#but if it was a series of choices. a years-long pattern of choices ingrained into your very personality

[oflgtfol]

man i get that i set myself up for disappointment by like crafting my idea of eddie's backstory in my head prior to actually reading it in the comics but like. god. i hate that the comics set him up to be a weirdo from day 1

i find it so much more compelling to have him be a completely straightlaced normal guy with a promising career in journalism ahead of him, who makes one mistake and finds himself unable to cope with it and so he just Snaps overnight

as opposed to the. like. chronic liar and opportunist weirdo that dark origin 2008 made him out to be.

[ephemerlskies]

constant craving 04 (final) | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: “drabble” series, best friends to lovers au, slight angst, FLUFF, bestfriend!au, unrequited love, smarter idiots but still idiots all the same

⇢ word count: 6.8k

⇢ warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol, excessive drinking (drink responsibly), pining, jungkook is an overdramatic baby, a surplus of feelings (i am disgusted with myself), one (1) fire hazard

⇢ summary: with the Friendiversary approaching quickly, both you and Jungkook have an array of trials to navigate through. and, as Seokjin gets caught in the crossfires, you must finally make a decision that will define how the rest of your life will unfold. 

♪ playlist: constant craving - k.d. lang, bad religion - frank ocean, misunderstood - lucky daye, neu roses - daniel caesar ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 (final)

a/n: wow.... so bitches really call this a drabble series then write a 6 thousand word finale... its me im bitches... anywho, i really love the way this played out!! jungkook had to hit the bottom to start rising to the top and it shows. also, the ending is like....... hehe well ill just let you all see for yourselves. enjoy my lovely readers! this wrapped up such a heartfelt series that is so dear to my heart. thank you all for the support for this! and i might whip up a few drabbles simply because i think this relationship is really cute hehe ok... happy reading! <3

part four: i love you too

Carrying that music box in his pocket felt like a well-deserved and all too grim reminder of what went down a few days ago. Sitting drunk yet again, though one would best describe Jungkook’s posture as more of a sloven pile of flesh and bones withering away on a bar stool, he searched for the wallet which was in one of his four pockets.

He reached for the wrong one. Instead of the faux leather skimming his skin, it was a solid wood corner pricking the pad of his index finger. It stung more than it should have. Perhaps he'd gotten a splinter, or the top layer of his skin was simply too raw from all the wear and tear of your fight. Jungkook wasn’t one to jump at such negligible shocks, but it sank him back into that night. It wasn't the wooden corner at all.

You loved him. You still love him.

That's what you said. That's what nearly put him on the floor instead of in his chair, and what had been preying on his mind as if he were no different than a helpless animal drowning his regrets in whiskey. And he knew he should have said it back. 

Jungkook theorized ways to defy the cruel restraints of time, and if the universe would be so kind as to allow him to travel back to that day in middle school when he happened upon a scared, flush-faced student running so fast and panicked that they bumped into each other, just to be the one who said 'I love you' first. Or those genies and shooting stars and blessed fountains that supposedly granted wishes; he would pay no hesitation to plead with whatever deity would listen and permit his most prioritized desire. 

The retrospective bargaining remained a ghost haunting just about every waking moment of his life. Though, he had not been quite sure if said ghost was some cosmic sent presence or simply his own guilt. If regret took on physical ramifications, then Jungkook would have been convinced that was why he felt as if his legs wouldn't have been able to carry him even if he tried.

If I could just go back to that night with the knowledge I know now, I would have hauled my ass to your house instead of that club and told you that my choice was made for me the moment I met you. Every other person I ended up with these past twelve years was simply a buffer for loving you. I had to prepare myself, because loving you was something entirely too tremendous for a boy still grappling with his own faulty speech pattern to assume.

I wish you knew that. I wish I didn’t stand there like an idiot and let you leave, thinking me some hero for finally letting this new guy Seokjin take the place I had always imagined being in. I wish I had just said that I love you.

I love you.

I love you, ___.

Jungkook’s vision resembled that of a smudged lens. However, there were no fingerprints on his eyes. The world had turned blurry and colorless, the latter he knew was not due to the sixth order of whiskey he let soak into his heart’s open wound. 

A life of color was one of the many things that left when you did.

He didn’t know it then, but Jungkook was being fervently dramatic since it had not been more than seventy-two hours the last time he spoke to you. Thought to him, it was akin to being just short of death and taking another breath would have been an expense he wasn’t sufficiently funded to pay. 

Whatever happened in the interim of him paying his tab and walking out onto the sidewalk must have landed somewhere in the blacked out stretches of his inebriated memory, since he was now staring at your contact gleaming on his phone bearing the semblance of one guardian angel.

It was so ingrained into his routine. Opening the app with the phone icon, clicking the ‘recent’ tab, and finding your name no further than three contacts down the list because he called you as if he had important things to tell you, though normally it was just to hear your voice or to tell you about what he had for lunch. And it nestled into his muscle memory as natural as it was for him to breathe or blink. Even when alcohol debilitated his driving, walking, and thinking, his body was drawn to seek a haven such as yourself. And he nearly pressed ‘call’.

Before the comfort of your voice could ring through to his phone, reality descended upon that reflex. Right now, you were probably with Seokjin, attending some pretentious art gallery for one of his colleagues.

It was just Jungkook and the night sky and the moon that he hoped you were gazing at too; it would be the only connection to you as of now. The moon, a parcel for the most longing gazes.

There are stories where the two protagonists get it right. This was not that story. That reality stung more than the residual burn of whiskey clinging along his throat.

Both you and Jungkook made every wrong decision possible. From the moment you subjected yourself to exploiting the veneer of being a ‘good friend’ to disguise any true feelings that might have taken light, to the moment Jungkook was presented with all the excruciatingly obvious signs that you were in love with him, but was simply too inept to notice, to the both of you neglecting any urge threatening the bounds of platonic. Any path that would have steered to a destination where you two would get that happy ending was conveniently untaken.

And you had a long journey riddled with heartbreak after heartbreak to prove it.

He traded his phone with that wooden music box, scuffing the soles of his shoe as he walked back home, hoping he’d be able to give the gift to you on your Friendiversary.

-----

Your pain was still raw. In this way, you had not considered, or rather avoided the idea of tending to such delicate wounds. The days leading up to the infamous anniversary had been spent hoping you would organically heal enough to allow the presence of Jungkook while denying another reopening in your wound.

You had been juggling a not so thrilling number of conflicts the three days preceding that self-acclaimed national holiday.

One, Seokjin and his bottomless supply of invitations that you felt too obligated to refuse. He had such a life packed with plans which is more than you could have said for Jungkook. He, most likely, busied himself with promoting ranks in some obscenely violent video game. Two, a mutual friend of yours had told you Seokjin was fixing to make your relationship official this coming Friday, and you didn’t want to admit the lackluster reaction upon hearing the news was equivalent to receiving a C on a test. It wasn't the worst grade to receive, but you knew there would always be something better than adequacy. Not satisfying enough nor disappointing enough to be dealt with without bending a few expectations. And three, all you really wanted, the only agent of excitability (both good and bad) that diluted the festering numbness in your heart just a tad more, was thinking about seeing Jungkook on your Friendiversary.

But with that excitement, was its equally worrying constituent: whether or not you would be able see Jungkook that day without cracking under pressure.

Things weren’t exactly attuned between the two of you. Your emotional stature had never been more unsynchronized and offkey with Jungkook’s, so, forcing a celebratory movie or dinner would be no different than adding cornstarch to the already thick tension.

“___? Are you listening?” Everything Seokjin had just been droning on about filtered in and out without a single word being absorbed, and you could have pretended this wasn't the case but  stress had apprehended caring enough to lie.

“Sorry… No, I wasn't. I’m just stressed is all.” Since that was only a half lie, self-admonition had not yet taken permanent residency whenever you would look at Seokjin’s eyes offering nothing but genuine tact.

“Oh, sorry to hear! Are you okay? Anything you wanna talk about?” That, and the soft press of his hand over yours had swallowed you into a perpetual, guilty cycle of comparing two incomparable people.

Seokjin was always like this. Serving a gentle smile and honest ears as a vessel of calmness during whatever calamity you were grappling. It was safe knowing if you fell, you’d have a comfortable cushion to soften the impact. He was mindful with his words and had the intelligence to articulate them with impressive eloquence. You were more likely to see pigs fly than to see him stutter. He had a diverse group of friends and walked a steady path to a financially secure life. And you started to wonder what else one would need in a partner? Any sensible person would do much more than you had to snag someone like Seokjin, as handsome as he was kind and respectful. He seemed to have everything Jungkook lacked, including mutual feelings for you.

It would have been entirely too easy to pick him, as if there was a ‘Seokjin’ button and a ‘Jungkook’ button and you could press Seokjin’s on a whim. If choosing him would have meant miraculous nullification of all your very real and very unremitting feelings for that idiot you called your best friend, then you would have done it in a heartbeat.

There wasn't a 'Seokjin' button or a 'Jungkook' button, nor was there a button that would wondrously redistribute your feelings towards Seokjin.

And then there was Jungkook. Always in the back of your mind when he wasn't tenanting the focus of it.

He was never predictable in the ways that mattered. It was just as difficult figuring out his next move as figuring out whether this trait was exciting or exhausting.

Though, this had not been to say you didn’t know him well; in fact, all his habits and preferences and pet peeves could be bound into a book, written by you, and it would be so accurate anyone who read it would think it was an autobiography. He knew you to the same caliber. Where Seokjin would ask what was wrong, Jungkook wouldn’t need to. He already learned your behavior to know to say something along the lines of ‘tell me what’s wrong when you're ready, we can watch your favorite movie or swing by that Chinese place with those great fried dumplings in the meantime’. And on more favorable occasions, he'd say nothing and simply wrap you in his arms and let his shirt become a delta for your tears.

To anyone else, that might sound entirely too frank and perhaps a bit dismissive to be comforting, but to you it was the exact cure for each affliction. To never need explanations that would validate your feelings because Jungkook saw to that right when he took notice; to never manufacture fake smiles through failed attempts at cheering you up since, of course, he knew exactly what to do to vegetate joy in your heart and earn a smile from years and years —and years— of practice. It had almost driven you mad, thinking about how he knew from a shift in your brow what you were feeling and yet, somehow, never realized how deeply in love you were.

All the while, the moment you were convinced you had been versed fluently in his every move, he would pawn another blindsight that would leave you breathless and amazed all the same. Jungkook always had concealed tricks up his sleeve, and life was anything but repetitive with him. You would more often than not find yourself struggling to relearn language and existing itself just to keep up with him. How exactly he managed to wield such diametric facets of being was an enigma beyond the reasoning of this universe.To feel like home, somewhere you belonged outside of your own body, and a daring voyage into a completely new world all at once must have meant he was some sort of Godsend. Only angels could have sculpted a soul so magnetizing, you assumed.

Seokjin was an umbrella, shielding you on some arcane journey under an unforgiving rainfall. Your shoes kept dry and your hair intact.

And if he was the umbrella, then Jungkook was the rain. Falling everywhere and all at once, so that you couldn't help but let yourself be saturated in his entire, vibrant being. And who’s to say letting such a water fall against your skin was a bad thing? Sometimes rain is cleaning, gentle even. They bear fruits as beautiful as rainbows that guide you to an unnamed treasure.

Your treasure, however, had a name.

Jungkook calling.

"___? Hello? You in there?" Seokjin waved his hand in front of your face mostly in a jesting manner, but part of him felt like your eyes were blinded by something held in your heart. If he hadn’t pulled you back into reality, you might have been lost forever.

“I'm just…” Your attention had abandoned this conversation the second his name gave light to your screen. “Sorry, um…”

“It's okay, you can take the call. I’ll be in the kitchen making us some coffee.”

If you were to thank him profusely, it would have been far too obvious how much you missed seeing his name among your notifications, and most likely expose how often you spent thinking of Jungkook while you were supposed to be enthralled with Seokjin. So, you just nodded and answered the phone.

Nodding and answering, as though that didn't feel like taking a breath of clean air after hours of swimming through muddied waters.

“Hello? ___?”

“Jungkook.” It took you longer than usual to form a response and what was assembled had been a half-baked utterance just to let him know you were on the other side of the phone, hearing his voice and feeling a surge of energy course through your veins like he was some delicious narcotic filling life into you after only a week without him.

“___.” Jungkook was in his own debt of words as well. The exchange halted for a few seconds, a jaded breathing cutting the cracked static.

“Look-”

“Hey so-”

Any hope that you had finally caught up to the same page as Jungkook was lost. Now, it seemed you two were reading entirely different books.

“You go.” You said after another dreadful pause. He was the one who called, so he should be the one carrying the burden of navigating through this deafening tension.

“Well, I- uh��� I… Well, you see I was just, um, wondering…” Jungkook’s heart must have shut off. That would explain why even the most rudimentary of words felt closer to a foreign language. Or, why he was making conscious efforts to counteract the threat of his nearly dormant lisp.

His brain was drained dry of any blood, his inner mechanisms were shutting down. Even without the alcoholic filter catching words and common sense in its web, Jungkook felt himself fall into an overactive state of dumbfoundedness. Sobriety only a cataract for his emotional override. 

“Our friendiversary?”

“I’m sorry, I did not understand literally anything you just said.”

“Me neither.”

The charming and familiar laugh that spilled through the speaker reminded you that Jungkook was in fact a real person. Not some figmented embodiment of every lost and unrequited and tortuous feeling you had been suppressing for twelve years. Jungkook was real, his laugh and everything else you loved about him were all so incredibly real. And more importantly, the pure joy you felt was real; a permanent serialization of his. Your smiles and his smiles had always surfaced in tandem.

Now, you both were laughing. Neither were warranted by his messy attempt at forming a coherent sentence. The weight of discomfort shedding from your shoulders had been partnered with a slew of relieved chuckles.

“Anyway, um. I- I still wanna see you on our Friendiversary. Or, at least give you your gift.” Admitting that was terrifying but the thought of breaking the consecutive streak of eleven years simply because he was too much of a coward to admit he wanted to see you dizzied him. However, the thought of spending your friendiversary alone terrified him beyond comprehension. So, he thought not about that as a possibility; he carved an opening to his heart in hope you wouldn’t send sharp thorns of rejection into it.

“Yeah, I, uh. I still wanna see you too. I mean, it is a national holiday. We gotta have holiday spirit, right?” You were forcing playful banter, it felt like lemon juice scouring cuts on your tongue, but you were so desperate to make things between you two feel normal.

“You’re right! So, um… You can come over tomorrow night. I’ll set up a surprise or whatever.” He seemed to have fallen back into stride with pre-confession Jungkook. Trying to keep up with him now would just exhaust you of all your means, so you chose to save the rest for tomorrow night. Even if that meant watching him walk away to some unforeseeable finish line; his back, the last part of him you’d see until you could finally collect your broken pieces and start walking as well.

“Sounds good! I’ll, um, see you then.”

“See you, ___.”

You had no idea, and how could you, that Jungkook was now wiping small clusters of wetness from the bed of his eyelids. Why he thought you, the one person that remained a constant in his life, would say no to him over one fight (of many) made for quite the spill of tears. But if you did know, you would have told him you felt like crying too.

"Hey! How did everything go?" You were so immersed in your virtual conversation with Jungkook you nearly forgot the person you were presently with. The train of guilt wouldn't stop for your pathetic attempts at disembarking.

"Oh! Thanks for the coffee." You sipped, and it had just been a stall to blink away the tears that were straying beyond your will of concealment. "It went good. We're still celebrating our Friendiversary."

"Friendiversary?" Seokjin's light chuckle veiled his tense concern.

"Yeah... Uh, it's just this thing we do to celebrate our friendship. The day we met."

"Oh... that's..." His eyes were scaling the rim of his mug.

"That's what, Seokjin?" You were stern, knowing well enough it was born of far more than platonic defensiveness. And you had no right to be the one prosecuting him since you clearly had more to hide than meets the eye.

"I mean, it's just interesting how dedicated you are to an anniversary with a friend." Seokjin wielded that soft-spoken voice which made it difficult to be anything but patient with him. And from the tone of it, he seemed to have no ill intentions with that statement, though it had not been an entirely innocent observation. To you, however, it felt like he might as well have set you on fire.

"Interesting? What is that supposed to even mean? I mean, we've been friends for twelve years. I- I don't know why people are always so judgmental." Your arms crossed over your chest, hoping he would take notice how much his comment slighted you. If asked, you would have insisted you would have been this worked up over any of your friends. Though you knew well enough this was untrue, and it made you feel even worse acting as though Seokjin was the one at fault here.

"I'm sorry. I'm not judging you, really. I just... I just have never heard of two friends doing something like that so religiously."

You sighed out all your anger, knowing the way you snapped at him was merely misdirected frustration. "No, I'm sorry. I know it's kinda weird."

"Look, I get it. You guys are close. But, ___, you talk about him so much that half, no, over half of your stories include him. We've been dating for, what, barely a week now, and I know more about this Jungkook guy than I know about you, and I haven't even met him."

Lips parted, ready to dispatch another slew of defenses to refute all the things he said. It was more disappointing than it was shocking to find nothing but a long sigh emerging. Because he was right. Jungkook has been interwoven so thoroughly in your last twelve years that if you only told the stories without him in it, then it would be the least accurate and nondescript retelling of your life. Fragments of an unfinished novel. It would miss the most crucial pieces, entire chapters, of your story.

You would have been presenting a shell of you, hollow and one dimensional. All the inner parts of you, the lungs and veins and tissue that gave you life and made you whole belonged solely with Jungkook.

That's why you sat there, blank faced, foolishly waiting for the words that wouldn't come to your aid because you had no place to contend with him.

"Seokjin... I'm with you..." It's all that would come up your throat, and it felt like acid. You were sure it burned his ears when he heard them more than it had your throat.

It hadn’t even been partially true. Physically you were with him, but in your head you were sitting on your couch with Jungkook, consuming a concerning amount of junk food while chatting through a movie used more as background noise than entertainment.

"Okay. Does that mean you don't have feelings for him?"

"Well..."

"Can you confidently say you could replace all the time you spend with him with time you would spend with me?" Seokjin must have noticed your returning tears because he loosened his verbal grip from your throat. To you, it sounded like he was pacifying you for some horrible sin, to anyone else it sounded as though he was simply trying to dredge up feelings that would disrupt the chance of a relationship between you and him. "___, I like you. I really do, but in all honesty, I'm looking for something serious. I think we would be great together, but only if you don't have any feelings left for him."

"Seokjin..." You regretted looking at him.

Sweetness was strewn in his eyes and gentle smile. Seokjin was softer than cotton, which made the real threat, the rough sandpaper wearing away skin and bones, you. It made it all the more painful to know you had been keeping everything you felt for Jungkook hidden from Seokjin. Though, if one would have presented an objective point of view, your feelings were far from secretive. And the most brutal honesty was that you knew feelings for Seokjin were never in your attainability. Not the way they always had been for Jungkook.

He was the wrong person who crossed paths with you at the right moment. A mere convenience. And you knew he deserved much more than what you had to offer.

"And maybe I'm being an idiot, but I like you too much to give you some ultimatum which would put you in such an unfair position. So, I'll let you think this over." His compassion felt more like a sharp blow to your chest. “No pressure.”

If he hadn’t smiled like he did, then you would have broken up with him right then and there. It was not possible to rip away such tender hope away from a smile so sweet.

"I'm sorry." You meant the remorse behind those words and it still hadn’t amounted to a proper consolation. "I'm sorry. I guess... I guess I'll go... Seokjin?”

“Yes?” He replied quickly, and you knew only a pace that rapid was one brought on by a sliver of faith that you might have made your decision right then.

“You’re a really great person. You deserve the world.”

Unfortunately, you couldn’t give him what he wanted. And as bitter and unkind as that might have felt at the moment, it was the only bit of truth and relent you could have offered him.

-----

In your bed, sleep became somewhat of an abstract desire. You knew your rest was deprived from you when the digital clock on your bedside told you it was six hours past the time you'd normally fall asleep. It was because you really did have a choice to make now.

To choose Seokjin, and know you'd collapse in the safety of his reciprocated affection, though haunted by how you would never feel the fullest extent of content. And you would live with that until resentment and distance wedged irreversible damage in your relationship.

Or, to choose Jungkook, which would catapult you into a depth so dark and tenuous that you would have no idea whether you'd meet gentle snow or hard, deadly concrete when you landed. And maybe you'd never land at all; maybe you would be caught in a state of falling down and down forever, until your beating heart eventually stilled.

Which one was worth it? Which were you willing to risk? These were the questions that kept you awake.

The hours leading to your undisclosed celebration events with Jungkook ceased being actual points of your existence and merely obstructions that you had to plow through in order to arrive at some conclusive moment. Something that might give you an answer to all your questions. Something that might have released you from devotedly checking your phone for a Jungkook patented text or call.

You were turning into a half-being. Someone who could only inhale a full breath, laugh an intentional laugh, and sleep a soundless sleep when their other half was there.

If you thought being in love with Jungkook for your entire friendship was pathetic, then you couldn’t fathom what you had become now.

Standing in front of his door, the same one you lugged him to that night he was too drunk to balance on his feet, when you willingly carried all the weight he couldn’t, when your lips became acquainted and comfortable with his within half a beat, you felt as if this chunk of wood was mocking you. A partition barricading you from Jungkook. Your Jungkook. The man you always felt you were on the outskirts of, with only a window to peer into his unreadable mind. And that was enough for you ―until now.

Now you were going to knock on that door with your hand, make him open it for you, and walk into his home. You would be the one to step foot inside of the very structure that only solicited closed doors and immovable walls and fogged windows. And you would leave behind your timidity, every feeling and urge that left you with disappointing compromises for the sake of maintaining this friendship.

You would be selfish, and he would finally feel a mere glimpse of what you have always felt for the best and worst of your life.

Even when he opened the door, arming a smile that actively disarmed you, this home of his was yours to conquer. This was your time to act for you alone, despite how many smiles he sent your way. You had not any weapons or shields or an infantry for a clutch. You just had your heart and all the love it carried. 

“Hey! ___, you look… You look great.” There was no real incentive for him to censor how he truly thought you looked. Immeasurably beautiful. It was simply his own nerves impeding on the feelings that were too intense to express without it being followed by an entire soliloquy of I love you’s.

“Thanks... You too...” You could almost feel the words brimming in your and Jungkook’s mouth, carrying such raw emotions and longing intentions.

"I'm really glad that- Jungkook..." Walking into his house punctuated what you were about to say.

His living room was strewn with enough candles to steal the last of your words and to consider his house a fire hazard. That didn't negate this lovely sea of lights to be anything but romantic and thoughtful. A bit cluttered, and not at all perfect, but it must have taken Jungkook hours to set up every wax column. The thoughtfulness of this gesture would have astonished you had it not been for the consistency of Jungkook snatching your breath and words away whenever he tried. It was antithetical, the way you expected his surprises. Yet, always surprised all the same.

Unpredictable, completely surrounding you just like the rain.

"I had to turn off my fire detector but... Worth it." Jungkook considered the number of mishaps that could have dampened any chance of this being romantic.

A candle could tip over and set his entire place ablaze, the wax could leak onto his carpet and tabletops, damaging his furniture and savings for replacements, you and he could have suffocated from all the fumes steaming from the wick. But if that look on your face didn't feel like the only bit of revival to keep his heart's steady beating, if your eyes didn’t look as though it was the only set of eyes that shed beauty into this world then he wouldn't have used up exactly three lighters to pull this stunt. But it did, and he felt warmth and color return to every inch of his body.

He would have used hundreds of lighters to ignite thousands of candles if that meant an ounce of happiness from you. He wanted to say that, but he knew the candles said it for him.

The spectacle almost made you forget why you were here in the first place. It almost made you forget the resolve you managed to gather before entering. And then he said your name.

"___."

The letters flowing from his lips as if they could only be pronounced by his tongue. It sounded so good. So good, that if anyone else were to say it then it wouldn't have been your name at all. It would have sounded wrong, sullied. And it wasn't supplied by neat articulation, this new belonging of your name in his mouth. The need for him to sculpt your name into this world was more than that. "I will never forgive myself if I don't get this out while I still can."

"Jungkook, what is all this?" You didn't know why you felt a collection of tears brimming along your eyes, but you didn't care to figure it out. Perhaps you felt an influx of feelings, an abundance too heavy for your body to seal within the confines of your emotional seams, so they overflowed in the form of tears. This certainly had not been the first time you cried over Jungkook, but you had never cried over him like this.

"___, I love you!" Jungkook said loudly. It was just you and him who could hear, but it felt as though he wanted the entire world to know.

"What? I- You- What?" Your lack of verbal poise was indicative of your love for him once again taking the reins of your mind and heart. Words were a luxury you couldn't afford as of now. You just had to feel everything you were feeling until the rainstorm settled. The hope that he would spare you some remnants of fluency was far along, and you weren't too sure if what Jungkook was about to say would be gentle enough to leave you with any words at all.

"I love you. I don't know why I didn't know it sooner. Or maybe, I- Maybe I did know?" Jungkook sighed at his own ineloquence. "I'm stupid! That's it. That's my only excuse. I'm so stupid. The way I felt about you, the way I still feel about you, is something I thought all best friends had. I thought everyone felt like the moments they weren't spending with their best friends just felt like filler moments. Like, every day I spent without you was just a span of time I had to wait out until I see you again. Like every damn moment of my life is spent waiting for you. And if I don't end up with you then... then I'll never stop waiting."

"Jungkook, I-" He prevailed in surprising you, taking words and breath and thoughts all at once.

"And, I'm that stupid! I really thought all best friends had those moments when they stare at you, and- and-" Now, you weren't the only one with wet eyes and cheeks. "And I just feel like looking at you and being with you just makes me better. It makes me a better person, or something, and it makes me feel like... Like I'll never get hurt again. And even if I do get hurt, I know it's you I want to be there. I know that whenever something bad happens to you, or when you feel like crying or when you're happy or angry or anything that I want to be the one who gets to be by your side. When I look at you, all I want is to love you. To love all your pain away."

"You really mean that?"

"Yes! God, I love you." You didn't notice how it happened, but Jungkook's arms became a shield around you. Inside his arms you were indestructible. Your hands pressed against his cheeks, memorizing the plush, smooth skin. The world could hurl all the fire and ice it had, but it wouldn’t matter. "___, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out. I'm sorry that in that period, I hurt you. Please, forgive me. I love you, and I want to be with you."

"Of course, I forgive you. I... I can't believe this." Hearing everything you always wanted from him was drastically different when it was actually unfolding. It was a million times more than any hope or dream you used as a salve for your longing. It was everything.

"Maybe it took so long because I was afraid. Because the idea of loving you was something I wasn't ready for. Even though I did love you, God, who was I to take on something as fragile and crucial as loving you. I know I probably would have messed it up. And, fuck, maybe I'm messing it up right now. But I just needed it to be perfect. I needed loving you to be perfect because I don't want to give you anything less than that."

"You were always enough for me, Jungkook. More than enough. You were and are everything to me" His arms that pressed you further into him expressed how happy that made him. 

"But I'm not perfect yet. I might mess up... A lot. No, I'll definitely mess up. I don't know if I can offer you perfect yet. But I do know that through everything I have never stopped loving you and I will never stop loving you."

"Jungkook... I don't know what to say." Your thumb grazed a falling tear from his face. Jungkook had not cried often in front of you; and you could tally up the amount of times he had on your fingers alone. But when he did, it was still as beautiful as when he was smiling or laughing or even scowling.

"You could say you love me back." You did. You loved him, his smile that was currently on a mission to melt your heart, his arms that carried both the good and bad parts of you, his wit that you always relished in. All the reasons to love him were an endless flowing river. If you were lucky enough, you would catch a glimpse of each beautiful current and be able to give name to the gravity that pulled you into him.

"I love you too, you idiot." The last word caught in your throat because your lips were being kissed instead.

His lips. Warm and exciting, allotting your being with an infinite devotion of his. And it was more than you could have ever hoped for.

It felt like fire. Like a grove of candles encapsulating the origin of heat. You and Jungkook, holding each other so close, you could have become one. Hot and all-consuming of anything in its path. If one stood too close, they would suffer scorching embers that stray from the orange pyres. Seokjin, Irene, and any other unassuming casualty that had the misfortune of stepping between the two of you, harboring the burn scars to remind them of what fumed from their interference.

Every element concocting between you and him was that of a bright flame, cremating pure metals and wet woods and thick forests alike.

You were in his home. His arms and lips and hands told you it was your home as well. All that time spent wondering why you could never slip inside before was never because he didn't want to let you in. And the thing is, you never thought to knock until now. You sat outside in a silenced hope that he would voluntarily open that door for you. But unknown to you, Jungkook seemed to be waiting as well. Waiting in a large room with empty spaces where you belonged and where he kept reserved for your residence alone.

He waited even when he wasn't quite sure of who he was waiting for, or if you would ever actually spill your warmth into his home. He waited until his fingers turned to ice and his eyes fell to exhaustion, for you to walk inside.

"So, you're like my boyfriend now?" Your voice brushed against his smiling lips.

"Yeah, your boyfriend, or whatever."

"You know this means you have to top next year's friendiversary. And I mean, all these candles? That's gonna be tough." It could have counted as sensory overload, the feeling of his palms flush against your back, the tip of his nose grazing yours, the bright array of candles illuminating the room. But you were so, incredibly cold without him that this felt like solace to you.

"When have I ever disappointed you?" Jungkook regretted what came out of his mouth too late to stop himself from saying it.

"Oh, I couldn't count the amount of times on my fingers alone! What about that time you forgot our chains for the tires on our trip to the mountains? We almost died." His eye roll only encouraged you to continue. Maybe, if you were lucky, he'd equip that cute pout whenever he wanted his way. "Or what about when you swore you brought water, but three miles in on our hike you had that look on your face. You know I reminded you to get water and you swore you did. Or what about-"

"Okay! I get it! I fuck up, jeez." He scrunched his nose, his eyes waning into crescents courtesy of that grin of his. You counted the number of wrinkles along the bridge of his nose as you always did, though you had acquired an expertise in the geography of his face. Each line and angle and ridge were now and eternally yours to restudy and marvel. "Hey, uh, almost forgot."

He reached into his front left pocket. "I, um, kept carrying it around thinking I'd see you somewhere. Kinda dumb right?"

"Not dumb." You opened the tiny box, wound the handle until the spring felt tight and you could see the throngs prick the textured wheel, and it was one of those moments where you didn't see a gift in your hand. You simply saw his thought and sentiment manifested as a box of wood that sung a tune.

All the things Jungkook wanted to give you, the sun and the moon and the entire universe were not his to give. So for now, he settled for this music box and there would be a day when he would collect each celestial being and place them right into your hands. Maybe then, he would feel less of a debt for possessing such a love like yours.

"This is... I love it. Thank you, Jungkook." You smiled, but it was motivated in the hopes he would smile back. You thought he deserved that much, at least. And he did.

"Sooooo... Can I tell Seokjin that you're actually in love with me and that he sucks ba-"

"Um, absolutely not!" As always, his crudeness and slight inability to remain mature for too long only wedged you deeper in love.

So, terribly in love. Your state of constant craving for Jeon Jungkook had been left barren. That desolate, solitary province was no longer yours to take residence in.

You had a home now. And you had no need to crave Jungkook anymore. He was right here, holding you.

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.”

a/n: okay, cry with me.... these two.... such hopeless saps for each other i'm here for it. final destination is simp city... also (spoiler) it is completely canon that irene and seokjin bond over their mutual heartbreaks and get to smitten hehehe. anyway, my loves i hope you enjoyed this finale as much as i enjoyed writing it!!! it was a short but heartfelt journey with these two and i will miss their idiocy sm. thank u for your endless support i love u all!!! <3

[rainbowbutterfrosting]

The Revived - Chapter 6: A Talk

This is chapter 6 of the dream smp fic @dramaticsnakes and I are writing. Thank you to @r0w3n-1n-d0ugh for beta-reading this chapter!

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Tubbo, Ranboo, Ghostbur, Phil

Word count: 2,988

Cw:  Eating/food, major angst, loneliness, bottling up emotions, trust issues, fear of abandonment, discussions of betrayal, implied suicidal thoughts, loss of purpose

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.

The table was already set before they walked down, three chairs and a hightop were around the table. As Michael sprinted towards the dining room, everyone else walked at a moderate pace. Wilbur found himself sitting at the chair furthest away from the little family. While Wilbur didn’t mind imposing on most things, the domestic scene before him appeared private, as Tubbo gently lifted Michael to the highchair. Everyone sat down, and as Wilbur saw the food on the plate, he realized that it had once again been quite a bit since he ate. He looked at the inviting steak, and cut off a piece of it with his knife and fork, shoving it into his mouth, embracing the taste.

“What’s that?” Ghostbur asked in awe, causing Wilbur to feel a little abashed, as he realized what was going on. Wilbur swallowed. “Mm, this steak is really good,” he said in response, and Ghostbur gasped excitedly.

The steak was actually quite delicious. He didn’t remember tasting Tubbo’s cooking in a while, which of course made sense, all the years at a train station considered and all. Though this was clearly food, made by someone who cooked proper meals frequently, which was an interesting change, from their time in the wars. A change that left a strange stinging sensation in Wilbur’s chest that showed up uninvited every once in a while, but was fairly easy to quench. 

“Thank you!” Tubbo said with a cheerful smile.

“There wasn’t much food in limbo, you know.” Wilbur commented, eating a bigger piece, “In fact, there wasn’t anything. I tried to lick the walls once or twice, but they tasted worse than the walls in this world.”

Tubbo’s face turned slightly pale, and he chuckled awkwardly. “How do you know-” he trailed off and shook his head, “Nevermind.”

At that moment, Wilbur realized that all this time being dead, made people look at Wilbur strangely, and treat his comments with a new sort of hesitance. What would usually have been met with laughter, was met with stares and grim silence. 

But Wilbur’s words were just something everyone else would have to get used to eventually.

Ranboo sat next to Michael, cutting the steak on Michael’s plate into tiny pieces. He tried, to little avail, to put a piece into Michael’s mouth, which Michael looked away from quickly. “Come on, Michael, it’s dinner time,” he said gently.

Tubbo turned to his husband and his child- which was a sentence Wilbur still hadn’t gotten quite used to thinking- and tried to assist. He smiled nervously, as he grabbed another little piece. “It’s good for you, Michael. And delicious!” he took a piece from his own place and ate it, followed by an overexaggerated hum of satisfaction. 

Ranboo took the fork and asked Michael, “Do you want it?”

Michael shook his head no, slightly pouting. Ranboo gasped, “But steak is so good! Well…” he aimed the fork for his mouth instead of Michael’s. “I’ll gladly take it, steak is one of the best things ever.” When Ranboo opened his mouth to eat the steak, Michael made grabby hands towards the fork.

Ranboo barely held back a laugh, “But this is my steak isn’t it?”

Michael shook his head again and moved his head towards the fork. Ranboo smiled, his plan working exactly how he expected it to, “Alright, I’ll let you have a bite.”

Ranboo led the fork to Michael’s mouth as the toddler took it gratefully. Michael even dared to make a face towards his father that could only be described as a pure soul attempting to look evil. Ranboo gasped dramatically, “I thought we taught you better than such manners!”

Michael snorted as he opened his mouth for another bite. Ranboo cut up a small piece of steak when he was casually interrupted by a series of knocks on the door. The specific pattern flew by Wilbur, but he felt instinctively that they were a planned order. Tubbo got up at the same time as Ranboo.

“I’ll get it,” Tubbo assured him.

“You already made dinner. I’ll do it,” Ranboo pushed his chair back in.

Tubbo walked towards the door, “I’ve got it, Boo, spend some time with Michael.” Ranboo’s shoulders noticeably relaxed at the nickname.

“Alright,” Ranboo sat back down and picked up Michael’s fork. He led it towards the toddler as routine, occasionally making comments about how he wished for a bite so Michael wouldn’t get suspicious. 

Wilbur took the moment to remember his recent conversation with Ranboo. Why did Ranboo believe Dream was such an antagonist to imply that it was obvious why he held such distaste for him? There wasn’t blood on Dream’s green hoodie, but Ranboo clearly saw it on his hands in a way Wilbur couldn’t understand. “Why do you hate Dream?”

Ranboo tensed, “I- well, hate isn’t the word I would describe it as…” While Michael was chewing he ate a piece for himself. If Ranboo was actually hungry or trying to delay the conversation, Wilbur would never know.

“Then describe it.” Wilbur was tired of the lack of knowledge he knew. Before he was decently satisfied, but his curiosity demanded more when Ranboo mentioned Dream. 

Ranboo chewed on his steak, clearly longer than he needed to. “It’s not really too important on the word choice, it’s just-” Ranboo looked at Michael with a fondness as he slowly got another bite for the boy. “He’s done a lot of things,” Ranboo’s voice was almost a whisper.

Ghostbur hummed, “People don’t really like Dream. I can’t recall much of him, but… he did something bad. No, a lot of things bad. He did some bad stuff to… to Tommy! Made him really sad.”

Wilbur nodded from Ghostbur’s explanation as it was more helpful than Ranboo’s. He was about to ask what Dream did to Tommy, but his thoughts were interrupted when Tubbo spoke, “Guess what, Michael, Grandpa’s here!” Wilbur looked over and saw Phil rolling his eyes at Tubbo’s word choice. 

Wilbur remained quiet as Phil’s eyes lingered on him. 

Phil’s expression was akin to concern, and Wilbur wasn’t that fond of it. Once again, he felt as if he was on display, and as if he’d given something away he should’ve kept to himself. “Techno said you’d be here,” Phil said quietly, and he waited for a few moments as if he wanted a response.

Wilbur didn’t know what satisfying response he could give. “Did he?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, as he jokingly added, “You know, I almost managed to forget how much of a bastard that guy was.” Ghostbur gasped in a worried kind of way, though he didn’t say a thing out loud.

Phil hummed and walked towards Michael. He gave the toddler a fond pat on the head, a gesture that reminded Wilbur far too much of a less tainted past. Phil looked at Ranboo and Tubbo. “He’s grown a bit since the last time I saw him,” he said.

“He has, hasn’t he?” Tubbo said proudly, “He’s been eating well too, mostly. We had to take away the yellow crayons. He has quite a taste for gold.” he chuckled.

Phil laughed, as he continued to pat Michael, who had excited sparks in his eyes. When Phil turned his face towards Wilbur however, it changed from laughter to a simple smile. Wilbur had the urge to walk away, though he stayed put, taking some more bites of his steak. “Listen…” Phil said, after a few casual greetings to the child and the parents, “Can I talk to you for a second, mate?”

Wilbur tensed up because he knew it was directed at him. The word alone hung in the air as well, implying that this would not be where the conversation took place. In short, that meant this was a serious conversation, and unfortunately, Wilbur had a vague idea of what it was going to be about. He nodded, more sheepishly than he would’ve liked to, and stood up from the table. Phil excused the both of them, and the two of them left the room together.

When Phil opened the door to the outside, Wilbur started to wonder if this was the moment he would be backstabbed, though he knew the reasoning was much more emotional and intangible than something like that. A backstabbing would be easy to tackle. A conversation with a concerned father was a lot less simple.

The two stood outside in the snow, and Wilbur was reminded of their first meeting after his revival. “What is it?” Wilbur said sharply.

“Wil…” Phil said softly, “I uh- I was wondering if you’re doing alright.”

Wilbur scoffed at the question, “I clearly am.”

“Wilbur,” Phil said more sternly, though not out of anger but more so out of concern. “I’m worried about your… safety- that might be the best way to put it.”

Wilbur nodded, but he barely meant it, “Understood, Mr. Minecraft, I’ll make sure to look both ways before crossing the street.” The words meant to come out in a playful way, but they were sharp with edges that hurt himself along with Phil.

“No, I-” Phil closed his eyes, focusing on his word choice. He opened them again with a look that lingered in melancholy but tried to look hopeful for Wilbur’s sake. “Techno told me about… your burns and I…” Phil took a deep breath in to try and address the topic directly, “Why did you go into the nether without any armor?” The words were quiet, but solid by themselves. 

Wilbur couldn’t hold back an eye-roll from how many times he’d been asked that today, Phil slightly frowned at this. “I mean, it doesn’t exactly matter much anymore. I’ll be more careful next time I go.”

Phil pursed his lips, “You don’t understand the point.” Phil sighed, “I’m worried about you.”

Although it shouldn’t have, it caught Wilbur off-guard. He didn’t ask why, because he knew he’d get a default answer about how he was a human being and his son and probably a sob fest that he’d heard before. He wasn’t a child anymore. He knew his place in the world. His place didn’t have any room for his father’s concerns. “I don’t need your pity about how it’s hard for me to get used to living again.” Wilbur didn’t even intend for that to slip out. He didn’t need to tell Phil anything. He didn’t need someone to be against him despite acting like they cared.

A part of him painfully thought how that description didn’t fit only one person.

“I know it takes a bit of practice?” Phil awkwardly laughed before his calm tone returned, “But you can’t get better at being alive by being reckless. It would be like saying you can’t use any measuring spoons while baking. I- We’ve got spoons, there’s no need to go through extra pain.”

“What the fuck does me going into the nether and tripping have to do with spoons?”

Phil’s tone softened, “You know what I mean.”

Wilbur looked at the snow around him, not being able to bear Phil’s sad look anymore. “I frankly don’t.”

Silence lingered in the air. It wasn’t a comfortable silence that made you enjoy the moment. It was harsh and uncomfortable to breathe in.

“Wilbur…” The tone of Phil’s voice tugged on a part of him. It was an idiotic part that needed to acknowledge that he wasn’t going to be Phil’s child again. He was just a disaster of a failed nation that everyone seemed wary of. 

A disaster of a son as well.

“You should go home.” Wilbur refused to meet his father’s eyes. Instead, he stared at his white breaths in the frozen air. 

“I don’t want you to leave again without me knowing when you’re coming back,” Wilbur told himself that he didn’t hear the small crack in Phil’s voice. He wanted to go into his father’s arms and have a moment where the two were together in a warm house in front of the fireplace. Instead, he settled on wrapping his own arms around himself. They weren’t warm to his body. They didn’t provide what he needed. Tears formed in his eyes at the thought of going home with Phil and pretending that things weren’t different now.

But everything was different. He hated that. He hated how the only laugh he would get was a small chuckle as everyone assumed he was a child that didn’t know the dangers of the world. He died three times. He knew danger better than anyone else would. He’d been betrayed more times than he could count on both of his hands. What if Phil got the courage to stab him unprompted? To bring a sword in the night and take care of everyone’s problem? “You should go,” Wilbur’s sobs almost escaped him as tears silently slid down his face. 

Phil sighed. “You know where to go if you… yeah…” Phil’s footsteps moved through the snow behind him, slow at first, only a pause stopping them. Phil wanted Wilbur to ask him to come back. Wilbur knew this. He knew he was an asshole, but he needed independence. It was ironic that he fought for L’Manburg’s, yet, it was still out of reach for him. 

After a few seconds of mutual silence, Phil’s steps continued, fading slowly. When they stopped again, Wilbur turned, perhaps to apologize but saw no one in sight. It took him a moment to realize Phil already went through the nether portal. 

Phil was gone.

He wasn’t coming back. Wilbur put a hand over his mouth, he had learned to cry silently during one of the wars. A quite useful skill if you asked him.

But no one would ask him. He was a fucking idiot that couldn’t hold onto anyone, no matter how much they asked him to stay. Yet, no matter how much he held on, he was always alone. They didn’t even leave on day one or two. No, no, no. They had to leave years after he knew them. They had to make Wilbur think he could actually hold onto them before they left.

Wilbur’s legs collapsed as he sobbed into his hand. He put his other hand on top to make sure he didn’t make a noise. He didn’t need Tubbo nor Ranboo to discover how pathetic he was. They had their family. They were happy. They didn’t need Wilbur. No one did. Tommy held a grudge against him, Technoblade thought of him as an annoying child who couldn’t handle himself, and Tubbo only took him in out of pity. 

And that didn’t even touch on Ranboo. Ranboo must’ve hated him by now. He asked a few too many questions, lingered on topics a little too long. 

He supposed that Michael cared about him. But at such an age, the kid probably cared about every little piece of grass. He wasn’t special. He was just another blade of grass that could barely make an impact. His unfinished symphony was a finished crater covered in glass, his name typically regarded out of spite instead of love. The feeling was mutual. 

“I- why did neither of you say goodbye? I thought after 6 months apart you would be constantly talking, since being in here is really lonely…” Ghostbur’s voice started to crack as small cries escaped from him. “I thought time makes the heart grow fonder, not angry and sad. No, bitter. That's a better word for it.”

Wilbur spluttered slightly, as he scoffed through the sobs. “No no, it’s… Thank you, Ghostbur, but it’s-” he stopped, his eyes widening, and his heart seeming to take a break from beating for one fleeting moment. “Excuse me-” he said, his eyebrows suddenly furrowed, “How long did you say we’d been apart?”

“Half a month. No, wait, half a year but also six months since they’re the same. Well, there’s probably a few more days added-”

Ghostbur was cut off by Wilbur’s astonished words, “I- I wasn’t there six months.”

The disbelief rang through his ears louder than Ghostbur could ever speak. Thirteen years hadn’t passed. Thirteen and a half years hadn’t passed.

Six months.

Just six months.

[echo-bleu]

all this time I had feathers

This is a fill for my @shadowhunterbingo square Christmas Fic. It's part of my map out a world series (with autistic Alec), but it should stand on its own. I only remembered I had a Christmas square on my Bingo yesterday, so this is written in two days and unbetaed!

Our boys run into some competing access needs over Christmas. I've given hints that Magnus has ADHD in this series and it's still not really explicit here, but I will write a fic more focused on that at some point.

The title is from a truly beautiful theater play that's unfortunately only available in French, Plume by Alistair Houdayer. The play uses a bird as a metaphor for autism and the full sentence is "All this time I had feathers and you lied to me?" (translation is my own). It's about discovering that you're autistic after years of being shut down and ignored.

Read on AO3.

-

Alec sighs internally as he opens the door to the loft and hears music. It’s been like this for days and he can’t take it anymore. Magnus has been hanging lights everywhere and blasting Christmas songs at every chance, and Alec’s headache hasn’t left him for days. Thankfully Christmas is tomorrow, so maybe it will stop afterwards.

Although that might be too optimistic. Alec has never really done anything for Christmas before, beside a quiet exchange of presents with his siblings, but he knows the decorations in shops don’t go anywhere until the new year. That’s one week away. He’s not sure he can do this without blowing up again.

He takes a deep breath. The last time he was here, this morning before his shift, Catarina and Madzie had dropped by to bake cookies with Magnus and Alec barely managed to contain himself until they left, exploding as soon as he and Magnus were alone. He said things he didn’t mean, and things he definitely didn’t mean to say in anger. He doesn’t even know where all that rage comes from – it’s just a deep, twisted feeling inside, his skin crawling until he can’t take anymore of the twinkling lights and the cheesy songs.

He stormed out and he and Magnus haven’t talked since, not even by text.

“Alexander,” Magnus says coolly when Alec finds him in the apothecary, bent over a potion of some sort. The smell coming from it is horrendously strong, though not bad per say. It smells like mint and maybe cinnamon – not that Alec is very good at identifying scents, but they’re ones that he usually likes.

“I’m sorry,” Alec forces out, even if the irritation is rising in his chest again. “I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t know what came over me.”

Magnus looks at him for a moment. “I have to admit I didn’t expect to spend most of Christmas Eve wondering why we’re even fighting,” he says slowly. “But you were obviously angry, and it can’t have been because of the flour all over the kitchen, since I cleaned that up straight away. Can we sit and talk about it calmly?”

Alec nods, breathing through his nose to avoid the now overwhelming smell of mint. “Are you nearly done with this?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll just bottle it up and then I can join you. Make yourself comfortable wherever you want.”

Alec breathes in relief that Magnus isn’t so angry that he’ll ignore their comfort for the sake of arguing. But it makes what he’s about to ask all the harder.

“Would you please turn the music off?” he asks as neutrally as possible. He knows it comes out monotonous and emotionless, and he sees Magnus tense at it.

But contrary to the expected retort, Magnus looks up and assesses him for a moment before he sighs.

“Oh, Alexander,” he murmurs, and the music stops. “Go. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Alec nods and turns on his heels. The sudden quiet in the loft feels like heaven, although he can’t look anywhere without being assaulted by bright and colorful Christmas lights. In the living room, he freezes for at least a whole minute, trying to decide between the comfort of the couch and the table where there are slightly few visible light garlands if he sits facing the windows. The choice feels too hard to make right now and—

Alec makes himself move and goes for the bedroom instead. Magnus said wherever he wants. They usually avoid having fights in the bedroom to keep it a sanctuary of sorts, but maybe this is a needed exception.

He flops down on the bed, looking in dismay at the fairy light garlands hung all around the room. He doesn’t hate fairy lights, he’s the first to admit that they’re pretty – when used with some semblance of moderation. Not when they cover every square inch of the walls. He sighs and closes his eyes, slipping under the covers despite the fact that he’s fully dressed. The weighted blanket immediately grounds him.

He hasn’t slept properly in a while. Maybe that’s what’s making him grumpy. There’s been a surge of demon activity in the city, on top of all the Clave ceremonies he has to attend this time of the year. That means he’s been on call or in Alicante almost every night, and sleeping during the day with this damn music on is near impossible.

When Magnus finally joins him, he’s nearly asleep. He presses his fists into his eyes, trying to force the tiredness out of his head. Magnus doesn’t say anything as he removes his jacket and slips into bed beside him. He still smells faintly of mint and cinnamon.

“Darling,” he says softly after a moment. He reaches out, but he doesn’t touch Alec, settling his hand an inch away from Alec’s arm.

Alec tries to make himself cross the gap between them, but it feels too big right now, his skin still crawling. He makes an aborted motion of apology.

Magnus picks up one of the long golden necklaces he’s wearing and offers it to Alec, without removing it. It has a pendant at the end, tiny intertwined circles that can spin around each other. Alec latches onto it without even thinking about it, finding comfort in both the stimming and the connection to Magnus.

“Can you speak?” Magnus asks. He soft, gentle. Not angry. Alec doesn’t understand – he deserves all of Magnus’ anger and more.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. He’s not sure he can hold a long conversation, but here under the covers, the lights hidden by the blankets, he feels better, like a fog is lifting from his mind.

Magnus taps the mattress with a finger by Alec’s head. “Have you been overloaded this whole time?”

“I’m not—” Alec starts immediately, but he stops mid-sentence.

Oh.

That’s what it is. The irrational anger, the constant irritation, his inability to focus. His speech has been as unreliable as his sleeping pattern, but he’s long learned to make do with groans and looks. The constant buzzing in his brain, the exhaustion that only he seems to feel…

“I don’t know,” he amends. “Maybe?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Alec bites his lip, focusing on the necklace he’s fidgeting with rather than on Magnus. “I didn’t realize,” he says.

“Was it just the music?” Magnus asks, unclasping his bike chain bracelet to match his fidgeting. Alec shifts his stare from his own hands to Magnus’, the repetitive movement soothing.

He tries to think about the question, to push it through his mushy brain and figure out an answer. He really is tired, in that way that doesn’t make him want to sleep so much as hide in a quiet corner. He knows that he’s taking too long to answer, but Magnus waits patiently.

“The music...the lights, too. Everything’s too bright. And...too many people.” They’ve had someone over nearly every day, wether it’s Cat and Madzie or Dot or Raphael or Clary and Simon, and occasionally Magnus’ other Downworlder friends Alec has never met before. After whole shifts at the Institute, coordinating patrols and trying to stay on top of things, or fighting demons in back alleys, all he wants is some quiet and peace.

“Alexander,” Magnus buries his face in the mattress. “I’ve been overloading you this whole time and I didn’t even notice.” He turns back toward Alec, his voice no longer muted. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Alec says. “You didn’t know.”

“I did not, but you still deserve an apology. How did we let get so far?”

“I—” Alec hesitates. “You seemed happy.”

Magnus shakes his head. “My happiness cannot come at the price of yours. I want you to tell me when it gets too much. When I get too much.”

Alec catches Magnus’ wrist in his hand, intent overwhelming his touch-avoidance. “No. It’s not you. You’re never too much for me, Magnus.”

They’ve only spoken a few times about Magnus’ history with that phrase, about his own difference, his own deviations from the norm, but Alec knows it’s something deeply ingrained. Magnus has been told he’s too much too often in his life, and Alec will not let him belittle himself that way. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t realized it myself,” he says. “It’s like...background noise. After a while, you can tune it out and you don’t even hear it anymore, but it’s still draining.”

“But why would you tune it out, instead of just telling me to stop it?” Magnus asks, not moving his hand from Alec’s grasp. Alec releases him and intertwines their hands instead.

“I didn’t...think of it,” he tries. It’s not true, not entirely. He didn’t ask, because Magnus liked it. He didn’t ask because he didn’t want to be a killjoy, as his siblings have too often accused him of being. He didn’t want to take this little bit of happiness away from Magnus because he’s an oversensitive simp.

He doesn’t voice that thought, because he knows what Magnus would think of it. And he supposes that’s progress, in a way.

Magnus understands anyway. “You’ve been so used to your perceptions being ignored that you don’t know how to set boundaries,” he says slowly. “Am I wrong?”

Alec shrugs with the one shoulder that’s not against the bed.

“You like the lights, and the music,” he says. “And the baking, all the Christmas stuff.”

“I do. But we could have found a middle ground. You can’t sacrifice your comfort for mine.”

Alec bites back that it’s what he’s always done. It’s not true. It used to be, maybe, with his family, but with Magnus, he’s never had to do that. Magnus is always so attentive, anticipating his needs before he can even ask.

So the least Alec could do is let him have this.

“Why do you like Christmas so much?” he asks softly, rather than dig further into it.

“It’s not really Christmas,” Magnus confesses. “I’m not religious, and I don’t care much about the meaning of it all. But it gives me an excuse.”

He pauses, and Alec simply waits, nodding encouragingly.

“I often get...sad, in the winter,” Magnus continues. “I don’t know if it’s what the mundanes call seasonal depression, or if it’s because I’ve lived so long and lost so many people during the winter months, but this time of the year is always hard for me. So I do everything to try and cheer myself up. I usually throw parties almost every night, just to surround myself with living, breathing people – and vampires, who thrive on the longest nights of the year.”

“You haven’t thrown many parties this year,” Alec remarks.

“No, I know you don’t like them and I didn’t want you to feel excluded—”

Alec tenses. “You shouldn’t stop for my sake! Did I prevent you from doing something that helps you?”

Magnus shakes his head. “Only in the same way that I forced you to bear things that were too much for you. We neglected to talk about it when we should have.”

Alec sighs and curls up on himself a little more.

“Besides,” Magnus adds, “This year, I have you. My very own living, breathing Nephilim to keep me warm. I’m better than I’ve been every other year. I just...I got scared that it would happen again, and I didn’t want you to see me like that. So I went a little overboard with the Christmas cheer.”

“A little?” Alec gives a small laugh.

“Okay, a lot. You told me you’ve never properly celebrated Christmas before, so I wanted to give you the full experience, and keep myself busy in the process. I never stopped to think about how it could affect you. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Alec murmurs.

“Whatever for?”

“The...communication failure? I’m trying, but it’s not...easy.”

Magnus smiles softly, running his thumb over the back of Alec’s hand. “And that’s okay. As long as we’re trying. We just need to check in a little more often.”

“Okay,” Alec nods weakly. “We can try that.”

“No more music,” Magnus says. “I’ll dim all the lights.”

“Music is fine if it’s low,” Alec corrects. “And maybe not when I’m trying to sleep.”

Magnus closes his eyes in dismay. “I’m—”

“Stop apologizing,” Alec interrupts him. “Been there, done that. Let’s move on. I promise I’ll try to tell you if it gets too much again.”

“Okay. What do you want to do now?”

Alec thinks about it. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. He still feels slow and his head aches, though the worst is passing.

“Can I hold you?” Magnus asks.

Alec opens his mouth to say yes, but he’s not ready yet. He gives Magnus an apologizing look and a tiny shake of his head.

“I think I need to clear my head,” he says slowly. “Just...think. It’s not against you at all, I just need to be in my own mind for a bit.” He needs to center himself. He feels scattered, like he’s been open and exposed to the elements and he needs to just be himself again.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Magnus starts to rise.

“No!” Alec stops him. “I’ll go. Walking will help. I’ll be back soon, promise.”

He jumps to his feet, eager to go now that he’s made the decision. He forces himself to check that Magnus doesn’t seem too worried or angry, but Magnus simply nods, looking a little surprised but not overly concerned.

“I’ll be here,” he says simply.

*

When Alec walks back into the loft two hours later, he does it with a measure of apprehension. He feels better, but he’s not sure what to expect.

There is music coming from inside, but it’s different. It’s not a cheesy Christmas song, and not even one of the classical pieces Magnus tried that Alec enjoyed marginally better. It’s something modern but also slow, quiet even though it permeates the entire loft. It’s soothing.

The lights are out. That’s the first thing Alec notices, because everything has been so bright for so long. He thinks for a moment that maybe Magnus went out, went to celebrate with friends who actually enjoy the holiday. He feels a pang on guilt at that – okay, a whole bucket of guilt. He’s been a grinch, and he knows it. But he couldn’t think with all those lights and noises.

The only light on is a fairy light garland that’s magically running in a single thread over all the walls in the loft, casting a soft light without actually being bright. The rooms themselves are plunged in darkness, and Alec toes off his shoes and lets his coat and scarf fall to the floor and he pads over to the living room by feel, relishing the lack of pain assaulting his eyes.

The music is louder in the living room, but not so much that it’s painful. Alec blinks twice as he takes in the sight in front of him.

In the middle of the dark room is Magnus. He’s wearing nothing but a dark leotard, and his skin is lit by swirling strands of while magic, curling around his arms. He’s dancing.

Alec doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath.

Magnus’ face is briefly illuminated by his magic, his eyes closed and a small smile on his face. He hasn’t heard Alec come in. He seems to have banished all the furniture in the room, and he’s spinning on one foot, en pointe in ballet shoes. Small bursts of magic come out of his hands as the song picks up, swirling through the room like a wispy light whip.

Magnus starts moving faster, the ribbons of light following him. Alec knows very little about dance, but even he can tell that Magnus’ style is unique, not solely ballet but also not quite modern dance. Alec almost gasps as he does what he can only describe as a back flip and lands smoothly on his feet, spinning once more.

It’s an incredibly beautiful sight. Alec stands at the door, transfixed, until the song ends and Magnus ends the dance by lowering himself down to the floor, crossing his legs under him. The light around his body dims progressively – no, that’s not it. It seems to sink under his skin, until his whole body looks like it’s glowing. Magnus gracefully runs his hand down his arm, guiding the light inside him until it reaches the tip of his fingers and explodes in a shower of sparkles.

When everything quiets, Alec lets out the breath he’s been holding. It feels like he should applaud, but he’s loath to break the silence. Besides, he doesn’t know if Magnus would take it well, right now.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Magnus whispers, his eyes still closed.

So he did notice Alec come in.

“Magnus, it was incredible,” Alec murmurs, letting the quiet carry his voice.

Magnus opens his eyes and looks at him. They stay still for a moment, the dark room between them, eyes easy to meet in the shadows. “I like the lights and the sounds, but they’re just filling a void,” Magnus says in a soft voice. “I was trying too hard.”

“It’s okay if you need them,” Alec says. “We can find a way to meet in the middle.”

“But I don’t. I wanted to feel warm and safe, but I didn’t realize that I’ve never felt as warm and safe as when I’m with you.”

Alec smiles, the words seeping into him with their own warmth, after the cold of the streets.

“Dancing makes me feel alive,” Magnus continues. “And I’d forgotten that, too.”

“You were beautiful.”

Magnus stands up smoothly and extends a hand. “Do you want to join?”

“I don’t dance,” Alec says.

“Just let go and only look at me. My magic will help you.”

Alec tries to match Magnus’ light steps as he walks toward him. He feels a jolt when they link hands, almost like the first time, over that summoning pentagram. Magnus pulls on his arm and Alec lets go of his control, relinquishing himself to the light touches of magic he can feel over his skin.

The music starts again. Light ribbons swirl over them both as they spin together. Magnus jumps to his pointes and spins around in Alec’s arms, and their height suddenly match. The only light is the magic twirling around their limbs, immaterial and teasing. Magnus grips Alec’s forearm and lifts himself effortlessly off the ground, spinning around Alec’s body until he’s in his arms again, his back arched.

The light dims to almost nothing, sinking into their chest. Their mouths meet.

“Thank you, Alexander,” Magnus murmurs.

Alec kisses him again.

-

I'm working on an illustration of the dance scene but I wanted to post the fic tonight while it's still Christmas!

Maybe it shows that I've been watching Tiny Pretty Things. The show is kinda terrible but I love watching people dance.

Magnus here is technically dancing the part of a woman, which is why I've use the GNC Magnus and Nonbinary Magnus (as he's nonbinary in this series). Pointe shows are also traditionally worn only by women. In my mind, Magnus trained for both roles at different times in his life and he's fine with dancing either part.

[amwritingmeta]

15x09: Keeping the Faith

Oh Berens. My good Lord. Giving us so much to unpack through such wonderful use of narrative threads! The biggest brightest one in this ep is hope. And you know you can’t have hope without having faith, right? Faith in tomorrow and that there’s a future ahead of you, to be sure, but more than that: faith in yourself. 

If you don’t believe you can bring about that tomorrow or that you deserve that future, then there’s not much hope left to be had in much of anything. 

This episode Sam’s faith is dismantled, while Dean’s faith is tested to the breaking point.

Sam’s fears win out and by the end of the episode he loses hope, which is all well and good since it’s a narrative necessity that shows us what Sam needs most: to find a way to stand up to authority (toxic masculinity) the same way his brother does. 

God hasn’t been any type of John mirror for a long time, and especially when it comes to Sam and father figures, and as demonstrated by many a moment this episode and through previous eps, he’s Dean. 

Chuck has always been a strong Dean mirror, to the point of him, this episode, not only being Dean for Sam, but Dean for Dean as well. 

And he’s a Dean mirror showing us how Dean is done with letting his shadow side, the toxic masculinity side, (the angry side that comes out because feelings are weaknesses that will get him and his brother killed) rule him, which is why Dean’s the one to face Chuck, without hesitation -->

--> telling him that he’s getting the story wrong, because Dean’s faith in himself this episode is poke-you-in-the-eye goodness.

As for Dean’s faith being tested to the breaking point, we get him in a situation where Cas is taken from him, where there’s no real hope of actually being able to find him, or save him, and instead of running around blindly or switching off that clock that’s counting down the minutes, in order to simply stay and keep searching, come hell or high water, Dean doesn’t just try to run to the rescue (the way he was about to with Sam at the start of the ep, signalling those codependent patterns that the episode itself is working to highlight), no, instead Dean’s actually acting from a point of focus, collecting himself in spite of the very real fact that he’s running out of time --> 

--> and not allowing his emotions to get the better of him -->

--> but rather using whatever time remains to make sure he doesn’t repeat that pattern of not daring to open himself up, because honesty is hard and scary, especially when it leads straight to being honest with yourself. 

But putting Dean’s choices in the moments leading into the prayer plainly: he’s not being stupid. Demonstrating how Cas’ words hit home.

*gorgeousss*

And so, thanks to this, instead of his faith breaking in two, he leans into that faith, because he’s put in a situation where he’s reminded of it. He’s in a place where faith once kept him alive for an entire year, urging him on, making him try to reach Cas over and over, every night, without fail, even when there was no reply or even any sign that Cas could hear him at all. 

Dean sends that prayer out in fear of it not reaching Cas, but that fear doesn’t blind him into losing faith, because he repeats his hope three times for Cas to hear him. He’s terrified that it’s too late, yes, he is. That fear brings him so far as to take a knee, because he can’t even imagine losing Cas again and again not actually having told Cas what Cas means to him, the way he’s wished, all those other times, that he’d spoken up; again losing Cas to the anger that’s easier than feeling everything, because of the fear that daring to want and getting to have everything is the same as losing it.

Good Things Don’t Last...

Unless you stop believing that they don’t. Unless you face that fear head on and let it go. Move on from it into something new. Into an actual future. And, you know, a long and happy life. 

And because Dean has faith and demonstrates it in ways that he never has before, because he gives himself over to Cas and trusts him implicitly with something that is so personal I doubt Dean has ever really put words to the thoughts on how his anger rules him and he can’t control it, because the idea of not having control is one that Dean has struggled with his entire life, trying to control everyone and everything outside of himself to avoid even glancing at the truth of how little control he has over himself, because of all this, even though he yet again doesn’t speak up to let Cas know that the last thing he wants is for Cas to have to take on the bloody Mark, by the end of the episode, the narrative rewards him for his bravery in speaking the truth with an interception and a need for finding another way.

And, for me, because of Dean’s ever present need for control, watching him submitting so easily to Cas this episode is such a damn thrill, not only because Dean has always been more the foot soldier than the outright general...

(and that’s not saying he’s not a good leader) (but the leader position was pushed on him from such a young age that it’s literally all he knows) (it’s become such an ingrained part of his sense of identity that he never questions it and feels out of place if it’s taken away from him) (but the truth is that he’s always been very good at doing what he’s told) (it’s just that with John, following orders led him into unhealthy coping mechanisms and a topsy-turvy sense of identity) (while following Cas’ lead means only good things) 

...so not only is it a thrill because Dean gets a chance to have all that heavy sense of responsibility lifted, but also there’s the fact that Cas is a commander of the armies of Heaven. 

Cas marched into Hell, for goodness sakes, and while it’s been necessary and understandable that he’s stayed sat in the backseat for this long because of all the hell he’s gone through since Hell, it’s an added thrill to now watch him step into that role again without hesitation, and this time it’s not because he believes he has the power of Heaven at his beck and call, no, it’s because of his belief and trust in his own capabilities. His faith in himself.

He’s come so far in his self-liberation and this attitude, this is an attitude he’s always carried in him and that’s come out in bursts and sparks and he’s always been able to question, cajole and support Dean as needed, but in this episode his attitude is all about him making that choice to leave in order to break free from feeling beholden to Dean, or feeling as if his entire worth is tied up in how Dean relates himself to him and vice versa. 

Cas left in 15x03 in order to prove to himself that he’s done being taken for granted. Especially by himself. He left to boost his sense of trust in himself and here we’re all reaping the rewards of all these good choices and clear self-insights that are propelling his progression.

And my God, he was epic this episode. 

I hope the attitude sticks. 

*brain c r a c k l e*

Speaking of mistrusting yourself: Sam is battling his sense of mistrust in himself this episode, and it’s big time, most strongly underlined in this moment -->

--> when he reacts to Dean standing up to Chuck with relief and gratitude, because he needed Dean’s conviction to act as guide, and I know the brothers switch positions on this attitude and have so been doing throughout the series, but the fact of the matter remains that Sam’s now the one holding onto the codependency for a sense of self in ways that Dean, to my mind, isn’t anymore.

And that’s what Sam’s journey through this episode and his glimpses of Chuck’s future - Chuck’s ending for them - is all about.

Because it isn’t Dean holding onto the Blaze of Glory ending, it’s Sam. It’s Sam with a death wish, pulling Dean with him because how could Dean ever let Sam go and die all by himself? Of course he can’t.

This -->

--> is Sam emotionally manipulating Dean into being his support system, even when Dean has no desire to, and sees no purpose in going on at all. 

And this -->

--> is Sam showing that he knows as much. A moment of hesitation, a moment of considering whether he’s willing to risk Dean’s life as much as his own, and then choosing yes, he’s willing, and this bad choice sealing their fate. The codependency ending up with them as monsters, ie. consumed by their shadow sides. No inner balance to be had. No happy ending.

I find it intriguing that, in Chuck’s vision of the future, Dean doesn’t have a death wish, but there’s no fight left in him either. 

He’s done (the same way he was done in the epicness that is Advanced Thanatology of S13 brilliance) and he states that they’ve lost. Meaning they’ve lost everything. Meaning there’s nothing left to fight for. Because Dean’s broken away from seeing Sam as his begin all, end all, whereas Sam still can’t find his way out of their pattern of behaviour and his own dependency on Dean, and this is the thing, isn’t it?

Because this is what our view of Chuck’s future is underscoring. And to great effect, at that!

The repeat pattern that Chuck created for them, the repeat pattern that is the only way Chuck can see this ending, the repeat pattern that Sam knows and trusts and is having trouble breaking out of, this is the very thing that hopefully (I can’t see how they wouldn’t use it at this point) will bring about Chuck’s defeat. 

Chuck is stuck in seeing the brothers this certain way and he can’t imagine that they’d break out of this pattern and actually make choices that go against the codependent behaviour. That they’d grow out of it and into new and healthy ways of coping. That they’d begin to actually find their own individuality and without losing the love they hold for one another, still find purpose away from one another.

Sam’s mistrust in himself, his doubt that he’d actually be strong enough to withstand corruption this time around, is blinding him from seeing how he can choose a different future for himself. It’s keeping him from stepping up and being wholly defiant, the way Dean demonstrates with Chuck, because Sam is still allowing his fears to rule him.

The one truth Chuck actually speaks that adds proper stakes to the already raised stakes in fighting God: he maintains the balance and if they lock him away or destroy him, the balance will shift and darkness will take over.

This is the truth that, I believe, hits home for Sam, and is meant to, and with Sam in the state he’s in, still relying on Dean to lead, the mere idea of losing Eileen, and Dean losing Cas, presents too great a risk if Sam goes through with Dean and Cas’ plan, and it’s brilliant and narratively necessary and gorgeously built up to, because in losing hope Sam not only ups the ante in terms of threat as God is released, he brings about the moment when it’s time for Jack to return and he stops Cas from, yet again, willingly sacrificing himself, which, if he had been allowed to, would’ve only served to ensure he was sticking to old patterns within his individual arc, as well as his well-worn pattern with Dean and their joint arc, where, whenever Dean has opened up, or begun to, Cas has in some way or other disappeared from his closer vicinity.

Pattern at least beginning to be broken. *fingers crossed that it sticks*

And what Sam’s fear isn’t allowing him to see is the fact that Chuck’s truth isn’t The Truth. It’s not the only way something will begin or end, because they’ve already proven this, by moving away from the ending Chuck had set up for them in S13. 

There is always another way. A better one. 

It’s time.

[lord-of-shadows]

it’s been over a year but i finally published another kitty fic! read it on AO3 or under the cut! kit’s POV, takes place during QOAAD. kit couldn’t sleep and neither could ty, so they seek comfort in each other. ~2k words. 

i hope you enjoy! feedback is appreciated :)

Kit was wide awake, staring at the ceiling above him, eyes straining to trace patterns in the utter darkness of his room.

It was one of those nights where his mind battled sleep until waking hours of the day—one of those nights where his memories flickered in his brain, forcing him to relive moments he had desperately tried to bury. The memory of the day he had first stormed into the Institute seemed to take prevalence, as it was the day his father died, the day he discovered his Shadowhunter heritage. Kit remembered how he had opened the Institute doors himself, unveiling the truth of his blood, and out of frustration, disbelief, and grief, he immediately escaped to the farthest room possible, away from the Blackthorns, away from the Shadowhunters his father had ingrained in him to loathe.

Now, as he stood up from his bed and quietly turned the doorknob, he regretted his choice.

His feet seemed to travel on their own as he made his way down the winding hallways, having gone down this path numerous times before—it was nearly second nature to him now, living the Shadowhunter life, and he was scared by how quickly he had grown accustomed to it. It was truly not that long ago when he first moved in, and yet, it felt like a lifetime. His footsteps were deathly silent—Kit always knew he was light on his feet, and he credited it to years of thieving and staying hidden, a trademark from Johnny Rook. Now, Kit suspected it had more to do so with his Shadowhunter blood. He could imagine Johnny Rook looking down—or should he say up?—at him now, disappointment on his face and an incessant crease on his forehead. Kit wiped the thought away, not wanting to reflect on his dead father, not wanting to remember the glimpse of white ribs as he saw his dad’s body being torn in half.

He finally reached his destination, leaning against the wall to catch his breath—panic was close to seizing him again with the thoughts of his dad, and the familiar feeling of wanting to escape rose in him. He just wanted to forget, wanted the thoughts to stop.

He lifted his arm, fingers curling into a fist, and his hand hit the door, and right before he could even lift his hand to knock a second time, the door swung open.

There, standing at the doorway, was Ty.

His hair, usually clean and straight, was a tangle of black curls, hiding the icy gray of his eyes that currently rested on Kit’s shoulder. Kit could see the dark circles underneath Ty’s eyes, could see the thin frame underneath his oversized shirt, could glimpse the chaos of the room behind him.

“You’re awake,” Kit said, and then felt dumb after saying it. Of course, Ty was awake. He was being plagued by his own demons at night like Kit was. They both needed to escape, needed to forget, needed everything to stop.

“I am,” Ty stated, removing his headphones and placing them around his neck. “And so are you.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I.” Ty paused. Then, “I was actually about to go find you.”

Kit was speechless. Find me? Abruptly, he asked, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Before Kit could feel doubt rising in him, Ty immediately responded, “Yes. Wait—let me grab a jacket.”

He went back inside his room, the door shutting softly behind him, and Kit was suddenly aware of the thin cloth shirt he was wearing, the vast exposure of his arms, and the threatening windiness and cold of the night air waiting outside. Of course, Ty would think ahead and bring a jacket, he always planned ahead and never overlooked any small detail—while Kit just wanted to escape so badly, he left his room without a single idea of where he was going. He silently reprimanded himself.

The door opened, and Kit was met with Ty wearing a black thick jacket, so dark that it stood out, along with the black of his eyelashes that were currently fluttering against his cheekbones. Kit felt the all-too-familiar flip in his chest once again, and he pushed it away, focusing on the boy in front of him, who was currently holding out a lump of gray cloth, his face expectant.

“Here. It’s a little oversized, but it should work.”

To say it was a little oversized was an understatement. It went down to Kit’s thighs, but Kit realized it as the gray wool sweatshirt that Ty wore so often—he felt oddly touched by that—and the fact that it smelled so strongly of Ty, ink and sage and a hint of ocean air, made it all better.

“Thanks,” he said, a little breathless. Ty smiled weakly at him.

“We need to be quiet,” Ty whispered. “Julian will be very mad if he finds out.”

Any mention of Ty’s older brother with the word mad was enough to trigger fear in Kit, and so, as they both made their way downstairs and towards the backdoor, Kit refused to allow himself to exhale until the smooth texture of the sand was beneath his feet.

Kit immediately threw his shoes off, and looking back at Ty, he shouted, “Race you to the shore!”

Kit didn’t even check to see if Ty had heard—he began to sprint, relishing in the bitter cold of the wind hitting his face, the taste of salt clinging to his skin, the crunch of the sand between his toes. He could hear Ty catching up to him, and the shore was still a way’s off, but Kit was still ahead, running faster—

And suddenly, Ty appeared in front of him, running quicker than Kit would have ever thought was humanly possible. Ty reached the shore first, throwing his arms up in celebration, and Kit slowed down, stopping next to him. Ty turned, and Kit stood paralyzed at the grin on his face, the way his entire body seemed to transform, elevated and happy. He looked striking. He looked fascinating. He looked—

The smile vanished. Ty turned away, facing the ocean, eyes tracing the pattern of stars in the clear night sky. Kit released a quivering breath, then turned to join him.

They stood there silently, relishing in the tranquility of the moment. The moon glowed brightly amongst the stars, and the ocean breeze gently caressed their faces. Kit closed his eyes, feeling as if the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks could lull him to sleep, right at this moment.

“Kit, look.” Kit’s eyes snapped open, and he saw Ty a few spaces in front of him, pants rolled up, kneeling down to where the waves brushed against his knees.

Kit quietly moved closer, lowering himself to Ty’s level, peering closely at the water.

“I don’t see anything,” he said.

“Bioluminescence,” Ty marveled. “They’re microscopic, so you wouldn’t see them.” He bent down and cupped the water into his hands, the wind blowing against his hair, his face full of wonder.

Beautiful, Kit thought. He looks beautiful.

Ty lifted his hands towards Kit, and at first, all Kit saw was plain water, until he began to glimpse flickers of blue, glowing brightly in the moonlight.

“That’s so cool,” he said, amazed, and looked up—to find Ty staring right at him.

Kit’s breath caught, a shiver running up his spine. The lightness of Ty’s gray eyes was a stark contrast compared to the darkness around them; to Kit, it felt like he was gazing at the moon, losing himself in the neverending sea of stars, drowning in its vastness. He was so close, able to see the black curls of Ty’s hair standing due to the humidity, to notice the part of his lips as he inhaled. Ty’s hair fell over his eyes, mesmerizing Kit, sending an irresistible urge in him to reach up and push those strands back. It hurt. It hurt to look at him, a tightness inside his chest, as if he was suffocating.

Kit leaned closer, almost unselfconsciously, naturally, a magnet clicking in place. Ty closed his eyes, uncupping his hands back in the water, the tiny specks of blue lights disappearing in the waves.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke. “I saw you kiss Livvy.”

Kit was halted immediately in his tracks, his body seizing. He was speechless.

“By the rocks.” Ty opened his eyes, but his gaze was focused elsewhere. Kit had nearly forgotten—Livvy had asked him to kiss her, but they had both agreed to remain friends. Suddenly, he was hit with the realization that he had been Livvy’s first and last kiss.

The realization must have shown on his face as Ty quickly said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get her back. I promise.”

Kit widened his eyes. “No! It’s not like that at all!”

Ty furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t like her like that! She asked me to kiss her, and we both agreed never to do it again.”

“So you don’t want to get her back?”

“I—” Kit was at a loss for words. He couldn’t lie to Ty, but he couldn’t tell him that he thought resurrecting Livvy was a really, really bad idea. He focused on the sand beneath them, on the movement of the waves receding into the ocean. “I just want you to be okay.”

Ty sucked in a breath. “I can’t be. Not without Livvy.”

Kit recoiled, squeezing his eyes shut. He wanted to hold Ty, the same way he did on the roof, but he couldn’t. The truth was clear, had always been whispering inside him, he just only recognized its existence: Ty will never be whole again, not until Livvy was brought back.

They fell into silence, Ty's gaze drifting into the unknown depths of the ocean. Kit felt cold all over as if he was drowning again, the truth pressing down on him as he realized that Ty never cared—He never did, never will—

“What if I asked you to kiss me?”

Kit’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

Ty repeated himself, his voice shaking slightly. “Would you kiss me if I asked?”

A fever dream, Kit thought. That’s what this is. “Ty…”

Ty turned, his gaze intense, eyes resting on the bridge of Kit’s nose. “Is it because I’m a boy?”

“What? No!”

Kit could see Ty visibly relax. “Then why?”

He didn’t know what to say. Because it feels wrong to kiss you after your sister just died?

Because of how I feel like I’m choking every time I look at you?

Because it scares me how badly I want to?

He could imagine it: pulling Ty closer, leaning up to meet his lips, letting Ty choose the pace. He would be careful, gentle, allowing Ty to decide if he wanted Kit to touch him. He would savor the moment, however brief it might be.

But he couldn’t. Not when Ty was hurting, not when Ty was so driven on something else.

Kit sighed. “I just can’t, Ty. I can’t do that to you.”

Ty moved away, and Kit could feel something shatter within him. He had screwed up, as he always did, as he always will continue to do. Kit could tell Ty didn’t completely understand his excuse, but there was nothing he could do—the damage was done.

“We should go back,” Ty said as if nothing had happened. “We only have a few more ingredients left for the spell. We need to wake up early if we want to do more research.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Kit said. He tore his gaze away from Ty, facing back towards the Institute. He couldn’t look at Ty any longer, or else the burning inside him would intensify, and he would begin to regret what he said.

They made their way back inside the Institute, sneaking in quietly—and to Kit’s utter relief, no Julian was waiting for them by the stairs. By the time they made it back to Ty’s room, Kit began to remove the sweatshirt, but Ty held up a hand.

“Keep it. I have plenty,” he said. Kit gaped at him.

“Are you sure?”

Ty nodded. “Yes.” Suddenly, albeit everything, he smiled softly, and Kit couldn’t help it—he smiled back. “I’ll see you in the morning."

“Right. Goodnight,” Kit responded. Ty closed the door softly in front of him. At last, Kit let out the breath that had seemed to be trapped inside him the entire night.

He stood there for a few moments, willing his heart to calm down. At that point, Kit hardly remembered walking back to his room, the door creaking softly as he opened it. He had half the mind to remove his shoes before collapsing in his bed, the softness and scent of Ty’s sweatshirt clouding his senses and the vision of gray eyes lulling him to sleep.

[ettadunham]

A Buffy rewatch 6x22 Grave

aka doesn’t matter i still love you

Welcome to this dailyish (weekly? bi-weekly?) text post series where I will rewatch an episode of Buffy and go on an impromptu rant about it for an hour. Is it about one hyperspecific thing or twenty observations? 10 or 3k words? You don’t know! I don’t know!!! In this house we don’t know things.

And today’s episode is easily the most unconventional season finale of the show (excluding Restless, which is more of a bonus episode). Buffy doesn’t defeat the Big Bad. Or... does she?

Fun fact, Grave is the only season finale that wasn’t written by Joss Whedon. Well, depending on whether you count Primeval or Restless as the finale of season 4, since the former was also penned by David Fury instead of Whedon.

But this episode has many other distinctions as well. It comes at the heels of an already subversive season, that was meant to deconstruct the very structure of the show, as well as its characters.

Deconstruction however is tough. If you don’t do it well, your audience will rightfully call you out on needlessly pulling your story in an often darker direction to seem fake deep or interesting.

And I feel like season 6 has plenty of criticisms on that front. This certainly wasn’t one of my favorite seasons on my first, or even second go at it. It’s hard seeing characters you love hurting and acting against their own self interests. It’s even harder to see them hurt each other.

This time around however, I wanted to not only look past those previous misgivings I had, but appreciate them and what they mean to the story. Because truth be told, I’m not sure season 6 is actually more flawed than any other season of Buffy.

That doesn’t mean that there aren’t issues – Willow’s drug addiction metaphor was pushed way too hard and took away from the themes of power and control surrounding her narrative for one –, but every season has its hurdles and strengths. Season 2 had an excellent arc, but a lot of confusing fillers. Season 4 meanwhile had great standalones, but a weak overall Big Bad. Every season had its missteps, and a lot of those are subjective to begin with. One girl’s Go Fish is anothers Beer Bad.

There are no wrong answers on this quiz.

So yeah, I went into season 6 not only knowing what to expect, but expecting to gain a new, more favorable perspective on it. And that’s more or less what I got.

Sure, there are things to criticize. But what I’ve been enjoying about this Buffy rewatch in particular, is the opportunity to write long paragraphs of nonsense rather than just saying “Thing Bad”.

Look at Tara’s death. I am perpetually ready to fight Joss Whedon over that in a parking lot, but it also gave us one of the most memorable examples of a hero going dark. And people’s been coming up fixes to that storyline for years (Xander being the one to die is a popular alternative among some fans, but also time travel if you go by fanfics), but it only goes to show that that story itself still worked.

…it’s just that it works in a horrible cultural context that’s rightfully criticized for perpetuating harmful notions, especially for some of the most vulnerable of our population, and the role of media in our society as both a reflection and a model can’t be ignored and should be discussed in order to call attention to these patterns.

Anywho. Grave.

As mentioned before, this is a rather unconventional season finale. Buffy doesn’t even get to fight the Big Bad, aka Willow in this one. Instead the initial showdown happens between Giles and Willow, at least up until the moment Willow breaks free.

That doesn’t mean that Buffy doesn’t fight though. She runs to save Dawn and Xander (and also Jonathan and Andrew I guess), and then when she gets stuck underground with Dawn, she fights to get out. And then she fights some magic zombie skeletons.

More importantly though, Buffy fights her own depression. She’s fighting to see that beauty and meaning in life that she failed to convince Willow of in the last episode.

She even talks to Giles about this. She tells him that she doesn’t understand why she’s here, why she’s alive, and Giles’s response of how she has a calling feels unsatisfying.

Others would’ve taken her place. She was done.

Then why is she here now?

And Giles doesn’t have an answer to that. Because they both know that there isn’t one. There isn’t a purpose to life, no all-encompassing explanation. We all have to find our own answers to get us through the day.

And by the end, Buffy finds hers in Dawn. Seeing life through her eyes, her future, the many things that’s yet to come. It’s arguably a bit clumsy, and I wish we built more on this theme between Buffy and Dawn this season, but it does tie into another aspect of the episode.

While season 6 in itself is a deconstruction of the show, this finale, and Buffy’s arc in particular, is clearly a subversion of the end of season 5. And in true Buffy fashion, a very unsubtle one at that.

In The Gift, the sun coming up marked the turning point for Buffy, the realization that she can save Dawn by sacrificing herself.

In Grave, the sun comes up right after Giles confirms that Willow’s going to end the world.

In the season 5 finale, Buffy jumps to her death. At the end of season 6, she crawls out of the ground to live.

I could go on, but you get my point.

This is also just a great moment for Dawn, as she interrogates Buffy on why she didn’t tell her what Spike did, and reminds Buffy how she can’t protect her from the world. Tragedy happens either way.

BUFFY:  “Dawn, I'm trying to protect you.” DAWN:  “Well, you can't! Look around, Buffy. We're trapped in here! Willow's killing and people I love keep dying! And you cannot protect me from that.”

At the center of it all though is Willow. I’ve already been through the broad strokes here; basically, Willow’s rampage is about avoiding feeling her pain and grief.

And Giles understands that. I absolutely love Anthony Stewart Head’s performance in this one; Giles is focused and cautious, but there’s also genuine pain and concern in his expression as he’s talking to Willow. I also love this exchange around the end of their fight:

GILES:  “Your powers may be undeniably greater. But I can still hurt you if I have to.” WILLOW:  “Boy, you just don't get it, do you? Nothing can hurt me now. This? *heals a cut on her face* Is nothing. It's all... nothing.” GILES:  “I see. If you lose someone you love, the other people in your life who care about you become meaningless. I wonder what Tara would say about that.”

Yup. Giles definitely knows how to hurt Willow. Willow’s line of “it’s all… nothing” is also a lot, especially that little melancholic tint that Alyson Hannigan delivers it with.

But apparently this was all part of Giles’ plan to get Willow to take his magic away, so it would open up her to feel again. However, his line to her afterwards about how “she can make it stop” naturally backfires.

Willow’s been doing all this in order to stop the pain. Giles wants her to feel it to get through it, but Willow predictably would rather see the whole world burn than feel it anymore.

I’m not a super big fan of the narrative choice to have Giles comment upon what’s happening through his link to Willow after that, especially by the end as Xander shows up with her. But I do like those initial lines when he first feels what Willow does, and you can see the pain through him.

Giles later says that the magic she took from him tapped into Willow’s remaining humanity, but I’m not sure I would use that wording. Willow tried to avoid and shut off her pain through her murder trip, but that was still her. Her humanity, her pain was there underneath all along – Giles’ plan just made it harder for her to repress those emotions.

So, hence why she decided to go full apocalypse in order to stop feeling them anymore.

It definitely made it easier for Xander to get through to her in that moment too. But maybe he didn’t even need the extra supernatural help for that.

Willow spent the last three episodes trying to get away from herself. She didn’t want to come back, and she made sure to burn all her bridges in the process. Knowing that what she’s done would cost her friends only strengthened her resolve.

And here comes Xander, out of nowhere. Xander with his familiar, signature jokes, the ones that he cracks in order to cope with life.

More importantly, Xander doesn’t blink. He doesn’t fight or argues with Willow. Doesn’t try to convince her to stop. And that, paired with the familiarity momentarily disarms Willow. So she counters that by lashing out, hurting Xander.

But Xander, once again, doesn’t blink. Because he’s not bluffing. When he says that he’s okay with the world ending as long as he gets to be with his best friend, it’s because he means it.

This is a difference that I’ve been alluding with Buffy for a while now. Buffy can’t do what Xander does here. She can’t put the whole world aside to be with her best friend. That’s not who she is.

It’s definitely who Xander is though. Right or wrong, he always goes with his heart.

So, that’s what he does. He does exactly what Willow mocks him for, and tells her that he loves her.

Even if she kills him, he’ll still love her.

The fear of being unlovable is ingrained into us all on some level. It creeps in when we least expect it. Fear that we’re not good enough. Fear that we can never live up to others expectations of us. Fear that we won’t be accepted. Fear that we can’t be forgiven.

That’s why there’s so much power in unconditional love. Being told that we’ll be loved, no matter what.

We often don’t even realize the anxiety and fears we have about it and how deep they go; so the sheer relief upon hearing those words can be unexpected and overwhelming. And Willow’s no exception.

Again, she tries lashing out, telling Xander to stop, hurting him, but it’s of no use. All he does is repeat those words, even while suffering through the pain that was inflicted on him. By her. “I love you. I love you.”

And when Willow breaks, she breaks hard. Letting herself go in her best friend’s arms, feeling all of her grief at once.

Platonic love saves the day, as the show once again invokes Sarah McLachlan in its final moments. It’s a less memorable song choice than Full of Grace was at the end of season 2, but it’s a nice callback to that.

Oh, and Spike’s got his soul back, after the last few episodes aggressively tried red-herring that he went to remove his chip.

Overall, as I said, I enjoyed this season. As with all seasons, there were things that worked less so, but I generally liked the deconstruction that we’ve got around to. Instead of a Big Bad representing a metaphor for Buffy to overcome, we’ve made those struggles real. The Big Bad of season 6 was Buffy’s depression, Willow’s addiction and need for control, Xander’s baggage, and so on.

We also didn’t need to turn the characters inside out to have these turns and conflicts. The season built on well-established character flaws, and guided us through a journey full of ups and downs, culminating in an emotionally cathartic finale.

I think I’m ready for the finish line.

[rhnuzlocke]

The Return

Hello! So on this, the third anniversary of when I first published Running Hot and the second anniversary of its completion, I return to bring you an all new rewrite in prose!

For all of you newbies the original story was a comic script based on an Omega Ruby Navlocke I played all the way back in 2015. It was also a self-imposed a writing challenge in which I drafted and published all 300,000+ words in exactly a year. It helped me immensely with my drafting and writing in general, so my plan for this prose revamp is to essentially repeat my original challenge to hopefully boost my redrafting and editing skills in the same way. I don’t know if I can manage in it in a year like last time (especially since I’m juggling two other runs atm) but that’s the goal! Wish me luck!

Sometimes in order to move forward, you have to look back. Or at least that’s what Latios says. So when the latest in a series of catastrophes sets her adrift, Ren tries to square with her demons and everything else, good and bad, that led her to this tipping point and plunged her over the edge.

Ren’s story, as she tells it, is about love in all its many forms and permutations. How it soured and broke her, how it warmed and healed her, how it inspired and drove her, and how it’s carried her through—and may well again before the end.

Prologue: There’s A Whisper Where Once There Was A Storm

Ren wakes in a cold sweat. Her head sways unsteadily with disorientation, her breath comes in gasps, and her heartbeat thrums in her ears. She touches her face and chokes back a cry, forces herself to breathe steadily now that she is no longer drowning. 

She throws the sheet aside and slides off the top bunk, picking her way carefully around sleeping bodies and out into the hall. She pads silently through the Pokemon Center and staggers out into the night. It is still dark, but the moon is bright enough to see by as she leaves the hazy glow of street lamps and wanders across the fields. The city fades behind her as she plunges heedlessly into the forest. She wends between the trees, arms outstretched to guide her through the dense dark beneath the dark canopy. Twigs crack under bare feet. Rough bark meets fingertips and brush drags at skin. She stumbles into a clearing and her feet soon become soaked to her ankles in the wet grass. She stops. This is far enough—lonely enough. Latios melts into the air beside her. He floats there for a moment, a being of aetherium unbound by gravity, before stretching out his hind wings and touching down on the turf. He flaps his forewings before settling them at his sides and leans forward ever so slightly so that his forepaws rest on the ground. Ren has never seen him sit before. Suddenly he has weight and physicality. Resting on the earth, he is a creature of flesh and bone like any other rather than an immortal god. It’s comforting, in its own way, but also profoundly terrifying. They are balanced at the edge of a cliff with the wind at their backs and very soon now they'll have to jump. “I thought we’d be able to stop it… I didn’t think they could get to me.” Nor did I, he says in her head. She is struck again by just how vast his mind feels, enveloping her in its ceaseless flowing, but after Kyogre’s pull, it is a welcome reprieve. But despite the tearing of every last defense, the starkness had revealed something new: a sense of connection that not even that first touch had given her. So maybe there was something left. “Why did you choose me?” I thought you didn’t care about that. “I thought so too, but now…” She takes a long breath. The night air is cool but not cold, misty but not an ocean of water crushing her beneath its weight. It soothes her throat in preparation for the fire. “I blew things sky high and everyone’s acting like it’s fine! But it’s not fine! I shouldn’t get off the hook for this just because I’m your partner! It was my screw-up!” She moves to pull at her hair and it’s like missing a stair when her fingers meet nothing but an inch of fuzz. She covers her face instead and ingrains the contours of the scar that has swallowed it into her palm. She can feel he has turned to look at her now, so she lowers her hands but stares off into the dark woods. “I know it’s done and we have to move forward. I want to trust that we can, but I’m having a hard time of it.” You must trust yourself first. “Yeah, well, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do that.” It’s too short—too final. It shouldn’t be. I know, he says gently. She’s still surprised by it after how acerbic he was on their first meeting. “I just thought it might help if I knew why—if I knew there was some reason for all of this.” I do not believe in fate. She laughs. She has to. “Don’t get me wrong, that’s a big relief, in a way, just not what I was expecting from a god of cycles. You’re all about patterns. You’ve seen this all before, repeating over and over again.” Yes. But you forget, among the gods, only my sibling and I grow, age, and die. Each time I am born, I am not quite the same as I was in my last life. I am always changing, just as the world is ever-changing. I make choices that alter the course of things, be it the world or only myself. I partnered with you because the cycle is threatened, because it can be broken. We are no more destined to fail than we are to succeed. So I do not believe that fate brought you to me. “But you still had a reason,” Ren presses. I did and I have told you several of them. “So that’s it?” She expects a yes or a graceful dip of his head, but he is still and quiet and looks off into the trees for almost as long as she can take. There is one criterion that I have not mentioned before. Not only must my partner be willing to risk their own life, but also those of their pokemon, or rather, allow their pokemon to risk their own lives. This is harder. And such willingness cannot be born of ignorance. In other words, I would never ask this undertaking of a trainer who didn’t… know the cost. The pain coils in her chest so tight that it turns her lungs to wood and the fire burns them. “Do you think someone else will die?” she asks, quiet and even so as not to choke on the smoke in her throat. Nothing is certain. It’s difficult not to grow frustrated with his platitudes, but she doesn’t know what she wanted him to say… And he’s right. But that means that you may yet pull them through this. Know that I will protect them to the best of my ability. “I didn’t think that was your area of expertise.” It comes out the way she meant it this time and the weight lifts just a little. Sometimes offense is the best defense. Wouldn’t you agree? And she can feel the wry smile in it to match her own. She finally looks at him and his deep red eyes meet hers. Her hand lifts almost on its own and she catches herself just before it makes contact. But he leans into her touch rather than pulling away and she tunnels her fingers into the fur of his neck. It’s soft and dense and the skin beneath is warm. “Thank you.” He unfurls his wing ever so slightly to nudge her with his shoulder. You are strong, Ren, in many ways. And your losses are not why I chose you. They do not define you. I saw something else, something singular. “Well, are you going to tell me, or is it some big secret?” she teases. We are soul-bonded. There are no secrets between us. But you may not like the answer. They were past that. “I still want to know.” Very well. Why did you become a trainer? Her hand fists in his fur. “Is this whole answer going to be more questions?” You don’t like being told things. “Got me there.” There is value in coming to one’s own conclusions. Her face wrinkles on one side and he nudges her with his wing shoulder. You became a trainer for your pokemon, correct? “Yes, but it’s not as simple as that.” Then explain it to me. She cocks her head and gives him her now lopsided skeptical expression. “You want my life story?” Speaking as someone who has seen it, I think there is much to be learned. She sighs. “Alright. This is going to be a long night.”

[poppycat-writes]

First Lines Tag

I was tagged by good friend @this-was-my-2nd-choice-for-a-url . Thx friendo.

Rules are simple: Write the first lines of 10 of your WIPs. Find patterns or have others find patterns (I’m not going to put in the effort, if you want to, go right ahead). Tag others.

Let’s go. (PS this might be kinda long.) *PLZ NOTE THAT FOR A LOT OF THESE, I STARTED WRITING THEM IN SIXTH GRADE AND HAVE NOT EDITED THEM*

Counterparts

My phone buzzed on the table, snapping me out of my train of thought on the algebra problem. I grabbed my phone to see who was calling. Of course, it was Vivian. I listened to see if my mom was around, because she didn’t like it when I was on my phone while doing homework, but I seemed to be in the clear. I answered. “Hey, V.”

Frism’s School of Magic

Drew paced the length of the room frantically, running his hand through his small beard. The House Directors could tell he was thinking hard, as he did usually everyday. The problem has been ongoing for over 25 years, and no student has ever even come close to success. We’re so close, I just know it!  Maya thought.

Generic

I woke up right on time. My clock read exactly 8:00. I got out of bed and immediately went to my miniature closet which held only two items- my white polo and my black skirt that ended right above the knee, like it was supposed to.

The Eocene

The Aegis fears no one. Why should it? When you are at the top of the food chain, fear is not necessary. You take what you want and leave nothing. It is your unspoken mantra; you abide by its words. The Aegis is no exception. Why would it be? It has everything it has not asked for: our food, our homes, our goods, and our own identities. Nothing is really ours. It is something we live by; it always has been. We yearn for our own belongings. Silently, but we yearn. Does the Aegis know? I do not know.

The Night of Abandoned Towers

The knock on the door should not have startled her, yet its loud, jarring sound caused her to jump. She had known beforehand he would comeー the thought had come to her like second nature, though the last time that had happened was years agoー but she did not think he would really show his face. A tinge of worry overcame her, causing her to freeze in place. She only moved again once he banged on the door once more.

The Prism Force

“You want to crash the wedding?”

“What? No! Of course not! We just need to… um… borrow one of the bridesmaids.”

“During the ceremony.”

“Yes.”

“Making us wedding crashers?”

“You know what? Have it your way!”

Troubadour

Clop, clop, clop. I ride into the marketplace to get the ingredients for the soup, just as my father told me to. I look around from my steed at one of my favorite places in North Yorkshire. I adore the quaint little town of Middleham, with its small shops and bustling people.

Raven Bay Run (a collab with @book-dragon3)

I hate tests. I suck at math. Ok, maybe I should have studied instead of laying on my bed and questioning my own faith in God, but sometimes you have to. Unless you have a fricking math test the next day and you use any excuse to procrastinate. Like me. I happen to be incredible at procrastinating. I should get an award. It can go on the shelf next to my “Thief of the Century” plaque.

The Head of the Thief  (actually supposed to be the 4th book in a series but I was into it)

The Elder Islands were labeled “The Land That is a Generation Behind”. Most people who lived there believed it— the islands lacked the technology that the contiguous lands of Zemberland had created. Where the others countries had monorails and supercomputers, the Osavi had horse-drawn carriages and telegrams. Even Atlantida had an advanced weapons system built for the main castle, and it was underwater. The Osavi didn’t really mind. They believed the technological disadvantages gave the islands their charm. Also, it was ingrained in their culture, which was built around simplicity and nature.

Samantha Phillips and the Zodiac Chronicles (I actually started it, @this-was-my-2nd-choice-for-a-url , and ur my starrrrrrrr)

“Oh my God, Paris, it’s just a dance!” Hailey yelled for like, the 7th time. “Being social at least once shouldn’t kill you!” She turned to me, her dark blue eyes pleading for my help. “Sam, please tell her that dances aren’t that bad.”

I sighed and turned to my hopeless case of a friend. “Paris, there’s food.”

Annnnnnnnnd there you have it, folks! Cringe with me. I’m tagging @book-dragon3 @alonelystarinagalaxyofsuns @living-the-writers-life @spxcebrain (U don’t have to tho)

[juniperpublishersoceanography]

Coastal Upwelling and Its Teleconnections with Large Scale Indices in a Changing Environment along the Southwest Coast of India- Juniper Publishers

Abstract

Coastal upwelling process along the southwest coast of India (SCI) is dominated by the seasonal reversal of winds between the southwest and northeast monsoons. Variations in the coupled ocean-atmospheric system impact upwelling patterns and other climatic elements in SCI. Changes in the upwelling system in turn modify sea surface temperatures, sea level heights, and coastal climate. This study examines upwelling patterns from 1946-2005 along the SCI, and ties these patterns to variations in air-sea interactions. While upwelling is controlled daily mostly by local characteristics of winds, coastal topography and bathymetry, large atmospheric feature such as Pacific Decadal Oscillation, Northern Oscillation Index and El Nino /La Nina events dominate local conditions. Study of monthly sea surface temperature anomaly (SSTA) and Ekman Transport (ET) along the SCI reveals that both SSTA and ET are found to be low and high during the study period and both having significant strong relation (significant at 99.9% level). Results from this indicate that air-sea interactions on a large-scale do explain trends and variability of upwelling along the SCI. Additionally, these findings also point to the possible influences of global warming. Furthermore, local climatic records reveal the influence of coastal atmospheric/oceanic variations on SCI climate.

Keywords: Sea surface temperature; Along shore wind; Ekman transport; PDO; NOI

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Introduction

Sea surface temperature and the nutrient content produced by coastal upwelling are among the most important large scale variables influencing the marine environment. Previous studies to quantify the influence of climate change on coastal upwelling [1] used climate models with much simpler representations of the ocean than are common today. A number of recent papers have explored the patterns and dynamics of fluctuations embedded within the long-term, globally integrated tendency commonly referred to as climate change [2-6]. However, these studies have concentrated on large-scale temporal oscillations, generally on decadal scales; fewer examples describe variability on subbasin (i.e., 100-1000km) space scales. In a particular striking example of how global climate change may be affecting ocean conditions on smaller scales, Bakun [7] postulate that under the scenario of global warming, continental air mass will warm more rapidly than oceanic air masses, leading to an intensified summer continental atmosphere low, a greater cross-margin pressure gradient between the continental low and higher pressure over the cooler ocean, stronger equator ward wind stress, and increased coastal upwelling along eastern ocean boundaries. The effect on eastern boundary current systems could be significant because of the highly productive nature of these ecosystems and their potentially important role in the global CO2 budget.

Upwelling is not a temporally continuous or spatially uniform process, but the period of upwelling and favorable conditions (as well as substantial interannual variability) and has a distribution that suggests certain regions or sites are more conducive to upwelling [8]. Empirical studies of upwelling and its effects on biological production suggest that optimal fisheries production in eastern boundary currents occurs within a limited range of wind speeds; at speeds greater than about 5-7m/s the biomass of small pelagic fish decreases [9]. This has resulted in ecosystems that are tuned to these variations. Any long-term changes in the seasonal patterns of upwelling, their intensity or the duration of upwelling events could have dramatic implications to their living marine resources. Because upwelling has a very complex and regionalized spatial structure, its character cannot be determined or quantified with spatially integrated indices (e.g., globally or ocean-averaged sea surface temperature (SST) time series), or with a single index from an isolated location. Any long-term changes in the seasonal patterns of upwelling, their intensity or the duration of upwelling events could have dramatic implications to their living marine resources. Large scale ocean-atmospheric changes related to annual occurrences of ENSO events and decadal shifts associated with the pacific decadal oscillation (PDO) and Northern oscillation index (NOI) impact sea surface temperature anomaly (SSTA).

Marine ecosystems are currently exposed to two problemic global trends:

a. The incessant accumulation of global gases in the earth's atmosphere, raising the threat of major changes associated with global warming and also of inevitable rearrangements of the established patterns of energy and momentum transfers through the sea surface that control processes that have become ingrained in marine life-history strategies, and

b. Heavy industrial fishery exploitation that has become pandemic in the world's oceans.

Bakun [7] opens the disquieting possibility that as incessant accumulation of global gases in the earth's atmosphere continues, additional intense regional upwelling ecosystems that exist in other regions of the world’s ocean might be switched to undesirable states similar to the currently existing off Luderitz. One of the reasons that coastal upwelling tends to be a more year-round phenomena in the tropics, is that a strong pressure gradient forms between a thermal low pressure cell that develops over the heated land surface an higher pressure existing over the more slowly warming waters of the ocean. This crossshore pressure gradient supports an alongshore geostrophic wind that drives and offshore-directed Ekman transport of the ocean surface layer. When the surface waters are thereby forced offshore from the solid coastal boundary on spatial scales too large for them to be replaced by waters moving horizontally along the coast, mass balanced is maintained by upwelling of subsurface waters. As atmospheric global content increases, the rate of heating over the land is further enhanced relative to that over the ocean, particularly as night-time radiative cooling is suppressed by an increasing degree of blockage of outgoing longwave radiation. This causes intensification of the low pressure cells over the coastal interior. A feedback sequence is generated as the resulting pressure gradient increase is matched by a proportional wind increase, which correspondingly increase the intensity of the upwelling in a non linear manner (by a power of 2 or more these strong wind conditions) which, in concert with ocean surface cooling produced by the intensified upwelling, further enhances the land-sea temperature contrast, the associated cross-shore pressure gradient, the upwelling favorable win, and so on [10-15].

The southwest coast of India is a monsoon dominated coast. Coastal upwelling occurs along the coast during the southwest monsoon season (JJAS) between 7 °N and 15 °N [16-21]. In this region, upwelling is a wind-driven process and the strength of alongshore winds stress modulates the coastal divergence and hence the input of cold upwelled water over the shelf. A strengthening of the alongshore wind stress enhances upwelling and results in lower SST over the shelf. Upwelling trends and patterns at three coastal locations for the past 60 years are examined and related local winds, sea level heights, SSTs and Pacific climatic indices to establish trends and mechanisms responsible for changes observed. Possible ties of upwelling to global warming and climate change are also investigated and speculation of their future impacts on southwest coast of India upwelling presented. Finally, coastal variability is relate to changes in southwest coast climate and speculate how trends will impact future climate variability.

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Data and Methods

The wind speed data (calculated by assuming a constant wind stress drag coefficient Cd = 1.5x10-3) and SST data were taken from Comprehensive Ocean-Atmosphere Data Set (COADS), a monthly averaged, 2° x 2° resolution, historical data file of ocean observations starting from 1899. The data have been collected, quality controlled and put into common formats and units [22-25]. As the data density before 1946 was poor and the measurement procedure has changed since 1946, only data from 1946 to 2005 were used in this study. The geographical boxes are referred to in terms of their central latitude (e.g., 8 °N refers to the 7°-9 °N COADS box).

Two large scale indices are used to investigate the atmospheric teleconnections, one is Northern Oscillation Index (NOI), a new index of climate variability based on the difference in 55 sea level pressure (SLP) anomalies at the North Pacific High (NPH) in the northeast Pacific (NEP) and near Darwin, 56 Australia, in a climatologically low SLP region. NOI data is downloaded from http://www.pfeg.noaa.gov/products/PFEL/ modeled/indices/NOIx/noix.html during 1948 to 2005 on monthly basis. Second one is The «Pacific Decadal Oscillation» (PDO) is a long-lived El Niño-like pattern of Pacific climate variability [26]. While the two climate oscillations have similar spatial climate fingerprints, they have very different behavior in time and the data is downloaded from http://jisao.washington. edu/pdo/ during the study period.

Fig I shows the four stations labelled A-D along the southwest coast of India for which the alongshore wind stress have been computed. The wind stress was calculated using a constant drag coefficient of 1.5 x 10-3. (Because wind stress is used in this paper as a relative index of upwelling), the choice of the constant drag coefficient is not critical, as a higher drag coefficient will simply linearly scale up our wind stress values. The average orientation of the coastline at each station was measured from maps, and the alongshore wind stress component was then computed. Details are given in Xie & Hsieh [27]. Ekman transport (ET) was calculated using wind data from ICOADS, W, the sea density, pw = 1025kgm-3 , a dimensionless drag coefficient cd = 1.5X 10-3 , and the air density, , by means of

f is the coriolis parameter defined as twice the vertical compoentn of the earth's angular velocity, Ω, about the local vertical given by f = 2Ω sin(θ) at latitude θ. Finally =, x subscript corresponds to the zonal component and the y subscript to the meridional one [28] (Figure 1).

Go to

Results

The mean wind stress for June-September (the upwelling "season") were calculated for each year from the seasonal model series for the COADS 2° boxes, and plotted as upwelling time series (Figure 2). The alongshore winds stress during the summer season (JJAS) has apparently intensified in the 30-year period 1946 to 1976. Since 1976 the stress values have trended back toward the mean for entire (~60 year) period. Actually, the period since 1976 has been one of anomalously warm conditions in the ocean off the southwest coast of India; whether warm ocean condition could have affected the onshore-offshore pressure gradient by lessening the relative barometric high at the oceanic end of the gradient is unclear. In any case, substantial, natural interannual and inter decadal variability should be super imposed on any trend related to climate warming. Certainly, the trend line fitted to the values in Figure 2 indicates a trend toward substantially increased southward wind stress off the southwest coast of India, even over entire 1946 to 2005 period.

The summer (June - September) alongshore wind stress (Figure 2) shows generally strong upwelling at stations A - D. Comparing the stress from the 1976s onward with earlier wind stress, the upwelling winds have intensified at stations A and B. At the four stations, low stress values are observed during El Nino events. AS shown in Figure 2, the sudden decrease of alongshore wind stress observed in summers of 1952, 1956, 1961, 1966, 1972, 1974, 1978, 1980, 1982, 1987, 1990, 1994, 1998 and 2002 can all be related to El Nino events. During a typical E Nino, this develops in the northern summer, a strong atmospheric teleconnection pattern of alternating high and low pressure cells.

Coastal SSTs during the upwelling season (JJAS) show a shift from the cool phase to the warm phase leading to a warming trend for the period 1946-2005 along the southwest coast of India (Figure 3). The rapid drop in SSTs in 1998, a strong La Nina, corresponds with increased upwelling at stations A and B. After five cool summers in the southwest coast of India, weak El Nino brought warmer waters and reduced upwelling in 200203. Coastal winds stress was unusually weak in 2002 (Figure 2). The relationship between SSTs and upwelling is not simple. Large-scale Southwest coast of India SST patterns influence atmospheric circulation, which in turn drives the coastal current.

The existence of SSTA during summer monsoon season (JJAS) at the SCI and significant positive correlation between SSTA and My for southwest monsoon along the SCI (Figure 4) and the relation is statistical significant at 99.9% level at three locations (Trivendrum, Cochin and Calicut). This relation strongly suggests that the SSTA variations are caused due to coastal upwelling. It is thus clear that the alongshore wind stress is responsible for causing the upwelling along the SCI similar to that of western Arabian Sea. Alongshore winds and coastal upwelling patterns are reflected in the temperature and precipitation patterns along the SCI. The link between the PDO, NOI and upwelling is investigated by looking at the correlation between indices (NOI, PDO) and the corresponding SSTA over the areas represented in Figure 1 (Table 1). Negative and statistically significant at 99.9% level correlation between NOI and SSTA at four locations along the SCI. Positive and statistically significant at 99.9% level correlation between PDO and SSTA over the same areas represented in Figure 1. These correlations suggest that an intensification of westerlies across the SCI intensifies the upwelling favourable wind that also enhances the upwelling process (negative SST anomaly). The relationship emphasizes the pre-eminent rate of climate variability on coastal sea surface temperature trends. The observed physical coupling between NOI, PDO and SSTA through an effect of climate on water column stratification.

Go to

Conclusion

Alongshore wind stress that drives coastal upwelling has been increasing during the upwelling season [JJAS) of the past 60 years. These are the only seasons during which thermal lows in surface atmospheric pressure develop over the adjacent land mass and therefore in which the hypothesized greenhouse mechanism could operate. When various series are differenced, effectively removing the linear trends, significant interregional correlation among the time series vanishes. Evidently, the only feature shared among regions is the long term trend. Other known types of global teleconnections, such as El Nino-Southern Oscillation, are known to evident in shorter period components of inter-annual variability. The substantial shorter period inter-annual variability is evident in the time series (Figure 2) is apparently not shared among regions to any significant degree. A greenhouse mechanism is consistent with the simple monotonically increasing trend that corresponds to the observed interregional patterns.

Increase upwelling is related to alongshore winds and large scale ocean-atmospheric interactions such as the NOI and PDO. The trends in SSTA, alongshore winds stress follow the gradual warming taking place for the last few decades, they are also explain in terms of large scale switches in phases of the PDO and NOI. The relationship between the SSTA and the ekman transport along the SCI indicates that upwelling occurs due to wind drive systems.

In projecting direct physiological effects of climatic warming on organisms, a first inclination might be to merely increment present characteristic isotherm patterns and to predict changes in biological distributions according to the resulting translocation of temperature ranges. Clearly, there are problems with such a procedure. Also, care must be taken in using evidence from past warming epochs, where various casual aspects of the warming have been some what different, to predict the effects of global warming on the ocean ecosystem. The dynamic ocean processes that determine the SST distributions could be fundamentally altered. Many of the consequences of global climate change to marine ecosystems and also to marine-influenced terrestrial systems could depend on the relative importance, in each local situation, of these competing effects.

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[acsversace-news]

In the first episode of FX's The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story Versace's (Edgar Ramirez) partner Antonio D'Amico (played by Ricky Martin) is grilled by an investigator who's totally clueless about the icon murdered moments ago. Who was he, really? the investigator wants to know. D'Amico, his white shirt stained with the blood of his partner, musters, "He was a genius."

He was, but "genius" doesn't fully convey the enormity of Versace's thinking, or his impact. Gianni Versace rose from opening a small Milan store in 1978 to being a fashion, media and branding virtuoso with an empire worth $807 million by the time he was murdered in 1997. As much as he shaped those worlds, his story may seem like a puzzling choice for Ryan Murphy's next American Crime Story after the seismic shifts of The People v. O.J. Simpson. Whereas the O.J. story divided America along racial fault lines, Versace's murder (by a gay man on a killing spree no less) didn't have the same impact to people outside the insular, elite realms of fashion and media. But if there's one thing Ryan Murphy loves, it's the element of surprise, and stories with high octane-impact. And while Versace's murder is a heinous injustice on its own, Murphy took on this story because it has implications bigger than a celebrity's death. American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace is Murphy's way of demanding accountability, of forcing the public to understand that the brutal slaying of one of the world's greatest talents was due to deeply ingrained anti-gay discrimination within law enforcement and society as a whole.

"People often ask us if we're going to do JonBenét Ramsey," executive producer and frequent Murphy collaborator Alexis Martin Woodall told TV Guide. "It's a big crime but it doesn't have larger implications. We always have to have a social context. I think it's really important to shine the light on the world FBI's largest failed manhunt and why that happened." That's why this iteration of American Crime Story has "assassination" in the title: it chronicles how homophobia ended the life of one of the world's greatest talents. Entrenched homophobia caused local police teams to bungle investigations of Andrew Cunanan (played by Darren Criss) as he killed his first victims in Minnesota and Chicago. It's also why the FBI botched its manhunt in spite of generous evidence, clues and tips. And internalized homophobia is certainly why the gay community itself downplayed the fact a gay killer was on the loose, afraid of making gay people look bad.

Yes, Versace's murder was a high-profile crime. But what should have been a watershed moment to look at how bias let a madman murder five people, including Versace, went to waste because the mostly closeted gay community was afraid (understandably) of the attention Cunanan's sexuality would foist upon them. Twenty years later, the prolific showrunner is getting justice. Because of his need to correct the record, their shared sensibilities and his singular penchant for visual razzle-dazzle, Murphy is the only TV producer who can give Versace's death as much meaning as his life. Unsurprisingly, it's also his best work yet.

"Dramatic, emotional, brash — big primary colors of emotion and subtlety," is how Tim Minear an executive producer who's worked with Murphy on AHS and Feud: Bette and Joan, described the House of Murphy sensibility to TV Guide. "Pushed," is another word he uses frequently. It's a nebulous term, but one that makes sense to anyone who's been yanked through the screen by Murphy's heightened sense of, well, everything in his shows, whether it's a chorus of gay schoolboys signing Katy Perry on Glee or Chaz Bono hacking off his hand in Horror Story.

Murphy and Versace don't make the same products, obviously, but fundamentally, they create the same effect: baptism into a world of media obsession, celebrity worship, glamour, filth and sex. "I think it's the responsibility of a designer to break rules and barriers," Versace once said, and he lived it. Versace bucked fashion rules that said expensive clothes were supposed to look refined. He borrowed from taboo subcultures — punk, bikers, sex workers — and made dresses that were loud and risqué, purposefully showing too much skin or too much pattern, to upend ideas of good taste. He also single-handedly rebranded Miami, where he created an opulent mansion, as a destination for beautiful jet-setting people. He practically created "supermodels" — Naomi Campbell was his main muse — and, as the first to deliberately place celebs like friends Prince and Madonna in the front row of his shows, he pioneered the idea that fashion could mean celebrity, rock & roll and sex.

He was openly gay, a rarity in the days when "Don't Ask Don't Tell" was supposed to be progress but barred gay people in the military from speaking about their personal lives. Being out was so rare and risky for a public figure then — yup, even for a fashion designer — that in April 1997, just months before Versace died, Ellen DeGeneres came out and saw her sitcom canceled and career stalled for years. Versace was a rebel. Versace invented giving zero f--s. Just as Versace didn't simply make clothes but rather, a feeling, Ryan Murphy doesn't make TV as much as he makes commentary. Nineteen years younger than Versace, Murphy also comes from humble beginnings (working class Indianapolis) and cut his teeth writing about entertainment for glossy pop culture magazines. Then he started creating pop culture himself, first with Popular, then Nip/Tuck, Glee, Scream Queens, the AHS series, The People v O.J. Simpson and Feud. Though every subject has been different, Murphy imbues every show with the same principles of contradictory emotion and images that leave viewers asking aloud and/or rewinding to see what the hell they just saw.

Murphy never hid his sexual orientation in his cutthroat industry, either. And just like Versace, Murphy's distinctly gay sensibility informs his shows as much as a queer point of view was imbued in Versace's clothes and casa. Their common language is camp, expressed through an innate instinct to provoke people with a patchwork of disparate, non-conformist influences. Gay men, particularly those of a certain age who endured hardships of yore, are unmatched in their ability to merge the sad, beautiful, profane, holy and hilarious in a single sentiment. If anything unites Murphy's wildly different works, it's delighting in the mix. Their end products aren't the same, but Murphy and Versace are cut from the same cloth.

Andrew Cunanan, on the other hand, was the shadow image of the two. Using the thoroughly researched book Vulgar Favors: Andrew Cunanan, Gianni Versace, and the Largest Failed Manhunt in U.S. History as its bible, the FX series depicts how Cunanan had all the desire to be as prominent as Versace or Murphy but did nothing to accomplish it other than lie and con. Versace and Murphy achieved success with endless hours of work and sacrifice, but Cunanan just earned the tokens of it — cash, clothes, drugs — through manipulation and sinister deception. And where Versace and Murphy boldly confronted homophobia by being out and outspoken, Cunanan succumbed to it by lying and pretending to be somebody else, so much that nobody who knew him really knew who he was. He killed his closest friends in egomaniacal tantrums; Cunanan shot Versace because he represented what Cunanan could've been, and what he felt he deserved. He wanted to be famous. "The most ironic thing of all," Alexis Martin Woodall said, "is that he wanted to be remembered and nobody remembers who he was. Everybody thinks fame is the answer and for most people, fame is totally destructive."

Murphy delights in showing monsters up close, as he does in American Horror Story, but he's most poignant when he probes how real-life monsters became that way. The Assassination of Gianni Versace allows Murphy to do what he does best: make viewers understand — but not empathize — with the devil. And only Murphy could achieve the delicate balance of vilifying a person without vilifying an entire culture — exactly what kept the case from having the same kind of cultural impact that O.J. had. That long overdue impact can now finally occur in Murphy's dramatic retelling.

Murphy directed the first episode of Versace and, as everyone knows, he never shies away from brutal images. The season opener goes back to Versace's face, ripped open by the stolen .40 caliber semiautomatic Cunanan used, several times in the hospital and autopsy room. It is gruesome and haunting, yet fitting. Versace made Medusa, the mythological monster with a head full of snakes, his logo; he saw the beauty in the grotesque and knew that shock had value. Murphy has made those elements hallmarks, using them as Trojan horses to make points about racism (O.J.), sexism (Feud) and now, homophobia, a subject that's obviously personal. In the years since Versace's demise, many groups and museums — and even his sister Donatella (portrayed in the FX series by her friend Penelope Cruz) — have honored Versace's legacy. But 20 years after Versace's death, Ryan Murphy has created a work that not only pays respects to the legendary designer but channels righteous anger at the institutions that robbed the world of a master whose sole life purpose was to create beauty, fun and love. And he manages to do it in a way that doesn't shy away from the fact that Versace's killer was cut from what Cunanan considered to be the same cloth. The result is a series so intense that even the cast and crew cried while shooting.

"The word genius is overused," said Woodhall. "Except with Ryan. He really is a genius. He is a visionary."

The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story premieres Wednesday, Jan. 17 at 10/9c on FX.

[timespakistan]

I know why the caged bird sings | Art & Culture Nightingale With Lock. A young unkempt boy, paper in hand, utters an incomprehensible word, and weavers pick a certain shade of wool, and start adding it to the half-woven rugs on their looms. Different sounds – rather commands, make them replace colours, tie more knots, modify design, till an entire piece of the tapestry is complete. Anyone who has ever visited such a place is intrigued by this form of communication – a secret dialect shared by workers at carpet-weaving units across the Punjab, if not the entire country. Besides this mundane but practical and professional language, there is another language attached to carpets. Floral patterns and geometric motifs are actually codes for complex meanings and refer to faith, spirituality and sublimity. What we step on could be a garden, even Eden; and what we hang on the wall could be the Tree of Life. In both cases, extremely stylised, and with a rich chromatic scheme possible due to indigenous dyes. A number of artists have been inspired by the tradition of carpet making, but Parviz Tanavoli’s interest in this conventional method/imagery is more than cursory. Belonging to a society known for manufacturing rugs of high aesthetics, he collected carpets, and wrote several books on this practice including Kings, Heroes and Lovers; Lion Rugs and Persian Flatweaves. Tanavoli has also created works based on the vocabulary of carpet, screen prints from 1974, shown recently at Grosvenor Gallery London. A person familiar with Parviz Tanavoli’s art is aware that his inquiry into the Persian carpet is not a surface infatuation. Tanavoli’s entire corpus of work is rooted in the cultural expression of this region. He is known internationally for his sculptural work and referred to as the Father of Modern Iranian Sculpture. He has also produced paintings and scholarly works. One of his most celebrated sculptures consists of Persian word heech, which means ‘nothing’. He says, “the shape of this work, which is composed of three letters, fascinated me so much that for four or five years I worked on it, making many, many heeches.” At the Grosvenor Gallery, Tanavoli’s screen prints, intended as layouts for rugs and tapestries woven in Iran, were on display from April 26 to May 8. Though all these prints are almost 47 years old, they do not appear outdated just as traditional carpets do not date easily and sometimes acquire more meaning, significance and worth with the passage of time – not as antique pieces, but as part of everyday existence. A carpet by its essence, is not to be used as a museum exhibit, but handled as an essential possession of the household – to sit, step, recline and sleep on. It is only for outsiders that these rugs are exotic pieces, purchased and preserved like precious items; because to a traveller, a cultural tourist, a European connoisseur – who is unable to crouch, or comfortably sit cross-legged, and eat and hold conversation – these rugs have more decorative importance than any practical value. On the other hand, Parviz Tanavoli, born in 1937 in Tehran, investigates the practice from an insider’s position. With this privilege, he is able to deviate from the standard sensibility of a carpet. His prints recall the language of pop art, since these rugs, in a sense, are ‘popular art’ of the Near East and Central Asia. Tanavoli, admirably, has not followed the typical colour scheme, traditional motifs and conventional content. Employing a chromatic order that ranges from bright blues, greens, scarlet, yellows, vibrant turquoises, pinks, peaches and greys to stark black, has assembled a new narrative. Eventually, they were fabricated by tribal weavers, all interpreting original design differently and supplying their unique responses. Talking about this and his travel in the region from early ’60s to early ’70s, Tanavoli recalls: “I noticed that they weave their rugs by looking at another rug, and do not use cartoons like city weavers. This is how I decided to make my own rugs”. Purely because of this observation, preliminarily ideas of rugs – his screen prints, are open to manipulation, alteration and addition. In any case, when an image (or for that matter a text) is translated into another diction/medium, it is bound to change its contours – and context. Parviz Tanavoli’s pieces had potential for elaborations; and the exhibition catalogue documents how one print, Farhad and I, (originally a painting of the same title from 1973) was modified separately by Qashqa and Lori weavers. Probably the greatest contribution of Tanavoli is not continuing with a rich heritage, but bringing artisans into the realm of contemporary art, and recognising their aesthetic choices and respecting their pictorial solutions. In a sense, the intervention Tanavoli accepted in his work, is what he has done to the tradition of rug making. Tanavoli travels between intervention and invention in his art, particularly his 1974 prints. Proportions of these screen prints conform to the conventional rectangle of rugs; but it is the imagery that determines how an artist converses with tradition, and morphs it. His visuals are ingrained in the cultural history of Persia, but his approach is that of a modern, fearless, yet reverent painter. Akin to traditional mode of weaving stories in patterns, he also infuses a narrative in his art, a narrative that deals with language, love, and freedom. An important – and readable ‘picture’ in his ‘carpet-prints’ (or car-prints) is of the nightingale. Either caged in a block of buildings, or with a locked beak. This state of the bird signifies restrictions (one recognises the prophetic power of Parviz Tanavoli here. He was envisaging a scenario of repression and curbs on speech five years before it was witnessed after/with the 1979 Revolution in Iran. The nightingale also announces the presence of love, because in historic Persian (and Urdu) poetry, it is associated with passion, love songs and longing. Besides drawing the bird in profile, Tanavoli writes its Farsi name, bulbul. In another print, a poet – stylised to an unbelievable height – is holding the fowl. Another work, Oh, Nightingale, is filled with a composite figure, partly a human form with feet and legs, and partially modulated head of the bird, with windows and locks. Farhad Squeezing Lemon. For Tanavoli, the poet and the bird are companions, as witnessed in Poet & Bird, with its variation of human-type figurine holding a simplified version of birds. The artist recounts: “The poet… was the freest of all humankind. I consider him to be like birds in the sky, belonging everywhere”. His Last Poet of Iran looks like a document, of poet’s multiple variations, without names/identities. A print from the same series, Disciples of Sheikh San’an, with its architectural structures – and the caged bird – refers to a story from The Conference of Birds, the poem penned by Faridoddin Attar in the twelfth century. Regardless of the detail of his subject, characters, references, it is his way of transforming a living being and objects in delightful patterns that connects him to the tradition of carpet weaving – as well as to the convention of modern art. Mostly evident in his lion series (Lion and Sword, 2008; and Lion and Sun 2010), in which the ferocious animal (a symbol of political power, the king) is rendered like a simplified toy. In their colour, shapes and arrangement, Tanavoli’s people, birds, things, are at once traditional and modern. Created by an individual, who taught sculpture in Tehran and Minneapolis, and lived in Iran and Canada, the imagery is one of the most convincing proposal for a marriage between the past and the present. Because both the historic Persian rugs and Parviz Tanavoli’s prints made in 1974 are works of art that in the words of DH Lawrence, “will be for ever new”. The writer is an art critic based in Lahore. https://timespakistan.com/i-know-why-the-caged-bird-sings-art-culture/18742/

[darrencrissource]

In the first episode of FX’s The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime StoryVersace’s (Edgar Ramirez) partner Antonio D'Amico (played by Ricky Martin) is grilled by an investigator who’s totally clueless about the icon murdered moments ago. Who was he, really? the investigator wants to know. D'Amico, his white shirt stained with the blood of his partner, musters, “He was a genius.”

He was, but “genius” doesn’t fully convey the enormity of Versace’s thinking, or his impact. Gianni Versace rose from opening a small Milan store in 1978 to being a fashion, media and branding virtuoso with an empire worth $807 million by the time he was murdered in 1997. As much as he shaped those worlds, his story may seem like a puzzling choice for Ryan Murphy’s next American Crime Story after the seismic shifts of The People v. O.J. Simpson. Whereas the O.J. story divided America along racial fault lines, Versace’s murder (by a gay man on a killing spree no less) didn’t have the same impact to people outside the insular, elite realms of fashion and media. But if there’s one thing Ryan Murphy loves, it’s the element of surprise, and stories with high octane-impact. And while Versace’s murder is a heinous injustice on its own, Murphy took on this story because it has implications bigger than a celebrity’s death. American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace is Murphy’s way of demanding accountability, of forcing the public to understand that the brutal slaying of one of the world’s greatest talents was due to deeply ingrained anti-gay discrimination within law enforcement and society as a whole.

“People often ask us if we’re going to do JonBenét Ramsey,” executive producer and frequent Murphy collaborator Alexis Martin Woodall told TV Guide. “It’s a big crime but it doesn’t have larger implications. We always have to have a social context. I think it’s really important to shine the light on the world FBI’s largest failed manhunt and why that happened.” That’s why this iteration of American Crime Story has “assassination” in the title: it chronicles how homophobia ended the life of one of the world’s greatest talents. Entrenched homophobia caused local police teams to bungle investigations of Andrew Cunanan (played by Darren Criss) as he killed his first victims in Minnesota and Chicago. It’s also why the FBI botched its manhunt in spite of generous evidence, clues and tips. And internalized homophobia is certainly why the gay community itself downplayed the fact a gay killer was on the loose, afraid of making gay people look bad. 

Yes, Versace's murder was a high-profile crime. But what should have been a watershed moment to look at how bias let a madman murder five people, including Versace, went to waste because the mostly closeted gay community was afraid (understandably) of the attention Cunanan's sexuality would foist upon them. Twenty years later, the prolific showrunner is getting justice. Because of his need to correct the record, their shared sensibilities and his singular penchant for visual razzle-dazzle, Murphy is the only TV producer who can give Versace's death as much meaning as his life. Unsurprisingly, it's also his best work yet.

"Dramatic, emotional, brash — big primary colors of emotion and subtlety," is how Tim Minear an executive producer who's worked with Murphy on AHS and Feud: Bette and Joan, described the House of Murphy sensibility to TV Guide. "Pushed," is another word he uses frequently. It's a nebulous term, but one that makes sense to anyone who's been yanked through the screen by Murphy's heightened sense of, well, everything in his shows, whether it's a chorus of gay schoolboys signing Katy Perry on Gleeor Chaz Bono hacking off his hand in Horror Story.

Murphy and Versace don't make the same products, obviously, but fundamentally, they create the same effect: baptism into a world of media obsession, celebrity worship, glamour, filth and sex. "I think it's the responsibility of a designer to break rules and barriers," Versace once said, and he lived it. Versace bucked fashion rules that said expensive clothes were supposed to look refined. He borrowed from taboo subcultures — punk, bikers, sex workers — and made dresses that were loud and risqué, purposefully showing too much skin or too much pattern, to upend ideas of good taste. He also single-handedly rebranded Miami, where he created an opulent mansion, as a destination for beautiful jet-setting people. He practically created "supermodels" — Naomi Campbell was his main muse — and, as the first to deliberately place celebs like friends Prince and Madonna in the front row of his shows, he pioneered the idea that fashion could mean celebrity, rock & roll and sex.

He was openly gay, a rarity in the days when "Don't Ask Don't Tell" was supposed to be progress but barred gay people in the military from speaking about their personal lives. Being out was so rare and risky for a public figure then — yup, even for a fashion designer — that in April 1997, just months before Versace died, Ellen DeGeneres came out and saw her sitcom canceled and career stalled for years. Versace was a rebel. Versace invented giving zero f--s. Just as Versace didn't simply make clothes but rather, a feeling, Ryan Murphy doesn't make TV as much as he makes commentary. Nineteen years younger than Versace, Murphy also comes from humble beginnings (working class Indianapolis) and cut his teeth writing about entertainment for glossy pop culture magazines. Then he started creating pop culture himself, first with Popular, then Nip/Tuck, Glee, Scream Queens, the AHS series, The People v O.J. Simpson andFeud.Though every subject has been different, Murphy imbues every show with the same principles of contradictory emotion and images that leave viewers asking aloud and/or rewinding to see what the hell they just saw.

Murphy never hid his sexual orientation in his cutthroat industry, either. And just like Versace, Murphy's distinctly gay sensibility informs his shows as much as a queer point of view was imbued in Versace's clothes and casa. Their common language is camp, expressed through an innate instinct to provoke people with a patchwork of disparate, non-conformist influences. Gay men, particularly those of a certain age who endured hardships of yore, are unmatched in their ability to merge the sad, beautiful, profane, holy and hilarious in a single sentiment. If anything unites Murphy's wildly different works, it's delighting in the mix. Their end products aren't the same, but Murphy and Versace are cut from the same cloth.

Andrew Cunanan, on the other hand, was the shadow image of the two. Using the thoroughly researched book Vulgar Favors: Andrew Cunanan, Gianni Versace, and the Largest Failed Manhunt in U.S. History as its bible, the FX series depicts how Cunanan had all the desire to be as prominent as Versace or Murphy but did nothing to accomplish it other than lie and con. Versace and Murphy achieved success with endless hours of work and sacrifice, but Cunanan just earned the tokens of it — cash, clothes, drugs — through manipulation and sinister deception. And where Versace and Murphy boldly confronted homophobia by being out and outspoken, Cunanan succumbed to it by lying and pretending to be somebody else, so much that nobody who knew him really knew who he was. He killed his closest friends in egomaniacal tantrums; Cunanan shot Versace because he represented what Cunanan could've been, and what he felt he deserved. He wanted to be famous. "The most ironic thing of all," Alexis Martin Woodall said, "is that he wanted to be remembered and nobody remembers who he was. Everybody thinks fame is the answer and for most people, fame is totally destructive."

Murphy delights in showing monsters up close, as he does in American Horror Story, but he's most poignant when he probes how real-life monsters became that way. The Assassination of Gianni Versace allows Murphy to do what he does best: make viewers understand — but not empathize — with the devil. And only Murphy could achieve the delicate balance of vilifying a person without vilifying an entire culture — exactly what kept the case from having the same kind of cultural impact that O.J. had. That long overdue impact can now finally occur in Murphy's dramatic retelling.

Murphy directed the first episode of Versace and, as everyone knows, he never shies away from brutal images. The season opener goes back to Versace's face, ripped open by the stolen .40 caliber semiautomatic Cunanan used, several times in the hospital and autopsy room. It is gruesome and haunting, yet fitting. Versace made Medusa, the mythological monster with a head full of snakes, his logo; he saw the beauty in the grotesque and knew that shock had value. Murphy has made those elements hallmarks, using them as Trojan horses to make points about racism (O.J.), sexism (Feud) and now, homophobia, a subject that's obviously personal. In the years since Versace's demise, many groups and museums — and even his sister Donatella (portrayed in the FX series by her friend Penelope Cruz) — have honored Versace's legacy. But 20 years after Versace's death, Ryan Murphy has created a work that not only pays respects to the legendary designer but channels righteous anger at the institutions that robbed the world of a master whose sole life purpose was to create beauty, fun and love. And he manages to do it in a way that doesn't shy away from the fact that Versace's killer was cut from what Cunanan considered to be the same cloth. The result is a series so intense that even the cast and crew cried while shooting.

"The word genius is overused," said Woodhall. "Except with Ryan. He really is a genius. He is a visionary."

The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story premieres Wednesday, Jan. 17 at 10/9c on FX.

December 28, 2017

[veterantreasurer]

Ficlet for @recklessinbravery

His back ached, and it wasn’t something he was unaccustomed to now, age would do that to anyone. But age was a number that Alexander never believed he’d see grow passed the twenties, and forty-five was rearing its head in a matter of months. But that wasn’t important, not today, because today he was celebrating the fact that John was forty-seven. Once upon a time, Alexander believed they would never last this long with one another, not to the point that their hair lined with salt and pepper, and to the age where Alexander’s hands shook a little bit too much when he tried to hold them out. But, this. This, he wouldn’t trade for the world.

Wouldn’t trade the mess of soft brown and silver tucked against his chest, the feeling of hot breath on his throat before the light came to intrude on them, the steady beat of a heart that pounded in time with his own. His arms tightened reflexively, hand lightly stroking up the column of his lover’s back, fingers tracing patterns and the words that littered his crowded thoughts. But the morning allowed for silence, for that semblance of calm before the storm. For the peace that fell upon him like a quilt, allowing him to bask in the beauty of the man he’d loved for years now.

There was no sign John was stirring yet, the light snore coming in form of a lullaby to Alexander, he wouldn’t dare wake him so early, not today. Even at his age, it was rare for the younger man to sleep in late, his body never allowing for idleness, the need to work, the need for his several cups of morning coffee a siren’s song threatening to pull him from his bed. His lips pressed into the golden strands, soft and giving way beneath the feather light pressure until chapped skin met skull. White bone protecting one of the most precious things on this earth in Alexander’s eyes.

The motion was enough to stir a sleepy hum from his companion, a shift in his posture that only pressed him closer, and Alexander was helpless to do anything but strengthen his embrace. The morning wouldn’t last long now. John never quite developed the ability of a deep sleep. His alertness, especially to Alexander, was a leftover trait of a war they’d fought, 'sleep where you can, but sleep lightly' ingrained in their wartorn DNA. John stayed longer than he did, enlisted for a few extra years, and did a second tour. Alexander did the bare minimum to pay his way through college. What choice did he have? Though, he wouldn’t give up that choice in a million years if it meant he wouldn’t have this. These quiet mornings with John pressed so firmly to his chest, with the reassurance that he was loved.

The stir completed into consciousness, and sharp blue eyes were soon gazing blearily at him, the smaller man’s grip loosened as a familiar pair of arms needed room to stretch, and the ability to be released from the confines of his embrace. “Happy birthday.” The low murmur of his voice was still scratchy from an entire night of disuse, the only true moments Alexander’s vocal chords ever had a break.

A light chuckle bubbled from John’s lips, and the smile that pulled the smaller man’s, in turn, was easy, drawing lines of age into sharper angles.

“Thanks.” “Of course, mon Coeur.”

Alexander’s lips soon became occupied with littering his partner’s face in a series of kisses, from his brow to his temples, to his cheeks to his nose, and finally resting upon his lips after twenty or so small pecks.

“Mi sol, whatever you desire today from me shall be yours.” He murmured, a smile breaking out across those same lips enough to show white bone aligned and straight.

John had kissed him back sweetly, a series of small laughs breaking out at the tender assault.

“Anything? My, Hamilton that is quite a lot to give promise to.” “Well, I trust you would not abuse me passed my desired limits.”

Alexander’s quip was met with another sweet kiss before John’s warmth was departing from him, taking the shield of the covers away from his frame. It was the action that told the younger man that it was time to rise from their pillowed retreat and meet the day.

Carpe Diem

His hand trailed along the front of his lover’s bare chest, admiring the curves of muscles that never faded, even with their age. It was something he’d always admired about John, his broad leanness, and perfect angles, his flawless skin always tanning to a perfect yellow-gold. He was beautiful.

Admiration was a colour often painted on Alexander’s face around the other man, always watching him with love and affection in his star struck gaze. He knew it was a shared expression between them, that John often looked at him as if he hung the moon and stars by hand, as if he molded the world they lived in.

In the war, Alexander had often worded prose about how John was to be his Patroclus, in a way he was preparing himself for the other man leaving him in some way or shape, had always feared his reckless bravery would end with loss. Like it always had in Alexander's life. Had used the eloquent words and flowery metaphors to persuade smiles onto his illicit lover’s face. Despite the world’s openness to relationships like theirs there was enough stigma in a republican army to keep their glances and touches a secret confined to short letters, and brief embraces in the shadow of desert nights.

There had never been enough time then.

Never for these sleepy mornings, those hadn’t existed in the army, never for the lingering kisses and touches that delivered the sentiment loaded beneath. Instead, there had been searching and knowing glances, chairs sat too close and hands held together tightly beneath tables.

And Alexander had always moved as if he were on the edge of running out, his health never at it’s best, and death an old friend, he had rushed through his life with the same reckless abandon that John showed on the battlefield. They were a match made in a heaven Alexander never truly believed in despite the Sunday school teachings that his mother insisted on when he grew up in the Caribbean.

It turned out that Alexander never truly was Achilles, and John never his Patroclus, and he was glad for it, glad that their story didn’t end in loss and tragedy, because he knew his heart never would have recovered from the failings of that myth. For John was his heel, his weakness and if someone were to cut him away he would fall apart.

He was never Icarus, and John was not the sun that melted away his wings. No, he was the sun that he basked in to warm his bones and turn his skin to gold. He was not the Pythias to his Damon, for they would never be apart. No, at five and forty Alexander was positive he would never lose the man who smiled so brightly at him now. Who promised to start the coffee and prepare them breakfast even though it was his own birthday. But, Alexander had always made the food a little too spicy for John’s morning tastes, the coffee too strong for he knew no other way to distribute the grounds into the filter.

The bed was cold with John’s absence so Alexander saw no further reason to stay in the confines of sheets, he tore himself away and found the nearest sweater to pull on. It was John’s. Most of them were, because Alexander never found the time to buy things other than suits for work, what was the point when John’s clothes were comfortable and available to him?

Bare feet padded to the kitchen, to once more find his other half, drawn to him almost as if magnetized. His face fits perfectly into the pocket between John’s shoulder blades, and his shorter arms wound around his middle to fold comfortably. The older man’s hands busied themselves with the coffee machine, the steady drip and heavy smell something Alexander loved nearly as much as the man he was pressed to now.

“Someone is affectionate this morning.” “Would you prefer if I wasn’t? It is your birthday after all.” “So you keep reminding me.”

Alexander placed a light kiss to John’s back, glad to find it bare, where he could properly enjoy the familiar scent and taste of his lover’s skin.

“Yeah, I do, because I’m not going to let you forget you still haven’t told me what you want from me today. I told you that I’m all yours.” “Aren’t you always?” “Yes, but today especially, I even told Washington I wouldn’t be coming into any meetings today.” “Wow. This must be a very serious day then.” “I’d say so.”

The joke had the both of them laughing lightly, mostly at Alexander’s expense, the habits of his work had never ceased even in age, even when most senators pushed for retirement. But he still had more work to do. More change to make for this young country that had failed so many like him. There had to be.

“So?” Alexander prompted again as silence fell between them. It wasn’t an uncomfortable one, but Alexander never really enjoyed the quiet, his mind was far too busy to grant him the ability to revel in a lack of stimulation.

“Alright. Maybe we can go to dinner, but I don’t want anything extravagant, I’ve had enough of those.”

John had been saying that for years, ever since he’d been in the army at the ripe age at eighteen, a service to this country under the guise of wanting to please his father, a senator like Alexander was now. What better to have in your campaign than the justice and goating of an oldest son in the military, fighting for the country whose’ government you served? But it was the times before that he meant, Alexander knew, but never asked. The years growing up in a rich family big on celebration and parties for other politicians to come and dote on the pretty women and share each others’ wives' souffles.

It was a life he didn’t know until the last decade. Until after law school, after his internship with Washington and eventually his own rise to politics. He never ceased being uncomfortable in those rooms full of men that would look at him differently should they know the history beneath the expensive suits and classy accessories he wore. He was sure he wasn’t the only one though.

“Alright dinner, I can agree to that.” He replied, a smile on his lips as he once more littered gentle kisses against the smooth planes of John’s back. The caress needed to end as the other man began to cook breakfast, and Alexander took his usual seat at the table, paper laid before him because he was a traditionalist, and the printed word often appealed to him more than reading off of his laptop, especially when his glasses were still perched on the bridge of his strong nose.

Breakfast passed without ceremony, silent eating and shared looks of adoration. They were truly old now. The shower that followed breakfast was a soundtrack of small moans, interrupted only by the spray of the water on their bare skin. Satisfied smiles as they exited, perhaps not as clean as they could have been, but it was worth it. Happy Birthday, John.

The middle of the day was spent on the couch, bodies curled together on the cushions with blankets draped over their intertwined legs, a film playing on the TV that truly only held John’s attention, because Alexander’s mind was still swimming in a state of self-reflection and admiration of the way John’s long fingers curled around his own hand.

As the movie came to a close it was with shared kisses, and a remapping of hands on planes of still exposed skin, because John never put on a shirt. More so because Alexander had asked, and John had shook his head but conceded once he peppered kisses on the still damp skin that fell under the hair Alexander insisted he kept long, even though at times the other man complained it was unmanageable, but his lover liked something to hold onto in the throes of pleasure, and something to play with while they laid and watched films, or in those lovely moments so early in the morning.

But now John was pulling up from the couch, hovering over Alexander, and Alexander smiled up at him, eyes shining with that kittenish playfulness that never left him even with his small beard turned silver, and the lines of his face deepening so they were prominent even when his expression was soft and laid blank.

“We gotta get going or we’re going to miss our reservation.” John’s smile was blinding, and Alexander squirmed lightly, hand raising to rest, palm flat against the curve of John’s muscled chest.

“Yeah? Well, what if I want to miss dinner and skip straight to dessert?” He asked, and John kissed him again. “As tempting as that sounds I’m still hungry.” He replied after pulling away, and Alexander pouted but didn’t really mean it, he rarely did.

The weight that shifted in the couch had the younger man sighing dramatically before he was getting up as well, tracking behind his partner to their shared bedroom where they would dress to the nines before leaving to the lavish restaurant Alexander insisted on, because it was John’s birthday, and it wasn’t some fancy party, but it was important enough to celebrate over a bottle of wine with a price tag that the old him would have scoffed at. But money had ceased being a problem after his first job as a lawyer, and now his bank account reflected the self-importance he had always felt.

As ties were fastened and cufflinks secured, John and Alexander made the trek to the outside of their apartment building and hailed a cab to go into the city, the traffic as always was awful, because Manhattan was never not crowded, and Alexander Hamilton was never not late for a reservation so John always told him it was fifteen minutes earlier than it actually was. When Alexander found out, John made it thirty. He hadn’t caught on yet.

The hostess led them inside with an easy smile at Alexander, his name well-known at this point, as much as John’s and it was never something he would be used to, or cease to spark that sense of pride within himself. He’d come so far. They’d come so far.

His hand was once more in John’s, fingers intertwined, long and thin against broader and rough, though never ceasing to be nimble. Too many days spent handling delicate things like needles and surgery knives.

As they were seated, the white table cloth curled over their thighs, and it seemed like the first time they were apart the whole day, the table separating them no doubt one with polished wood, but it lay hidden under the white expanse and dark navy napkins wrapped tightly around fine silver. Alexander ordered the wine. It was John’s favorite, a red cabernet with the date older than them both, because the only thing that aged better than whiskey was wine, and the only thing that aged better than wine was John.

A smile broke out across Alexander’s lips as he leaned forward across the table, hand laying flat, palm up and inviting and John took it with a matching expression, brow quirking because Alexander had been wearing that expression all day, the soft one that caused his heart to flutter even after all these years.

Free hands found the stems of wine glasses, and the brims clinked before throats were taking down the liquid and Alexander grinned.

“Happy Birthday John.”

[lifesobeautiful]

4 Powerful Ways To Stay Motivated And Reach Your Goals Through Tough Times

Have you ever gotten excited about your New Year’s resolutions only to have them fizzle out mere weeks after? This is a common enough story and we’ve all been there. When the “fresh start effect” fades away, your determination falters and the first bump on the road often signals the end of the journey.

So, what can we do to keep our motivation high for the longer run? Here are 4 great ways to stay motivated.

Listen to your heart

If you want to feel motivated in the long term, choose a goal with your heart. When an objective comes from your heart, it will be easier to stick with it through tough times. You will make sacrifices more readily when it is clear what you are making them for.

Dig inside yourself and get in touch with the vision that you have behind your goal. If your objective is to eat healthy or exercise, what is your underlying vision? Maybe a vision of yourself in good health, fit, slim and happy.

Whatever that vision is, take a moment to visualize the person you aspire to build. It will help you see meaning in everything you do.

For example, why would you put your sneakers on and go for a run instead of watching a TV series? The sofa might be more tempting than the effort. However, if you go back to your vision, the choice will come effortlessly.

Go after goals which are genuinely yours and you will find plenty of motivation to make them happen.

See Also: How to Set Personal SMART Goals To Succeed

Align your habits with your long-term goals

One day, I checked my own goals and tried to determine what the difference was between those that I achieved easily and those I seemed to struggled with. And I found a clear pattern.

I have a few long-term goals, like maintaining a certain weight or getting a new degree before I reach 40. I realized that I do well with the first one, less so with the second one.

Why do I seem to have a two-speed motivation?

I’m not less motivated in getting a new degree. The problem is that I have nowhere to start from. My weight goal, on the other hand, is linked to short-term goals or habits, such as eating 5 servings of fruits or vegetables per day, eating fish twice a week and exercising at least four times a week. These daily and weekly habits help me reach my long-term objective.

I haven’t set any corresponding habit for my degree goal. And I’m not going to achieve it just by looking at it…

The secret of success lies in the things we do regularly, like our daily and weekly habits. These habits must be aligned with the vision we have.

Having a vision is not enough. It must be translated into small daily steps. If we only have a vision or a long-term goal, we will feel overwhelmed by the mission and we won’t know where to start from.

Sometimes, it’s the other way round and we struggle to ingrain new habits. In that case, the long-term goal may be missing. For example, it’s much easier to find the motivation to go for a run when you have registered for a race or when you aim at getting your beach body back in time for the summer season!

The alignment between habits and a long-term vision works both ways. Having habits that are aligned to a long-term objective gives us the motivation to reach the end goal and sustain good habits.

When you struggle with one of your goals, check whether it’s a habit or a long-term goal. If it’s a habit, make sure that you have a corresponding vision. Why do you want to ingrain this habit?

If it’s a long-term goal that you struggle with, try and set up a daily or weekly habit that will help you get there.

See Also: 7 Habits I Started Last Year That Dramatically Changed My Life

Reward yourself

We all know that we are more motivated to do something when there is a reward at stake. The pleasure induced by a reward reinforces the activity which helped get the reward. This is called extrinsic motivation. It can be helpful to kick-start the process when intrinsic motivation is a bit low.

A simple way to introduce rewards is to plan/get/offer the rewards yourself. You need to set the bar properly. You need to do a decent effort to get it.

It can’t be too difficult or you may end up feeling discouraged. It can’t be too easy or you’ll get the reward without the need for motivation.

You also need to define a goal or reward system that makes sense. Eating junk food for a week if you manage to lose three kilos is probably not the best choice! Ideally, the reward and the effort should be somehow aligned. This will help create a virtuous circle.

Buying a smaller dress when you lose a few kilos and getting a massage after a few weeks of physical training are good examples. These rewards will help you build milestones on your path to a better you. They’ll become the symbols of your positive behavior change.

Reassess your goals over time

We can also keep motivated to reach our goals by changing goals!

Goals must be alive and reassessed regularly. It’s important to realize that because monotony is a big motivation killer.

When we set a new goal, we generally improve quite rapidly at the beginning. If you start exercising two or three times a week, you’ll be able to notice progress session after session. Then, it’ll get harder to improve and the progression curve gets less steep. This can be a little demotivating.

We can introduce excitement by having a few stable goals combined with some temporary ones. I want to lose weight, wake up early, exercise and read regularly. These are my core goals which I’m keeping for the long run. In addition to these core goals, I’ll try other things, such as journaling for a month, then learning chess, or cooking, etc.

You may sometimes adjust your goals down. If one of my goals is to play the guitar for 2 hours a week while I barely manage to play more than 30 minutes for a few weeks in a row, I may lose my motivation to eventually hit the target. In such a case, I may be well inspired to target 1 hour instead.

When the target is a little higher than what we are already doing, it pushes us to take a small step and fill the gap. When the target is too high, it becomes counter-productive. Why would I do an extra step if I stay so far anyway?

You can also give up on a goal when you don’t feel like pursuing it anymore or when you have already ingrained the habit and don’t need to monitor it any longer. Our aspirations evolve over time.

When a goal doesn’t make you dream anymore, it’s often better to let it go than drag it along painfully. You shouldn’t feel guilty about giving up goals as it’s natural. But, that doesn’t mean we should stop as soon as the first difficulty arises. It’s a matter of balance.

Take a break

It is also a good idea to take breaks at times, hit the pause button and do something else. It can be very beneficial. Even professional athletes take a break between two seasons in order to recover physically and mentally. They get back to training all pumped up for the new season.

Do the same when you feel tired. It will help you get refreshed and hungry.

Don’t forget to set a date for your come back though!

Once a month or every other month, try and take an “appointment with yourself” and review your goals. Assess what works well, update your goals and refine your strategies. These are some of the best ways to stay motivated and reignite your desire to go ahead.

  The post 4 Powerful Ways To Stay Motivated And Reach Your Goals Through Tough Times appeared first on Dumb Little Man.

This article was first shared from Dumb Little Man

[haedalkrp]

             …      ━━━     NOW INTRODUCING THE YOUNG LADY KIM SEOLHWA    ━━━      …

                                     ・    ・                                                       ・    ・     FROM THE NOBLE HOUSE OF KIM, she’s the only daughter born to the CHIEF STATE COUNCILLOR.  will she be a player or a pawn in this game of lies?

                                                                (     ONLY TIME WILL TELL.     )

“    MAY HER SOFT SWEETNESS DRAW THEM IN, AND HER THORNS PRICK THOSE       WHO DARE BREACH.

UNMARRIED

UNEMPLOYED

21 YEARS OLD

      ━  CAPTIVATING  ・  SUPERFICIAL  ・  POLISHED  ・  CUNNING

the long awaited daughter came in height of spring, just before the weather turned into sweltering summer; her eyes bright and skin soft as the petals that bloomed around her feet. kim seolhwa grew up with eyes watching her every move, adored – she would traipse and fall and everyone would coo and rush to her very care. such an upbringing could not leave one’s disposition unscathed, and she was not exempt from this logic. 

the beautiful young thing was the only daughter of the most important man in the land, only second to the king and his crown prince– and she believed more than anything that she should have the pick of the land when it comes to husbands. perhaps more than anything she believed that everyone must fall to their knees to marry the only daughter of the chief state councillor’s office. she demands it so, for she believes that flowers may only grow in the very spots that her silk-slippered feet might tread. 

oftentimes she would talk too arrogantly, and behave too uncaringly amidst her surroundings but no one in her family would even bat an eyelash and indulge, indulge, indulge. for she is always right, never at fault. her life a series of ‘yeses’ and smooth sailing, protected from the evil and harshness of men and the world. she grew too trusting, believing immediately that she will be treated thus even with people outside her small family, having faith that the big bad world would bow down to her every whim. for they should – she would say. 

spoilt, mischievous – the youngest daughter of the kim family fits the stereotype of the spoilt little rich girl to the exact t. she was the long awaited daughter and was awarded with all the attention and love that every precocious little girl ever wanted. her parents are lucky that she did not use this power for anything particularly terrible, but merely chose to revert her happiness to the amount of precious jewels and expensive clothing that might bleed a normal man dry of his riches. fortunately for her, the kim family possessed enough money to keep their little lady of the house sufficiently satisfied.

she is a princess in all but name. competitive in everything related to fashion and gossip, she revels in the attention that her expensive ornaments might attract from other ladies her age, grinning prettily at the compliments and living thoroughly through the choice of what outfit to wear the next day, which beautiful silk and patterns she might order next. for her mother had drilled one thing in her mind and it is so deeply ingrained within her that no one could ever convince her otherwise; the fact that a girl must always, always be pretty, above anything else.

a walking ornament, she is comfortable in her place as her family’s brightest jewel, until the day she will become her husband’s ornament instead. 

only time would tell when her prettily crafted world would crash around her ears, falling in fragments by her feet and scar her the way shards would.