have no right to exist, there's no legitimate loss in eliminating Whiteness altogether. Norwegian, Irish, French -- these at least conceptually have some genuine cultural content that isn't solely about domination and hierarchy, so why not revert to those registers and let Whiteness wither? And in a different register, the lack of affinity towards "Whiteness" as an identity is what buttresses many White people's support for radical colorblindness: they don't care any which way about being identified as "White" (the identity); they just want to keep the privileges. So if they can jettison the identity ("I'm just a person") while preserving all the privileges that Whiteness historically offered, that's a cost-free deal.

For Jews, though, things may be different. Notice, first of all, that the conscription of Jewish into White is not operating in the same way as it does for, say "Irish", where the ethnic identity demarcates the proper place to retreat to after the racial identity is abandoned. Irish may be associated with Whiteness, but Irish isn't conflated into whiteness; one might or might not characterize Ireland as a "white supremacist state" because of this or that policy, but I don't think it's common to say that the very concept of an Irish state is "white supremacist" by definition. By contrast, for Jews the "retreat" into the particular Jewish identity is taken to be the problem; paradoxically, it is taken to represent an embrace of Whiteness rather than a means of distinguishing oneself from it. In this way, while there are many ethnic groups which have in various ways been incorporated under Whiteness' umbrella, few if any have been so entirely conflated into Whiteness as has Jewishness, such that essentially any collective Jewish expression (no matter who does it, and in particular no matter the phenotype or social positionality of the expressor) can be immediately recategorized as "White" with no perceived loss of data (this also fits with what I'll talk about below, about Jews being seen as the paradigm or extreme case of Whiteness).

And to the extent that Jewishness gets conflated and forcibly assimilated into Whiteness, then Jews who are asked to slough off their "White" identity are being asked to dispense with something important. Even if we think that the existence of Israel means that Jewishness grants "privilege" (in Israel, perhaps; in America, hardly so -- as Wachspress observes, Israel doesn't seem to actually be making diaspora Jews all that much safer), Jewishness does have substantive content as an identity that, unlike Whiteness, is not reducible merely to privilege. And part -- not all, but part -- of that identity relates to a connection to Israel. Indeed, one can see how the efforts to present Israeli culture as entirely invented and concocted -- purely a product of theft or appropriation -- is an attempt to forcibly locate it into "Whiteness" by depriving of it any genuine substance that might carry value aside from structuring a form of domination. It's no accident how often the more extreme anti-Israel activists return to this well of fictiousness -- "Israel" in quotes, "the Zionist entity", any way of denying that Israel has any authenticity or truth to it, a tangibility that might engender real and thick bonds. It's an effort to slot Israel into the Whiteness framework; other identities may have bitter parts of their history or practice along with the sweet, but Israel, like Whiteness, only has existence as a tool of violently unjust hierarchy. But the lie of this move illuminates the truth of the problem: unlike Whiteness, Israel is a part of many Jews' substantive identity, it is not simply a manifestation of colonial privilege made real. And therefore, it is not cost-free -- not remotely -- to be asked to jettison it.

For non-Jewish Whites, disassociating Israel is the best of all worlds: it removes oneself from an identity they do not care about, in service of abandoning "privileges" that they do not actually possess. Wachspress understands this: as she says, "for these non-Jewish white students, Israel presents a way to condemn whiteness without implicating oneself, to support anti-racist ideology in a way that doesn’t lead to shame and self-abnegation." Or as I wrote back in 2010, "all the joy of liberal guilt-induced self-flagellation, except the wounds show up on someone else's body."

At the end of the day, there's almost no chance that Jews will be able to do this. For one, non-Jews actually don't want Jews to do it since, to reiterate, Jews successfully disassociating ourselves from Whiteness threatens the coherency through which being not-like-the-Jews lets other White people work through and past their own Whiteness. The pressure from progressive non-Jewish Whites is not for Jews to cease "doubling down" on Whiteness, it is for Jews to obediently accept their new anointment as the paradigmatic Whites. For two, the forcible conflation of Jews and Whiteness makes the implied demand that we slough off not just our Whiteness but a large part of our Jewishness (almost half the world's Jewish population! A land that is and always has been the centerpiece of Jewish liturgy, theology, and cultural reference!) an impossible one to realize -- to quote Du Bois, we would not leave it if we could, and we could not leave it if we would. And of course, the functional impossibility of the "choice" on offer is in service of the implied desire that the choice not be made; it is better for non-Jewish Whites that Jews remain White, so they can serve as an exemplar of the demon they've successfully wrestled within themselves.

So what we're left with, perhaps, is a world where everybody but the Jews is able to successfully work through and past their Whiteness.

End description.]

So much of this boils down to white guilt and the desperate desire to shift that guilt onto some other racial group that they can label as Even Worse Than The Whites and therefor be absolved of ever having to think critically about their own actions and privilege ever again.

#antisemitism #food for thought #long post

352 notes · View notes