#gr and m do not sound similar

[hollow-keys]

The mavity joke is annoying and they're running it into the ground.

[ourpickwickclub]

That GR podcast is up https://youtu.be/ZZB8UgDrP84

The co-parent part starts around 32:25 min in

Basically he says people can either co-parent and do everything together and see how that goes or just parent and they/he parents 🤣 He says they are very different people with opposing views and he doesn't think there are any similarities with how they bring the boys up... Its sounds like they have minimal communication (like we already thought) He says they split time 50/50 and when it's his time he just parents. He says he is really connected to the boys 🙄 He did admit (probably reluctantly) that they are loved and supported at both houses.

I just watched that part, and what struck me is that listening to him talk, it almost sounds like they were never a married couple. You would think they were just two strangers who randomly had kids together. I listened a little past the parenting part, and the interviewer asked about his dating life. He said that he’s single right now, and he reluctantly mentioned that he’s on Raya.

— M

[kaypeace21]

i’m a survivor too, and i found that certain scenes/stuff will said just really struck me as ‘csa-survivor’-like? i felt a bit uncomfortable about headcanoning it happening to someone else, especially for a fandom as wild as this one, but your metas have really been a comfort to me because they’ve been able to pick out and explain things that i couldn’t necessarily find the words for myself.

and yeah, i would love to have a character like me that is powerful and who finds love and who gets a happy ending. the people who call the theory disgusting always kinda hit wrong with me because although csa is a difficult subject, we shouldn’t be ashamed about sharing it. they sound like they’re trying to say that it’s a bad topic to talk about and implying that it can’t happen to kids, which uhhhhh-

(i’m sure that’s not what they mean, precisely, but it’s still what they sound like, and i wish that they would stop implying that we can’t exist, especially in popular media. we do, and i’m not gonna pretend we don’t, and if they feel uncomfortable with the topic they can just use the block button. we deserve to have some well written representation just as much as anyone else. also, i really really hope that will gets a happy ending.)

anywayyyy i love your theories and i can see your post in the tag so i think you’re fine?? have a good day ❤️❤️❤️

SORRY, this ask took so long to respond to. It always warms my heart to hear other survivors speak and say they found comfort in my theory.

Yes, I think I and a lot of c*a/r*pe victims (subconscious or otherwise) were triggered by some of the symbolism/visuals in s1-3. And s3 made it hard for most of us to ignore the past imagery- since s3 wasn’t as subtle.

I get why people have reservations about the theory. But the debates to the contrary are usually just plain offensive. Or people trying to be respectful but being the opposite. There’s the obvious bad-apples . I got many anons after part 1 of my DID theory saying it “ruined/tainted byler”, and “if that happened to Will i’ll stop shipping byler” , or that it  “ruins the best gay character” ,  and to “remove the post immediately”. And this was when I was open about being a gay c*a victim. I obviously blocked them. Many survivors don’t come forward because they’re afraid people will see them as “tainted”, “ruined”, “ just their trauma”, or blame them for what happened. So yeah, it pisses me off when people say similar stuff about Will (and thus other c*a victims). Not even diving into the messed up psychology about byler/mileven shippers (knowing i was a lesbian c*a victim) but purposely spreading bs rumors about me being a p*do that was into Will/Noah-all because of the theory. -_-

Then there’s the people who try to be “respectful” but literally do the opposite.

I’ve heard numerous times it’s somehow “less offensive” to just use r*pe imagery to make monsters scary. Rather than have  the monsters have that imagery cause Will created the monsters from his memory/imagination-and st is a story of Will healing from that trauma. SORRY- I disagree. Using the worst experiences of peoples’ lives (and triggering their trauma) for no real purpose- except to make their monsters scarier to the normal/general audience who haven’t gone through it so won’t be triggered like us - is MORE OFFENSIVE to victims! NOT LESS! At least to me.

Then there’s the people who say “c*a should never be talked about (in stories).” Which I disagree with. V*ctims have already been told by ab*ser’s  and enablers of the ab*ser- to never talk about what happened to us  . So it rubs A LOT of us the wrong way when people say this.  Because (subconscious or not) you remind some of us of the people who used to hurt/silence us. People say this -simply for their convenience (like ab*sers) and cause deep down they’re uncomfortable with our existence and equate the despicable act to us the innocent v*ctim ...or just want to deny the horrible reality of the situation (like many enablers who deny the truth and hurt us because they don’t want to accept reality) . And 1) It brings us back to a time where they told us to NEVER talk about it- and makes us feel like we did something wrong when we didn’t! 2) Every psych professional says with-holding/keeping the ab*se a secret is detrimental to our mental health.

Plus, there’s a HUGE difference between sugarcoating/minimizing trauma or WORSE glamorizing, condoning, or romanticizing C*A in stories (ex: pretty little liars) VS showing how the action is wrong, causes trauma, but showing recovery and happiness is still possible for v*ctims.  if the story shows how accurately traumatizing it is (instead of minimizing/glamorizing it)- it’s incredibly rare for that character to get a happy ending. Having a story about recovering from that type of trauma and finding happiness despite such hardships would be amazing for US survivors! We rarely get stories with a happy ending-  it’s more harmful to us survivors to never see ourselves get happy endings in tv/film/books. How can some survivors (in a dark place) think there’s a light at the end of the tunnel- if it’s never shown?Also if Will has DID too- it’s good mental health rep, along with queer rep (and survivor’s rep.) All 3 groups rarely are treated well or get happy endings in media. A lot of people may feel more heard, seen, and a bit more hopeful for the future - If Will (and other characters) get a happy ending.

And even though st has many themes- like say homophobia. To try and hand-wave all the disturbing  r*pe imagery away  as ‘Will is just gay so the monsters are like that”. IS SOOOOOO offensive. Trigger warning for examples. I’m sorry what part of Max saying when Billy had c*nsensual s*x it’s “good screams” but when possessed by the mf he causes Heather to do “bad screams” read as gay???! Having the possessed ch*ke/dr*g people before throwing them in trunks (like it’s implied Lonnie did to Will -since Jonathan checked Lonnie’s trunk for Will in s1)?Tying their arms and legs up/ g*ging  them and  getting on top of them and saying “stay VERY still it’ll all be over soon”-before a monster shoves it’s tentacle into someone’s mouth and inserts a goo - just gay??? Similar to the sentient vine/shadow monster forcing itself down Will’s throat. Let alone Will saying things like “he made me do it”, “i felt it everywhere”, or being tied to a bed and screaming “help! stop! it hurts! let me go!” While Jonathan is the only one who’s visibly triggered by this and has to literally turn away and hug someone . Or barb, billy, and El spiting up a white liquid from their mouth (similar to will spitting up a slug and lying to his mother about it ).El/billy touching a suspicious looking slime with their hand and looking at the substance confused . El drawing Papa with 3 legs (the middle one being shorter) ,  trying to undress in front of the boys , and Benny saying “I think she’s been ab*sed or something”.The theme of ab*sive dads- brenner , Lonnie, and Neil . Even when the demogorgan (called in d&d the “deep father”/ in the show “a man without a face”) attacked Barb it’s chopped up with scenes of Nancy having c*nsensual sex (the monsters are doing the opposite symbolically). There’s way more examples but NO- to try and hand wave /equate ALL OF THIS to just “gay imagery” or an “a*ds metaphor” is WAY more problematic. And just offensive (specifically to gay people) than just admitting what it may actually represent. R*pe imagery and gay imagery is NOT THE SAME THING!

Also ST has never been a kid show- maybe rewatch the show and see the rating of tv-14 . Goodness sake- s1 has a st*ged su*icde, k*dnappings, m*rder, discussions of physics, h*mophobia, and s*x (with stancy in s1 & jancy in s2-s3). S2/3 discuss at their finalies recovering from tra*ma . S2 had gra*ic de*ths,  a man causing a women br*in damage/ and faking her m*scarriage, and a gang of vigalantes k*lling criminals. s3 had critiques on capitalism /media/s*xism, many d*eaths, and questionable imagery like the prior seasons. The Duffers constantly reference  movies & events from the 80s (capitalizing on 80s nostalgia /subverting 80s motifs that middle age people  from that time remember)! Those people were their intended age demographic . Most 80s centric refs go over most kids’ heads (heck a lot went over my head too since I wasn’t alive in the 80s XD).The Duffers even said in the book “worlds turned upsidedown”  “it’s not a kid’s show despite having kids”. And maybe it’s a coincidence but when Lucas in s3 hands Will the “devil’s baby” firework (a hint about Lonnie) he says “18 and over only.” Which idk is a weird/random af line unless it’s foreshadowing that the show will get darker about various themes- and maybe even change ratings.

I get people wishing nothing bad ever happened to Will or Jonathan. And being apprehensive and not trusting the Duffers to do such a story justice (cause it’s difficult to do). But personally i trust them to do so tastefully with tact and not be exp*itative, (overly gr*fic) or offensive to v*ctims. You can disagree and think the show is about something else (or not trust the Duffers)- but it’d be great if people could stop using these other messed up talking points. While trying to appear ‘(fake) woke’ and like they care for victims- cause we see through it that you really don’t.

Have a lovely day anon ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

Update- I just really agreed with and appreciate the tags in this reblog

[writeyouin]

Rodimus X Techbug – Guardian Prime (COMMISSION)

Description – When a new Autobot joins the Lost Light, Rodimus seeks to become their mentor. However, when he learns of Techbug’s difficult past, he might find the task harder than he expected.

A/N – Hey @ask-tf-techbug​, I hope this is what you had in mind. If you want anything editing, just say the word and I’ll do it ASAP. In the meantime, thank you very much for the commission.

WARNINGS – Smut. NSFW. Mentions of abuse.

RATING – M

WORD COUNT – 2173

Rodimus walked with a spring in his step, eager to meet Techbug, the newest recruit to the Lost Light. Ultra Magnus had warned Rodimus of Techbug’s past. Originally an Autobot who had been captured at the start of the war, he had been forced into the Decepticon ranks. Techbug had been controlled through abuse, manipulation, and torture; it had turned him into one of the Decepticons’ most ruthless killers, Silentdeath. Now that the war was over and Techbug was free to start his life anew. He had been sent to the Lost Light to receive therapy from Rung, who specialised in treating PTSD, among other things.

Although Rodimus knew of the infamous Silentdeath, it didn’t taint his opinion of Techbug; after all, Drift had once been a Decepticon, and he’d managed to turn his life around. With the right mentor, Techbug would be just fine, and Rodimus was determined to be that mentor, if only to prove to Ultra Magnus that he could be responsible when he wanted to be; besides, how hard could it really be, being a mentor?

Finally, Rodimus reached Techbug’s new hab-suite, whereupon he rapped a playful tune on the door.

“Hey Techbug,” Rodimus greeted with a wink once the door was opened, “I’m Rodimus, the co-captain of the Lost Light. Nice to meet ya.”

Rodimus didn’t let his surprise at Techbug’s appearance show. He wasn’t small enough to be a mini-bot, yet he couldn’t have been taller that fifteen feet, only coming up to Rodimus’ chassis. He also had a similar appearance to Earthen cats, with a white tipped tail that sharply contrasted his orange colour scheme, and cat audials to match; it was rare to find bots that were shaped after organic creatures. Moreover, Rodimus couldn’t help feeling that Techbug was slender, more like a femme than a mech. To be perfectly candid, Rodimus found Techbug cute.

“Hi…” He whispered quietly in response, unsure of what to say since he didn’t know Rodimus; what he would give to be more comfortable with strangers like most other bots were.

“So,” Rodimus beamed, ignoring the tension. “You want a tour of my ship? It’ll help you get more acquainted.”

Techbug gave a small nod and left his hab-suite, following closely behind Rodimus, who slipped easily into the role of charismatic tour-guide.

They were about three-quarters of the way through the tour when something Rodimus said piqued Techbug’s interest.

“This is one of three labs that we have aboard the ship. As you can see, uh- Techbug?” Rodimus looked behind him, sure that the bot had been there a minute ago.

“Look at this, it’s all brand new,” Techbug marvelled, zooming around the lab. “Is that a GR-91 Centrifuge? I haven’t seen one in real life before. The Cons’ never let me into their labs and they only had old ones anyway. Do you know how fast this could separate particles? It could- Uh… I mean… Sorry for getting so over-excited… I’ll- I’ll be quiet now.”

Rodimus grinned cockily, “Hey, don’t worry about it, it’s cool to see you so excited. You like this lab? Then take it. Nobody else uses it anyway. Brainstorm and Perceptor each have one, so you may as well get this one if you want it.”

“Primus,” Techbug’s tail piece twitched in anticipation, “All of this for me, are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s no biggie.”

‘Oh, but it is,’ Silentdeath, Techbug’s alternate personality growled maliciously inside his processor. ‘It’s a very big deal, right Techie? What have you done to deserve this? Nothing! You’ve done nothing for this, betrayer.’

“Be quiet,” Techbug hissed.

“What was that?” Rodimus asked, having missed Techbug’s warning.

‘Ooh, he’s listening to our private conversation. We don’t want that now, do we. You should stare him down. One look from our outlier ability and the only time he’ll speak is with Primus in the Afterspark.’

“Stop,” Techbug whispered.

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” Rodimus placed a soothing hand on Techbug’s shoulder-plate. “Med-bay isn’t far from here, I could take you to see Ratchet.”

‘HE WANTS TO TAKE YOU TO MED-BAY! You remember what happens in med-bay, right? They’ll recode you again, and they’ll make sure it hurts. I can’t wait to hear your pathetic screams when they tear you apart and put you back together again. Such sweet agony.’

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Techbug pushed Rodimus, making him stumble backwards.

Before Rodimus could protest, Techbug fixed him with a hard glare, feeling his outlier ability rising up from within, burning quickly through his already low energon supply. With the ability to freeze or kill an enemy with a look, Techbug had been one of the Decepticons’ best weapons. With a full fuel tank, he could have frozen up to three mechs, as it was however, Techbug only managed to freeze Rodimus in time before a warning flashed on his visor: ENERGON LEVEL CRITICAL. SHUTDOWN PROTOCOL ENGAGED.

Techbug passed out and Rodimus was stuck, aware of everything yet unable to help. Fortunately, it only took a few minutes for Rodimus to be released from the effects of the outlier ability, allowing him to move freely once again.

He vented the excess air from his systems, eyeing up Techbug tiredly, “Something tells me that you’re going to be a bit of a handful… I’m really glad you left your swords back at the hab-suite.”

“I’m sorry,” Techbug murmured, unable to look Rodimus in the optics. The two were in the med-bay, where Rodimus had carried him after his energon burnout. “I didn’t mean to freeze you up like that… I was- He made me do it.”

“He? You mean Silentdeath?” Rodimus asked, feeling sorry for yet another bot whose mentality had been damaged in the war.

Techbug looked uncomfortable at the mention of his Decepticon name.

“Hey, you don’t have to worry. We’ve all made mistakes, y’know, except for me, ‘cos Primus broke the mould, I was far too perfect even for him.”

Techbug snickered and Rodimus shot imaginary finger guns at him, “And the bot does know how to laugh. Good for you buddy. Anyway, is there anything you wanna do next? I’m okay staying here for a while if you want, but now that you’re energised, I was thinking we could do something fun. What do you say?”

Going against his social anxiety, Techbug nodded, “Something fun sounds good, Captain.”

After a few weeks aboard the Lost Light, Techbug started to come out of his shell. Silentdeath was quieter than he had ever been before. Techbug hadn’t used his outlier ability since he’d frozen Rodimus. With Rung’s help during therapy, he was even confronting some of his worst memories which he had always shut away in an attempt to forget; it wasn’t easy, and it usually left Techbug feeling a little worse for wear, but in the long run, he knew it would be helpful. Best of all, Techbug had even been making friends among the crew. He still gravitated towards Rodimus, but who wouldn’t? Rodimus was charming, funny, handsome, had a great aft-

Techbug blushed, snapping his eyes away from Rodimus’ aft which he had blatantly been staring at as Rodimus went to buy the next round of high-grade energon for them.

“Seems like you have a little crush,” Dogfight smirked, taking a seat next to Techbug and wrapping his arm chummily around him. “The name’s Dogfight.”

“T-Techbug,” Techbug whispered his name quietly, going ridged at Dogfight’s uninvited touch.

“Yeah. I know all about you. Been watching you for a while. You’ve got a few admirers yourself, by the way. I should know, I’m one of them. That’s actually why I’m here. I was thinking that maybe you could ditch Hot-Wheels over there,” He gestured to Rodimus. “-and come spend some time with me. Maybe even see where the night leads, if you catch my drift.”

Dogfight stroked the inside of Techbug’s thighs sensuously, leading his way up to his interface panel. Supressed memories of Techbug’s past surfaced, hitting him like a freight train. He remembered how the Decepticons had used him for sex. They had called him names, debased him, forced their way into his interface panel, made him their slave in the berth as well as away from it. Techbug felt like he might purge his tanks if he didn’t escape Dogfight’s touch.

Once again, he concentrated on his outlier ability, though this time he was in full control of it as he froze Dogfight in place and extricated himself from his hold. On a full energon supply, Techbug was not weakened by the use of his outlier, however it did not stop him from feeling nauseous as he ran back to his hab-suite, trying desperately to forgot Dogfight’s unwanted advance.

As soon as Rodimus saw Dogfight frozen in space where Techbug had once been, he abandoned the high-grade energon he’d just bought. He rushed out of Swerve’s and immediately transformed, driving speedily towards Techbug’s hab-suite.

“Techbug,” Rodimus called, banging on the door, worried that he might be too late to stop one of Techbug’s episodes. “It’s me, Rodimus. Are you in there?”

As he was left waiting, Rodimus seriously considered using his override code to unlock the door, but before he could do so, Techbug opened it, wiping coolant from his optics.

“I’m- I’m fine, Rodimus. You should just go, I’ll be alright.”

“You’re clearly not fine. What happened back there? I just looked up and you were gone. You should at least talk about whatever it is. Was it something to do with Dogfight? Did you have another accident? Was it Silentdeath again?” Rodimus rushed through the list of possibilities, speaking faster with each question.

Finally, Techbug relented and let Rodimus in, if only to stop the persistent questions.

“I- I just- I got spooked and I couldn’t be there anymore. I only wanted to be with you tonight anyway.”

“Me?” Rodimus pointed dumbly at himself. “Why? Were you feeling shy or something?”

Feeling simultaneously vulnerable, frustrated, and like he needed some attention, Techbug threw his arms around Rodimus’ neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Thankfully, Rodimus didn’t question the action as he returned the kiss, pressing his mouth hungrily against Techbug’s as if they couldn’t get close enough.

Up till now Rodimus had ignored any lingering romantic ideas of Techbug, worried that by being a mentor, he would only pressure his ward. Since Techbug had initiated the kiss however, Rodimus saw no reason to reject the advance.

Rodimus yelped as Techbug’s nimble fingers tugged at his neck cables. He broke off the kiss, staring uncertainly at Techbug. “Are you sure?” He asked, alluding to the prospect of interfacing.

“Yes,” Techbug vented air out of his vents eagerly. He had never interfaced because he wanted to before, it was always because he had to; this was new and exciting and he could already feel his spike straining to be free of his interface panel.

Rodimus reached tentatively for Techbug’s aft, massaging it gently as he made his way to the berth, falling against it rather than laying on top of it. Techbug’s interface panel slid open, his spike rubbing against Rodimus’ inner thigh.

“Is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?” Rodimus joked.

Techbug’s face-plates flushed red and his cat-like tail lashed impatiently from side to side, “I want to see yours too. I want to ride you like a hover-bike.”

Rodimus’ engines revved, “Looks like you already found the ignition.” He lifted Techbug up, letting him wrap his legs around his waist. “Now all that’s left is to get on.”

He inserted his spike into Techbug’s valve, moaning at how good it felt. Although he had planned to take it slow for their first time, Rodimus was surprised as Techbug forced himself down on Rodimus’ spike.

“I’m not that delicate,” Techbug whispered huskily.

Taking the hint, Rodimus gripped Techbug’s hips and pulled him onto the berth, so that Techbug was on top; most bots assumed that Rodimus liked to be on top but in truth he found it nice to be submissive on occasion.

Techbug began gyrating on Rodimus’ spike, growling with lust every time it pressed against his anterior node. He was desperate. He needed this attention. He basked in the warmth of Rodimus’ presence. Rodimus however, sought to toy with Techbug, reaching low to rub at his spike.

Techbug bit his lip to keep from crying out as Rodimus jacked him off. It wasn’t long before tips of transfluid beaded the top of Techbug’s spike.

“Delicious,” Rodimus purred, looking Techbug in the optics as he gathered the trans-fluid off his spike and licked it off his servo.

“Primus!” Techbug squeaked, feeling his overload building up. “I- I-” Techbug never got to finish his sentiment as Rodimus overloaded with a loud moan, followed closely by him.

He was going to tell Rodimus that he loved him, but at that moment, the words didn’t matter, and by the look on Rodimus’ face, he thought that Rodimus might know already anyway.

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[metaldragoon]

@justsuha​ filled this out, and I felt like doing the same.  Kinda felt they didn’t have the best categories so maybe I shouldn’t have bothered, also tried not being too repetitive with my picks. Favourite Game - Final Fantasy VI, this was an easy one for me.  One of the first games I ever played, then I came back to it around like 12-14 years old and it was the first game I ever played on an emulator, then it was one of the first games I ever watched an LP on, one of the first game I ever started playing with mods, and yeah, I’ve just played this game a lot in my life. Best Story - Mass Effect (1), could’ve gone with FFVI again but eh, and maybe Hollow Knight but I feel like the world building in ME1 is crazy-deep and unparalleled.  Maybe that’s not story in like a “plot” sense, but it’s what I settled on. Favourite Art Style - Killer7, was a comfortable pick but Persona 5 is also a really crisp game.  Also thought about other things that are more atmospheric like Metroid Prime, Hollow Knight, or Bloodborne. Favourite Soundtrack - Final Fantasy VI, like I said, didn’t want to be repetitive, so there was games that had like a banger of a track like Papers, Please, or something like Super Meat Boy, but I couldn’t really justify anything being equal to FFVI.   Hardest Game - Dragon Age: Origins, Felt like a Soulsborne game was the “gimme” answer so I wanted to swerve a bit.  DA:O is hard as fuck, if you’re not optimizing your build you’re not beating that game.  Even on “easy” I’m like chill man Funniest Game - Paper Mario: Thousand Year Door, was tempted to go Undertale but since that’s kind of just a parody game I feel like it had a lot more liberties it could take to still be funny.  TTYD is super funny while still being like it’s own game. Game I like that everyone hates - Gears of War 2, some kid in Gr. 11 said I should get a 360 and play that, and so I did.  I played the online mode so much, but it never really felt like a popular competitive game.  I liked being so beefy, it’s basically just one-shotting people with shotguns is the meta and so the whole stalking someone to close the gap to be in range was super fun to me.  Campaign kinda trash and my friend wanted to get an achievement for co-op beating it on the hardest difficult that was miserable for me, but I think it’s a really fun game to play with some great audio too, the SFX are top notch. Game I hate that everyone likes - Borderlands, hate is a strong word but man I don’t really care about this game at all and people have been hyping it up for a decade. Underrated Game - Catherine, all my irl friends I tell about this game don’t know what it is, until I remind them and they go “oh yeah, that game looked weird/was too hard.” don’t know anyone who’s actually played more than an hour of it.  It’s one of my all-time faves, though. Overrated Game - Breath of the Wild, my wife says I didn’t give it a “fair shake” but I played like 20 hours and zzz... was tempted to go with a Pokemon game too, but it’s more a franchise in general than a specific game. Best Voice Acting - Yakuza Kiwami, I didn’t really have any real opinions on a game having good voice acting; generally they don’t.  Yakuza is all VA’d in Japanese so that’s probably why, but it felt pretty cool and was the only thing that I could think of actively enhanding a VG experience.  Maybe shoulda gone GTA (3 or San Andreas), both are really dated and definitely don’t sound that good anymore but one of my favourite games to listen to dialogue from. Worst Voice Acting - Metroid: Other M, not bad in terms of the actual talent of the VA’s but damn if it doesn’t ruin everything about Samus as a character.  “REMEMBA ME?!” Favourite Male - Kazuma Kiryu, was tempted to go General Leo from FFVI, but couldn’t find an image big enough before I resized this, which I could have easily worked around, but I also really like the Dragon of Dojima! It’s weird because he seems like such a simple design but he’s just badass in the right way, and I don’t know why more games can’t get it right.   Favourite Female - Franziska von Karma, from the 2nd Ace Attorney game.  For some reason had a huge crush on her, when I was younger I even drew some fanart of her which I ain’t done for nobody but her and Broly. Favourite Protagonist - Samus Aran, wanted to go with a “franchise” character and Samus is always super cool (except in Other M), I’ll always be excited to play her in some new game.   Favourite Village - Kakariko Village, felt like kind of a weird question, ‘cuz like if it was favourite area or something, I could have put some other stuff (Greenpath in Hollow Knight for example), and being a village I feel like basically limits you to medieval games but not the main hub either as that’s “a city.”  But Ocarina of Time’s Kakariko Village is always really fun to roll in to, also thought of the Goron Village, or just any village in Secret of Mana because that village theme is soo good. Most Hated Character - Nathan Drake, have barely even played Uncharted, but I just always hate any character with his personality, and he’s the biggest and most well-known.  Maybe he’s fine but meh. First Game You Played - Super Mario World, can’t say for 100%, but this and Super Mario Kart were games I was playing a lot since at like 4 or 5 my older brother owned them and they’re the most baby friendly.  Also remember playing a lot of PC games that my dad had, Timon and Pumba pinball, Chip’s Challenge, Ski Free, and stuff like that.  Skunny Kart Racing for DOS but I never understood how to get to DOS. Favourite Company - Bioware, I don’t really care about gaming companies in general, but Mass Effect and DA:O are some of my favourite games.  I might say Square as well but they do a lot of stuff.   Hated Company - Ubisoft, don’t hate them all but I just feel like they only make games I have zero interest in. Depressing Game - Doki Doki Literature Club, this and creepy are kinda really similar I feel, but I went DDLC but I kinda forget how it even ends.  I just remember feeling bummed about the purple and pink haired girl, and then the Monika scene just being uncomfortable (in a good way). Creepy Game - Doom3, don’t really play creepy games, Doom3 was suspenseful so I don’t know if that counts.  I had it for like 2 years, played it once for like 10 hours straight, and never played it again.  Still lives in my head. Happy Game - Super Meat Boy, is this a happy game? I don’t know, I feel like it’s got a pumped up energy which I equate to happiness.  It’s fun and the music makes it really addictive. Favourite Ending - Metal Gear Solid, don’t really have a great answer to this.  I really like Meryl and Snake riding off on their snowmobile though.  

[valkyrieofsmut]

Captive Love   16

UF!Sans x Reader (or Frisk if you wanna)

Summary: Sweetheart is a badass. Sans likes it.

A/N: Sorry I'm an idiot and posted the next chapter before this one...! Anyway... Yay!

Masterlist      Series Masterlist

Story

A good morning.

(Y/n) woke as hands moved over her, smoothing over her sides and front. 

"good mornin', sweetheart," a rough voice greeted from near her ear where she could feel Sans nuzzling and nipping. 

She tried to greet him back, but it came out as a pleasured sounding hum as she shifted her hips and felt the pleasant soreness from the night before between her thighs. 

Sans let out a deep chuckle that sent shivers down her spine. "still feel it, huh, sweetheart?" 

She felt her cheeks heat at the reminder of what they'd done. 

"got some more a that 'f ya want it," he told her, his suggestive voice full of heat and promises. 

.

Sans was over her, straddling her thigh once more, boney hand up the loose leg of her shorts. 

He'd tried to get her out of her clothes, but she'd been so shy, ducking her head and pressing her face against him to hide that, he'd given in. 

He'd even tried to tell her that he bet she had the most beautiful body he'd ever seen, but, with a glance down at his own covered chest, he could understand that everyone had something they were nervous about letting others see. 

So he'd ended up here, with his hand up her shorts, fingering her to a quick orgasm as she clutched at his shirt and panted and whined against his clavicle. 

"mmnn, sound so good, sweetheart," he rumbled against her. "that one was quick, huh? let's get ya 'nother one…" 

(Y/n) was sure that if she had completely gotten her voice back by now, and hadn't been trying so hard to stay quiet, she would have lost it by now. 

Sans' finger bones were surprisingly talented, to the point that she wondered if he'd ever been with a human before, or if monsters' anatomys were just so similar it translated well. 

She came again, her teeth digging into his shirt covered clavicle to keep herself quiet. 

Sans let out a low, needy growl at her bite. "ooh, fuck , sweetheart… ya make me wanna straight up ravage that pussy…" 

(Y/n) whimpered, clenching tighter at his sexy, need soaked words. 

His hand had slowed down, gently stroking her through her orgasm so he didn't over stimulate her, and she wondered how long he was planning on doing this, and if he was planning… that , too… 

It would only be fair for him to come, too, after all… 

"SANS!" Papyrus' voice echoed in the hall, and Sans groaned out a sigh as his hand stopped. 

He turned toward the door and called back, "yeah, boss?"

"DON'T SLACK OFF ON YOUR ROUNDS TODAY!"

Sans sighed again. "yeah, boss, got it, don't worry 'bout it," he called back. 

(Y/n) felt both excited and nervous at having Sans' hand still inside her as he spoke to his brother on the other side of the door. 

What if Papyrus got frustrated with the piece of wood and just came in? 

There were no blankets covering where Sans' hand was up her shorts… It would be glaringly obvious what they were doing. 

Sans looked over at her with a smirk and a chuckle at the feel of her nervous clench around his fingers at the thought, and wiggled them inside her, making her bite back a moan. 

"MAKE SURE YOU DO 'GOT IT' SANS, OR I WILL BE FORCED TO… DO SOMETHING DRASTIC!" 

Sans groaned in frustration and pulled his fingers from her, making her whimper at the loss. 

"i'm gettin' up right now, i'll leave in a few minutes, boss, i swear!" 

Papyrus finally left with a "SEE THAT YOU DO!" 

"sorry, dollface, i gotta go ta work," he sighed as he stood from the bed, digging in the clean pile of laundry he'd placed next to, but not in, his dresser to find some clean clothes. 

"Sa-ns," (Y/n) asked hesitantly, and broke off as she wondered how she could have let him touch her like he had been without even a care in the world about getting home and if he was still keeping her here against her will, or just to keep her safe. 

Oh, it was a dirty feeling… 

"yeah, sweetheart?" He asked, pulling a suitable shirt from the pile. 

"I- ...I ahm g-ng hohme, evehntu-lly… rigkh…?" She asked, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. [I am going home eventually, right?]

Sans looked up at her, pausing in his search for a sock to match the one in his hand. 

Sans really wanted her to stay there with him- but he knew that he couldn't keep her there forever. He'd already witnessed a small dose of her ire, and he had no doubt that it would only get worse the longer it went on. 

He would have to let her go, eventually… eventually being the key word. 

"yeah. yeah, sweetheart," he told her. "gotta make it safe ta make the trip, first…" 

She smiled at him for his response, and it did a little to lift his soul from the ditch of misery it'd fallen into at the thought of her going. 

"C'n Ikh b-rrow y-r phohne?" She asked. [can I borrow your phone?]

Sans looked at her in question as he pulled out the device and unlocked it. 

He handed it to her and went back to searching for his other sock. 

(Y/n) listened as the familiar voice gave the store greeting, asking how she could help her. 

"Hehy, Sally," she greeted. "Who's theh m-nahger todahy?" [hey, Sally, who’s the manager today?]

Sans looked up at that. "heh, you tryna get through ta that idiot at yer work?" 

She nodded in reply. "Okh, graht," she sighed at hearing it was the same manager that had written her off as dead before. "Pahtch m- tkhrough, plehse." [Oh, great. Patch me through, please.]

Sans chuckled as he moved next to her on the bed, looking amused. "i gotta see how far ya get wit 'im." 

(Y/n) switched it to speaker and listened as he gave the store greeting, then said, "hihk Doug. Iht's (Y/n)." [hi Doug, it’s (Y/n)]

He let out a startled, confused stutter, and (Y/n) saw Sans holding back a laugh. 

"H-hi, (Y/n)! I-I heard that you- that you were in monster territory!" Doug exclaimed. 

"Ikh ahm," she answered. [I am.]

"O- oh… Wh- h-how are you calling the store, then?" He asked. 

"Mohnsters hahve phohnes, Doug, theh're not uh strihctly hum'n thihng," she told him. [monsters have phones, Doug, they’re not a strictly human thing.]

A chortle escaped Sans at that. 

"Oh… Um… Well, what can I do for you?" Doug asked. "You need someone to come out there and save you, or…" He trailed off, and (Y/n) was pretty sure it was because he was trying to think of what other reason she could have called, and if he could think of someone else to do it. 

"Noh, Ikh dohn't neehd uh r-scue, Ikh just neehd toh hahve mhy job wh-n Ikh geht bahck," she told him. [no, I don’t need rescue, I just need to have my job when I get back.]

After a moment, Doug told her, "you've missed a bunch of shifts, (Y/n). Lots of no calls no shows." 

"Doh y-u agreeh thaht b-ng in mohnst'r terr-tory as uh human is dahng'rous?" She asked. [Do you agree that being in monster territory as a human is dangerous?]

"Y-yeah," he agreed hesitantly, not sure where this was going. 

"Y-u agreeh that wahlk-ng thr-gh mohnst'r terr-tory would be lihke walk-ng thr-gh uh wahr gr-nd?" She prompted. [You agree that walking through monster territory would be like walking through a war ground?]

"U- uh, y-yeah," he agreed hesitantly again. 

"Thehn y-u agreeh thaht th-s fahlls under any l-w mahk-ng 't 'llehg-l to fihre uh 'mployeeh f-r b-ng tr-pp'd in uh w-r zohne?" She asked. [Then you agree that this falls under any law making it illegal to fire an employee for being trapped in a warzone?]

There was silence on the other end of the line. 

Sans' sockets widened. She could be vicious when she wanted to… 

It kinda turned him on. 

"S-so- do you have an idea of when you'll be back?" Doug asked. 

"W-r 's uh 'nprehd-ctable thihng," she answered, getting irritated that her voice was getting worse and worse with use. [War is an unpredictable thing.]

After she'd hung up, Sans commented, "gettin' tough wit 'em, huh?" 

She shrugged with a sheepish grin. "Thre-t-ng lehg-l 'ction uhs-lly mahkes pehple d' wha's rihght." [Threatening legal action usually makes people do what’s right.]

Sans' tongue flicked over his teeth. It was still turning him on. Especially with that adorable squeak. 

"Ohne mohre c-ll?" She asked. [One more call?]

Luckily, the call to her landlord went much easier, the secretary taking her information and making a note on her account, promising to do what they could about pausing the rent charges, or at least putting any actions on hold. 

When she was done, (Y/n) hung up and handed the phone back to Sans. 

She looked at her hands, rubbing them over each other. "Th-nks, S-ns." [Thanks, Sans]

Sans sat awkwardly for a moment before going back to looking for his other sock. 

The mood had fallen, and his poor sweetheart seemed pretty down. 

"y-you… uh- s-sweetheart, ya wanna come wit me?" He asked, his eyelights focused on the laundry, finally finding a sock. 

(Y/n) looked up at him in question, careful hope in her eyes. "R...lly?" [Really?]

"yeah, doll," he told her, focused on grabbing a pair of shorts. "'s what th' c- ...thing, is fer, after all…" 

The smile that grew on her face as she nodded made his soul throb. 

Tag List

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[ashesarrows]

The Girl Who Soared Over Fairyland and Cut the Moon in Two by Catherynne M. Valente- FULL REVIEW

This review is the complete version of its counterpart on GoodReads.

This book really disappointed me. The roughest thing is that it’s right in the middle of the series, so you have to read it if you want to continue. There are bright spots (Ell! Saturday!), and I can sense the incredible book Valente was trying to write, but overall, this was a flop. Would’ve been a DNF if I hadn’t promised myself I’d finish the series. 

So, firstly: I’m a longtime fan of Fairyland, and I commonly list the first book and Valente herself as my favorite book and author. I had no negative preconceptions about the book going in. In fact, I know I have an irrational fear of series, and at first I thought my struggles with this book could be chalked up to that. 

But I loved the second book. It was entertaining, a good follow-up, and a unique new story to explore. When I picked up the third book and only got a chapter in before forgetting about it, I had a lot of excuses—I was burned out. I didn’t like the Blue Wind, and I didn’t want to read about her. I was busy with school.

As it turns out, having picked the book up three years later and finished it this time, none of that was true. This time, I was yearning for more of Fairyland, I quite liked the Blue Wind, and I had ample time to read in. 

It just wasn’t a good book.

I talk about planning/pantsing a lot, and that’s once again relevant. I’ll excerpt from my review of another book:

There are two types of NaNoWriMo writers: the planners, & the pantsers. Planners have an outline ready before they write, and pantsers go "by the seat of their pants"—very few, or even no, plans. Both have pros/cons; here I'll focus on a common pitfall for pantsers.

Almost every Western narrative… follows something akin to the 3-act structure. There is a main conflict which builds to a climax and is then resolved (think Star Wars’s Death Star.) For any good narrative, you need MOTIVATION-GOAL-CONFLICT—and occasionally stakes[.]

This book does not have a conflict.

So where do you find 300+ pages of writing? Just have something happen & see what comes next as a response!

The problem is that this makes an unworkable first draft. Things Happening =/= Satisfying Plot Arc. In editing, you have to take everything you've written and organize it into a plot shape, often cutting things that don't fit. (Planning is the opposite; tons of work upfront/you usually end up UNDERwriting.)

...The most common method of writing on Wattpad is pantsing. 99% of the time, writers write & then post chapters on a set schedule. Can't edit plot structure when you upload one chapter a week.

Now, I knew that Valente was a pantser before I read this book, and that she originally uploaded Fairyland one chapter a week. I was very impressed when I first found out; I don’t recall sensing any of these pitfalls in the two previous books. It is hard to write a book with no editing—it is damn well near impossible. Whether I liked this book or not, the first two are a triumph just for that. Valente has been writing this entire series with both hands tied behind her back and her eyes taped shut, and I have to commend her. Even my feelings of frustration are almost overshadowed by how impressed I am that it took three books for her to fail.

Valente herself acknowledged editing concerns in multiple / interviews. From the latter link:

I remember being at a convention right after it really hit, and somebody in the audience asked, “Well, you realize you can’t go back and change anything, because you’ve already posted it online.” And I said, “Oh, shit.” It had never occurred to me that that was gonna be a problem. I kept a couple weeks ahead of the posting schedule, but again, much like writing The Labyrinth in ten days instead of thirty, I just ran ahead with something without knowing that I couldn’t do it and it worked out incredibly well.

Did it? I feel differently, and this review aims to explain why.

This book lacks plot. Valente is attempting a 3-act structure, which relies heavily on a central conflict. There has to be some big mission; some big goal. First book example: September has to beat the Marquess (goal and conflict) OR ELSE everyone in Fairyland suffers (stakes/motivation). Every moment of the book ties back to this larger goal.

The central conflict of this book appears about halfway through. You know the moon, and the yeti, and splitting things? This comes up over a hundred pages in. September, and the audience, has no idea about any of that for a hundred or so pages, and so for that amount of time, the book is unconscionably boring. 

The beginning of the book sees September afraid she’s too old to go back to Fairyland, which is a great central conflict idea for the one chapter in which it exists. Aha! A book about growing up and the associated trials and tribulations. That’s a fantastic theme, and yet I forgot about it entirely until the end, where it briefly awakens again, after an entire book of Not That At All. More on this later.

For now, the book takes September back to Fairyland, which should be wonderful, but Fairyland seems to have become all exposition and no action. A whole chapter of The Blue Wind lecturing September, for example. This is a character we don’t know, have no reason to be attached to, and are being actively hindered by as she relentlessly slows the plot down. And then September gets talked at by an alligator or something, and then another something something… I don’t remember any of this, because it was not relevant.

This isn’t like Fairyland #1, where September might need to befriend someone to gain access to magic which would help her on her quest. In fact, for this first half of the book, September doesn’t even have agency! Someone hands her a MacGuffin (I refuse to recall its name) in the form of a box, and she Must carry it to some city or other on the moon. Why? Who knows. She just must. And she does. And you’re thinking to yourself, why isn’t September making her own ship and leading revels? We know, as an audience, that she’s more than capable. What on Earth has got her seeming so meek? She even sasses characters, but somehow always ends up doing as they ask.

The book also takes all this time to reach any characters we know and love. The readers want Ell and Saturday! We do not care about a horde of lecturing adults with no connection to a central plot or September! Looking back, I can see how Valente may have been hoping to pull off something similar to Alice in Wonderland, but in Alice nobody speaks for a full page. This is just one example:

direct link

I’m hard pressed to even call this exposition, because it tells us nothing about the world we’re in. It’s just a sermon Valente wants us to hear. And worse, because I’ve read the last two books, I know she can pull this off. It doesn’t have to be this way. Many people said many things in Fairyland #1, and it worked because there was a plot that the speeches were part of. 

(If you just look at the quotes page for this book, you can see how many there are—and how repetitive they get. X is a Y, okay, alright…)

But this sort of thing reached its peak when it almost ruined Saturday. Don’t worry, he’s generally well-written, but when September meets him and he starts lecturing? It’s just awful to read. Suddenly it’s not Saturday talking but Valente speaking through his mouth, giving those sermons again, and it just makes you want to scream.

This made me recall an old writing rule—“never remind me of the author’s existence.” I want to feel as though real people are really saying these things, and when all of them speak identically, it’s really difficult to believe that. I won’t deny Saturday his right to say poignant things, obviously, but in this case due to the volume of lectures, and the proximity of his to the others, and the obvious preachiness of all of them, it really got in the way of my even enjoying the scenes with Saturday. And come on; that is unforgivable.

But there is a plot. There is an, ahem… other MacGuffin. A paw? A yeti’s paw. Something about time. Look, at this point I just wanted to finish the book. The original MacGuffin had become a new one, which would lead them to the third, and all this because at 100 pages in someone said “hey there’s this yeti we really hate around here,” and September went “sounds awful I’ll go hunt him right now.” And of course she can, because she has been DOING NOTHING FOR THE LAST HUNDRED PAGES. What is she going to do, something else? There IS nothing else to do in Fairyland apparently. Again, what this book does to the world & inhabitants of Fairyland is near criminal.

So the plot starts here, and it’s not great—September takes it up because there’s nothing else to do, and of course her friends come along, but (at least to me) it seems obvious that Valente invented the moon’s political situation and the Yeti just to come up with SOMETHING for this book. It never felt convincing that this had really been happening behind the scenes in the other books. On top of that, since we get very little context (despite the lectures!), it feels less like a vital quest and more like September (again) doing something because someone else told her to. We really don’t get any other perspective on the issue until the very end.

But talking about the end will require a spoiler tag, so I’ll avoid it for now. Let’s take a break to talk about how confusing the book was overall. I often didn’t know where the characters were heading or why, or what role a new character played, or even if they were there or not.

After seeing a GR query about this particular issue, I went back and researched it. The character Candlestick allegedly leaves the party on page 189:

Candlestick had not come with them after all, turning up her peacock tail and refusing to speak further with any of the lot of them.

But then shows up in not one but two lines in the next chapter anyway:

The Tyguerrotype, the thirteen bouncing Glasshobs, the quivering houses—and September and Saturday, A-Through-L and Candlestick—had a little thickness, but no more than a thick sheet of paper. (201)

“Did we see what?” called Candlestick. (204)

I understand why Valente wouldn’t want to make major plot edits to the books after posting them, but why didn’t an editor read through this even once? It would have been easy to fix—delete one line, or even just a word. It seems clear through surrounding context, looking back, that Valente intended to leave Candlestick out of these chapters, so why didn’t anyone confirm that for readers?

It’s just not fair to your audience to leave things like this in. It’s not professional. It makes me look down on the publisher, to be quite honest, because they apparently couldn’t take the few months necessary to re-read the draft and offer Valente edits on these bare minimum issues.

So you can understand why I wasn’t sure what was going on most of the time. Especially in the beginning, when multiple characters existed just to lecture, it was hard to get attached to any one addition to the party because I could expect them to be gone without incident or importance within two chapters. 

For example, the Periwig (whose name I refuse to look up) who works with Ell in the library says she has cursed him to stop him from flaming around the books. Yes, Ell is having uncontrollable flaming issues now. As a reader pummeled by random lectures, watching September ferry around MacGuffins, this just felt like an “oh shit we have to come up with a NEW conflict for these characters” ploy, without much thought or logic. And I had no idea what the curse was for over fifty pages, until on page 173 there’s a specific reference to Ell getting smaller after he shoots flame. I’m sure there were more earlier on, but I missed them, and who can blame me after a hundred pages of content that was not relevant to the story.

This plot point is never satisfyingly wrapped up, either. Why did the Periwig think this was a good idea? Could she have undone it? Why did nobody address her about it? And why was it solved the way it was? Nothing made sense.

What’s really frustrating is what could have been. Near the end of the book, I turned to the back cover just to avoid continuing to read, and I looked once again in total bafflement at the two starred reviews of the book pictured there. Booklist’s back cover quote reads as follows:

As usual, Valente enlightens readers with pearly gleams of wisdom about honesty, identity, free will, and growing up. September often worries who she should be and what path she should follow, but the lovely truth, tenderly told, is that it's all up to her.

And, despite having read roughly two hundred pages of this book, it was only once I saw this quote that I understood what Valente was trying to do.

This is a great idea. And there are ELEMENTS of it here, and even elements I quite like. Occasionally, the lectures September hears do in fact correspond to some aspect of this theme (“you become what you are called” is one example of a line I could tell meant something, but needed to be expanded to accomplish anything.) It’s hard, as a reader, to differentiate between lectures addressing a vital theme in the story and lectures that are just talking.

Returning to Ell’s curse, it turns out that [SPOILER] Ell was just flaming for what is essentially dragon puberty, which is a GREAT opportunity to build on this theme! Somehow, though, we don’t get that.. I would have loved to see Ell have to deal with, essentially, a sexual awakening, and that did not happen, and it feels like the cure scene is random and therefore wasted. [END SPOILER]

It doesn’t help that Valente also wastes a scene with FANTASTIC potential where September literally destroys her fate by giving it no prior context, no weight in the plot, no relevance to the conflict, and fifteen tons worth of expositional lecturing to drown in. I want to love these scenes; some of these scenes utilize my favorite tropes! I just can’t get around all the ways Valente is leaving her story out to dry.

Then there’s the clothing September wears, her new designation, Aroostook the car, the attempted blossoming romance between September and Saturday: so many elements which could have made that theme great. It’s like a broken puzzle.

This brings us to the Yeti. I’m just going to go full spoiler, because I’m mad.

[SPOILER]

The Yeti is a reverse twist villain?? Can we stop with this? It’s not interesting & not an engaging surprise & also feels like going “ha ha I fooled you.”

From the moment September set off to beat him, I was wondering—are we really doing this? Based on one random person’s complaint? September has made it very clear that she doesn’t understand the politics of the world she’s inhabiting, and yet: this. Unlike in the first book, where the Marquess’s evil is confirmed by every person she comes across and September ends up fighting her out of personal connection, this just seems like meddling. September has no skin in the game; it’s almost a white savior trope—especially when the history of the Moon parallels colonization!

And then The Gang sees future-Saturday helping the yeti, and instead of thinking “maybe we got this wrong based on one person’s lecture” they think “ah FUCK maybe Saturday is going to be evil” and manufacture totally unnecessary conflict.

But it’s not even that they misunderstood, or that their source was biased; the end result is that the Yeti was seen as evil because he DIDN’T CARE THAT HE WAS. He gives this “none of their business” answer that is fundamentally unsatisfying (and makes no sense—had he explained, THEY WOULD NOT HAVE BOTHERED HIM) because at the end of the day, it means none of September’s actions in Fairyland were necessary. She just showed up and left. Nobody, not even the story, needed her. I guess September and Saturday have now kissed (twice!) which is great for them but not something that makes the whole book worthwhile.

[END SPOILER]

And on top of this, there are typos. I already covered the issue with Candlestick, so here are the others quickly:

 “All of us,” September said gently, and held out her hands. “I know what you said, Miss Candlestick, but however you count it, our fates are stuck together and stitched up good.” She paused for a moment, looking down at her flowing black silks and her own small hands. “Closer than shadows, she finished.” (170)

“If you’re not to tired after your cannonades.” (179)

The full moon rose passed the high barn windows, spilling in like milk. (248)

(First sentence ought to have put the end quotation mark after the word “shadows,” but accidentally places it after September’s dialogue tag. The second sentence should use “too” instead of “to”. The final sentence needs to either say that the moon “rose past the high barn windows” or “passed the high barn windows”, likely the former.)

What gets me is that this last sentence is on the last page. Even if Valente and her editors never flipped through most of the book, surely someone would’ve noticed this? It just drives home how little anyone cared. About Fairyland, of all things!

And then Valente, who DID NOT EDIT THIS BOOK, has the audacity to include lines like these.

September reached inside and took out the red book. It was heavy. A girl’s face graced the cover, finely embossed, but it was turned away, gazing at some unseen thing. Perhaps it was her own face, perhaps not. A miniature version of herself, after all. Was it an answer? Was it everything already written?  “You can’t argue with something that’s written down,” she said, stroking the red locks of hair on the cover. “If the heart of my fate is a book, there’s nothing for it. Once it’s written, it’s done. All those ancient books always say ‘so it is written’ and that means it’s finished and tidied and you can’t say a thing against it.”  Oh, but September, it isn’t so. I ought to know, better than anyone. I have been objective and even-tempered until now, but I cannot let that stand, I simply cannot. Listen, my girl. Just this once I will whisper from far off, like a sigh, like a wind, like a little breeze. So it is written—but so, too, it is crossed out. You can write over it again. You can make notes in the margins. You can cut out the whole page. You can, and you must, edit and rewrite and reshape and pull out the wrong parts like bones and find just the thing and you can forever, forever, write more and more and more, thicker and longer and clearer. Living is a paragraph, constantly rewritten. It is Grown-Up Magic. Children are heartless; their parents hold them still, squirming and shouting, until a heart can get going in their little lawless wilderness. Teenagers crash their hearts into every hard and thrilling thing to see what will give and what will hold. And Grown-Ups, when they are very good, when they are very lucky, and very brave, and their wishes are sharp as scissors, when they are in the fullness of their strength, use their hearts to start their story over again.

(page 184).

Like... all of that, and then she didn’t edit September’s story? I’m appalled.

At this point, you might well say I’m being far too harsh. I understand that. These next five paragraphs are for you.

For the first few months of (re)reading this book, I genuinely felt like I must be a bad reader, or my attention span was gone, or I just didn’t like Valente or her work enough. Looking at all the incredible reviews here, I felt jealous—and frustrated. Why couldn’t I just enjoy this book the way everyone else did? 

Obviously, I never want to dislike a book, but this was one that I almost feel betrayed me. I know there’s a significant amount of entitlement there; Valente doesn’t owe me any stories, let alone good ones. 

At the same time, I made every effort. I owned all the books, was working hard to read a series despite my long-time struggles with them, and, well, I LOVE Valente! I constantly talk about her work! And even someone like me—someone who’s usually a pretty fast reader, loves the series/author in question, and was determined to finish this book—struggled throughout. 

So I’m frustrated that the book made me feel like an idiot. I’m frustrated that, for the apparent crime of being devoted to Valente’s work, I was put through this. This book would be one star if not for the world of Fairyland and the returning cast—if this had not been a Fairyland book, I would not have finished reading it. For that first half, I was bribing myself (with better books) to read one or two pages at a time. Really.

Like I said, it didn’t have to be this way. I know damn well that Valente can do better than this. If Valente had been given the opportunity to edit this draft into a polished book, she could have done it. It’s only because of these restraints that she chose—and she is a grown woman who may choose what she likes—that the book came out this way. It’s genuinely hard to review, because I understand why she wrote the book this way, and I understand why she did not later edit the majority of the text, and I also have the perspective of a disappointed reader. It’s hard to balance all of that.

So two stars it is. I’m a little sad it took so long to review this book, because I was REALLY pumped to review it when I first finished, but I hope that on the contrary letting it sit has allowed me to be more objective and less emotionally upset by it. 

I hope to pick up the fourth book soon, but with the combination of it being unrelated to the main cast and the letdown that this book was, it’ll be a while before I feel up to it. Don’t worry, though, because I will come back to update you as to whether the series overall is worth continuing. I have every hope that it will be.

[noodleswithsoba-blog]

A Silver Whirlwind.

The Asura's Student.

The street was dark, no streetlights, no anything. A little boy, just edging into his teenage years with silver hair and eyes was scooching along. He heard the sounds of a fight and crouched, peeking out of the alleyway. There was a man wearing a hoodie, facing off against some thugs that were harassing some of the other residents for protection money that tried to shove him around. That was the moment young Ichiban Tokita met his master, fighting some thugs in some dowdy section of the city.

Ohma Tokita started to notice Ichiban following him around, watching his rhythms and movements with shining silver eyes. Of course, Ohma tried his best to ignore him, but there was one night a terrible storm rocked the city. He heard his door open and in an instant, he threw a punch to ward off whatever was there. He felt something shaky, small, and solid. Lightning flashed and there stood Ichiban shakily blocking a punch, standing in a similar stance to Ohma's own, but imperfect and shaky.

His eyes were shining and Ohma felt a small smirk rise on his face, "You have guts, brat," he stated.

Ichiban silently stared at the older man, "How did you block my punch like that?" Ohma asked.

Ichiban sat down and shrugged, he truly didn't know a damn thing about his own ability. Ohma chewed his lip in thought, thinking, and puzzling out how he could've done it. He'd heard of 'actors' before, but not to the extent this kid was acting. It took him years to lock down his movements, but this kid, as immature and inexperienced he looked, copied at least some basics. He was interested in the kid. He'd heard of people copying others, and this kid could be strong one day.

So Ohma Tokita grew used to the little kid following him closely, it seemed the more he saw and took what he dished out the better his style got. Yet he still couldn't figure out a name for the kid. So he sat and pondered that for a while, watching his new pupil mix up his Niko Style into something different. He'd start with basic jabs, sway back, to the sides, blow for blow wearing weights. He heard the kid encouraging himself. He was kicking the air in a heavy rain of hits.

"Come on, Ichiban!" the kid snapped, "Do it for Master Seaweed-Head!"

Ohma chuckled to himself, "Hey, brat, it's Ohma Tokita!" he snapped, the kid jumped, teetering and falling. Ohma strode over to him and helped him up.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"I-Ichiban… Master Ohma," Ichiban answered with a shaking tone.

Ohma plunked his hand on Ichiban's silver mop, "From now on, Ichiban Tokita, try to make your own style," he stated.

"O-okay!" Ichiban exclaimed, continuing on his way. Over the years, Ohma trained the kid with some basic techniques he picked up from the other guys he fought. He'd never give his style to another. His master lost with his Niko Style, and that's why Ohma wanted Ichiban to forge his own variation. Taking the variations into account and encouraging him to work on them. Soon enough… The Chimera Style would be born.

Ichiban was minding his own business walking around with his master when he heard someone calling for help. Ichiban drifted off with Ohma not really caring where his student was going. He followed the screams to an older man with big brown eyes being accosted by a couple of thugs.

He slipped in behind them, "Hey! You put the old man down! I'm your opponent!" he yelled. The man was dropped and he pushed his glasses up onto his face. Seeing a silver-haired boy with dull gray eyes drop into a stance.

The first thug was bigger than him, surely the poor boy would be torn to shreds! The first punch was thrown and the boy nimbly dodged, grabbing the man's arm and ramming his head into the man's nose, bending his arm and hearing an overly satisfying snap. Ichiban smirked, these two-bit thugs were nothing compared to him right now! He could win with thi- he felt the other one kick him in the cheek, sending him careening to the ground with his cheek leaking blood.

Well, that's what Ichiban thought. He got back up, wicking the blood away with a grin on his face. There was something about fights that inexorably wanted him torn up. Something that drew him to be injured. Something that told him to yell that he wanted to be broken again and again. A spiritual thing deep down inside him demanded it. Something built up in his chest, a laugh? A cry? Or a song? He rose and the other thug charged at him.

'Know their patterns, feel their pain!' he thought, 'Strength through a trial! Strength through pain!' He dodged the incoming hit, and in a flurry of bloody-knuckled punches, the boy was victorious. Ichiban cracked his neck and turned to the man with a small smile.

"Hello, are you injured, sir?" Ichiban asked, looking at the smaller man with a soft smile. The man shook his head, being helped up by him and dusted off.

"Good," Ichiban stated, "What's your name?"

"Uhm… Ka-Kazuo Y-Yamashita…" the man mumbled, handing Ichiban his business card. He had a hard day at work, the manager wouldn't stop walking all over him and he didn't have the guts to speak up. Seeing this fifteen-year-old boy effortlessly take down two thugs bigger than him sparked something in Kazuo Yamashita. Something like a small fighting spirit. The boy looked confusedly down at the card.

"Ya-Ya… No… gu?" he vocalized, squinting, "No… gu? Grope? Ehhh…" Kazuo gawked at the boy's inability to read a simple card. Normally kids his age WEREN'T street fighters. The boy pocketed it.

"Eh, whatever… I'll see ya, Kazuo Yamashita!" Ichiban exclaimed with a bright, friendly smile. He walked away, his arms tenting his head and leaning back to look up at the dusky sky. He liked fighting strong opponents… It made his ability better. Not only that but it made his sparring matches with his master a ton more interesting. 'Aw… too bad it wasn't someone stronger… I'd pick up a technique or two that way…' the boy thought, 'Still… maybe I can ask Master Ohma if he can teach me more cool moves…'

Kazuo couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe his eyes. There were TWO people with the almost exact same style?! Not only did he run into the boy with the silver hair and black hoodie, but someone who looked old enough to be his brother showed up to fight someone absolutely massive!

And he WON! The major differences between the two were evident. The brother seemed to just want to fight while the younger one seemed to watch him closely, studying him with those odd silver eyes of his. Now Kazuo was being sent to meet with the Nogi Group's CEO, Hideki Nogi?! What was this world coming to?! He swallowed the lump in his throat and went to the door, opening it and seeing the man with slicked-back graying hair and serious eyes sitting at his desk, watching him.

"Y-you s-sent for me… ulp! S-sir?" Yamashita squeaked, scanning the room, finding Nogi's assistant looking rather indignant.

"Ah yes, come in Yamashita," Nogi said with a smile, "I heard you had quite the night last night, one attempted shakedown thwarted by a mysterious young man and a lost competitor in the Kengan matches?" Kazuo sat down, nervously thinking he'd be fired or worse. Nogi was still smiling as if it was normal. The smaller man looked as if everything could hurt him.

"You do know the Kengan matches, yes?" Nogi asked.

"Ye-yes… aren't they no-holds-barred fights for business deals?" Kazuo guessed.

"Why yes, and hearing about your rather indulgent night put me in contact with the individuals that made sure that you were safe," Nogi stated, hearing quite the commotion from outside. Kazuo then heard voices from outside.

"Awwww! But I wanna fiiiigggghhht!" Ichiban whined.

"Ugh, the more you complain the more exercises you'll have to do… Now hurry up, we have to meet that Yamashita guy," Ohma growled, his brown eyes closing. Ichiban couldn't stop talking about how proud he was to fight. Ohma secretly liked Ichiban when he was happy. Which was often since they met five years ago. The boy opened the door.

"Whoa! Fancy! Look at that! There's a window! Oh! And Yamashita Kazuo! I figured out what your card said! Isn't that cool?!" Ichiban yelled, smiling and pulling it out.

"Ya… Yamashita… K-Kazuo… No… Gi… Gr… Group…" Ichiban recited with a huge smile. Kazuo smiled.

"Haha… how charming," Nogi chuckled, "How do you do, gentlemen?" he asked the pair.

Ichiban bowed, "My name's Ichiban Tokita, it's nice to meet you! This is my Master, Ohma Tokita," Ichiban saw his master nod and popped right back up. Nogi grinned.

"It's nice to meet you both, I'm Hideki Nogi and that lady is Kaede Akiyama," Nogi said. Ichiban flashed a winning smile and Ohma fidgeted a little bit. Kaede was a beautiful young woman with blond hair and brown eyes, clinical and serious, but it hid something. Nogi decided which one he'd like to have as a competitor for the matches. The younger one was too excitable, too green. He liked Ichiban's spirit and his charming attitude, but Ohma was the better pick. He was older, and his eyes and easy smirk showed experience. He turned to Ohma and smirked.

"How would you like to compete in the Kengan matches with Yamashita as your manager?" he asked. Ohma nodded and Ichiban looked a little shocked.

"M-master! Shouldn't I fight?" the boy asked.

"We'll talk later, Ichiban," Ohma coolly stated. Kazuo sighed and looked at the poor boy's beaten-down expression. Still, Kazuo hoped that this wouldn't end badly. Once they left, Ohma took Ichiban back to their home. It was a run-down house in the middle of the wilderness, it was once an opulent place but now was abandoned except for Ichiban and Ohma. Ohma opened the door. The spiders and crickets all scuttled away, feeling Ohma's quiet rage.

"Katas, now," he said.

"Yes, master…" Ichiban sighed.

Ichiban started to shadowbox, left. Right. Left. Right. Sweep. Kick. Kick. Left. Right. Soon his movements flowed into a calm form that was oddly formless. Flowing and calm, instinctual. Sensing and feeling out Ohma's presence. Then, a storm of hits surged out of him like a rushing tide, detecting who he based this oddly formless style off of. Ichiban hopped on the mossy floor, going through his Chimera Style. It was like Ohma's Style, but a lot less rigid, able to be adjusted and molded.

'Am I not good enough?! Is that it?! Is that why Master Ohma doesn't let me fight?!' he thought, angrily punching and kicking the air, 'If he took me in that means he saw potential in me! So why didn't he let me fight?!' Ohma watched his student with increasing concern. Something was wrong, and when he fell to the floor in frustrated exhaustion, Ohma walked over.

"Why… won't you… let me fight?" Ichiban gasped.

"Because you're reckless, you barely know your style," Ohma stated, "It'd be suicide,"

"So why would you… take me in?" Ichiban asked.

"Because I saw that copy ability of yours, you have to experience and see. Experience to improve it, and a sight to learn it," Ohma observed.

"There's still a lot to learn, Master Ohma…" Ichiban sighed heavily, "I barely know why or how it works, but it does,"

"Then those upcoming matches are your opportunity to learn, and our training sessions to improve on what you've learned," Ohma determined, placing his hand on his student's shoulder.

"It's hard, but I know a kid good enough to block one of my punches has got a lot of potential," Ohma stated gently, smirking at his student's bright expression.

"Now get up, Ichiban Tokita, it's time to try again!" Ohma exclaimed.

"Y-yes, Master Ohma!" Ichiban exclaimed.

Kazuo Yamashita had never seen such a derelict house before. It was overtaken by greenery, but he saw Ichiban training hard out front, and the smell of some sort of pork wafting through the air.

"Oh! Kazuo Yamashita! Good morning! Uhmm… Master Ohma's inside, he's cooking something, and I'm out here training!" Ichiban cheered, walking up to him, he was wearing nothing but sweatpants and a headband to keep his hair out of his eyes.

"Can I talk to him?" Kazuo asked.

"Oh! Sure! Hang on," Ichiban jogged inside, "Master! Kazuo Yamashita's here! He wants to speak with you!" the boy called to the inside.

"Tell him he can come in," Ohma said, cooking some pork on a hot plate. Kazuo was shoved in and the door was shut behind him. The man gulped and scooched in.

"Did he…" Kazuo started.

"Already eat? Yeah," Ohma stated, "Ichiban always moves faster than I do in the mornings,"

"A-are you two… related?" Kazuo asked.

"No, he just hung around me and I got used to him," Ohma bluntly said. Then, the door crashed in, with Ichiban skidding back, he was grinning.

"Wow! Man, that kick was… pretty solid!" Ichiban gasped, "Whew! I'm a little… winded… hoooo…"

Two men stepped in, one with a white hoodie and the other with a multi-colored one. The white hooded one flipped back his hood. He had blond hair and odd sunken eyes, he hopped from foot to foot as the other one had his arms crossed.

"Don't worry, I'll take them both," the blond guy stated.

"Fine by me," the other stated, his voice deep and bellowing, making Kazuo shudder just by listening.

The blond stepped forward, "It's nothing personal, just business," he stated.

"Sorry, but I already got my newspaper, and… huuuhh, your aura, it's pretty fierce. Not enough to lay out my protege, but interesting," Ohma stated. Kazuo backed up and sidled over to Ichiban, who was shakily standing and palming his jaw. Ohma weaved through the guy's punches, backing up and weaving.

"That's… Ivan Karaev! Ohma, he's got a vicious hi-" Kazuo was cut off by a high-pitched squeal and a stumbling Karaev. Standing tall was Ohma, smiling.

"The real tragedy is that you leave yourself too open when you kick," Ohma said. Ichiban's eyes shined when there was a sudden tearing and the Russian stumbled, toppling with blood coming out of his mouth.

"Whoa! Now THAT'S A TECHNIQUE!" Ichiban yelled. The man in the multi-colored jacket flipped his hood back, revealing wide brown eyes and a blond, shaggy mullet. He was massive, towering over Yamashita and Ichiban, but at least eye level with Ohma.

"Hah! Good to know somebody knows quality!" the man snapped, "The name's Lithito! An' you must be my opponent, right?" he asked, looking at Ohma.

"Yeah, quite an entrance," Ohma commented. Ichiban was bouncing, trying to copy the slashing, Lihito noticed that and grinned.

"Hey, little man! Your arc's too tight!" He coached a little. Kazuo gulped, watching Ichiban's face go from joyous to determined, slashing, or trying to.

"Well, I jus' thought I'd swing by with a friendly little hello! It was Karaev's idea to punt your protege through the door, I'll be seein' ya, Ohma Tokita," Lithito said. Ichiban followed him out though.

Lithito turned and saw the kid follow him out, "What?" he asked.

"Can you… hit me with that slashing attack? Not too deep or hard, just hit me enough to cut?" Ichiban asked. 'What the hell?! Is this kid a masochist?!' Lithito thought incredulously. He shrugged and saw the kid's dull gray eyes shine silver. He wound back and slashed, seeing a couple of small cuts open upon his skin.

"Hm! I get it now! It's not the nails…" Ichiban mumbled that last part, "See ya, Mr. Lithito!" he cheered, waving and Lithito smirked, waving back. The superhuman oddly enough felt the kid's aura grow stronger from the kick and the slash…

Just what was he?!

A.N: I hope you all liked it! Or not... First fic I’ve posted on here an’ already I’m jittery/nervous/scared that this won’t be well-liked. I mean... I guess it’s brave I’m doing this, but I want you all to know that this little romp is for fun. And I may need some help with later canon.  

[crystu-cii]

XDD

I f e e l that pain in my soul-- my older sister uses cologne sometimes and it is sO STRONG AND WILL NOT STAY CONFINED TO HER ROOM-- AMD SOMETIMES SHED DO IT IN THE DOORWAY LIKE HELLO-- XDD

YEAH WH GET SOME SLEEP LEAVE THE STAYING UP TO US-- XDD

YES BABY JAIL, INTO THE UPSIDE DOWN LAUNDRY BASKET YOU KNIFE-WIELDING HEATHEN-- XDD oms XDD well I don't know them but I love them- YESSS THEYRE SO FLUFFY-- I'm actually curious what images pop up first imma check-- FLUFFY PUPPIES-- we've actually never owned ones that fluffy(those actually look more similar to shetland sheepdogs than the shelties we've had so far?? Very similar/similar enough where if someone doesn't know a sheltie we mention shetland sheepdogs), our current one is a purebred that we got for free(she was being given away bc her family never came back for her and the lady taking care of her couldn't afford the time to take care of a second dog long-term think) and she's got pretty short fur in comparison- still fluffy enough, but not quite so long of fur-- she's a blue merle(absolutely gorgeous fur, she's like 8 now with a lot of health problems but she's super loving still 💕💞) anyways about the fur, so long as you brush regularly you should mitigate most of that, and it mostly collects in corners- but like.. be prepared to eat and wear dog fur for the rest of your life-- (actually there's a thing called a fur zapper we bought recent that you put in with your clothes when you wash/dry them(I think it's dry but idk??) that's supposed to get a lot of hair off your clothes in that process? Also lint rollers are your best friend--) AND roombas are really helpful(we bought a knockoff one and rarely have to sweep ever so 👀) XDD WHEEZE I can't even imagine what you did-- but like you could ask for a budgie/parakeet /hj I mean, they aren't very expensive (actually they're pretty cheap) but they're very loud, need a lot of attention(especially if you want them to bond to you!) and you need to research into them a lot to make sure you're doing things right-- loads of vids online!! Loads of websites too!!! I'd know I have one- JUST A WARNING, FEATHERS AND SEED HULLS GET ALL OVER YOUR FLOOR XD p l u s like you have a friend who knows stuff about birbs :3 anyways ENOUGH RAMBLING FROM ME WOW THAT GOT LONG--

💕💕 I feel that XD OMS-- I WISH-- WHAT A D R E A M - s n a k - Awww but what a mood XD

XDDD oms YES-- EXACTLY-- XDDDD another good thing you should try eventually is SWEET POTATO CASSEROLE WHICH IS APPARENTLY DELICIOUS??? I TRIED IT FOR THE FIRST TIME(AT LEAST IN A WHILE) TODAY AND IT WAS SO FUCKIN TASTY????

H E A THEN-- XDD how cool of them to try tho :3 whEEZE Y 'A LL-- XDD

WHEEZE I SUCK WITH INSTRUMENTS SOOOO-- DAMN THA'S SOME BAD LUCK MY DUDE-- MAYBE YOU'RE CURSED DAMN-- oms wOWW--

Yesss-- ooh I've never played 👀 seen some stuff but never played-- (see: my computer sucks XD) I h a v e played Portal 1 and it is SO GOOD and SO SHORT and I WISH I HAD GOTTEN PORTAL 2 INSTEAD BUT THATS OKAY CRIES-- YESSSS THE SONGS SLAP--- ALSO THERE ARE ACTUALLY TWO WHOLE MORE CANON(PROBABLY KINDA MAYBE NOT?? IDK) SONGS, ONE FROM A LEG DIMENSIONS GAME("You Wouldn't Know") AND ONE THAT WAS CUT FROM PORT TWO("Don't Say Goodbye"(Harry101UK made an edit to make it Glados' voice!!)) THERE ARE ALSO A BUNCH OF GOOD FAN SONGS SO YEAH-- ALSO NOT TO BE A SIMP BUT GLADOS' VOICE? PERFECTION. I LOVE HER. ALSO I COULD LITERALLY DETAIL THE PORTAL LORE I AM INCREDIBLY EMOTIONALLY INVESTED IN THIS GAME-- ALSO THERES A CLIP THAT SOMEONE MADE USING A (VERY GOOD) GLADOS TTS TO HAVE GLADOS SAY TRANS RIGHTS AND ENBY RIGHTS AND IF I FIND IT AGAIN ILL SEND IT TO YOU-- YOU COULD PROBABLY FIND IT IF YOU LOOM UP GLADOS SAYS TRANS RIGHTS? IT HAS A VIDEO WITH TRANS FLAG COMPANION CUBES ACCOMPANYING IT-- ALSO YES THE PORT MODS(/ADD-ONS? MAYBE? THEY'RE COMMUNITY MADE I THINK BUT IDK ALL I KNOW IS THAT THEYRE COOL AF--) (also I apologize for all the screaming? XD it's like, four am and I was talking about portal so.. whoops?)

Right like wth???? I???? Okay but like December to February babies just fuckin DONT EXIST IN THIS GEN OR SOMETHIN-- CAUSE I FIND N O N E -- Maybe there are more December babies but there are definitely like NO January to February babies it is So Weird--

NEJFQOBGKW WOWW d an g like-p l e a se s t op over sp r aying-- xD and LEGITTTT LIKE- THAT WAS M Y ROLE TO STAY UP LATE- XDD

WHEHEHEZE- LAUNDRY BASKET TIME- G E T I N XDD anD YESS- any doggo is just such a cute doggo 😭💞💞 but for me- fLUFFY ONES ARE WHERE ITS A T- and ohhhh i see- FOR FREE?? W H A T A S T E A L XDD but awwww the poor doggg at least she's with you now ! ;0;; 💞💞😭 aaw such a lovable puppup 😭😭💞 and oHHH i see :00 but oh no- xD i also have a friend that has two dogs and whenever he would give me gifts- there would be dog hair on them no matter what- XDD and ooOhhh those sound really helpful! omg- i swear i dont have to have a pet for the need of a roomba- i already shed so much hair myself its so crazy-- xDD and oH MAN loud animals are really gon get my mom fired up- and OO birds just look so cuteee i always fantasize of having one- but then again- with the noise and all xD the more i think about it i dont think we are prepared to have a pet at all xD but i still dream of at least having one pet in my lifetime!

and OO that sounds awesome!! i have no clue if i even tried casserole before- man- sometimes i just eat food without even knowing wth it is XDDD but THAT SOUNDS so gooodddd :O

and LEGITT LIKE- TF IS HAPPENING WITH MY SCHOOL LIFE- XDD and oh my god- IT GETS WORSE- that year there was a FREAKINGG FIREEEEEEE- it wasnt that dangerous thank god- but it had to get a whole ass room renovated because of it- and guess what room it was- THE ORCHESTRA ROOM- AND GUESS WHAT M A D E I T W OR SE- that year- it was the first time the school replaced those 10+ year old instruments with new ones- NOW THEYRE B U R N T- and mind you that the school's budget isnt so- gr e a t- like oh my god i am still so bewildered over HOW MUCH chaos HAPPENED that year- and i thought that year was gon be the year- yknow? like UGH

and OHH MANN playing portal sounds awesome! but i just dont think the game would be worth my money cause i know the plot- and even with the mods and all my brain would be broken as i would possibly have no clue what to do- xDDD

and HOOOO MANNN game fan songs are just so AWESOMEEE- and those sound pretty cool! :OO and HOLY SHIT FUCK YEAH- GLADOS SAYS TRANS AND ENBY RIGHTS Y A LL- now im gonna look that up and let my ears be blessed by such words- XDDD and DONT WORRY BOUT SCREAMING ALOT- i scream a whole dam lot too XDD

and LEGITTT- finding someone's b-day in january and feb is so rare all of a sudden like wh a t - XDD

[evanfleischer]

Truth, like love and sleep, resents Approaches that are too intense. —  W.H. Auden, “New Year Letter”

Walter Benjamin spoke of an “angel of history” in his unpublished-at-the-time essay, “On The Concept Of History,” writing that  — 

His [that is, the angel’s face] face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.

Benjamin’s definition of ‘the angel of history’ enables us to look a little bit more closely at the function of the symbol and the idea of ‘an angel of history’ in The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald. It’s also in discussing both Walter Benjamin’s angel and The Rings of Saturn that we can discuss Wings of Desire and take note of how the three engage with the other.

There are literal connections and all but literal connections that can be drawn between the three texts: in the library scene in Wings of Desire, per the screenplay, one reader studies Paul Klee’s “Angelus Novus,” which is referenced by Walter Benjamin in relation to “the angel of history” (and which prompts the above-quoted paragraph), which itself serves as a point of intellectual reference in The Rings of Saturn.

Thinking involves not only the flow of thoughts, but their arrest as well. Where thinking suddenly stops in a configuration pregnant with tensions, it gives that configuration a shock, by which it crystalizes into a monad. A historical materialist approaches a historical subject only where he encounters it as a monad. In this structure he recognizes the sign of a Messianic cessation of happening, or, put differently, a revolutionary chance in the fight for the oppressed past. He takes cognizance of it in order to blast a specific era out of the homogenous course of history  —  blasting a specific life out of the era or a specific work out of the lifework. As a result of this method the lifework is preserved in this work and at the same time canceled (orig.: aufheben) … The nourishing fruit of the historically understood contains time as a precious but tasteless seed.

The Rings Of Saturn is manifestly aware of an oppressed past and the notion of “blast[ing] a specific era out of the homogenous course of history.” The text is aware of how frequently it looks upon a “wreckage,” so aware that the voice of the text frequently slides upward into a register filled with hauntings — but not just Gothic-styled hauntings pegged to a specific object, i.e., a single ghost haunting a single house because of a single terrible act committed one generational leap back into the past.

Sebald pursues a different path: when the reader ascends to a certain level in the text when one might feel a more ‘direct’ encounter with a ‘ghost,’ i.e., that space between a pile of herring and the bodies of those murdered in the Holocaust as defined by the implicit metaphor, we also share an intellectual space with thinking over of what generational trauma means while also operating in the middle of an encounter with ‘place.’ (The narrator can be expected to only accomplish so much, being human, after all.) The book has names for the things that have produced that “wreckage” — imperialism, colonialism, capitalism, and fascism; and the book traces their evolution well — but merely indicting a large ‘-ism’ isn’t where the mission of The Rings Of Saturn begins or ends. Sebald the narrator seeks out a saint in Nuremberg. An angel seeks to become human in Berlin. Each are on an analogous path and make use of similar tools. In a small essay called “Why Do You Make Films?” written in 1987, Wim Wenders remarked that “The camera is a weapon against the tragedy of things, against their disappearing.” Sebald himself was quoted in an interview flagged by the podcast Backlisted as saying that “The photograph is meant to get lost somewhere in an attic — a nomadic thing that has a small chance only to survive,” making their survival — and the act of ensuring their survival — all the more striking.  And, more often than not, both Sebald and the angel seek to commune with nominally empty spaces.

To explain what occupies this emptiness requires us to talk for a moment about what we mean when we use words like trauma, collective trauma, and generational trauma.

With all three, there’s a rough feeling that lingers with us where we can say that we know it when we see it, feel it, or hear about it. We know it when we keep friends safe in the middle of the night, telling them over the phone to breathe in and breathe out. We know it when we hear a blues song scratchily emanating from the side of an open and otherwise quiet car mechanic’s garage late at night. We know it when we read a book like The Body Keeps The Score and we know it when we watch a television show like Watchmen.

Now, there’s a DSM-5 definition we can break out — which talks about “actual or threatened death, serious injury, or sexual violence” — but that doesn’t incorporate a thousand other things that are part of the landscape of trauma. There is also a certain level of complexity in tracing generational trauma from one generation to the next at the level of biology. As of 2018 — insofar as this writer can make out — no studies exist that follow the trauma a mother might have before she conceives a child, how that trauma changes the genetic make-up of an oocyte (a cell in the ovary that changes to form an ovum), and how that link between the trauma established before conception and the trauma felt by the child is established after the child has been born.

That difficulty doesn’t mean the investigation into generational trauma is illegitimate. In 1966, Vivian M. Rakoff, a Canadian psychologist, described the children of parents who survived the Holocaust as suffering more acute psychological symptoms than their parents. In the 1990’s, as Rachel Yahuda and Amy Lehrner note in World Psychiatry, as technology developed, time passed, and more investigations were made — 

… offspring of Holocaust survivors were more likely to show HPA axis alterations associated with PTSD, such as lower cortisol levels and enhanced GR responsiveness … Subsequent investigations documented that maternal and paternal PTSD were associated with different biological outcomes. A post‐hoc analysis of cortisol circadian rhythm data indicated that lower cortisol levels in adult Holocaust offspring were associated with maternal, but not paternal, PTSD.

The HPA axis refers to the connection between the hypothalamus, the pituitary gland, and adrenal glands. GR responsiveness refers to glucocorticoid receptors, which are found throughout the body and play a role in regulating the genes that control development, metabolism, and immune response.

Looking at these results suggests that it wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable to offer up the reductive assertion that lower cortisol levels and enhanced GR responsiveness means that someone is both hyper-sensitive and might not feel the stress that the body should otherwise feel if it were in a ‘flight or ‘fight,’ trauma-inducing situation. In other words: the children exhibit the symptoms of the traumatized.

There is much more detail at hand here — studies involving GR gene methylation that parallel but don’t explicitly show genetic transmission of trauma, mothers with PTSD who experienced September 11th rating their children as having higher anxiety in the morning than mothers without PTSD, animals exposed to “chronic stress in utero [that led to] increased male, but not female, HPA stress reactivity,” and ‘secondary traumatization’ — but we should zoom the camera lens out to flag the fact that trauma simply makes itself manifest in the day-to-day lives of individuals in a variety of ways. In Bassel Van Der Kolk’s book, The Body Keeps The Score, the doctor describes patients who “felt emotionally distant from everybody, as though [their] heart were frozen and [the individual in question was] living behind a glass wall,” as well as other patients who were “suffering from memories,” and notes that “I [the author] could not be [the doctor of a traumatized group] unless they made me one of them.”

This characterization brings us back to the idea of the lead characters in The Rings Of Saturn and Wings Of Desire encountering nominally empty spaces. At Somerleyton Hall in The Rings Of Saturn, the narrator thinks of how “fine a place the house seemed to me now that it was imperceptibly nearing the brink of dissolution and silent oblivion,” a house where “there are … moments, as one passes through the rooms open to the public … when one is not quite sure whether one is in a country house in Suffolk or some kind of no-man’s-land, on the shores of the Arctic Ocean or in the heart of the dark continent.”

The house is only ‘nominally’ empty because of the action implied by the phrases of “the Arctic Ocean” and “in the heart of the dark continent.” Open up the door of the latter phrase and voices will come rushing through. The alexithymia of trauma located in more than one place — in both the house and the ‘dark continent’ — will find a voice — of exploitation, cruelty, and worse. (Later on, the narrator goes so far as to suggest that the colonial violence of the Belgians in the past makes it manifest in physical deformations in the near-present.)

Consider two scenes in Wings Of Desire. The first is the montage that shows us a glimpse of what happened to Berlin in the war: the camera passes by a destitute man, a domestic argument, and a child screaming for his mother in the street before we transition to the sounds of a bomb siren, see for ourselves the bombs flash bulb across the sky of the city, the shadow of planes and white-yellow search lights, and buildings on fire. Or, as the English writer Thomas Browne puts it in one section of The Rings Of Saturn —

The shadow of night is drawn like a black veil across the earth, and since almost all creatures, from one meridian to the next, lie down after the sun has set, so … one might, in following the setting sun, see on our globe nothing but prone bodies, row upon row, as if levelled by the scythe of Saturn — an endless graveyard for a humanity struck by falling sickness.

The second scene is Peter Falk standing outside a small snack bar in the middle of a muddied expanse. He talks to Bruno Ganz, the angel, and — even though the angel says nothing — they share a moment.

I can’t see you, but I know you’re here. I feel it. You’ve been hanging around since I got here. I wish I could see your face. Just look into your eyes and tell you how good it is to be here. Just to touch something. See, that’s cold. That feels good. Or, here … To smoke. Have coffee. And, if you do it together, it’s fantastic. Or … to draw. You know, you take a pencil, and you make a dark line … then you make a light line. And, together, it’s a good line. Or when your hands are cold — you rub ’em together. You see, that’s good. That feels good. There’s so many good things. But you’re not here. I’m here. I wish you were here. I wish you could talk to me, because I’m a friend. Compañero.

It is agonizingly tempting to liken Falk’s voice here to Sebald’s voice in a one-to-one ratio, even in spite of the fairly central role ‘wreckage’ and melancholy play in The Rings Of Saturn, especially if one were to factor in the consistently sumptuous turns of Sebald’s language, i.e., how the scratchy sounds of a transistor radio playing on a beach are “as if the pebbles being dragged back by the waves were talking to each other”; how — instead of a child — one couple in The Hague has an “apricot-colored poodle”; and how — “every now and then” at the Schiphol airport — “the announcers’ voices, disembodied and intoning their messages like angels, would call someone’s name.” But just before that scene in the film, Falk is seen wandering through a muddied expanse of earth. “Walking and seeing,” he says in voice over. He turns and looks off in the distance to his right (and the lingering background of the shot.) “That must be the station — not the one where the trains stop, but the station where the station stops.”

“The station where the station stops” is a roundabout way of talking about “the zero hour,” the end of history, or the “inclusion of all exclusions,” which is how the German sociologist Niklas Luhmann once described the apocalypse. Falk goes from contemplating the “inclusion of all exclusions” — an enormous collective trauma collectively felt — to talking about simple things with a spirit he can’t see, a spirit who doesn’t feel like it’s part of humanity and wants to be a part of humanity. And Falk wants that spirit there.

Sebald’s narrator has a role in reaching out to the spirits. The angel has a role in reaching out to humanity. Each are working to build a narrative bridge over which those impacted by collective trauma and generational trauma can pass into the story of the present. The aforementioned individuals who felt “emotionally distant from everybody, as though [their] heart[s] were frozen and [they] were living behind a glass wall” might now have a better idea of the path they need to take to unfreeze the heart and come from behind said glass wall. (Or, as it was put in HBO’s Watchmen: “Wounds need air.”) Neither narrator in either text can accomplish the project of building this bridge without the other, as is evidenced by the fact that The Rings Of Saturn all but ends amongst a reconstructed Temple of Jerusalem — an appeal to the judgement of eternity — and Wings Of Desire ends with the angel becoming human and falling in love.

There are a few complications that linger along our path: on one level, Sebald’s narrator doesn’t really ‘do’ much of anything. He walks around, has some associative thoughts, and eventually ends up in the hospital. The same judgement could be passed on the angel: he drifts, becomes human, and — for his troubles — ends up with a colorful coat.

But that reading ignores the role of what it means to be a witness.

“A witness is needed in order for the particular narrative to rise from the inundation of universal sound,” Xavier Vila and Alice Kuzniar wrote of ‘the library scene’ in Wings of Desire in the 1992 Spring issue of Film Criticism, and witnesses abound in both Wings of Desire and The Rings of Saturn. Roger Casement is witnessed on television. The gaze of the painter is witnessed in The Anatomy Lesson. The pathway of a Nazi who becomes the head of the United Nations is witnessed from one era to the next. The descendants of the colonialists — as well as what they took — are witnessed. In looking at a bridge crossing the river Blyth, the narrator also performs an act of witness concerning the growth of capitalism and empire in China.

It is this repeated act of witness that lends a shape of characterization to the seemingly unobserved, un-filled-in narrator. In observing this, we observe a man who is quiet, decent, and thoughtful. We observe a man who knows what it means to genuinely ‘live in the moment.’ We observe his silence in the same fashion that the narrator and housekeeper observe the silence of Major George Wyndham Le-Strange after the latter was one of the ones who liberated Belsen.

By contrast, the angels in Wings Of Desire observe things in an earthward direction, i.e., someone reading in a library — or someone dying as the result of a motorcycle accident  and seeing their life flash before their eyes — 

Albert Camus. The morning light. The child’s eyes. The swim in the waterfall. The spots of the first drops of rain. The sun. The bread and wine. Hopping. Easter. The veins of leaves. The blowing grass. The color of stones. The pebbles on the stream’s bed. The white tablecloth outdoors. The dream of the house in the house. The dear one asleep in the next room. The peaceful Sundays. The horizon. The light from the room in the garden. The night flight. Riding a bicycle with no hands. The beautiful stranger. My father. My mother. My wife. My child.

In each case, we see a deepening of the role of the angel of history as described by Benjamin in his essay. It isn’t just that the angel witnesses the wreckage; it’s that the angel has emotions about the wreckage it wants to share with us. It isn’t just that the storm propels the angel into the future; it’s that the angel has an opinion as to how that wreckage should have conducted itself. The angel of history isn’t about the truth or falsity of history; it’s about who is acknowledged and what it means to share care and concern for those initially lost to history.

The other complication to the arc of this argument is that solely ascribing an interest in the traumatized ‘lessens’ the work of either text — that it strips them of the necessary ineffable mysteriousness that makes art ‘art.’

If that were to hold true — if we were to push our concern with trauma to the side — it still wouldn’t get rid of the fact that there is an emotion we can ascribe to the wreckage of history as described in The Rings Of Saturn. You can’t look at the very end of the book — wherein Sebald notes the death of his father-in-law — and not feel an emotion — that, over the course of history, when a ‘lady of the upper classes’ suffered a grief — which the reader could reasonably read as barely concealed code for ‘a very important woman’ — this is how history would respond (ergo, how we could respond), with …

… heavy robes of black silk taffeta or black crêpe de chine … black Mantua silk of which the Norwich silk weavers … had created … to rape black mourning ribbons over all the mirrors and all canvasses depicting landscapes or people or the fruits of the field …

 — but the text doesn’t just stop with the emotion. It begins to move and slides upward to note that these arrangements were done so that  — 

… the soul, as it left the body, would not be distracted on its final journey, either by a reflection of itself or by a last glimpse of the land now being lost forever.  

In other words: amidst the wreckage of empire and silk, as you cross from a story about Queen Victoria to fictitious words falsely attributed to Thomas Browne, we realize that a bridge has been built for a dear one close to the narrator’s heart. In fact, all of this is done in the name of building a bridge: the angel bearing witness to the words of a dying motorcyclist in Wings of Desire; Peter Falk (as an ex-angel) bearing witness to an empty space on his way to get a cup of coffee; Sebald’s narrator bearing witness to an empty house or to fishermen on the beach who looked

… as if the last stragglers of some nomadic people had settled there, at the outermost limit of the earth, in expectation of the miracle longed for since time immemorial, the miracle which would justify all their erstwhile privations and wanderings.

The late David Foster Wallace once characterized true heroism as “minutes, hours, weeks, year upon year of the quiet, precise, judicious exercise of probity and care — with no one there to see or cheer.” The actions undertaken in Wings Of Desire and The Rings Of Saturn highlight just how much weight the words ‘probity’ and ‘care’ carry over the course of a story, as well as what it takes for someone to actually earn that epithet of praise.

[tactical-weapons]

The SR-25 (Stoner Rifle-25) is a designated marksman rifle/semi-automatic sniper rifle designed by Eugene Stoner and manufactured by Knight's Armament Company.

The SR-25 uses a rotating bolt and a direct impingement gas system. It is loosely based on Stoner's AR-10, rebuilt in its original 7.62×51mm NATO caliber. SR-25 barrels were originally manufactured by Remington Arms with its 5R (5 grooves, right twist) rifling, with twist 1:11.25. The heavy 20-inch (510 mm) barrel is free-floating, so handguards are attached to the front of the receiver and do not touch the barrel.

 In the late 1950s, Eugene Stoner designed the AR-10 battle rifle to equip U.S. troops. It was accurate for an auto-loading rifle, but it lost the competition to the M14 rifle. The patent rights for the AR-10 and the AR-15 were sold to Colt's Manufacturing Company. Colt focused on the AR-15, giving others the ability to capitalize on the AR-10 system.

In the early 1990s, Stoner joined Knight's Armament Company and continued his AR-10 design work. The end result was the SR-25 (adding together the numbers of the AR-10 and AR-15) which improved the AR-10 design with M16A2 advancements and parts commonality. The original SR-25 was released in the early 1990s and had a heavy free-floating 24 in (610 mm) match grade barrel with a fiberglass handguard. It had a flat top upper receiver with a Mil-Std 1913 rail for mounting optics and a 2-stage match grade trigger. The bolt carrier was similar to the AR-10's, being chrome plated and having a captive firing pin retainer pin. The SR-25 was designed specifically to fire 168 gr (10.9 g) open-tip match cartridges. Accuracy was guaranteed at or under 1 minute of angle. At first, AR-10 type 20-round magazines were used, but they were later replaced by steel 20-round magazines resembling those used by the M16.

The United States Special Operations Command took interest in the SR-25, particularly its high magazine capacity and faster engagement time compared to bolt-action rifles. After some modifications, SOCOM adopted the SR-25 as the Mk 11 Mod 0 in May 2000. Changes included a shorter 20 in (510 mm) barrel that could fire M118 and M118LR 7.62×51mm NATO rounds and had a quick detachable sound suppressor mount. An 11.35 in (288 mm) free-floating handguard rail system allowed mounting accessories. Flip-up front sights and adjustable back-up iron sights were added, and an M16A2 stock and pistol grip were used.

Beginning in mid-2011, SOCOM began divesting the Mk 11 Mod 0 from their inventory and replacing it with the SSR Mk 20, the sniper variant of the FN SCAR. The Mk 11 is to be completely replaced by 2017.

The SR-25 enhanced match rifle utilizes the newer URX II Picatinny-Weaver rail system, rather than the older Mk 11 free-floating RAS, on the top of the receiver to accept different scope mounts or a carrying handle with iron sights (front sight mounted on the rail located on the forward end of the non-modular handguard). The match version is designed to shoot at a precision of 0.5 minutes of angle, which corresponds to 0.5-inch (13 mm) groups at 100 yards (91 m).

The Mk 11 Mod 0 system is chambered for 7.62×51mm NATO, and is designed for match-grade ammunition. The Mk 11 system includes the rifle, 20 round box magazines, QD (Quick Detachable) scope rings, Leupold Mark 4 Mil-dot riflescope, Harris swivel-base bipod on a Knight's mount, and QD sound suppressor, which is also manufactured by Knight's Armament Co. Flip-up BUIS (Back up iron sights) are attached to the modified gas block and upper receiver.

The Mk 11 Mod 0 utilizes an Obermeyer 20 in (510 mm) match target barrel, along with a RAS (Rail Accessory System) fore-end made by KAC, consisting of an 11.35 in (288 mm) long match fore-end. The RAS allows for quick attachment/detachment of MIL-STD-1913 components. The aluminum fore-end makes no contact with the barrel forward of the receiver, allowing for extreme accuracy. The Mk 11 Mod 0 has an empty weight of 15.3 lb (6.9 kg), and an overall length of 45.4 in (115 cm). The civilian version, using the longer 24 in (610 mm) match barrel, is guaranteed to produce groupings of less than 1 in (25 mm) at 100 yd (91 m), or 0.3 angular mil, using factory match loads.

During the Iraq War, the United States Marine Corps ordered 180 Mk 11 Mod 1 rifles. These were Mk 11s equipped with the upper receiver of the M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System. The M110 upper gave the Mk 11 Mod 1 a URX modular rail system and a flash suppressor on the barrel. These saw limited use before they were phased out when the Marines chose to purchase the Mk 11 Mod 2, which was simply the USSOCOM and U.S. Navy designation for the complete M110 rifle.

The new SR-25 Enhanced Match (E.M.) Carbine is very similar to the KAC M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System, though the M110 utilizes the newer URX Rail system, a length-adjustable fixed buttstock, and an integrated flash suppressor. Starting late 2011, USMC snipers will replace Mk 11 Mod 0 rifles with the M110 on a one-for-one basis.

[kassandra-lorelei]

I know you're on holiday (so, whenever you get back and can get to it), but wondered if you could write a N/CC fic where they get married by accident? Like, maybe after spending the night hanging out together on one of the sheffield family vacations or something. Whatever you decide. Ha ha Just thought it sounded like it could be hysterical and don't remember reading one like it before. Have you? Thanks! Love your stories!

Hey there, Anon! I apologise that this took so long. I have actually written another story like this before (I adore the premise), that’s probably been lost somewhere in my tags, but I felt like writing another one in a similar vein, so here we are. :-) Enjoy!

@missbabcocks1 @holomoriarty

“God, what does a woman have to do to get a drink aroundhere?!”

“You mean you’ve run out of your usual methods?”

She should’ve known it’d be him she was carping off aboutthe lack of a bartender to – the biggest carp of them all. But in the dim lightof the place C.C. hadn’t noticed who she was sitting next to, and quite franklyshe hadn’t cared. Why Nanny Fine had insisted on a long weekend break in Vegasshe’d never know, and why Maxwell had agreed was an even bigger mystery – thekids were too young for anything in the city, so they were practically confinedto the hotel room at night, and somehow that only increased their capacity tobe annoying during the day.

Luckily the whole family going meant that Niles had had togo along as well, so she’d been able to get that one over on him. That was,until he’d reminded her that it was his job to be there, and she’d come alongof her own free will.

Remembering that little titbit of information only made herwant a drink more, which it seemed she was, ironically, about to get from thebutler, as he waved his hand and immediately caught the attention of thebartender.

But, whatever; it was strong, and it came in a glass. Andshe had time to get her own back as the barman poured it.

“At least my methods are legitimate,” she countered. “Idon’t go filling up from Maxwell’s liquor cabinet when I think no one’slooking.”

Niles’ eyebrows raised as he picked up his drink to take asip, “No need – we could wring you out and fill up all the bottles.”

C.C. had been frowning deeper in preparation to retort thathe knew something about filling up the bottles (with water), when the butlersuddenly spoke again.

“Truth be told, after this week so far, I can understandyour need for a little release.”

It caught her off-guard – both the sudden change fromzingers when he could’ve had her on the ropes, and the claim that he understoodhow she was feeling.

Well, maybe not that last one entirely. She at least had herown home to go to, he had to be around the Sheffields all the time. They wereprobably getting on his last nerve as well.

And for some reason, that made C.C. want to share more.

“That’s putting it mildly,” she told him, getting irritablejust thinking about it. “If I have to hear one more time about how the boytried to sneak into the casino with a fake ID, I think I might drown myself inthe pool.”

Niles joined in, “Or about how Mr Sheffield is bored ofhaving to sit around the pool all the time because there’s “nothing going on”during the day.”

The producer groaned and nodded in agreement.

“Unless you want to gamble,” Niles then added bitterly,before taking another sip of his drink.

C.C. could tell what that tone meant. She’d heard it before,when they’d been in Atlanta that time.

Of course, she wasn’t going to make the same mistake she hadthe last time.

She took a gulp of her drink, “They took your wallet again,didn’t they?”

The butler turned a low scowl towards the bar, “They’ve beengiving me an allowance for drinks and the buffet.”

It was funny, but something about that made it hard for C.C.to want to laugh at him. She eventually managed a half-assed one, but it onlyhelped to fuel his next insult when he accused her of getting soft.

Then they were back in familiar territory, and theyrefreshed their drinks to keep on talking and laughing (together and at eachother) well into the evening.

That was, until Niles downed the rest of one last drink, andtossed the last note he had down onto the bar.

“Well, that’s all my money spent for one evening,” hedeclared, slipping out of his seat. “I think I should probably go up.Goodnight, Miss Babcock.”

He turned away, and something struck C.C.. She knew whyshe’d found it hard to laugh at Niles just then – whether it was the alcohol,or the heat, or something else entirely, she didn’t know.

But she felt sorry for him. And they’d been having such agood time without the Sheffields, she didn’t want to call it a night just yet. Theyalways ended up having fun when they were out like this, and just because hedidn’t have money didn’t mean he had to go.

She slipped off her stool after him, “Niles, wait.”

Luckily, the butler turned around. He seemed to wonder whatshe could possibly be wanting to say to him.

C.C. undid her purse, and took out her credit card to showhim with a smile.

“Next ones are on me.”

………………………………………………………

“Oh, God…”

Between the blinding headache, the overall sense of weightedfuzziness going on all over her body, and a dryness in her mouth that could putDeath Valley to shame, C.C. thought that hangovers could kiss her ass.

Shifting a little in the bed but without opening her eyes,she tried to reach up and wipe at her face. But she found it…difficult. Therewas a warm, heavy something pinning it down. And she couldn’t move it.

It felt…like another arm?

She opened her eyes, and even without being able to seeherself, she knew that all the colour had drained from her face.

The other arm (as indeed it was) belonged to Niles, and itwas…holding her naked body against his naked body! Her leg was snugly securedover his hip, and…well, there was certainly now an explanation for why she feltso strangely warm down there…

It was all coming back to her.

The smatterings of laughter echoed down the corridor as theymade their way towards her room – hers was safer, it was further away from the family’sthan Niles’. And they couldn’t keep their hands off each other the whole way.

They barely made it through the door before her dress wasunzipped and pooled at her feet. She kicked it away somewhere and got straightback to business ripping open his shirt.

She’d already decided that night was going to be special,and it was going to be fun…

C.C. tried to swallow, “Oh, God…!”

Her words, as short and quiet as they were, were stillenough to rouse the butler. He shifted, as much as he was able to, and startedto wipe his own face.

“Hm?” he wiped his eyes, blinking them open. And that wasthen he saw C.C. staring back at him. “Oh, God.”

C.C. had a feeling that those words had been said a lot overthe course of the last eight or so hours.

But she didn’t stop to think about it for too long, beforethey both simultaneously sprang apart and flew out of opposite sides of the bed,each trying to grab a sheet to cover themselves.

“We slept together?!” C.C. scrambled to pull her bedsheetaround herself.

Niles had nearly given up trying to cover himself with hisown grabbed sheet – he was busy staring at his hand.

“I’ve got news for you,” he eventually said, apparently inshock. “I think we did a bit more than just that.”

Shakily, he lifted his left hand to show her.

A gold band encircled his ring finger, and C.C. felt herheart leap into her mouth.

They…they couldn’t have gotten…

But it had to be true. When she looked down at her own lefthand, an identical ring glittered in the light coming through the window.

The producer nearly dropped her sheet, “M-Married?!”

Niles could only stare at his ring, “It would appear so…”

It was so. The longer C.C. looked at her own ring, the moreit all came back…

The chapel was small, and ridiculously tacky. But to them,it felt just perfect. Just the two of them, finally about to get hitched afterhaving convinced the registrar that they were sober enough to know what theywere doing.

They might have put on a little bit of a show during theceremony – all beaming smiles and giggles, cuddles and holding hands.

It had clearly been enough, and had probably made theregistrar want to get them the hell out of there as soon as possible…

Niles certainly was a great actor when it came to feelings. C.C.felt that she was better at it when she was sober.

She’d been thinking about him far too much in that light inthe past few years. Her fearing for his life after his heart attack, and therelief at him waking up. Attending his friend’s wedding together, and dancingthe night away as they talked smack about the other guests. Even the kiss inthe Sheffields’ living room, which had sent her back home with a vague smirk onher lips and a more than pleasant shiver creeping up and down her spine.

Her resolve was weakening, and she couldn’t let it. She wasa Babcock, for crying out loud! Her family had never mixed with servants!

Especially not servants who had always been their enemy, andhad hated them for the past twenty years that they’d known each other.

Not that part of her particularly blamed him, though. Sheknew how she was – a moody, selfish, stuck-up rich girl who didn’t know how toappreciate a good thing when she saw it. Of course, that didn’t mean she alwaysdeserved the things that he did, but the self-deprecating side to herpersonality could see where he was coming from.

Of course, to preserve her dignity and retain her pride, shehad to get angry about it.

“I can’t believe this!” she started to snatch her clothes upfrom the floor, hastily trying to slip them back onto whichever body partthey’d been slipped off. “As soon as we get back to New York, we’re going to mylawyer and we’re getting this thing annulled.”

Niles, who had been grabbing his things as well, stopped andlooked at her.

“As…soon as we go back?”

He’d looked so happy at the wedding. His eyes had shone, andthat lopsided grin had never once left his face as she’d stumbled and giggled herway through the pre-set vows the chapel had let them pick out just before.

It was a very different picture now. When he knew what hewas doing, the resentment was back.

“Well, yeah!” she told him, knowing it was the better option.“We can’t stay married!”

There was a deathly silence, and the butler glowered.

“I see,” he said sharply, throwing on his shirt and roughlystraightening it out. He couldn’t button it up. “Of course we can’t. That wouldbe ridiculous.”

Why did he sound so angry? He of all people knew that thiswas the way things had to be! They might’ve thought they’d known what they weredoing (agreeing to get married because screw it, they were there and lookingfor fun, so why not, her brain oh-so helpfully reminded her), but it wasobvious they hadn’t!

“Jeez, what’s got your panties in a knot?” she asked. “Ithought you’d’ve been the first out of the two of us to suggest a get outclause!”

“And why the hell would you think that?!” Niles snapped.

That astounded C.C. to the point where she dropped theclothes she’d still been carrying.

“It’s me, Niles! C.C. Babcock, your archnemesis, remember?!”she gestured to herself. “You don’t want to be attached to that for the rest ofyour life!”

“Who says that I don’t?!”

What was he saying?!

C.C. could feel her pulse and breathing speeding up, but shekept them under control enough to continue the argument, “Now just what thehell is that supposed to mean?!”

Niles threw down his gathered clothes, and stepped towardsher, “It means that I love you, God damn it!”

He dropped his bedsheet in the process, and so did she. Butneither one of them noticed.

The producer stepped backwards, stunned, “Woah, I’m sorry –you what now?!”

Niles glared, “You heard me.”

C.C. let out one single, humourless laugh.

“Heard, but didn’t understand!” she cried.

“What’s there to understand about the phrase “I love you?””Niles shouted. “It can’t be put in any simpler terms than that!”

“Try, because I’m failing to see how you can claim to loveme!” C.C. folded her arms over her chest. “You haven’t acted like it, or even saida word about it, in the last two decades of us knowing each other!”

Niles marched towards her, a stormy look on his face.

“Would you haveaccepted it if I’d just opened up and told you, rather than played those pranksto get your attention?!” he asked. “Would you have even spoken to me if I hadn’tinsulted you first?! Would you have given me a chance if I hadn’t?! And behonest with yourself when you answer that last one.”

She was brutally honest with herself as she thought. Andwhat she found was so sobering, it cured the rest of the hangover she’d beendistracted from.

She would have laughed in his face if he’d told her. Shewouldn’t have spoken to him before, or after, and would’ve expected him to geton with his job, no matter what had been said. She wouldn’t have considered hisfeelings, or what he was like as a person…

But because of their pranks and insults, she’d had to payattention. And when she did…well, that had started off something ratherspecial, if she really thought about it. Far more special than anything she’dever tried to have with Maxwell. With Niles, it wasn’t all just about wit and fun,even though they had those by the bucketload. There was also a sense of quiet camaraderiewhen they weren’t arguing, and they shared more than a few interests.

And he was a good man. Talented, and polite (when he wantedto be), and he cared about people deeply.

She would’ve let go of all that, all of the good things about him, because she was rich, andhe wasn’t.

Struck by the thought, C.C. sank back down onto the bed.

“No. I wouldn’t have given you a chance,” she said, shakingher head sadly. A few tears were starting to mist up her eyes.

“So it’s just as I thought, then,” Niles grumbled irritably.“I’m a servant, and I’m not good enough for you.”

She wanted to yell at him that that was a lie, but she suddenly didn’thave the strength. So instead, when he tried to turn away from her (and possiblyleave the room entirely) she grabbed him by the wrist.

She still had enough energy to speak.

“All my life, my mother told me never to mix with servants. Shetold me all I had to do was find a rich man and bring him home, and then livemy life however it played out after that,” she started to explain. “And theworst part of all that is that I believed her! But…she was wrong. I was wrong. What’sthe point of going after money and power if you already have it? What’s thepoint of looking for someone your parents accept if they don’t make you happy?What’s the point of going out somewhere to look for someone who is wealthy,good looking, and has superficial charm when you already know a kind, witty,genuine man right where you are?”

She looked up at him, holding his gaze when he blinked downat her. Was he shocked? In awe? She didn’t know, but she had to finish what shewas saying, no matter how much pain it was causing in her chest.

“It’s not you who’s not good enough for me, Niles. I’m the onewho’s not good enough for you,” her lip began to wobble, and she started tocry. “I’m sorry I treated you how I did, and I know it’s all too late! But Iwas born a snob! I was raised a snob! And now…now, I’ll die a lonely snob!”

The very words broke her own heart, because she knew how truethey were. Who’d want an old, bad tempered witch like her?

She buried her face in her hands, imagining going throughthe rest of her life alone. Getting up to live only for her work (somewhereelse, there was no way she could work at the mansion after this!), going throughher day not letting her mind wander to what she couldn’t have, and coming home toan empty penthouse. No dinner waiting on the table, already prepared. Nofriendly conversation to while away the hours. Just a frozen microwavable meal,a television, and a bed that she’d later have to warm up by herself.

She was wallowing so deeply in her misery that she didn’t noticeNiles moving to kneel on the floor in front of her. The first she realised ofit was when she felt her hands being taken away from her eyes, and her (watery)sapphire ones met his bright blue pair.

“Not if I have anything to say on the matter,” he saidgently. “You know, it would take the both of us to sign those papers, Babs. AndI’m not planning on putting my name to anything that says you’re not goodenough for me, when I still believe exactly the opposite.”

That caused C.C.’s heart to lift, and she sniffed as sheblinked away some of the tears.

“You…you really mean that?” she asked hopefully.

She didn’t understand how she could still have a chanceafter all this, but Niles was starting to grin at her.

It was that special lopsided grin, too.

“For better or worse,” he told her, bringing a hand up totenderly cup her cheek. “And I’m sorry I insulted you for so long, and that I playedso many childish pranks on you.”

C.C. managed to choke out a small laugh.

“Some of them were funny. Some of the time,” she told him,hesitating only a little before reaching her own hand up to take his. “Sorry Itried to get a divorce as soon as I found out we were married.”

Niles let out a chuckle at that.

“As long as it doesn’t happen again, I think I can forgive,”he told her, stroking her cheek with his thumb, which made C.C. relax into his palm.“Besides, I’d quite like to see about taking you out on our first proper date.”

A proper date. He’d probably do all the little things tomake it special, too – flowers, maybe candlelight and a romantic walk…

It was so much like something out of a storybook, C.C. couldalmost feel her eyes shining.

But for once, she didn’t care. This was the end of the story– the time when dragons and monsters had all been beaten or banished orwhatever, and the prince and the princess got married and lived happily everafter in their castle.

And who cared that her prince wasn’t rich? He made up for itin love, and companionship, and all the witty zingers that they could now teamup and use against other people.

She nodded, “I’d like that very much, Butler Boy.”

They both sat there for a moment, just relishing in thehappiness that was blooming between them, before they both ended up leaning in.

C.C. couldn’t currently remember their first kiss as husbandand wife, but the one they shared then had the same meaning. It was a promiseof love and togetherness, and it came with the added benefit of them both beingsober.

She knew they’d definitely have more like it in the future.

When the need for air eventually took over, she ran one handthrough his hair, ruffling it.

“Breakfast is probably being served by now,” she said. “Maybewe should go down?”

Smirking, her husband raised a cheeky eyebrow, “Hm. Well, ifyou lie back, I can-”

She shoved him playfully in the chest, “Niles!”

But after a moment of playful laughter shared between them, shedid end up lying back.

And before she could suggest that they renewed their hasty,accidental vows somewhere more tasteful, she was lost in a blissful haze.

[creativitymouth]

The World Forgetting by The World Forgotten Pt.3

A/N - A big thank you to all of the amazing writers on Tumblr who helped me get my story out there to begin with. @asthmaticeddie @apartofthelosersclub @firstfannypack @mikoalabearwrites @justauthoring If you haven’t checked out their stories please do so because it’s what gave me the courage to put my work out there in the first place. 

Summary: Adolescence is kicking (Y/N) in the ass and she isn’t sure if she’s winning. SlowBurn!RichieTozierxFemale!Reader. 

Trigger Warning: Depressive Themes and Sexual Assault. Cursing because of Trashmouth Tozier.

9th grade has many sexual assault mentions, if you are uncomfortable reading this please skip ahead. 

Chapter 3

8th Grade - 1986

It had been 2 years, and Richie Tozier had just begun to realize his crush on you was possibly never going to go away. He had finally told all the guys about it on one of those days you randomly disappeared, but they all just shrugged him off. They had been sitting around in Bills place, wondering where their favorite girl had been when they stopped by her house earlier. When suddenly Richie found that he couldn’t keep his mouth closed, per usual.

“I think I like (Y/N).” He blurted out, everyone stared at him open mouthed. What had he just said? Impossible. No one said anything for a stretch of awkward seconds as they just gaped a Tozier. This was the guy with a new crush every week, so he couldn’t be serious.

“Trashmouth Tozier? With feelings for our pure little (Y/N), no fucking way man you’re joking.” Stan had said.

“Yeah R-Rich, you gu-guys are polar opposites.” Bill cut in. “It’ll g-go away eventually. L-like every other crush you-you-you’ve had.”

“Remember in 4th grade when Eddie had feelings for (Y/N) for like a month?” Stan said. “He had lied to (Y/N) and told her you almost killed him at the arcade, just so he could give her his back up aspirator.” Richie’s eyes narrowed slightly at Eddie, he had already known this information but hearing it now felt like a stab in the chest. He was the first person he told back in 6th grade about what seemed like a fatal crush.

“Hey!” Eddie yelled. “Way to fucking blow my spot man!”

“W-we’ve all t-thought that at some point.” Bill stated. “When we f-first met her in 2nd gr-gr-grade I swore I was going to m-marry her.” He shuddered at the thought of his 2nd grade self-proposing to (Y/N) on the swings. You had very kindly declined him, still boring that faint New York accent.

“Yeah, she’s like the only girl who talks to us, and she’s really pretty.” The guys nodded in agreement there was no shame in admitting you had a nice face. “I liked her in 5th grade for 3 months, even brought her Hydrangeas every day for a week.” Eddie and Bill laughed at the face Stan made, having feelings for you now only seemed disturbing. Though they had all, at some point, considered a relationship with you, you eventually crossed the line from potential love interest to sister like best friend. “I know you remember that Richie, you gave me pointers on how to get her to like me back.” Richie attempted a cocky smirk, though he felt disgust bubbling in his stomach. They had all gotten rid of there feelings for (Y/N) but Richie’s wasn’t fading. Not after 2 years and he feared not ever.

“You’re right, Richie Tozier doesn’t settle for just one bitch. He needs multiple chances to get it in.” Richie said causing the guys to groan. The truth was he just wanted to change the subject. Eddie was the only one who may have believed Richie. He had told him the same thing 2 years ago, why would he keep up this charade for 2 years? Was it possible that Tozier was in love?

So now, Richie found himself staring at you as you walked out of class to go to the bathroom. He wanted nothing more than to be able to forget these weird feelings.

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

You walked into the bathroom, having just needed fresh air. The school dance was in a couple of weeks and Kyle hadn’t asked you yet. You’d both been players in this weird love game for 2 years, and it was beginning to frustrate you. Did Kyle want a relationship with you, or did he want arms candy? Or maybe Richie was right, and Kyle just wanted to “get in your pants”. You sighed trying to calm your overactive thoughts. You had always been a jittery child but in recent years things seemed to be getting worse. The fake smiles were harder to keep up, and your time management was severely lacking.

“Are you in there by yourself Beaver-ly.” A voice rung out, causing your stomach to drop. Greta Bowie had certainly developed a colorful vocabulary in the last couple of years. “Or do you have half the guys in the school with you, huh slut?” You half expected to see Greta’s shoes beneath your own stall, so when you saw her a couple of stalls down to say you were relieved was an understatement. “I know you’re in there you little shit, I can smell you.” You winced for the person I few stalls down. “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

“Which is it, Greta?” A voice responded with strength. You recognized it as Beverly Marsh, Williams crush since the 3rd grade. He even had some pictures he drew of her, you insisted he pursue art school, but he always denied you. “Am I a slut or a little shit? Make up your mind.”

“You’re trash.” Beverly didn’t respond. You peered out the crack in the stall door, watching as a girl in Greta’s posy struggled her way over to the garbage can.

“Shit.” You said under your breath. This was a do or die situation, so obviously you being you, you picked die. Richie always complained that you had a super-hero complex. You placed your bag on the floor dropping onto your hands and knees and praying that you would make it to Beverly before the garbage did. You made it to her stall and peered up at her, putting a finger to your mouth. She held a tray of food in her lap, and stared at you peculiarly. You waved at her to follow you. She shrugged, obviously willing to try anything, before dropping on her hands and knees in a similar fashion as to what you had done. She followed you back to the stall you’d come too. “Sit on my lap.” You mouthed. She raised her eyebrows a smile playing at her face. You slapped your hands down onto your lap playfully. She sat down with a shake of her head, and you guys listened carefully as you heard Greta struggle to lift the garbage can.

At least buy me dinner first. You heard Richie’s voice in your head and couldn't help but silently laugh. Beverly looked back at you when your shoulders started to shake with laughter. She put her finger on her mouth, taunting your previous action. You smiled widely at her. Suddenly the sound of garbage could be heard falling harshly onto the ground in the stall where Beverly had just come from.

“That Bitch!” You heard Greta scream. “Find her, kick all the stall doors open.” You and Bev shared a wild look as the sound of stall doors began to slam. Beverly seemed slightly entertained by this turn of events.

“Now we run.” You stated. Beverly jumped off your lap, taking your hand in hers before swinging the stall door open and running out.

“Get them!” Greta hissed loudly as she stomped her foot. You had always known Greta to have a temper issue and a smart-ass mouth but had never before seen her physically rough house someone. You guys didn’t stop running, the bookbag you had on slamming into the small of your back roughly.

“This is a great first impression!” You yelled to Beverly sarcastically. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m known for those.” She responded, smiling even though you were both going to run out of breath soon. Greta, though wearing those same sparkly red flats (only now in a different size), was surprisingly fast.

“(Y/N)?” You hear Eddie yell from next to Rich’s locker. You didn’t have to look to know all the boys were looking at you strangely. They had probably come inside looking for you after the final bell had rung and you didn’t meet them at the bike rack.

“Not now! Busy running!” You yelled back as you passed them “Code brown!” Meet at Bill's house. You could hear the boys sputter in confusion, you weren’t one for trouble, at least not without them around. Stan was the first one to see Greta Bowie and her crew chasing after you and Beverly Marsh. He nudged Bill, who nudged Eddie, who then nudged Richie.

“Oh, fucking shit, what now?” Richie said with agitation. “How much do you guys wanna bet she was playing fucking super hero again.” The boys all shook their heads before following you. You’d made it to your bike in record time, and with a spare glance could see that you had maybe 30 seconds before Greta caught up.

“Get on, get on, get on.” You said hurriedly to Beverly.

“I have a bike.”

‘We don’t have I have a bike time!” Beverly made a noise of displeasure before jumping on behind you. You had never been on the receiving end of pedaling with another person. The boys often had you on the back of their bikes when you were too lazy to ride your own. Well after this experience you didn’t think you’d be doing that again. It was significantly harder to pedal with two people on a one-person bike. Despite that, you didn’t stop. Beverly kept her hands tightly gripped onto your shoulders. “You’re going to fall like that, you can put them around my waist. I’m not gonna bite.”

“You’re weird.” Beverly said before wrapping her arms around you. Her tone didn’t have any maliciousness behind it, she was just stating a fact.

“Exceptionally.” You responded. It was the first time someone had called you that, but you knew it wasn’t your fault. It was those boys and their terrible influence on your innocence. Hint, it was just Trashmouth.

“I like that.” She said smiling again. You didn’t know what it was about Beverly Marsh, but you liked her. You hadn’t known much about her besides that William had a long-standing crush on her that he couldn’t seem to shake, but after the short and terrible first impression you decided she was someone you wanted to keep around. For a while. You didn’t know much about other females, except your mom and Greta Bowie, but you figured that you and Bev would get along greatly.

After about 15 minutes of pedaling in the direction to Bill's house Greta had given up her chase. You knew it wasn't over, as it never was with Bowie. You slowed to a more paced pedal, and felt more comfortable, Beverly took her hands from around your waist, no longer afraid of falling.

“You can drop me off here.” She said suddenly. You quirked an eyebrow, knowing she was trying to run away from making more conversation.

“You know,” you begin “I’m on my way to hang out with my friends, and I’d think it’d be really cool if you could join us.” You smiled widely, your signature.

“I don’t know, I gotta get home before my dad.” She said, though it was more to herself then to you. “Maybe another time.” She said as you pulled your bike to a stop at the curb. She began to get off and walk away when you called out her name.

“Why don’t we go see the Breakfast Club, they’re doing a midnight re-showing at the dollar theatre.” She laughed loudly.

“Is it because I look like Molly Ringwald?” You shrug in response, still smiling at her. “Okay, fine. I’ll meet you there at 4 tomorrow.”

“Great! Bye Bevy!” She waved bye at you shaking her head slightly. The interaction was the weirdest, yet best one she had experienced in her 13 years of life. After watching her walk away, you left for Bill's house determined to make the boys help you get Stanley to study his torah.  

-------

After the movie, you and Beverly Marsh were joined at the hip. The boys had come to accept that she was in fact, your best friend. Though she always persisted that she didn’t want to meet them yet, because she didn’t trust men it didn’t stop you from bragging about them. She argued that Richie liked you, and the thought made your heart jump, but you couldn’t place why. After all, you were Kyle Henderson's on again off again girlfriend. When she started smoking you were always there to reprimand her and try to hit the cigarette out her hand, but Bev was stronger and taller than you. Though you never gave up trying, you were also never successful. A few weeks before the dance, Beverly had finally opened to you about her father. She’d come to your house crying, falling into your arms with her hair cut short.

“It’s like he doesn’t know I’m his daughter, he sees me and sees some kind of s-sex object.” She cried as you pet her hair down. “He was always grabbing me by my hair and I - I just couldn’t take it anymore, so I cut it all off.” You nodded solemnly, finding yourself at a loss for words like when you had that talk with Mike. “I hate living there.”

“Hey,” you said gently still petting her head that was laying on your shoulder “why don’t you stay here for a while my parents won’t be back for two weeks. We can go to the dance together next week, I mean Kyle asked me to be his date finally but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you tagged along.” She looked at you now, wiping at her face.

“You sure?”

“Of course!”

“You won’t make me wear a frilly dress, right?” You laughed out loud at this, the thought had crossed your mind, but you knew Beverly would never go for it. She was a rock of stubbornness.

“Okay, no frilly dress.” You held up your pinky for her to take in her own. “I also have an idea for my hair, and I need your help.”

“What?” She asked you hesitantly. You looked down at your hair, smiling softly at the idea.

“We cut it.”

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

Richie Tozier had his head in his hands in frustration, the dance had come far quicker than he wanted it to. He’d never wanted anything more than for you to be happy, but he started wishing that happiness was with him. When you called him, exclaiming that Kyle had finally asked you to the dance he spoke as though it was the greatest thing to ever happen, but he was just hurt. He had told himself that if Kyle didn’t ask you 4 days before the dance that he would ask you himself. Of course, Kyle did end up asking you and Richie hated himself for not making a move faster.

“That’s great (Y/N), just tell the man to use a condom.” Richie had said over the phone.

“Beep Beep, Richie.”

You talked to him for hours, told him about how Bev was going too and how happy you were. You even persuaded him to go, calling him your favorite loser and saying that you needed to see him there. He eventually caved, he couldn’t ever say no to you. But now he was wishing he had. You were slow dancing with Kyle, his arms around your waist and your head on his shoulder and it was making Richie feel sick. He thought about the way his heart reacted when you’d first cut your hair, he felt like he was able to see your face more and boy did that put him into cardiac arrest. When you’d caught him staring he ruffled your hair and told you it didn’t look to bad.

“Tozier.” A soft feminine voice said from above him. He grunted in response wanting to be left alone. “Tozier.” The voice said again, kicking him slightly.

“What the fuck do you want?” He snapped looking up. Beverly sat down next to him with a smug expression on her face.

“So, you like (Y/N) huh.” She smirked devilishly.

“W-what?” Richie was blinking rapidly as his stomach sunk. This was not a conversation he wanted to be having, and especially not with your best friend.

“You took one look at her and turned into a bright red tomato.” She laughed. “Then, when you saw her with Kyle, you turned green. So, either you like her, or you’re secretly a chameleon.” Richie grunted, leaning back on his elbows.

“Why does it matter anyway?”

“Why don’t you tell her?”

“Because she doesn’t feel that way about me.”

“Let me tell you something Tozier.” Beverly's expression was suddenly serious. “That girl doesn’t understand her own feelings.” Bev shook her head. “She talks about you more than the rest of the losers. Fuck, I know your favorite color and the exact number of freckles on your face.” She chuckled softly. “She’s afraid you know.”

“Of what?”

“Losing.” She stated simply “She feels inadequate, she doesn’t talk about it and she hid it really well, but if you look at her long enough you can see the cracks in the mask.” Richie didn’t respond, just watching you intently now. You seemed to be arguing with Kyle. “I think, she thinks that if she lets herself feel, she’ll fall apart.” Beverly frowned, she knew you well enough by now. Richie and Beverly suddenly quieted down, both just watching as you and Kyle seemed to bicker, but both also just lost in their own heads. Were you okay?

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

“What?” You said pulling back from Kyles shoulder. His hands stayed on your waist. “What did you fucking say?”

“I said your friend Eddie is a snack sized bitch.” Your eyes grew to the size of the moon as you ripped yourself from Kyle’s grasp.

“How fucking dare, you!” Your hands came down roughly at your sides which caused Kyle to chuckle.

“Calm down babe.” He reached out for you, but you slapped his hand away. “Oh please, like you haven’t noticed the way he ogles other men, how though he’s 13 now he still hasn’t grown?” Your heart began to beat faster, your hands clammy, as you stared at Kyle. “You’re telling me you’re oblivious to the fact that your friend is a faggot?” You gasped at his use of the crude term. “You’re just pretending not to notice.”

“Yeah, like I pretended to be oblivious to your shrimp dick.” You growled. Kyle laughed bitterly. This was not how you wanted the dance to go, it had started so sweetly. You loved the dress you were in, you loved the way your hair looked at this length, and you had swooned when Kyle gave you a corset. Though you did rip off a flower to stick into Bev’s hair. When you got to the dance, you even got Bill and Bev to dance together for a while. Richie, had for the most part stuck off to the side, but you assumed it was because this wasn’t his scene. Everything had been going perfectly. Now, well, now it was ruined.

“Yeah, bet your friend likes my shrimp dick up his -” You didn’t give Kyle a chance to finish, your knee came up and slammed into his groin. You hadn’t pulled that one since 6th grade with Henry Bowers. Kyle doubled over with a grunt, his hand clutched tightly around himself. You moved to the side snatching a cup of punch from some girl’s hand, she shouted a soft hey, but you were too angry to notice her. You poured the liquid over Kyle's head, leaning down near his ear.

“If you ever say a word, about Eddie Kaspbrak, or any of the losers for that matter. I will rip your fucking head of Henderson.” You dropped the cup on the floor, before storming away. A small crowd had gathered, and you pushed yourself through not stopping until the boys and Bev all surrounded you.

“(Y/N)!” Stan yelled.

“Did he h-hurt you?”

“If he did, I swear to god.” Richie began.

“No.” You protested shaking your head.

“Then what happened (Y/N)?” Eddie asked you.

“He insulted you, said some pretty fucked up stuff.” Eyebrows knitted together, the losers club were used to being the butt of others peoples jokes. Stan was Jewish, Bill had a stutter, Richie talked to much, and Eddie was too short. People saying mean things about them was normal, yet still you always seemed to jump into action. Even if it was the guy you have liked for 2 years. “I wasn’t just gonna let him talk about Eddie that way.” The boys all looked at you in shock as Beverly smirked at you. That’s my girl, she thought. It was then Richie had known that his crush, wasn’t just a crush. Hearing you say you caused a man not to be able to have kids, all in defense of Eddie. Well that put things in perspective for him. Richie Tozier was in love with you. “No one’s going to talk about any of you badly if I’m around for it.” You took a deep breathe scanning the boys before your eyes settled on Richie. The crowd had scattered at this point, tired by the unfulfilling drama. You grabbed Richie's hand now, missing how he flushed. “Dance with me?”

“Uh,” He stuttered, and you were again oblivious to the way Beverly nudged him in the side. “Hell yeah.” He said. You smiled and pulled him away from the rest of the guys. You guys danced for what felt like hours, hips moving, voices screaming to try to match the music. You even had a couple of awkward slow dances. “Hey,” Richie said in the middle of one of those awkward dances, “it was fucking awesome of you defend Eds like that.”

“Duh, you’re my boys. Anyone with a problem with one of you has a problem with me.” You smiled at him causing his breath to catch in his throat. As you slowly moved side to side to the music, Richie found himself lost in your eyes.

“You look really beautiful.” He said suddenly. You blinked repeatedly, your smile falling as your heart sputtered.

“Oh, uh,” you pushed a hair behind your ear blushing profusely. No one had ever called you that before. “Thank you Rich.” You looked at him. Richie’s eyebrows were furrowed, he seemed to be considering something. “Rich?” You called him, he looked like he was going to lean in. Maybe connect your lips with his. Your brain reeled, what was happening?

“Guys!” Stan suddenly called, and you and Richie practically jumped apart. “Let's go, Eddie’s mom wants him home at a certain time.”

“Coming!” You yelled back, now noticing how close you and Rich were. Feeling the way, he had both of his hands on your waist, noticing the way yours were on his shoulders. How close his face had been to yours? You looked back at him, chewing on your bottom lip before moving away. He stood there for a moment with confusion. He couldn’t believe he was going to try to kiss you, in the middle of a school dance. It would have been the worst place to get rejected. You stopped walking when you noticed Richie wasn’t behind you. You turned around flashing him your wide smile. “Hurry up Tozier.”

“Y-Yeah!” He announced following behind you.

9th Grade - 1987

9th grade was the year of discoveries. It was when you had decided to make a change in your identity, figure out who you were under the colorful oversized sweaters (that could fit a truck in them) and the patterned leggings. You’d swapped them out, put all your old clothes in a bin under your bed and convinced your mother to take you with her shopping. You’d picked out brave pieces, striped crop tops and solid skirts with the occasional legging that you couldn’t turn down. You stopped attempting to maintain your unruly hair and let it do as it pleased, after all it was the 80s. The losers had changed too however; Eddie now dressed like Duckie from Pretty in Pink excluding the fanny pack that he would never take off, Stan stopped tucking in his button-down shirts while sporting vests and opened blazers, William had adorned denim jackets with patches he’d collect from local stores and never took off his off-white reeboks, and Richie Tozier well no one really expected such a drastic change from their favorite Trashmouth. Richie had begun experimenting with leather jackets and band t-shirts with his black Chuck Taylors, his curly hair now simply untamed. The only thing that remained the same was his glasses, and that’s because he spent so much money on clothes that he couldn’t afford contacts. Beverly, much like Richie adorned darker colors though she had never been a fan of bright things. Michael had changed as well, now sporting large printed sweaters and dark jeans. The Losers were still The Losers but they had a much better taste in fashion then in Middle School.

You attributed all these changes to why this had happened to you.

The navy skirt and long-sleeved crop top were a curse. My insistence to grow up and show flesh was my own demise. That’s what you whispered in your head as you teetered on your feet down the driveway to the Synagogue where you knew Stan would be. Your jellies were cracked on the side, and your hair had branches sticking out of it, your mind whirling as you stumbled over yourself.

Skirts are for girls who want it.

Crop tops are for girls who want me.

The words echoed in your head like a curse as you pushed open the doors to the Synagogue, still staring blindly ahead of you.

“Do you want me (Y/N)?” Henry asked as he walked closer to you. This had been the back and forth for the last 10 minutes, Henry following you and insisting you be with him. Commenting on your figure and appearance, making you feel gross. You scratched at your skin as if you could escape it.

“No.” You growled out attempting to shove him as he now stood in front of you, he grabbed your wrist at your feeble attempt.

“Yes.” He responded, his eyes gleaming with sin.

“I said no you fucking asshole.” You yanked back, trying to free yourself from the terrible primal look in Henry's eyes.  

“That’s not what I heard.” He nodded shortly looking behind him for less than a second before two other sets of hands were on you and pushing you down to the floor of the woods. You struggled in their grasps.

“Let go of me!” You had kicked and screamed and yelled. The boys were much stronger than you.  “I said get off of me you fucking pigs, this isn’t funny!”

“Who said this was a game.” Your eyes grew large with fear as you watched Henry unbutton his pants, you reached up and scratched one of your assailants in the face. They flinched back, and you moved to run for it.  “Don’t let her go you fucking idiot, hold her down!” Henry yelled at whoever was behind you. Hands came into your hair and yanked you down again. You screeched at the pain as the grips tightened.

“Henry,” someone behind you spoke out, you assumed it was Victor, “you said we were just gonna scare her. This is kind of far man.”

“Did I fucking ask you?” Henry shouted, Victor shook his head and moved to remove his hand from your shoulder. “Move, and I’ll fucking kill you Criss.” Victor froze before putting his hands back onto your shaking figure.

“Let go of me!” You had always hated those damsel in distress kind of girls but now you felt as though you’d pay a heavy price for someone to come and save you.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered as Henry made his approach. “I don’t want to die.” Victor repeated.

“Shut it Criss, I want a turn after Henry and if you keep talking neither of us will get one.” Patrick said as his hand slithered around your throat to prevent you from thrashing. He stuck his thumb in your mouth and you gagged causing him to chuckle. You continued to thrash but the realization that no one was coming settled heavy on your chest.

“This is so fucked up, I’m so sorry.” Victor said again and that was the last thing you heard as your screaming voice drowned out all the sounds around you.

Stanley had seen you before you had seen him, he was reading his Torah as his dad sat upstairs in his office. Your clothes were tattered, the new patterned shirt you worse close to falling off you, the skirt you had on was clearly backwards and the jellies, that he had early told you were adorable, were barely on your feet. He squinted to try and get a better view of you, and that’s when he noticed the bruises running up and down your skin. His eyebrows spiked up when you hit the ground without complaint. You stared down at your hands, caked with dirt and blood as you were sure the rest of you was. He quickly rushed over to you kneeling as he softly placed his hands on your shoulders. Something was terribly wrong.

“Y/N?” He asked shaking you gently, you didn’t respond your mouth opened in a silent scream. You were sure you tore something in your throat, maybe you’d become a mute.“Y/N what is it?” His heart raced spiked as he saw tears gather in your eyes as you looked up at him. “What’s going on?”

“Will I still go to Hell if it wasn’t my choice?” Stanley didn’t understand at first, his eyes still wide scanning your broken (Y/E/C) ones. “Will God forgive me Stanley?” You asked again, your voice so small and destroyed. It was then Stanley understood, his breath caught in his throat, his mouth run dry. You were asking him if you would be forgiven for having sex before marriage.

“(Y/N).” He whispered like a silent plea. He didn’t want this to happen, especially not to you. Your eyes overflowed with the tears and you took in a shaking breath. You couldn’t take it anymore and just sobbed. Letting the emotions rack your body, the filth you suddenly felt like you were. Stan pulled you into him rubbing your back as you sobbed loudly in the nearly empty church.

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

“He did what!” Richie yelled pacing as Stan retold them what you had told him. “I’ll kill him, I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Not just him.” Stan whispered glancing back at you, he’d carried you all the way to Bills after contacting the losers seeing that every time you tried to walk you collapsed in on yourself. His back was incredibly sore, but he didn’t mind. You were sitting in the corner of Bill's bed with a large blanket wrapped over your figure. Eddie was sitting next to you as he rummaged through his fanny pack for something. “Hockstetter too.” Stan turned back around to face Billy and Richie. “They,” he paused swallowing looking back at you one more time before taking a deep breath. “They took turns.” Stan whispered so as not to scar you. It had been hard enough getting you to tell him, he didn’t want you to have to hear it from him. Richie inhaled deeply, as something dark churned behind his eyes. Stan had always heard Richie threaten to kill someone and never took it seriously, but now he wasn’t so sure. Eddie visibly stiffened, though he had finally found what he was looking for.

“Open.” He said gently, and you complied, there was no fight left in you. “These are just,” he paused he’d given you plan b’s his mom made him carry around, “for the pain.” He settled on since he didn’t wanna make you more upset. Eddie wrapped an arm around you and softly began to pick branches out of your hair, he normally would have been grossed out, but you seemed to be in so much pain. So, he pushed the thought of germs to the back of his head. He was going to keep searching for more pills he carried, maybe make you take everything he had in his fanny pack.

“He’s dead.” Richie finally settled on. “They’re both dead.” His voice was dark and without humor. He picked up a baseball bat and began tapping on it threateningly. “I know where he lives.”

“Ca-ca-call the c-cops.” Bill said suddenly. “W-we have t-t-to call the f-fucking c-cops.” Though he had been practicing for years, and slowly getting better, at times when Bill felt out of control he stuttered more than usual. You were his family, one of the losers. And when one of you hurt all of you hurt. He looked at you as his mind raced to catch up with his tongue, you seemed so torn apart.

“His dad is the cops.” Stan said with remorse.

“Forget the cops, we have to get her to a hospital.” Eddie was now giving you more pills, ones for pain, and some for illnesses you might contract. He didn’t think he could live with himself if you ended up catching an STD from Patrick or Henry. Lord knows where they had been.

“Hospital? Hospital, fuck out of here. We have to shove his balls so far inside him he’ll be tasting cum for weeks.” Richie was now thumping the bat on the ground roughly. He had never felt so angry in his life, his 14-year-old body brimming with emotion.

“I’m ca-calling t-the c-co-cops.” Bill said making a move to leave for the phone.

“Fine, and I’m gonna go shove this bat up Henry Bowers ass.” Richie said soon, as he began to gather his stuff.

“Stanley,” Eddie spoke, “Help me get her to the hospital.”

That was it, that was all it took, and you were sobbing again. Your hands in your hair pulling at it weakly as you head collapsed onto your knees. These boys cared for you so much, and you knew they only wanted what was best for you, but you couldn’t handle it. All the dotting, and the threats, and you especially didn’t want the cops involved. Cops meant parents and parents were a terrible idea. They would be so infuriated that you tarnished their high-standing posh reputations. Suits and balls were more valuable than their daughter’s dignity. The adults in Derry all had a way of ignoring serious problems.

“(Y/N).” Richie said as he slowly began to make his way over to you after putting the bat down.

“I-I-I’m sorry.” The boys all winced, you were apologizing to them for what happened to you. How fucked up. Richie was the first one to wrap his arms around you, thinking maybe he could meld you back together, you leaned into him sobbing some more wishing you could crawl out of your skin. Slowly all the boys followed. You sobbed even harder, and they all felt their eyes sting. They’d never seen you cry before, except for maybe once in 5th grade when you scraped your knee. They all silently vowed, that they would never let this happen to you again. Nothing bad would ever happen to you if they had a say in it.

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

From then on each of the boys protect you. When Henry Bowers would show his face, they’d create a small barrier between you and him, taking serious punches for it. Richie even got suspended a couple of times for starting with Bowers for staring at you.

“Don’t fucking look at her.” Richie spat as you both walked in the hallways. Henry ignored the Trashmouth and winked at you. You skinned seemed to turn green as you recoiled, and Richie only grew angrier. He knew that Henry was just antagonizing him, but he couldn’t stop himself from running his mouth. Especially since you had shown fear. “Did you fucking hear me you mullet wearing piece of shit.”

“What? Was your girlfriend telling you about all the pleasure I gave her?” Your grabbed onto Richie's hand as though it was life support. “The way I made her scream.” Your eyes watered at the memory of the hands over your mouth. “How much she squirmed under me.”

“Richie.” You whispered, a desperate plea to run away from Henry Bowers. Richie looked down at you and when he saw the expression on your face that was the last straw for him and he took a swing at Henry. He was only 14, and was still considerably shorter than the 17-year-old Bowers. But in his heated moment of anger Richie was able to hold his own well. After about 10 minutes of fighting and a growing crowd, a teacher finally came to separate the two boys. You saw Richie lean closer to Henry mumbling something before spitting at him. Henry was enraged and tried to make his way back to Richie, but he couldn’t, not with the tight grip around his middle.

“What did you say to him?” You asked Richie once the teacher had let him go. Richie took hold of your hand before turning to you and shrugging with a mischievous smirk on his face. He was sporting a black eye, and his hair was tousled terribly but he still managed that signature smirk.

“Nothing, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” He said. Though he thought back on it “Don’t you ever come near my girl again, or I’ll beat your ass worse than your dad already does.” What a badass thing to say.

Richie wasn’t the only one to defend you, even Eddie would step in front of you and get beaten up to the point where his asthma pump was needed. They were all severely disheartened by the change that had overcome you after the incident with Henry. You stopped smiling, didn’t talk as much and always made sure to cover your body no matter the weather. Your usual light was dimmed to the point where they were scared it would be gone forever. They each tried in their own ways to bring you out of it. Bill would draw for you, Eddie would read to you, and Stan would make you come bird watching with him more than usual. Richie almost never left your side and spent a lot of his time researching how to care for Rape Victims. Though they soon realized that this was something you had to come out of on your own. It was a personal battle and they couldn’t pressure you. Throughout all this Beverly was oblivious to whatever was going on, she had asked Richie multiple times why you seemed so different, but he only ever told her to ask you.

“It’s not my place to tell you Beverly, I’m sorry.”

Your relationship with her wasn’t negatively impacted, she was just worried. She’d stayed at your house for a month to try and put some pieces together but the only conclusion she’d come up with was that it was Henry Bowers related and that didn’t help her much. You’d found yourself at Richie’s house whenever Beverly couldn’t sleep over. You were afraid of your dreams and didn’t want to deal alone. So, Rich would tell you stories until he heard you snoring. You’d wake up and he’d have fallen asleep in a chair with his glasses on and his mouth hanging open. Though he couldn’t see it the sight always made you smile. You’d seen the books about rape victims Richie kept around and even though you never brought it up you appreciated it. He was trying to understand what you had gone through and help you build. You eventually begun to heal, though some things wouldn’t change. You burned all your short and showing clothing, now feeling that you were over exposed, and went instead to balloon pants and long sleeve shirts. The jellies, however, stayed.

“I see you're alone baby doll, your boyfriends not here to protect you?” Henry had you cornered against your locker. You tugged down on your sleeves trying to cover your fingers. “Should we have a round 2?” His hand came up to graze your cheek and you slapped it away. “Remember what happens when you fight.” He growled. “I get what I want anyway, and today I feel like sharing again.” Suddenly Henry was pushed away from you and knocked on the ground, you looked to your savior to see Bill standing over Henry. Your mind couldn’t help but ask where he was the day you needed him. Bill grabbed your hand as if to run but you ripped it away, making your way over to the stunned Henry.

“Don’t”, you pushed your foot down onto Henry's groin, “you ever,” you added pressure with each syllable, “touch me without my consent again.” You stomped on him twice. “I don’t need a savior, because I sure as hell will cut your dick off myself.”  You smashed his groin under your foot, before grabbing Bill and leading him away. Bill noted that you had a thing for hitting guys where it hurt and told himself that he would never anger you again

“That’s not the last time you’ll hear from me baby doll!” Henry yelled behind you.

As soon as you exited the building you’d begun to cry again, your face shoved into the front of Bill's shirt as he rubbed you lightly on the back. The adrenaline fading, but this time the crying ended with a small smile. Maybe you’d be okay.

Maybe not. You may have won a battle but inside you were losing a war.

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

Taglist!!!!

@fightmebub @apartofthelosersclub

[afr-ika72]

isiXhosa alphabet

Here is a phonetic chart to explain certain symbols, because although for the most part the majority of the Xhosa alphabet makes similar sounds to the English alphabet, some of these sounds still need further explaining.

The Consonants

“B” is like in bot

“D” is like in date

“F” is like in five

“G” is like in got but the G is aspirated

“H” is silent

“J” is like in judge

“K” is like in kite

“L” is like in like

“M” is like in milk

“N” is like in no

“P” is like in pig

“R” is a rolled r

“S” is like in six

“T” in like in time

“V” is like in very

“W” is like in window

“Y” is like in yes

“Z” is like in zoo

https://youtu.be/Trq_gIe1v04 (How to make the click sounds)

For the letter “C” you pop your tongue from behind your teeth. For “Q” you do the same but from the top of your mouth instead of the back of you teeth. For “X” you do that but from the side of your mouth instead.

“ch” is the same as c but followed by a puff of air

“gc” pronounce the c click with stress

“nc” same as c but nasal

“ngc” same as “nc” but with stress

“nkc” same as “nc” the k is silent.

“qh” is the same as q but followed by a puff of air

“gq”   pronounce the q click with stress

“nq”  same as q but nasal

“ngq”  same as “nq” but with stress

“nkq”  same as “nq” the k is silent.

“xh”  is the same as x but followed by a puff of air

“gx”  pronounce the x click with stress

“nx”  same as x but nasal

“ngx”  same as “nx” but with stress

“nkx”  same as “nx” the k is silent.

Diphthongs “bh” is the same as the letter b but aspirated

“dl” combine the letter d with the “hl” sound

“dy” like due in duel

“dz” (I assume it is just d+z because I couldn’t find information on the sound of this letter)

“gr” like the american letter r (this is what I found for it, correct me if I am wrong)

“hh” (I couldn’t find any source for how this would sound so I’m assuming that it is just is still silent)

“hl” you make the “L” sound but you put your tongue on the side of your teeth (it can sound weird if your not use to it but look up the welsh word Llanelly)

“kh” the same as the letter k but aspirated

“kr” pronounced like “ch” in the scottish word loch but more emphasis

“lh” same as the letter L but aspirated

“mh” m with aspiration

“ndl” the “n” sound plus the “dl/hl” sound

“ng”  as in linger

“ngh” same as ng but with aspiration

“nh” n with aspiration

“ntl” like in gentle

“ny” as in Kenya

“nyh” same as “ny” but with aspiration

“ph” the same as the letter “p” but aspirated

“rh” pronounced like the dutch “G”

“sh” as in show

“th” the same as the letter “t” but aspirated

“ths” same as “ts” but with aspiration

“thsh” aspirated “t” plus “sh”

“ts” as in sits

“tsh” as in chair

“ty” tu as in tune

“tyh” same as “ty” but with aspiration

“wh” “w” with aspiration

“yh” “y” with aspiration

“zh” “z” with aspiration

[anamedblog]

FACING DEATH WITH POETRY: FUNERARY EPIGRAMS IN TRANSITION

by Hüseyin Uzunoğlu, ANAMED Post-Doctoral Fellow (2019–2020)

Even though it may sound strange or maybe even creepy, visiting cemeteries from time to time, wandering among the tombstones, reading the epitaphs carved for those who are not breathing in this life anymore, has always given me a sense of relief as well as fear, since there is actually nowhere better to show that life is short and pointless and that death is certain. 

Whether you are a fellow on Istiklal Street living in the midst of the 24/7 non-stop entertainment culture of Istanbul (which I occasionally—rarely—experience) or an academic struggling to complete articles/books just before deadlines, it is completely normal to forget that life is ephemeral. That’s why I intend to take you out of your busy schedule or your never-ending entertainment cycle and take you on a tour to the cemeteries that remind us of the cold face of death. I will then talk briefly about the stories the deceased narrate in their funerary inscriptions, while comparing them to their ancient counterparts. 

A boat trip (on a sunny day if possible) starting from Karaköy ferry port leading to its final destination in Eyüp will take you to one of the most authentic districts of Istanbul and also doubtlessly one of the most historical sites of this gigantic metropolis. Apart from its town center (also worth a visit if you have time), this district houses a very old and famous burial ground (called “Eyüp Sultan Mezarlığı”) on the west bank of the Golden Horn, which hosts the graves of Ottoman sultans such as Mehmed V as well as intellectuals, artists, and poets such as Ahmet Haşim or Necip Fazıl Kısakürek. If you follow the path stretching from the historical Eyüp Mosque up to Pierre Loti Hill (with an exquisite view of the Golden Horn; don’t forget to stop and have tea or coffee if you go there), you will see thousands of tombstones on the slopes of the Karyağdı Hill. Let’s skip the celebrity tombs and take a look at the tombs of the common people.           

Even though these tombs are from modern Turkey, you’ll notice the same kind of funerary epigrams that were very prevalent in the ancient Greek and Roman world and that provide valuable information about the deceased, containing his mortis causa, place of origin, and the sorrow that his family felt on losing him. This funerary epigram of one member of the Derbeder family, for example, captures the pain of an accidental death at an early age. It reads: “I was young, and I could not enjoy my life; the wretched electricity made my life miserable; it didn’t care about either my parents or my sibling.” This epigram clearly demonstrates that the young deceased was a victim of an electric shock, something nobody could help.  

Maybe you don’t have time to visit the cemeteries (understandably enough, but there’s nothing to fear; we will be spending enough time there after our burial), but you don’t even need to bother to leave your room; just surf the internet, for example, and you’ll run into this unusual tombstone.

The epitaph even has a caption: “A car crashed (into me),” along with a picture of a car. The epigram starts with a grammatical mistake (instead of “beni,” it reads “bana”): “Death took me away so early (I came to an untimely end).” Then it goes on like this: “It deeply saddened those who I left behind. Even though I am not present here, I am (still) looking forward to seeing you. Read on my tomb that I died at a young age. Remember me with mercy; do not cry at my grave.”

I don’t intend to make a detailed analysis and comparison, but it is obvious that the expressions or the selections of the themes in these types of epigrams imply a noticeable perpetuity in the approach of the Anatolian people towards the conception of death. However, as a Greek and Roman epigraphist who encounters thousands of texts written in verse, it seems to me that the Anatolian people in antiquity were more creative in producing epigrams than their successors in modern-day Turkey, even though academics adopt the view that “the content of ancient epigrams usually contained standard, and to a large extent previously prepared, compositions which purchasers (often illiterate and/or lacking inspiration, or preferring to adhere to a tradition) could choose at the workshop of the engraver or stonemason.”[1] Take a look, for example, at this remarkably vivid funerary epigram of a three-year-old boy who drowned in a well in Notion, the port of the ancient city of Colophon (Menderes, Izmir/Turkey).

Reinhold Merkelbach and Josef Stauber, eds. Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten I. Die Westküste Kleinasiens von Knidos bis Ilion. Munich; Leipzig: 1998, no. 03/05/04 (Roman Imperial Period):

When the sun had gone down to the halls […],

I came after dinner with my uncle to wash.

At once the Fates sat me there on the well

for I fell in and a most hateful Fate took me away.

When the daimon saw me below, he handed me over to Charon.

But my uncle heard the sound of my falling into the well,

and straightaway he went looking for me, but I no longer had any hope

of mixing with men in my lifetime.

My aunt ran up and tore her gown;

my mother ran up and started beating her breast.

Straightaway my aunt fell to embrace Alexander’s knees,

and when he saw this, he did not hesitate, but straightaway jumped into the well.

When he found me down there drowned, he brought me out in a basket.

Straightaway my aunt snatched my dripping body

to see whether I had any share of life left.

Alas for my wretched fate! I did not live to see the palaistra,

but an evil Fate concealed me when I was just three years old.[2]

In this epigram, one can easily see the significant role that Fate (Gr. Moira) played in the destiny of the young deceased, whose name is not given in the text. Not surprisingly, Fate has always been an indispensable element of funerary epigrams and is usually described as “wretched.” It is repeatedly seen as a leading figure that leaves children without parents or conversely parents without children. In the Turkish epitaph above, although not named directly, we may assume that it was Fate yet again who deprived the parents of their small child, as was the case in the Greek epigram.  

Fate still plays a role in Turkish epitaphs, but because of the Islamic belief that predestination is the will of God and that every believer must consent to what God destines, it doesn’t appear in the same terms as in ancient Greek inscriptions. Unlike the Greek epigrams that describe Fate as ἀμείλικτος, νηλεόθυμος (“ruthless,” “relentless,” or “cruel”), in the funerary stone of this unfortunate lady, who died in a traffic accident (most likely a vehicle crashed into the bus stop and killed her), what happened is characterized as predestination. Every Turkish reader can sense here an acquiescence to death without complaining about what “fate” had in store.

One can provide thousands of similar examples which illustrate how the same themes appear in the funerary epigrams on Anatolian soil across every time period. Admittedly though, it is neither possible nor necessary to make a full comparison between Greek or Latin epigraphic culture and their counterparts in modern Turkey; nonetheless I find it remarkable that the mindsets of the ancient and modern people of the same land could be so similar when it comes to burial practices and ways of grieving.

As a concluding remark, I would like to take this opportunity to commemorate my esteemed teacher, Prof. Dr. Sencer Şahin, who, amongst many other things, taught “ancient Greek epigrams” for many years at Akdeniz University. While we were on a field survey in the hinterland of Antalya years ago, we visited a local cemetery to check if there was anything relevant to our fieldwork. Instead, we saw a very long and interesting Turkish epigram (which bore many similarities with Greek epigram culture, both in form and context; unfortunately I couldn’t find any picture of it). I remember him saying very clearly, “Hüseyin Bey, if you want to pass your exam, I recommend that you study this stone carefully, because you will come across something not very different than this on the exam.”

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

[1] Wypustek, A, Images of Eternal Beauty in Funerary Verse Inscriptions of the Hellenistic and Greco-Roman Periods (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2013), 11.

[2] Translated by Richard Hunter, “Death of a Child: Grief Beyond the Literary,” in Greek Epigram from the Hellenistic to the Early Byzantine Era, edited by M. Kanellou, I. Petrovic, and C. Carey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 137–38.

[brunchbitch]

What was chrysalis like? Also what did the staff at 3 east say about your treatment at IV? That must've been so traumatic and probably made recovery so much harder. I can't even imagine already struggling with shame/guilt, being bullied, being let down by people who you should've been able to trust and then being put in that environment where all those things were reinforced x1000. That sounds like literally the worst place you could've been. Did your parents try and sue?

Chrysalis was a little better than IV but not by much. It was a therapeutic boarding school in Eureka, MT with around 32 adolescent girls. There were two main houses (”Lake House” and “Horse House”) and two step-down cabins (I never got to that point though). I remember cleaning A LOT (similar to IV) - we had weekly chores that took hours on top of general cleaning every day, and “punishment” cleaning like using a toothpick to clean out the grooves of the wood floor, which was so pointless and stupid. They operated on a level system as well - there were three levels and each one was a pretty big deal. I remember being OVERJOYED when I got level two but I never got to level three. Girls would stay 1-2 years, depending, although I think one girl who I was friends with was there for 3 years but she had a really bad home situation and I think they wanted to get her through high school there. There was a therapeutic school on campus, but after spending at least one semester there and being on level 2, you had the option of going to the local public high school. So I started there in August, did the first semester on campus, then did the second semester at the public school. My therapist said I was “a piece of cake” compared to most other girls there bc of how much IV had beat me into shape lol. 

We had this group called “Circle” I think three times a week where everyone  sat in a huge circle and confronted each other. To show you how much I flew under the radar, in a year I was only confronted once and it was like the kindest confrontation ever - I had been running a lot and had a ton of pain in my back so one of my friends Catherine said I needed to take care of myself and be willing to go to my doctor when I went home on pass. But I remember my blood turning to ice when she said my name in front of everyone. I cannot even tell you how terrifying and traumatic some aspects of those programs are. What I did really like about Chrysalis was that we got to do a lot more than at IV - we would bike or run every morning (if the weather was nice) and would go on camping trips a couple times a month. I went on a 70-mile bike trip through southern Canada and northern Montana that was absolutely incredible (although I only did probably about 40% of the trip bc my back was so bad so I rode in the van the rest of the way). I had a therapist that I really liked at the time but there were some weird things looking back - Mary and Kenny were the married couple who owned/operated Chrysalis and they majorly played favorites - I was relieved that I was one of them. I don’t really know how a girl got to be one of their favorites, but they would be defended by M and K, would have extra sessions with M, M and K were always hugging them, some girls even sat in their laps and they played with the girl’s hair which I found super weird. We had to journal at least a page every day and leave them open on our beds in the morning for staff to check. Our therapists would collect our journals once a week and read through all the entries, then write a long response in it (which I liked) and my therapist would sign it with a heart and “I love you” but only after I had been there a while. He also self-disclosed something pretty big (he had tried to kill himself over a break-up and slit his wrists, which he showed me the scars from) in our last session. When my parents found out about those things, they were really unhappy and felt really uncomfortable. It’s kind of hard to explain but it was kind of lovey-dovey in a way that was a relief from IV so I soaked it up. But looking back a lot of it was unethical and weird.

Gillian was upset by the things IV told me and convinced me of and it took a lot of work for me to consider other options. I think relating to my treatment now, it really fed into my avoidance of looking at issues - I would talk about something I’m ashamed of and would immediately say “and I’m a terrible person and manipulative and an attention-seeker” to “own up” to the blame, but then that prevented me from looking at what it says about me, what I learned from it, etc. I think for a very sensitive, self-blaming, suicidal adolescent, it was incredibly damaging. I never thought about how it fit into not being able to trust people I should’ve… wow that’s really interesting. But yes, it totally fit into that schema. And my therapist at IV was particularly terrible bc she was young and motherly and sweet sometimes, but then she would turn around and be really awful. I shared something with her that I hadn’t told anyone and she handled it terribly and made me feel like I was the most horrible person in the history of the world. I think she was the first sort of authority figure that I became really attached to and so dependent upon and sensitive to her every action. No, my parents didn’t sue. Surprisingly, compared to other people who were there, my experience wasn’t super traumatic. I was never physically restrained or neglected like some others, so I don’t know if our case would’ve held up in court.

I’m not sure if you sent the other question about whether other people at 3East had been to similarly traumatic programs but I’m just going to answer that here too - as far as I remember, I think I was the only one that had been to such a terrible program, but there were a loootttt of girls in the program throughout the year and a half that I was there and I’m sure at least a portion of them had been through the “troubled teen” industry. I know one other girl at the GR was at Provo in Utah when she was young and it was just as terrible as IV if not worse. It was so validating to talk to her about it.