#i blame the chicken (ominous) (positive)

[aesethewitch]

Notes from an Ex-Empath (Full Ver.)

This post is a highly personal account of my time as an empath. It’s a doozy, and I didn’t mean for it to get so long, but as with all things that really matter to me, it got a bit out of hand. I’ve left out the goriest of the details, but still take heed of the content warnings. Thanks for reading. (Placed under a cut for length.)

Content Warnings: Mentions of abuse, mentions of unhealthy home environments, emotional manipulation, cult behavior, mental health struggles, delusions, brief mention of hallucinations and nightmares, self worth issues, compulsive lying, toxic friendships, and teen angst.

Subtle Beginnings

The year is 2011. High school is hard. Like, really hard. Harder than it should be, probably. I’ve just left an abusive relationship to enter a new one which would turn out to be, you guessed it, abusive. Escapism is the norm, and I’m always looking for new ways to feel in control of my life.

I’ve always been a little strange. I saw my first ghost before I knew what death was. I talk to trees and the wind, and I know all the names of the local rivers, right down to the little creek behind the school. But by this point, I’ve learned to not say that. I know it’s weird, and I’m happy to be weird. Weird is cool, at least in my friend circle. Outside of it, not so much, but I’ve learned to Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way my way through life at this point.

My friend buys a cheap mood ring from a shop in the mall, and that’s how we learn what auras are. She’s into it. I’m into her, even if I don’t know how to articulate that at the time. So I get obsessed, because I don’t know how to be anything else. I read all about auras and color theory and energy and “chakras” on loud, multi-colored websites proclaiming that you (yes, YOU!) can become a master of aura-reading and energy healing in just one month for only $12.99…

I don’t learn about being an empath (or Indigo Child, or Starseed, or whatever we were calling ourselves at the time) from the internet. No, a different friend overhears us talking about auras and mood rings and meaning (because I’d spent hours and hours reading about it and am now eager to display my knowledge; I like being an expert; I like knowing things), and he asks us if we’re empaths. He tells us what they are — people who can feel the emotions of others acutely and are highly sensitive.

And I think about it.

And I think about it some more.

And then, I think, hey… I do feel others’ emotions. I take them on like they’re my own. I carry them on my shoulders and between my ribs and in my bones, and it’s second nature. And I say, yes. Yes, I am an empath.

An Inexperienced Expert

Taking on the title of Empath was like finding the Holy Grail. I finally had a word to explain why I felt so energized in crowds but drained after going home, or why I found other people’s pain so upsetting and visceral, or why I could guess my friends’ emotions even when they were able to hide them from everyone else. I felt like I understood myself at long last.

I wasn’t sensitive. I wasn’t a crybaby. I was an empath. It was a superpower, something that made me special. Because it was a superpower, it was something I could learn to harness and control. My sensitivity would no longer rule me; I could learn how to rule it.

I did a lot of reading. I went to the library and read books with titles I can’t even remember anymore. From firsthand accounts by other empaths to explanations of energies I couldn’t actually understand, I was way out of my depth. But I liked to know things. I liked to be an Expert (tm).

Honestly, I still do. I like knowing what I’m talking about. Being an insecure child who needs to feel in control and enjoys being respected, I could pretend that I understood. I did plenty of that all the time, and it worked out (most of the time). False confidence was something I was finely attuned to already. I could bullshit my way in and out of any situation I wanted easily — from teachers forgiving missing homework to lying about my whereabouts to my controlling parents to pretending I was attracted to my boyfriend at the time, I was an expert in lying to survive.

Surely I could pretend to know what I was talking about. After all, I was an empath, an Indigo Child with a beautiful, healing, pure white aura. I was wise beyond my years, in tune with the Universe and all its creations. The information came from inside me anyways, and all those books said to trust my intuition. The voice in my heart that whispered about how special and different I was for being an empath was right, and I shouldn’t question it. A little improvisation wouldn’t hurt anyone, right?

… Right?

When my friends asked about it, I spoke with confidence. I proclaimed myself an empath to anyone and everyone. No, I couldn’t actually see auras, but I could act like I could. The vibes were there — I could feel them like pinpricks of lightning on my skin and as little nudges at the back of my mind. All I had to do was squint and assign colors to those feelings. Sometimes, I thought I really could see them. I can’t discount it entirely, but I’m likely to attribute it to tricks of light and wishful thinking now, looking back.

I had a reputation for Knowing Things. Weird, niche facts. Being right about obscure topics. Remembering minute details from notes at the end of the teacher’s presentation given three weeks ago. Guessing right answers to questions I’d never heard based on logical reasoning and deductive skills. I had near-perfect grades in the top 3% of the class. I had a side-gig in helping people improve their essay skills.

So, when I talked about being an empath, my friends believed me. They proudly proclaimed the colors of their auras as I painted pictures for them.

And it felt good. I was both the center of attention and had no spotlight on me. I couldn’t see my own aura, so of course, I couldn’t tell them what mine was like. But theirs, oh, theirs? That was easy. I had a gift for telling them exactly what they needed to hear. I solved their problems in a flash, giving the perfect advice and predicting outcomes using nothing more than good old-fashioned vibes.

An empathic gift, of course. Understanding and unselfish love are tenets of the Empath Way. We’re healers, I told my friends, and that’s why people ask me for advice. It’s why I’m so good at it, I said. I never took my own advice about self-love and choosing better relationships — that wouldn’t come until several years later — but that didn’t matter. My issues were trivial; I had The World to worry about.

Despite my newness to the empath scene, I positioned myself as not just an expert but The Expert. It wasn’t really on purpose. I couldn’t help myself. My friends wanted me to be a wise, trusted source of information, so I was one. Or, well, I thought I was one.

The goal was never to fool anyone. I believed with my whole heart that I was an empath, a Starseed, someone born to do noble things and help people. It was my purpose. As an empath, I had a duty to spread good vibes whenever I could. If I couldn’t do that, I was worth nothing.

Sometimes, that meant talking out my ass about concepts I read about at a bleary 1:00 AM before having to wake up at 6:00 to catch the bus to school on time. If I made something up or said something untrue, it was because it “felt right.” And that made it simply right in my mind. Those books and blog posts and articles said it was.

As far as experts go, I definitely was not one. I hesitate even now to call myself an expert in anything whatsoever. But back then, it was a matter of course. My friends wanted advice, so I gave them advice.

My friends wanted me to be an empath, so I was one. Some of those friends felt the same things I did. Others’ emotions, the burden of it all, the weight of responsibility for everyone around us. We were empaths together.

I was never more alone, and I had absolutely no idea.

Downward Spiral

At the time, I wouldn’t have called it a spiral. I wouldn’t have called it a mental health crisis. And I certainly wouldn’t have blamed the whole empath thing for any of it.

No. Of course not.

As I graduated high school, I was entirely adrift. I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my life. All of my friends were going to be leaving for college elsewhere while I stayed home to go to a local one.

But that summer, I was intent on enjoying every last minute of my life. It was time to take charge of my existence. I still called myself an empath, but it was more like a personality trait than anything else. An explanation, a fun fact. I’m double jointed, I dislike sweets, I’m an empath.

And my friends were empaths, too. Well, most of us. One was a “brick wall” of a guy — a skeptic who found us fascinating and wanted very much to believe in what we were doing and saying. At the same time, one friend was getting into Wicca. And, afraid to look like a fool, I pretended I knew all about it. I knew generally what Wicca was, because of the empath stuff running over into witchcraft circles. It was enough to sound competent, and that was enough!

So, suddenly, I was The Expert on Wicca and witchcraft and magic. A lot of it was stuff I really did do and believe, so it was simple to fill in the gaps with logic. And what I couldn’t make up, I ignored. Or I looked it up later and pretended I knew all along.

Anxiety was my constant companion. I was an imposter in my own life. This was just one more act to put on.

And because of my empath abilities, it was easy! I could determine the right thing to say at the right time. I read the room, felt my friends’ energies, and adapted accordingly. We did rituals and cast spells, and through it all, I relied heavily on my ability to read them clearly.

So when I failed to read one friend and it cost us everything, it was devastating.

I won’t go into details to protect their identity. The entire thing was… ugly. I spent a long time miserable over it. But I knew, even when I was heartbroken over it, that it was my fault. The empath in me was clinging to everything too hard, seeing what I wanted to see instead of what was. I needed to be The Expert, and I was failing at it.

There’s a lot about that time that I don’t remember clearly. What I do remember is a lot of stuff about past lives, reincarnating together, and misguided notions of deities and magic and history. It was a mess. One delusion fed into another, building into a web of intricate, interweaving stories. We were encouraging each other’s theories and beliefs and feelings without criticism, because to challenge one person was to challenge the entire structure.

And we couldn’t do that. Because to do that would mean admitting that we were all lying.

Because it would mean I wasn’t an empath, wasn’t special, wasn’t anything. I was just me, and I’d be back to square one with no clue about what was wrong with me.

That house of cards was years in the making. When that friend split off and stopped talking to us (to me), I thought it was going to come crumbling down. And in many ways, it did.

I dropped out of college barely two weeks into the second semester because I was failing every course but one. I started seeing a therapist, and then another one, and then a psychiatrist. I received words for my anxiety and even ADHD. Things started getting better, little by little.

Lingering Problems

I reconnected with someone from high school by chance. We got very close. I helped raise her new baby. Things were good.

And then, old habits rose. The need to be Right and Expert ate me alive, even though I recognized them as symptoms of anxiety. But with this reconnected friend feeding into my insecurities, echoing those feelings of inadequacy and out-of-place-ness and a need to belong somewhere and to mean something, it was hard to logically sort those thoughts.

Everything was about being an empath. Our shared difficulties, our pains, our burdens — all of it was because we were empaths. We were empaths because of lingering past lives.

I won’t get into those, either, because they’re so incredibly specific, and I don’t want the people involved to see this and Know. Just know that our lives revolved around being empaths — special, sensitive, powerful, and made for infinitely complex purpose.

People who weren’t empaths were simultaneously lucky and pitiable. They would never know what it’s like to walk into a room and Understand everyone there. They would never have to bear the weight of someone else’s grief.

I wouldn’t say we looked down on non-empaths, necessarily. At least, not on purpose or consciously. Their lack of skill wasn’t their fault, after all. They were normal. We were special.

Notably, this is when I stopped using the term “starseed” at all — it was close, but not good enough to describe what we were feeling. It was a woefully human way to understand what we were, you see. A convenient word that didn’t encapsulate us, because we were special, even among the ever-special starseeds. We didn’t have a word for what we were. We didn’t really need one, because we didn’t need to describe ourselves to each other. We just Knew.

When I read my friends’ auras and described their energetic feelings to them (which I was an expert at by that point; my natural empath abilities had been honed to a fine edge), I was as thorough as possible. Mostly, I was accurate. Anytime I wasn’t, it was because of someone’s protective barriers or natural resistance to being read. We went to cemeteries so I could commune with spirits and tell my friends all about their energies. They couldn’t exactly challenge me about it, so they accepted what I said as Truth.

I was their Leader. How could I possibly be fallible?

It was, in the end, the accuracy of it that kept me in the empath mindset. The positive feedback loop I’d created for myself just confirmed my empath feelings. And if those were right, then everything else must’ve been, too — because it all came from the same place.

It just made sense.

I kept a journal off and on during those years. Reading through it now is… well, it’s harrowing. The entries are dated. Much of it is free-writing, a technique I still use today as a warm-up exercise. But almost all of it is a cry for help. It details hallucinations, delusions, nightmares, dissociative episodes, depressive episodes, manic spirals, and more.

If someone were to share this with me today, I would suggest they seek help with their mental state immediately. At the time, I believed myself to be receiving visions of the past. I believed that my empathic abilities were opening me up to a long lineage of lives I could tap into and, perhaps, return to one day.

There is a small, injured part of myself that wishes I could return to those feelings. No matter how unhealthy it really was, it made me feel strong and special and wanted in a time when I knew, deep down, that I was none of those things.

It was a comfortable lie. I knew that the past lives were bullshit. I did. I can admit that now. It was a series of elaborate lies built on lies built on lies.

And yet, I still firmly knew I was an empath. That kernel of truth never wavered. It was the foundation.

I was slowly teaching myself magic during these years. I’d been doing spirit work and tarot for years already, so the craft was almost second nature. It took a back seat to the rest, but it was there.

Even as my relationships grew less and less stable, I had magic and spirits and my empath abilities to fall back on. Surely everything would be alright.

By Tooth and Claw

After the unhealthy friendship I described above dissolved rather spectacularly, I spent a few more years harboring the past life stories. They morphed slowly into fiction, and I gradually lost interest. My remaining friends from that group and I would talk with disdain about the one we’d cut out; she wasn’t good enough. She was lying.

Because our memories were different, you see.

The justifications we crafted were as elaborate as any other lie we told. She really was a manipulative person whose goal was to “own” our friendship — and we acknowledged that. But we still couldn’t shatter the veneer between all of us that the rest was all lies.

So we left it. We didn’t talk about it again. But it lived on in my mind and in that digital journal. It haunted me.

And, as all toxic friendships built on shared lies tend to do, that relationship also imploded.

It left me utterly friendless. I had no one but my partner at the time, and even that relationship wasn’t exactly going well. I was questioning my sexuality all over again, and I’d just started acknowledging the whole Gender thing, and I had no one to talk to about any of it. It was a miserable existence, but I’d still rather have no friends at all than have friends like those.

I abandoned all of it. Without the people who propped up the lies, there was no need for me to keep going. I stopped with the past lives stuff, I stopped all the magic, I stopped my spirit work, and I stopped calling myself an empath.

It was… Well, it was easy. Shockingly so.

Healing from the rest was decidedly not easy. It took a lot of hard work and introspection. I had to own up to the lies I told myself and others, even if I was never going to be able to have the closure-inducing conversations with them.

I decided to start choosing myself. I made new friends. I dumped my boyfriend who I hadn’t been in love with for over a year (or maybe longer). I started dating my current partner. I let myself move on.

I’m now about seven years out of that last friendship, and I finally feel like I’ve moved on.

My laptop died. I saved my necessary files and moved them to my current PC.

I didn’t bring the journal over.

The Draw and the Cost

When you’re a scared, sad, lonely person, you’ll go looking for fulfillment anywhere. You’ll accept whatever others give you if it means they’ll value you for even a single moment.

Positive feedback means everything to someone who has never received it before. When you have to work hard for an ounce of attention or affection at home, you come to expect that you’ll always have to do that everywhere you go.

I remember when Facebook became a thing just as I was starting to become my own person in high school. Liking pages called things like “Getting caught in the rain with your best friend” and “Ultra kawaii girlz do it best!” and “Sorry I read your mind, I’m an empath LOLZ” and “RANDOM TACO MUSTACHE PANDA ATTACK!” was par for the course after school. (Sorry for the psychic damage.)

I also remember the first call-out post I ever saw on Facebook. It was about some girl in my grade who I didn’t know. The girl who posted it was an empath, of course, and accused the other girl of being a fake, cheating liar. I don’t know if it was true. At the time, I took it at face value — after all, the accuser was an empath. Empaths don’t lie. Obviously.

I still struggle with compulsive lying. I suspect I always will. The drive to be an Expert is a part of me that I’ll never be able to get rid of. The need to be accepted and appreciated, too, will never leave me. It’s part of why I love this platform, and all other forms of written communication, over speaking to people verbally. While I can usually catch myself before I tell a reflexive, unnecessary lie these days, I sometimes slip. It’s an embarrassing thing. I try to force myself to admit it and then tell the truth.

Usually, I succeed. It’s a work in progress.

But typing, I can backspace. I can delete shit. I can keep things in my drafts and edit them and adjust wording to my heart’s content. I can remove messages and take things back. It’s easier to say “I was wrong” or “This wasn’t true” to strangers on the internet, after all.

Now, as I near thirty years old, I have better language to describe what I was feeling. The overwhelming emotions from everyone around me, the overload I felt in crowds, the reflex to please everyone, the uncanny ability to read a room’s atmosphere at a glance…

I was an undiagnosed autistic child with serious trauma and unmedicated ADHD. I needed help. I asked for help. Everything I did was a cry for help.

I wanted to feel special. I wanted to feel powerful. I wanted to feel useful and valuable. I wanted to feel different in a way that was manageable.

I wanted language to describe myself that was empowering. “Empath” was empowering and manageable and useful and valuable and powerful and special. It felt good. And because it felt good, it felt right. And because it felt right, it was a solid band-aid on the open wound of my life. “Empath” was an escape from the reality of my situation. It made everything easier to bear.

I’m sad because I’m an empath, and someone in homeroom was crying.

I’m angry because my parents’ fight leaked into every corner of the house, and I couldn’t help but absorb it into myself like a sponge, because I’m an empath.

I’m so happy I can’t contain myself, and I have to flail and jump around, because everyone around me is cheering and singing and dancing, and I feel it all like a growing avalanche that echoes through the walls of my body and rings in my bones as a song I cannot contain. Because I’m an empath.

I’m always being hurt because nasty people are attracted to my empath abilities. It makes me an easy target. That’s just how it is, and that’s how it’ll always be, because I’m an empath.

I’m too sensitive, too soft, too emotional, because I’m an empath.

Every step I take away from the “empath” label is done with the full knowledge that without it, I wouldn’t have survived. I needed something to cling to, and “empath” was enough to keep me afloat. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was looking for Meaning.

Besides, “empath” was an easier word to swallow than “traumatized” or “abused” or “mentally ill.” It didn’t taste as bitter. I didn’t choke on it.

There were no resources for me. All I had was what I could fashion myself out of bubble gum and black sharpie and sheer force of will and please God, if you are there, let me live another day. Everything I am, I owe to my own two hands and luck.

I don’t need the “empath” label anymore. I’ve outgrown it. I recognize it for what it is now: a patchwork explanation for other phenomena in my life that are better explained from a psychiatric standpoint — and from a truly philosophical, spiritual one.

To this day, talking about empaths and twin flames and starseeds and past lives and everything that goes with those things remains a trigger. It gets easier and easier to manage, but I still blacklist those tags. I avoid it at all costs. Empaths I can manage, for the most part. Twin flames I won’t abide; soul mates are on thin ice. Starseeds are a crock of shit for a whole bunch of other reasons. Past lives… it’s the only thing I won't really talk about at all.

And I ask you kindly, please, don’t ask.

Where I Stand

I’m still paying the costs of all this. When you spend most of your life under immense stress, having yearly crises of one kind or another, it kind of fucks you right up.

A few years ago, I returned to witchcraft. I started small. I did a little simmer pot to welcome myself to my brand-new apartment. A little protection here, a short meditation there. It felt good. I didn’t feel like I was slipping backwards.

After that, I returned to spirit work and divination. My old allies welcomed me back with open arms. It was a relief to unwrap my tarot cards and find the spirit attached to them still there. I set up a little altar space for them. Things were good.

I returned to the cemeteries. I apologized. The conversations I was having with those spirits were real, but I wasn’t respecting them the way I should’ve. We made a deal to even those scales, and I’ve paid in full. Those relationships are better than ever. Some of those spirits have followed me, per our agreements, and I work with them regularly.

And things are good. I haven’t done any backsliding. Last year, I allowed myself to question the nature of the universe and theories on magic and how it actually works. I made the connection with Lady Fate and drew up a theory on connections in magic. And it was fine. It is fine.

I’m extremely alert to the signs. I remain critical of my experiences. But I’m letting my personal practice be… casual. Natural. It’s just for me, not a performance. It doesn’t need to be spectacular or even produce results. It just has to be gratifying.

I started this blog for myself. I wanted to encourage myself to try new things and get out there again. It’s hard to make friends and connect with people, and I’m wary of IRL groups — for good reasons I’m sure you can guess at.

It’s been extremely cool to get to interact with people here. I get to vet people before I ever talk to someone. I can sweep their blog for signs of things I want to (need to) avoid. Blocking people is good for my health. This is the safest environment I’ve ever had to explore, communicate, get feedback, read criticism, and learn about witchcraft.

I am immensely grateful to my various lovely Tumblr mutuals, to my Discord pals, and to the folks I follow in all my witchy spaces. It’s through great effort that I’m able to talk about this stuff at all. I wouldn’t have realized I could if not for a brief mention in a private Discord server about doing a post about being an ex-empath.

It’s been so long since I’ve thought about it. It all feels so far away now. I know the distance is a testament to my own hard work. The difference between my mental health then and now is staggering. Even on my worst days now, I am nowhere near that level of Bad.

Where do I stand? On my own two damn feet, that’s where.

A Bit of Advice

I will never use the “empath” label again. I don’t think anyone should, though I understand the appeal. Obviously. You’ve read this far, I’d be surprised if you thought I don’t get it.

Instead, explore what you’re actually experiencing. Are you showing signs of a manic-depressive cycle? Are you having symptoms of anxiety, autism, ADHD, or depression? Do you know what depersonalization and dissociation are, and what they feel like? How about synesthesia, such as mirror-touch synesthesia, which can help explain why you feel a touch on someone else’s skin as though it was on your own? What feels bad, and why? Is your home life fraught, or was it? Are you looking for ways to cope with feelings that are too large to contain?

Do a simple search for “empath traits.” Check out any list of qualities empaths have. Make note, in particular, of the traits you identify with. Now take a look at a list of, say, “autism traits” or “PTSD traits.” Check out the overlap between them.

It’s important to consider mundane causes and mundane solutions. My greatest mistake when I picked up the “empath” label was that I believed there were no resources for me. I even said it up above that there were none.

But there were. Trusted teachers, the guidance counselor, the youth council director. Clubs, support groups. There were places I could have gone, but I was so far inside my own mind that I couldn’t see them. And the people around me were so dazzled by my false confidence that they couldn’t see how badly I was struggling. Admitting I needed help was akin to admitting defeat, and I couldn’t do that.

But you can.

“Empath” Alternatives

When I went looking for other accounts of people leaving the “empath” label, I was surprised to find… not a lot of bitterness. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. “Empaths” are often of the “love and light” persuasion, and that sort of philosophy isn’t always so easily let go of. Empathy for our past selves and the community surrounding even the most toxic of concepts is par for the course, don’t you think?

The primary thing most ex-empaths share in common (from what I’ve seen) is that they’ve outgrown the label in some way. Whether they realize why they picked up the label is hit or miss. Some, like myself, drop it almost unthinkingly after years of using it to define ourselves and only realize years later why we used it and what it did to us. Others leave it behind by choice, opting for more up-to-date terminology or paths.

I know this might be a little surprising. After all, I’m a witch. I do magic, and I work with spirits. Surely I believe in empaths as a concept, even if I ended up not being one.

No, I don’t. Not really. Some people really are naturally sensitive to others’ energy and/or feelings, and energy work is a real thing that you can do.

But the “empath” label isn’t helpful. If anything, it’s reductive. Why would you want to reduce the plethora of abilities and skills at your fingertips to a single word? Why submit to a rigid, fantastical definition that encourages self-martyrdom and unhealthy social behaviors when reality is much more interesting?

If you really feel drawn to calling yourself an “empath,” consider why that is. You’re sensitive, you’ve got an interest in the supernatural, you want to dip your toes into magic, or you just Know You’re Different?

Primarily, consider the fact that you’re likely neurodivergent in some way. See the above section about that, and do those trait searches again. Be really honest with yourself.

Secondarily, consider simple energy work instead. Rather than relying on a prescribed set of traits laid out like a cheap newspaper astrology column that’s so vague it could apply to anyone with the right spin because it’s been written by someone who doesn’t know what a Capricorn is, focus on an actual goal.

The first mistake people who pick up the “empath” label make is the assumption that they’re Special and Different. While you are a unique human being, you’re no more special or different than the guy next to you on the bus who’s got the spiritual sense of a lump of clay. You don’t need to be special or different. You just need to be human.

Sensing certain types of energy (like emotional energy) might come naturally to you. That’s great! It’s a real strength that you might have; it’s one that I certainly have, and it helped to confirm my “empath” related delusions described up above. Instead of resting on your laurels about having this talent, put some work into it. Figure out how to manipulate your own energy. See if you can feel plants’ energy or just people’s. Research the various methods of energy visualization and manipulation. Read some theory. Learn how to read auras if you can see them.

(Which, by the way, I can’t. I’m on the more severe side of aphantasia, and I can’t visually imagine jack shit. The whole “reading auras” thing I talk about up above is a big old lie. I can work off of vibes and sensations to give an approximation of an impression of what something might look like, but that’s it. I’m basically blind in that regard. What I lack in sight, I make up for in my other senses, though, so it’s not a huge loss.)

If you’ve got a talent for guessing outcomes to things, you might find success in divination. Pick up some cards, dice, or literally any other method you like and give it a whirl. See what works and be honest with yourself when it doesn’t. At the end of the day, the most important thing is that: Be honest with yourself. It’s fucking hard. I know. Trust me, do I know. [Gestures to the above emphatically.]

Learn discernment skills. If you don’t know what that is or what it means or how to discern, there are a bunch of good guides out there. I’m sure I can scrounge up a couple to reblog in the wake of this post.

You cannot fix someone else’s problems. You cannot be a permanent balm on someone else’s life. Your worth does not lie in the service of others. Your life is not worth less than theirs. You should not be a sacrifice in the name of someone else’s carelessness. You aren’t responsible for the emotional well-being of everyone around you.

You don’t need to be “special” to ask for help. You don’t need a magical label to stand up for yourself and ask for accommodations. You are allowed to have feelings and react to other people’s existence and feel overwhelmed and experience second-hand emotion without putting yourself on the martyr’s pedestal.

Decide what you actually want from being an “empath,” and be honest with yourself. Do you want to use the “empath” label because it makes you feel less alone? Less scared? Less like a freak? Ask why you feel that way in the first place. What’s the thing wearing fear like a shroud? What is its true name?

And honestly, if you can’t subscribe to the “empath” label or do energy work or spirit work or magic or whatever without it risking your mental health… don’t. Just don’t.

Because I can attest, the band-aid doesn’t work. It won’t last forever. You’ll have to face the monster behind the mask sooner or later, and it’s significantly better to do it when you’ve got the choice.

Trust me. I’d know.

(Oh, and by the by: Don’t be mean or try to shame people using the empath label using my experiences. I won’t be a cudgel for you to swing at somebody else. Share this with whoever, but be kind about it.)

Hoo Boy, That Was a Lot, Huh?

Well. Like I said, this whole thing got away from me in a serious way. I’ve got other things I should be working on, but this… well, it took over my brain. Once I started typing, I couldn’t stop. And now here we are.

If you read this whole thing, thanks. No, seriously. It means a lot. I hope you got something out of it.

I mentioned somewhere in this whole thing that I don’t talk about this stuff. For the most part, that’s because I just don’t think about it anymore. It’s all in the past. But if my story can help someone or inform someone out there, well. Here it is. I’m open to questions. Respectful ones, mind you. I won’t be talking about past lives at all at this point, so like I said before, don’t ask. But any of the other stuff… [shrug]. Shoot. Some things I’ll have to omit or leave unanswered for the privacy of my past friends and relationships. And some things I just won’t talk about because it’s frankly none of your business.

But yeah. I’m releasing this into the wild. I almost decided to not publish this at all, but I think it's too important to keep to myself. I’ve given it a cursory look-over for grammar, but… honestly, I think it’s good the way it is. It’s honest.

And these days, that’s all I aim to be.

Shilling

Anyhow, doing words is my living these days. If you like these words or other ones I’ve written up, throw a couple dollars in my bread jar. Thanks again.

[Harmonica fades into the distance]

[vs-redemption]

Crime is Common. Logic is Rare. (Ch.26)

Chapter Twenty-six: Dabi (HawksxGN!Reader)

From Cindy: My intention was to never have Dabi in this story, but now he’s here. lol He wanted to add a bit of spice.

Plot summary: As a quirk geneticist, you never really imagined yourself getting involved in hero work. Of course, you never imagined catching the eye of a pro hero either. What starts as a great career opportunity turns into a relationship built upon mutual secrets and trust.

Warnings:

⚠️This story contains spoilers from the manga.

⚠️Some events and plot points have been altered from the original manga

Tag List: @gayforkeigo @marshmallow-witch @redflannel @toyo-shiro @elsasshole @astronomyturtle @iambashfulperson @omiwashere

Next Chapter : Chapter Guide

Returning to work and getting back into a routine after having a vacation was always a little difficult. That was especially true when you worked for a mad doctor who created super villains in the basement of an otherwise mediocre municipal hospital. But after reconnecting with friends from your hometown and having some much needed quality time with your boyfriend, you were feeling refreshed and ready to face the last stretch of your dangerous journey. The spark of cautious optimism was stomped out almost immediately when you stepped into the hospital lobby and saw the expression on Dr. Garaki’s face as he greeted you.

“What’s wrong?” you ask before any pleasantries can be exchanged. A list of worst case scenarios begins to compile in your brain as the doctor tries to force the smile on his face to appear more genuine. If something urgent had popped up, you knew he would have gotten in touch with you, so it was hard to predict the situation you were coming back to. You couldn’t discuss anything about Shigaraki in the main hospital though, so you’d have to endure the suspense until both of you were safely out of sight in the underground lab.

“You look well rested,” Garaki comments as you make your way to the secret elevator. Your nervous jitters made the walk seem much longer than usual. “I guess taking a few days off was a good idea.”

“I appreciate you giving me the time,” you tell him since it remained to be seen whether taking a break from your duties had been a good idea or not.

“We’ll be having a guest in the lab today,” the doctor finally reveals a sliver of information after all your personal belongings had been put in a locker and he’d run a metal detector over you to check for bugs. You were used to this process by now, but the knowledge that you’d be meeting what you assumed was going to be another villain made you feel incredibly uncomfortable. You couldn’t imagine what more the villains could need you for, unless something horrible had happened to Shigaraki while you were away and it was time to face the consequences. It made no sense for them to kill you there in the hospital though, so you did your best to keep your fears and imagination in check.

You summon as much confidence and courage as you can as Dr. Garaki finally takes you into the lab where your mysterious visitor was waiting, but you can’t help but falter for the second time that day when you come face to face with a man with charcoal black hair, intense sapphire blue eyes, and skin covered in horribly discolored burn scars. The scent of burnt flesh wafts through the air, making your eyes water and stomach churn.

“So, you’re the little scientist I’ve been hearing so much about,” he approaches you slowly like a predator, the sound of his boots on the cold cement floor making him that much more intimidating. His voice comes out slow and gravelly, the complete opposite of Shigaraki’s anxious, whiny timbre.

“And you’re Dabi,” you reply, trying to match his level of lazy calmness. Shigaraki’s reckless need for destruction was terrifying to be sure, but the calculating way Dabi met your eyes made you feel like he was peering right into the deepest parts of your mind where everything you’d been trying to keep secret was hidden.

“Sorry for springing him on you like this,” The doctor speaks up, still with a tense look on his face. “I just thought meeting him here would be preferable to his original plan to wait and jump out from a dark alley.” You scrunch up your nose at the image while sending an incredulous look at the villain.

“Charming,” you deadpan and Dabi rolls his eyes.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” he replies flatly while lifting a hand to pick at one of the many shiny silver staples on his face that seemed to be serving the purpose of holding his damaged skin together. “If you’re working with the PLF, it shouldn’t matter when or where I show up.”

“PLF?” You feign ignorance and Dabi curls his lip in annoyance. He wasn’t going to get you to screw up that easily. Hawks had told you about the whole “quirk liberation” movement, but you weren’t supposed to know that the League of Villains had joined forces with the devoted followers of that ideology. Dabi took another aggressive step forward, but you held your ground.

“If you’re willing to help Shigaraki,” he reasons, “I think you can afford me the same curtesy since he and I are on the same side.”

“I think that depends a great deal on what you need from me,” you say boldly “Because I don’t recall ever claiming to be on anyone’s side.” You hated how close Dabi was standing to you. You knew he had a powerful fire quirk, even without the uncomfortable waves of heat radiating from his skin. You felt a small pang of sympathy knowing that the burns covering his body were a result of the destructive blue flames he’d been born with. One day, you hoped your research would prevent anyone from falling victim to their own biology the way he had. Dabi had only himself to blame, however, for choosing to use his quirk to take the lives of others. Like Shigaraki, he had plenty of blood on his hands.

“I need you to tell me everything you know about that giant chicken your dating,” Dabi says simply, a challenging look in his eyes. You shake your head and take the chance to move away and get him out of your personal bubble.

“Nope,” you reject him right away. “I won’t do that.”

“Why? There’s no way you actually love him,” a dry laugh escapes from Dabi’s lips. “He’s a hero isn’t he? You’re already betraying him by helping Shigaraki.”

“First of all, how I feel about Hawks is none of your business,” you cross your arms over your chest. “Second, helping your creepy boss and the doctor is beneficial to my career. Divulging secrets about my boyfriend is only beneficial to you. I’d get nothing out of it.”

“Are you trying to make an enemy out of me?” Dabi asks, his voice coming out casual despite the threat of his words.

“No,” you shake your head, “but I’m not trying to make an ally out of you either. If you want to go after Hawks, I’m not going to oppose you. In fact, I’ll even point you in the right direction. If you can find someone from the Hero Commission to terrorize, I bet you’d learn a whole lot of juicy tidbits.”

“It’d be easier to learn them from you,” Dabi sniffs, his increasing irritation was becoming palpable. The tension in the air, not to mention the suffocating heat of his quirk seemed to grow thicker by the second.

“As Shigaraki liked to tell me, there are still a lot of things I don’t know about my boyfriend,” you confess. “But I know enough about him to realize he wouldn’t put up with as much of the commission’s crap as he does if they didn’t have something to hold over him. I’m sure you could figure out what that is if you were motivated enough.” Dabi moves to step into your personal space again, his hooded eyes widening in anger, but the doctor jumps back into the conversation.

“If we could wrap this up soon, I’d appreciate it,” he puts up his hands as a sign of neutrality before looking at you. “There’s a lot I wanted to get done today, and I need help your help administering the next dose of Shigaraki’s serum.” Dabi ignores Garaki completely and continues to stare you down.

“You really think you’ll be able to continue riding the fence from the position you’re in?” he asks menacingly. “You’re worse than the heroes if you stand for nothing.” You eye Dabi for a moment, wondering once again what horrible circumstances life had to throw at someone for them to end up so dark and hateful.

“I’m sure that your motivations, whatever they may be, are valid,” You tell him. “I know Shigaraki mentioned a few of his concerns about our flawed hero society to me before, and some of what he said actually made sense.” You pause to see what Dabi would say, but he remained silent.

“Look,” You continue with a shrug. “I don’t fault any of you for standing up for what you believe and pushing for change. It’s just your methods that I can’t get onboard with. That’s why I can stand aside and let it happen without feeling obligated to get involved myself.”

“And you’ve made your position on this matter clear from the very beginning” The doctor backs you up. You weren’t going to mistake his words for some kind of allegiance though. He had only allowed you into his lab because he needed your quirk and expertise to complete his Shigaraki project. None of these people would ever trust you completely, and you could never trust them.

“You might come to regret this conversation in the future,” Dabi says with an ominous tone that sent a shiver up your spine. “Bad things tend to happen to people who waste my time.” You wanted to tell him that he had been the one to waste his own time, but thought better of it since you knew from watching the news that he had no problems with making good on his threats.

Before things could escalate further, Dr. Garaki sent Dabi through the hidden tunnel that led to the second lab so that you two could finally get to work on Shigaraki. Once the door was shut, the doctor apologized for the villain’s rudeness but then carried on like normal. He filled you in on Shigaraki’s progress over the days you’d been gone, and helped you administer the next dose of the serum. Shigaraki still had some intense reactions to his DNA being modified, but the severity seemed to be decreasing along with the frequency. You wanted to worry more about the outcome of the procedure, but now you had a second danger looming over your head in the form of Dabi.

[joopiterjoon]

Wishing on a Star | KSJ

Pairing: Seokjin x reader

Genre: NC-17, Romance, Fluff?

Warnings/Tags: Vampire!Jin, Biting, Blood, Kissing, swearing, couch grinding, bad Twilight Series references

Wordcount: 3k

Part of ficswithluv’s #FWLBingo! 

“They probably got that idea from me,” Seokjin murmurs. He’s glaring at the screen, feet tucked up and arms crossed next to you, as he watches Edward Cullen step into the sunlight and sparkle.

“You don’t sparkle,” you snort. Seokjin’s jaw drops as he turns to you. “Wait… do you?”

Seokjin closes his mouth and takes a deep breath through his nose. “No, but how else are they going to try and demonstrate that someone is inhumanly handsome? And who is truly inhumanly handsome? Me!”

“That’s not saying much, since you are, in fact, inhuman,” you tease.

“I’m the most handsome inhuman there is, though!” Seokjin shouts, tossing his hands up. You’re glad to have a distraction from the very cringe scene happening in a movie that crushed your favorite book series. “I am worldwide handsome, human or not!”

You laugh at how he thinks he needs to convince you, his girlfriend. “Of course, of course, my vampire from the stars.”

“That’s right!” Seokji bellows, though his ears tinge pink. He starts waving his arms around to recite a speech you’ve heard many, many times. “I’m more attractive than any angel up there! Any demon down there! Any creature right here!”

Contrary to the fanged creatures on your TV screen, Jin was just an average but incredibly hot vampire. Well, what you now knew to be an average vampire. Fangs and a severe vitamin deficiency that could only be cured with blood.

(“Stop asking me to explain it, it’s too complicated.”

“Mhm, yeah, you definitely just didn’t forget.”

“Just for that, I won’t tell you.”)

At first, you’d been a tad disappointed. Sure, you would have been freaked out if Jin was even a Stefan Salvatore or a Lestat. But after a while, it lost its edge. Unlike Jin’s fangs.

He’d come to you in such an unusual way. At first glance, it fits the mysterious, ominous nature of vampires. Last year, you’d had enough. Life sucked, as it often does for people in their early twenties. You’d been leaning out your window with a bottle of wine, asking the heavens to send you someone. Sure, you’d stolen the idea from Lilo and Stitch, but why the fuck not. You just needed someone. You were willing to try wishing on a star for someone to come save you.

Little did you know, your rescuer was below, just strolling home late from work one night.

(“Hey,” a stranger called from the street. “That angel you’re looking for has already fallen.”

You startled. You can’t believe such a handsome stranger heard you, much less called out to a grown woman wishing on a star. Your shock caused the bottle of wine to slip from your grip and splatter three floors down. You almost follow after when you startle.

“Damn, people fall for me, but never from that high up,” Jin laughs, clapping his hands. You frown at the stranger.)

Jin likes to pretend it’s fate, and maybe it is a little bit, but it’s also his personality. Even if he’s not involved, seeing people in distress bothers him. He needs to lighten situations. And that lightheartedness and just how desperate you were had convinced you to allow the stranger into your home. Jin had waited to be invited in, but he insists that’s just manners.

Plus, Jin loves how you met. It’s his favorite thing to tell whenever you go out together. You just roll your eyes, letting him prattle on and on. Because when it comes down to it, he really was the angel you’d wished for (who is devilishly handsome, you might add).

“You’re doing it again,” Jin says, drawing you from your thoughts. He’s right. You’ve been watching him and his pursed lips while you’ve been reminiscing.

“Can you blame me?” You shrug.

“Fluffing my ego?” Jin teases, tossing the pillow from his lap to face you. “You’re asking for trouble.”

“Oh please, I’m more trouble than you’ll ever be,” you scoff. Jin frowns, but he knows it’s true. He scoots closer though, caging you into your side of the couch with a playful smile.

Leaning in to kiss you, Jin doesn’t say anything. He has two modes: all words and no game or just game and no words. Honestly, you couldn’t be made to choose between the two. Especially as his hands gently reach for you, plush lips closing in on yours.

Your body gravitates towards him. It’s no vampire curse. You’d asked him when you’d been immediately smitten all those months ago. You’d even wondered if there was a delayed onset, like something Jin “chose” to activate. It’s simply that Jin really was given to you by the stars. His dumb sense of humor balances your stressed mind, and by god is he gorgeous. You’re reminded each time your hands cup his jaw and your chest presses to his.

Jin deepens the kiss as he tugs on your thigh, dragging your leg to his waist as he lowers you to lie on the couch.

“But the movie,” you whine, trying to catch a glimpse of Bella and Edward running through Italy. Jin snarls, and his fangs are on full display. You can’t help but gasp, unable to hold back the wonder each time you see them. Lame vampire or not, that’s still what he is.

“You want that sparkle bitch over this?” Jin sounds offended, waving to his own form. You contemplate it, taking your time. You trace your fingers over the veins in his arms, up to the broad shoulders that block out the streetlight behind you. You giggle at the frustrated furrow of Jin’s brow over dark yet soft black eyes. Finally, you're pulling him on top of you, wrapping your legs around his waist.

It’s easy, a position you frequently find yourself in. Even though you both share a bed now, you find it hard to take the extra time to make it there. Jin’s hands know their way around your body, how to hold you, tease you, appreciate you. And you’re no different, humming as you splay your palms over his broad chest and roll your hips into his. The place doesn’t matter as long as you have Jin like this with you.

As your tongues meet, you shiver. Jin’s careful, but your tongue still slides past his incisors. They aren’t deadly sharp, but there’s an implication. One that Jin never acts on.

“Jin,” you whisper as he mouths at your jawline. Once he glances up, you fix him with a serious stare, biting your lip and running your hands through your hair like Bella Swan. “I know what you are.”

Jin’s body shakes with a laugh as his head drops to your shoulder. “You are the worst.”

You both giggle, trading the mirth between hushed lips as Jin fumbles for the remote to turn off the cringe-movie.

In the dark, your hands tighten in his hair as the moment becomes more heated. His hips shift forward, letting you know his intentions. You whimper as he nips at your neck, back arching off the couch.

“Do you want to?” You ask.

It’s a question you never dared ask when you first started dating. You assumed it was something that had to be addressed, but not then. In the throes of love, you feared Jin would sink his teeth in and… you don’t know, claim you, sire you, turn you, something. But when you finally had months later, the answer, like everything else, had been less than wowing. Nothing about Jin’s need for blood was arousing. If anything, it was annoying. Like having a craving for something and the business was closed.

That didn’t stop the idea that Hollywood had planted in your head. You’d finally chalked up the courage to ask months ago: Do you want to bite me?

Jin had played it off, saying he only wanted to when you refused to split a meal. He caved soon enough, not actually doing it, but explaining that he found it incredibly intimate. It was a kind of trust. It hurt, he said. Like a farmer raising chickens, he’d become immune to the cries in a way, but he still knew the pain. There was no magic serum from his fangs that numbed the pain. For the victim, it was simply teeth sinking into flesh.

Because of that, he saw it as a vulnerability from both partners. Jin joked and talked shit a lot, but he was a deeply thoughtful person under it all. He believed biting a human was something to be wary of yet cherished. He cherished you, but the wariness had still outweighed his affections. You could only think there was an assurance he didn’t see yet. Whenever you asked, you didn’t push the response.

Jin’s movements still, and he sighs. It’s a sigh that says this again? You prepare to shrug it off, content to be dick-downed by the inhumanly handsome.

But he surprises you.

“Are you really sure?”

The words cut through the stillness of the living room. Not even the breath in your lungs moves.

“Yes,” you whisper.

Jin’s large, black eyes sparkle with the dim light pouring in from the window. Seeing the insecurity there, you follow up with a nod.

“It’s…” Jin winces a bit. “I promise you, it doesn’t feel good. It’s a bite. Like two tears in your skin.”

“Jin,” you start, and you know you believe what you’re saying. “I could give two fucks about vampires before I met you, and now I only give one fuck. And that fuck is that I want to be close to you. This just happens to be another level that you have for being close. I want to be on that level. You are as close to me as possible. I want you that close. And I want to show you that I want to be that close to you. And I only want you to do it if you want me there, too.”

“Of course I want you close,” Jin says, voice losing that lilt he usually has to demonstrate how serious he is. But it’s back a second later when he rolls his hips. “Is that really the only fuck you have for me?”

You roll your eyes even if he can’t see. “You know what I mean.”

There’s a pause. Just silence, just the sound of your hearts pounding. Then, Jin’s soft lips press to yours. You slot your lips with his and brush your thumb over his cheekbone comfortingly. He moves to your cheek, your eyes, your jaw, your neck. He stays there, nuzzling at your pressure point. You close your eyes.

“You don’t feel nervous,” he whispers. You shake your head. You aren’t. You know it might hurt. But you want Jin.

He holds your neck, laying his weight on top of you. You hum at the warmth surrounding you, the familiar firmness pressed to your inner thigh. A wet tongue laps at your neck and you gasp at the sensation, but turn your neck for more. Jin presses a few more wet kisses there, sucking gently as you squirm from the pleasure.

Then, he hoists himself up. “If I do it here, we might ruin the couch.”

“Oh,” you breathe. Good point. Blood. You sit up. “Um, what if we use my sweater?”

“But you love this sweater,” Jin pouts. Your heart floods with warmth at the fact that Jin’s worried about your favorite sweater.

“I have club soda. The blood will come out,” you say. You sit comfortably in front of him. Jin chews his cheek, but then he gets on his knees, straddling your lap. You place your hands on his thighs as he places his on your shoulders.

“Are you sure?” Jin whispers, brushing his nose to yours. He sounds breathless, more scared than you. You’re not scared at all. You want this. You want to show Jin he can’t hurt you and you want all of him.

“Mhm,” you whisper. 

“I think,” Jin whispers back, “I think I’m more nervous than you.”

You pout, but keep your eyes closed, just feeling him close. “Don’t do it if you don’t want to.”

“No, I,” Jin swallows. He doesn’t keep talking.

He kisses you again. This one is different. It’s not chaste. It’s not heated. It’s slow. His mouth works against yours, gauging your reception, letting his tongue slide along your bottom lip but not pushing in. You open for him, fingers tightening on his pants. He keeps edging in, giving you chances for an out, willing to let you turn this into a normal night on the couch instead of what he’s about to do.

Then, his mouth drifts. He keeps you close, a hand on the back of your neck, hips sinking into your lap. It kind of feels silly, having your massive boyfriend straddling you, but you’re too lost in the feeling of his tongue gently probing. He’s searching for a good spot, you realize. You try to relax, not squeeze your eyes or feel tense, to let him know you are okay. You move your hands to his waist, holding him gently.

Until your arms constrict around him with a small squeak in pain. His teeth sink in. At first, it’s nothing but a bite. Kinky, not scary. But then you feel it. The pressure, the pricking, the tearing. The searing heat that comes from an exposed wound. And then you feel the pull. It’s foreign, the way you feel the blood rush from your veins faster than intended. Your mouth hangs open, a silent scream caught there. You tug Seokjin closer and he gladly obliges, one arm hugging you, rubbing your back gently while the other thumbs under your jaw. He holds you secure, makes you feel safe swaddled in his arms and the cushions.

You squeeze your eyes shut as tears roll down. Their meaning is mixed. Both relief, fear, joy, pain, trailing down your cheeks. Jin grunts, shifting a bit, and you bury your face in his chest. Each muscle of your shoulder and neck are hyperaware, and you feel as though you have to clearly think about each as you hide inside Jin. 

Jin, who sucks your very being into his mouth and down his throat. Who keeps rubbing soothing circles wherever he touches. He’s not overwhelmed or consumed by bloodlust. Even as he feeds, his attention is on you. He’s always focused on you.

You cry out as he pulls off, the fangs slipping from your skin like a rock lodged in a wound that had to be removed. But then he’s back. You’re impressed that you don’t flinch as he descends. The same suction feeling is gone, just the lap of his tongue.

“Too much,” you breathe. It feels like you can feel each tastebud of his tongue pulling the flesh open.

“Sorry,” he muffles, tongue trading to soft taps. He waits out your blood coagulating. Your shoulders ache, but you realize it’s the vice like grip you have on him. As you slowly loosen, Jin moves to rub your arms, trying to ease the tension.

“Not as tough as you look, huh?” he says, the words murmured just above the wound. The words are too soft, filled with insecurity.

You shake your head, body ashiver. “It’s just new.”

“Bad?” Jin asks, even quieter.

You shove on his shoulders at that. He whines something incoherent in protest, eyes locked on the wound as you pull him into focus. “Nothing’s bad with you.”

Jin pouts, bottom lip on full display. Even in the dark room, you can tell it’s a shade darker with your blood. “It hurts.”

“It did. You bit me, so duh,” you admit. Jin’s strong eyebrows crease on his forehead, not appreciating your joke when he’s so concerned. You give a small smile, bringing your hands to his chest. “I’m glad you think we’re in a place where you can do that.”

You nudge him, and he concedes. He kisses your lips, and you gasp at the metallic taste in his mouth. His kiss is more earnest, eager to have you responding. He groans when your tongue twists with his and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Fuck,” Jin groans. “Fuck, it’s just. You. All of you. Feel good, taste good.”

Your heart races at that. Jin’s kisses are frenzied, tongue quickly following your own. His breathing is faster, grip tighter, pulling you into him. He’d said that blood didn’t mean much. It wasn’t an overwhelming desire or blurred with ecstasy, but the real reason got you more. Jin had your blood in his veins, your taste in his mouth. And he seemed impossibly turned on by it. By you. He cared so much for you, it was hard to believe there was ever a time you questioned if anyone, even yourself, cared about you.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Jin kisses you harder, fingers twisting in your hair, breathing in deep through his nose. “God, I love you.”

He starts to lean you back, and you willingly go, but then he yanks you both back up. “The blood! The couch!”

“Oops?” You blink, already so lost in Jin that you forgot. You’re not really sure if you are gushing out of your neck or what.

Before you can reach to check, Jin gently thumbs at the mark. He brings a smear of blood to his lips. You see his expression twitch in contentment, but there’s a flicker of worry in his eyes that won’t move from the throbbing mark on your neck. Whatever moment had been there was now broken by the reality of what happened. You may have been convinced you’re fine, but Jin still seems cautious.

“The floor?” You suggest, then point to the blanket on Jin’s side. “That’s an old afghan.”

“Ah, okay, yeah,” Jin breathes in relief, like he still isn’t sure if you’ll take the chance to get up and run out. Just to prove his worries wrong, you grab the blanket and toss it to the floor. You slide down, patting the space next to you.

Jin smiles down at you, something of a dazzle in his warm eyes. You smile back, and let him stare a little bit longer, then teasingly suggest with a crooked finger, “Come on, ravage me.”

Jin chuckles at that, shaking his head as he lowers himself down with a playful growl. You laugh as your boyfriend, who moments before was concerned over every touch, wrangles you to the floor to ravage you not with bites but kisses.

Check out my other FWLBingo pieces here!

[thebiasrekkers]

Star of Fate [Vampire!VIXX]

Plot: The longer you stare into darkness, the more you realize that something could be staring back. Even more so when that darkness doesn’t want to be brought into the light and will do anything to stay that way.

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Genre: Series | Vampire!AU | Angst | Romance/Fluff | Smut

Pairings: OT6 VIXX x OC(s)

Warnings: Graphic Violence (bloody violence), Heavy Language, Angst, Slow Burn, Smut

Additional Warnings: Office Microaggressions | Bullying | Toxic Work Environment

Previous Chapters: Prologue

Links: FAQ || VIXX Masterlist || Admin L’s AO3 || Admin L’s WP || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 2,682

AO3 | WP

Tag List: If you would like to be added to this list, just drop us an ask!

AN: So…I know we said this was coming soon and I’m very sorry that this got started so late! I hope to have this out every two weeks, maybe more depending on the future. So please give this a lot of love and we hope you enjoy the ride!

Chapter 2- The Ghost Woman and the Hunter

Calling on your sins you're here in my dreams a desert place I'm not alone Do you really want to be me?

Her eyes popped open, the realistic feeling of falling completely disorienting her as she shot up from her bed. It had felt so real to her that her body jerked itself awake. Light danced its way in through the blinds, chasing away all signs of shadow. Never had she been so glad that she hadn’t purchased black out curtains than in that moment. She needed to see the sun and all of its glory to help the dream fade away into existence. Well, at least certain parts of it. There was a wistful part of her that still wished that she could be on that dance floor again with the handsome and darker skinned man. 

“Oh my….FUCK!”

Lucky yelled as she looked over to her alarm clock, realizing that it was the source of the chimes that she heard in her dream. Throwing off her covers, she scrambled to get half-way put together so that way she wouldn’t be late to her job. She even called a cab to get her there faster which was unlike her normal routine. Unless there was inclement weather, of course. 

During the ride, she kept an eye on her phone--it lighting up every few seconds as she checked the time. She made it to her desk just in time to receive the stack of papers from some of the other people there. Normally she wasn’t such a space case, even showing up early to get whatever else she missed the previous day. Lucky was a hard worker, nobody could deny that but it was that fact others exploited hence the reason why the stack seemed to get larger and larger by the week. The world of office politics seemed to be much like high school but it paid well enough for her to put up with the majority of it. 

She straightened out her hair as best as she could with it being so long and settled down to start on her work. Most of it had been reports that she had to pencil push and correct, which was easy enough for her because all the information had been just sitting there inside of her head. However, the more difficult stuff came along when the Vice-President stuck his fingers into everything. She couldn’t help but groan when she looked at some of them, saving the majority of them for last so that way she could take extra time on them. 

“Job finally getting to you, Leonora?”

Lucky didn’t realize how long she had been working on them until the voice pulled her out of the zone she had settled into. Turning around, she saw another coworker standing right behind her with a slight smile on her face. No matter how many times she tried to be friendly to some of them, they insisted on resisting any attempts at professionalism and decorum. Well, unless someone higher up was around. Not to mention the fact that they also insisted on calling her by her government name instead of the nickname that she preferred. She gave the sweetest smile she could muster and stood up, green eyes twinkling. 

“Oh, there you are Nancy! I got so caught up in fixing your mistakes that I forgot to give you this folder back! Everything in there should be up to date now and I even took the liberty of sending off the final draft for you. It was the least I could do since I was the last one that had hands on it. You’re welcome.”

She gaped at Lucky for a moment and flipped open the folder to read what she had fixed. Nancy’s ears started to go red and her thin lips flattened as she pressed them together in anger. Lucky raised an eyebrow at her reaction, knowing that she saw what had been edited by her. It had only been a few mistakes but they were some that would have made their department look bad. Plus Lucky also added her name to the document as one of the contributing factors, more so because she went through the trouble of fixing everything. 

“I hope this teaches you to quit pushing your work off on me, Nancy. Have a good day.”

Lucky turned away from her and sat back down at her cubicle, leaving the sputtering woman there to be embarrassed. Even though she had her own computer there, they all had shared files that they could all access and she lived up to her nickname that she had the time to quickly edit everything before emailing it out. It had been one of the rare times that she was able to stick it to them and it honestly made her feel a sliver of satisfaction at the situation. 

Because she was just a little bit petty. 

The sudden ringing of her phone took her away from the moment, the voice of her boss calling for her. Lucky was a bit confused as she looked at the time as she wondered why he had reached out so early. It normally was after lunch that she would meet up with him to go over various things pertaining to her new position. Lucky had been promoted to be the Personal Assistant for the Vice President. Naturally, he had more than one that would work together with him being at such a high level but most of them had quit because of various rumors of his misogyny and unrealistic ideals. Hell, she was even friends with one of them when she found out that she no longer worked there. Rumors circulated with her leaving and even more when she was appointed in her stead. 

Now, Lucky was one of the very few left so that meant that she had been picking up a lot more work than normal. Not that she went out much anyways with the amount of work she had. 

She walked the halls to his office, only to be greeted by the desk clerk. The tiny lady handed her a folder and suggested she find something appropriate to wear. Confused, Lucky looked through the folder and saw that there were some instructions as well as some papers with details on the new VIP’s that they had recently joined with. 

“What the actual hell? Does he expect me to drop everything that I’m doing to go to this event with him? After hours, no less?”

The lady just shrugged and went back to her work. Lucky could feel her indignation rising but left before causing a scene. It was one thing if it was an actual work trip that she had to attend but that had been some sort of event to flaunt and rub elbows. There wasn’t a real reason why she needed to be there so why all the preparation? She returned to her desk and went through the folder in detail. The only promise that she would receive was an extra amount in pay if she went, something that actually interested her. She grumbled as she leafed through it but decided that it was just for one night and that if it happened again, she would put a stop to it. The bright side to it had been that she could take off early to prepare for the event. That was always something she could look forward to especially that day since she moved like hell to get there on time. 

The one person that she could freely talk to in the office came up to her with a grin on her face. She had originally been offered the position but declined it because of family reasons but she was nice to talk to regardless. 

“So Lucky.. I heard from a little bird that you’re going to the VIP event tonight with Mr. Randall.” She wiggled her eyebrows and elbow at her while Lucky just scoffed. 

“Yeah, I guess. I wonder how in the hell does crap go around here so fast? It’s like the freaking flu!” 

“You don’t sound so enthusiastic about it.”

“Ashleigh, I really don’t want to go but they’re promising extra pay this time if I do. I haven’t been sleeping well lately and now I gotta go to this… grandstandin’ event. I wish someone else could go.”

Her coworker leaned thoughtfully on the cubicle wall before leaning down to whisper. It was only times like that when they would get a bit of privacy. 

“You could always quit and get some more sleep? I heard that the other assistant quit as well. I thought, at first, that you had too when you didn’t arrive when you usually do. They’re saying that the abuse from the VP is to blame.”

“Yeah well, tell the handsome man in my dreams to quit bothering me so I can go by to my normal schedule and ignore some of these chickens.” Lucky’s hand motioned like a beak as they both had a laugh over that before returning back to work. However, Ashleigh’s words stuck with her. The VP hadn’t been shy about voicing his displeasure to her about various things, even requesting that she cut her hair but she respectfully declined his request. All she stated was that it was within the guidelines of the company and left it at that. Something that didn’t win her any favors. 

And if the other girl quit too, then the sinking feeling in her gut proved to be more of an ominous feeling. Either way, she would have to go and see how it played out. 

When time came for her to leave early, Lucky instead went shopping for appropriate attire for that night’s event. Even neatly braided her hair to keep it out of her face. Simple, neat and just a tad bit sexy in the red dress. Once satisfied with her result, she waited outside for the driver to come around and pick her up. Upon seeing the expensive car, Lucky suppressed a shudder when the door was opened to reveal Mr. Randall. It wasn’t necessarily seeing her boss after hours but more of a combination of the car and him. Small vehicles caused her a bit of stress since she was involved in an accident many years ago. Since then, normally she would either take the bus or bike when the weather was nice. 

Thankfully, her boss wasn’t too interested in making small talk with her once they got on the road. The city was left behind soon and various gas stations and trees zoomed by them. She didn’t put too much thought into it until the driver turned onto a long, paved road after a set of gates. The mansion that appeared made Lucky’s eyebrows shoot up, something picking at her brain. She couldn’t quite figure it out but it was as if she had seen that place before. She had to shake those thoughts from her head as she concentrated on remembering the information that was given to her earlier that day. 

Knowledge was power and she needed it to navigate that world if she didn’t want to embarrass or otherwise offend anyone. 

Upon exiting the car and entering the elaborate place, Lucky felt all the eyes in the world stare at them. Putting on a gracious face, she walked slightly behind her boss as they were greeted by some of the others there. A few moments chatting with some of them, she soon found herself alone in the area while the others mingled. She wasn’t anyone of importance and therefore not worthy of anyone’s time, for the moment. She would let her boss do all the talking. 

Lucky gravitated towards the hors d'oeuvres while everyone talked among themselves. Plucking a few to put on a plate, she watched the room for any sign that she would be needed. Several of the clients that were in the folder she received were there and they were laughing alongside everyone else. A couple even approached her, asking questions about the company and trying to get a little information from her about how to deal with her boss. She couldn’t honestly say anything to help in that situation because she usually just listened to him bark his orders before correcting anything she needed to. 

She was left alone for another time, only appearing at her boss’ side when needed as the night went on. Soon she felt herself grow tired of all the people and the politics of said beings. Lucky had several drinks before that point and was in the process of acquiring another when a voice nearly made her jump out of her skin. 

“They’re almost like vultures, are they not?”

She looked around and up at him as he was much taller than her, even in heels. The man knew he was handsome, smiling prettily at her as he held up his own glass of red wine in a toast. Lips full and round eyes, Lucky had to appreciate his looks before replying. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that in particular.”

He gave a wide smile, eyes almost disappearing as they snickered at the rest of them. Lucky found herself talking more and more to the man who seemed just as bored as she was with the party. The more that she looked at him, the more that he seemed familiar to her and it dawned on her that he was one of the men from the folder. He had a nice voice, a bit higher than most of the men there but he didn’t hide it one bit. 

Lucky also noticed that the attention had been drawn to them just from them standing and talking to one another. He introduced himself as Jaehwan and they talked for another 15 minutes, slipping into easy conversation to keep themselves entertained. His jokes nearly had her spilling her drink, the folder not at all correct with the man before her. He was one of three men with his business, including one brother that rotated about in their company. 

Still, even with the jokes and the amicable banter between the both of them--her boss found that he had only missed the presence of Mr. Lee before her. 

“Ah. Leonora, I didn’t realize you had monopolized Mr. Lee’s time here tonight.” Her shorter framed boss then looked to Jaehwan with an apologetic look on his face, “Otherwise I would have saved you sooner!” Mr. Randall gave a laugh, expecting Jaehwan to laugh with him but didn’t. It surprised Lucky that her new friend didn’t go along with him on that but only sighed, looking to her in apology before speaking. 

“Leonora? And you said you were Lucky…” He grinned at her, ignoring her boss. She could see Randall’s face that he was growing annoyed, a face that showed up when things didn’t go his way. 

“Oh that’s just my assistant’s nickname that she tells everyone to call her even though we should be more professional. I’m her boss, Nicolas Randall. Vice-President of Nexus Assurance.” He held out his hand to shake but Jaehwan kept grinning at Lucky. His eyes suddenly were hyper focused on her, the doe eyed look that he did have--dissolved away. Almost like he had found something he really wanted.

“Uh well, I’ve been known to be lucky--hence the nickname.” She nervously laughed, highly aware that the tension was rising. Her eyes darted between Jaehwan as he continued to ignore her boss and the latter as he was getting more upset that the scene was even happening. That strange and ominous feeling was back, churning about the contents of her stomach. Jaehwan slowly turned from the friendly and open persona that he had while it was just the two of them, to something a bit more aggravated the longer her boss was there. There was a glint in his eyes that suggested something unfriendly was fighting its way out. 

Suddenly Jaehwan blinked rapidly before excusing himself but not before taking her hand and kissing it. Bewildered, Lucky watched him weave expertly through the crowd before taking a peek at her boss. 

And he was not pleased. 

[naruhearts]

TFW, Jack Winchester & Peace of Mind...

[Dean, ext. in the Impala]

TAPE DECK: The key to quieting your mind, is minding your quiet.  [Dean pulls the tape out, throws it on the seat] —10x11 There’s No Place Like Home transcript ***

Seems like 14x15 Peace of Mind and its premise (the title, guys!) could link back to 14x09 (with all this narrative talk of quietness, tape decks, and using your words)—

x

—and 10x11 besides carrying over 14x14′s key themes of Life and Death, Family, Love and...Love, and Subtext in Storytelling.

In 10x11, Good Charlie faced Evil Charlie — the cunning and conniving (and Charlie herself was a mirror to MoC!Dean), yet she was so preoccupied with shame and guilt over her Dark mirror self that she overlooked something fundamental: the intrinsic dualism of the human condition. Say, being conniving as a hunter helps her save people. Yin and Yang. You cannot be good without evil, and you cannot be evil without good. Agency and free will matter, in that you choose which side to act on, and all the complex nuances in-between — doing something stupid (bad) for the right reasons — are the judges of your moral character. 

In Season Who Am I/Season Mirrors 14, Dean and Cas’ narrative arcs — both mirroring each other (since S12) — cycle back to this internal battle, where Dean saying Yes to Michael was a bad decision, yet it was a decision steeped in the good: his boundless love for his family and the larger safety of the world. Although he stated in 14x13 that he’s ‘good with who he is’ (and I don’t doubt the validity of it at all, because oh man it SHOWS, in almost every facet of his emotional states e.g. transparency with Cas re: his Michael-induced trauma and letting Sam separate himself from his shadow), Dean’s still experiencing a gradual uphill trek to achieving complete self-actualization after decades of John-bred negative self-process, low self-worth, and depression; it’s definitely logical to assume that Dean, at his core, will somehow blame himself for the slaughter of the AU Hunters by Michael!Rowena. 

But don’t worry — Dean’s character progression towards self-love is PALPABLY closer than it’s ever been in S14!! And we all know that, beyond his brother Sam, the key significant motivator for this is Cas: Dean’s subtextual spouse. The one he trusts wholeheartedly. The one who brought him back from the brink, many times. The one who fell for his humanity. The one who did it - all of it - for him. The one who believes Dean is ‘more than strong’/believes Sam and Dean (subtextually: DEAN) are extraordinary, brave, special, burn bright. The one who helps weed out the creeping vines of low self-worth, reminding Dean Humanity Winchester of his valuable lessons: that there is always a way, a better way, a hopeful way.

If death - if evil - still surfaces regardless of one’s perseverance and good intentions, “sometimes things just are; you have to live with that.” Most importantly--

x

Listen to your own advice, Dean.

Cas, on the other hand, struck up a deal with the Empty to protect Jack the TFW mirror. Shifting away from his sense of expendability and self-sacrifice (as the worthless means to a self-destructive end e.g. saying Yes to Lucifer, mirrored by Dean) in past seasons, Cas’ current choices (his choice to sacrifice himself for Jack) are, like Dean, steeped in Love and...Love — and Cas is very humanized this season, with an incredible scale of expressive emotions for an angel and vast internalization of overall human values and human morality — but his angelic self-awareness manifested in 14x14. This pivotal scene between Cas and his character exposition Jack showed audiences that Cas still perceives himself as a “thing” and, like Dean, Cas continues to feel the deep residue of expendability and duty as an ex-Angel of the Lord despite making recent positive characteristic leaps and bounds (his accrued trauma re: Naomi, for example, lurks in the back of Cas’ mind, reminding him of his sole purpose as Heaven’s blunt tool).

14x14’s narrative insight into Cas’ self-awareness of his position in the Winchester family as a supernatural entity (he’s put a lot of thought into knowing what may be in his future — losing Sam and Dean) hinders him from fully acknowledging and accepting the fact that he IS family. Not quite there, my friends, but he almost is.

Jack, yearning to be useful for his family, proclaimed himself a Winchester last episode in the manner most reflective and evocative of Cas, Dean and Sam’s own past choices (Michael, Lucifer, the Mark of Cain, Godstiel — you name it) (Jack’s helplessness was also visually symbolized when he turned into a “sick” dog, additionally closely mirroring Cas and particularly Dean’s duty-bound inclinations, then keeping in mind the connotations attached to Dog in the SPN narrative: expendability.)

Now it’s Jack’s turn to further find himself, sift through the respective TFW influences of faith, hope, and love (the three theological virtues represented by TFW) bestowed upon him, and “die” in order to live. Ouroboros. What path will Jack Winchester choose? What decision will he make? Is he the snake or the chicken? *Mind you, meta writers shivered in our boots once 14x14 aired*

In keeping Gorgon Noah’s snake, seemingly ‘killing’ Michael, and absorbing his grace to become a textually benevolent but subtextually ominous iteration of Godstiel while simultaneously saving his family, we can say Jack is both the chicken and the snake. Thus, in classic Winchester fashion, the effects — the benefits and consequences — of his actions shall reap important self-introspective lessons that Jack will eventually experience.

You can’t save everybody, but you can try to make choices that provide even the slightest chance of winning. If the last few key thematic episodes were any indication: faith, hope, love, and open honest communication (the latter exercised by Jack pretty liberally until Meta Extravaganza 14x14, when he dodged - again in classic Winchester fashion - his own family’s concerns via I’m FineTM) build up your resistance in a turbulent, uncertain world.

As TPTB has thematically reinforced through narrative cyclism and mirrored pathways over and over again during the past few seasons:

Self-love/positive self-process breeds life and rebirth. Self-hate/maladaptively negative self-process breeds death and destruction. To truly be human, we must live with both personal internal forces -- they are naturally interdependent. Self-hate pushes us to seek self-love. Personal imprisonment and control pushes us to break free and release ourselves from control in order to allow growth. Ultimately, life fluctuates and never stays static.

We are absolutely capable of choosing the good and acting on the good.

TFW, once they forgive ALL their faults and transform them into present/future strengths, will finally mind their quiet and have peace of mind. They’re going to realize that living a meaningful life involves the good and the bad. A dual balance of both is tantamount. Jack is the catalyst.

Everything means something.

[fates-end-does-vns]

Nogi Wakaba is a Hero: 1/2

that's a familiar looking face. sister or ancestor? sister or ancestor? 

that's a pretty karinish face there 

Second hero diary? What was the first?

>Nogi Sonoko joined the Sanshu Middle School Hero Club.

Starting in the present, I see.

>The Nogi Household's rose bath was like a hot spring.

ahh, wait, that illustration is for this scene isn't it yeah, now I see the black eyes instead of purple

>"That's a cute reaction~ I'm sure the readers would love a character like you~ my creative urges are rising~"

sononononono, don't break the fourth wall

unless you're making fanficion of your friends like fiw twilight, in which case I implore you to reconsider.

>"Yeah, that combination does sound like it could work. So next, how about Nogi?"

do not give sonoka a position of authority outside of combat. it will not end well.

>But yeah, right now, I think that out of all four candidates, I'd recommend Karin as club president. It'll probably be hard for her, but she is the 'perfect hero' after all, so I'm sure she can manage somehow."

ah right karin's more mellowed out now.

>"Okay, I'll read your fortune! ...Okay, I've got the results. This looks like it'll be a good romance!"

show me how you fucked up the tarot itsuki. I won't get too mad.

>"Well~ I'm not sure what I like exactly, but someone who's diligent and takes good care of others would be lovely~. It'd be even more fun if they were way too serious and got reckless from time to time, huh~"

sonogo you're just describing togou

>I wanted some material for my novels, so I asked for some history books to sent in from my family house's archive, and they sent me a huuuumongous amount of them.

HISTORY BOOKS GOTTEM

>"Books that escaped censorship... Those exist?"

fffucking taisha

burnin books too

>It was the same title as the diary Sonoko had recorded when she was worshiped, the Hero Diary.

ahhh so hero diaries are what the taisha make heroes write after they've reached their expiration dates

>It says the diary began to be recorded in July 2015.

so the treepocalypse happened in Next Sunday AD.

>"Nogi... Wakaba... Is she my ancestor~? If she wrote this diary, then does that mean my ancestor was a hero?"

caaaallllled iiiiiiit

y'alright there yuuna

(Prologue: End)

apocalypse magical girls from the far off future of 2018

what the fuck yuuna's is yuuna a time traveller a reincarnatee a cryogenically frozen supersoldier from the distant past

or is this just a coincidence

>Nogi Wakaba, a fifth grader at the time 

>a fifth grader at the time 

>fifth grader at the time 

>fifth grader 

are you fucking kidding me 

that was a joke

so nogi wakaba is basically blond sumi right 

why do these ten year olds have boobs

>One of the star-like objects fell onto the roof of the kagura-den. It was definitely not a bird at all. Its entire body was an almost unnatural white, its size far more gigantic than a human, with an ominous mouth-like organ.

and here's the vertices

>On unsteady feet, Hinata stood up. A strange light imbued her eyes and hex-like words leaked from her mouth.

ahh hinata's got the old possession style sayakafication fairies

I see they're taking the opportunity to do what they can't show on television.

>When she snapped back to her senses, Wakaba was standing up with that very sword in hand. She could've sworn the blade was rusted, but before she  had realised it, the blade was tinged with a vibrant, almost living brilliance.

we sure this is still the magical girl genre? this is giving me Eternity Sword vibes more than anything

>Some changed into a form like the edge of a section of body tissue, stiffening and rising up. (...They're... evolving...?)

that's not how evolution works.

>Three years later-- Nogi Wakaba was now a second year in middle school.

not expecting a time skip of all things. I'll be honest, I was enjoying the hellhole thing.

>Uesato Hinata is a Miko, one who hears divine voices.

miko, huh? interesting.

chapter 1 end.

the fuck is a doi

>After the invasion, a special tree by the name of "Shinju" appeared in Shikoku, and a giant wall made of plant tissue surrounded the island. It is said that the Shinju was the incarnation of the local gods, and the wall was a barrier it put up to stop the Vertex.

"appeared", "it was said". hm, hm, hm~♪

>"Uranophobia."

pff, uranus. but apparently it's "fear of heaven"

>Although it said "hearing the voice of the gods," it was not through common speech, but rather in the form of symbols and suggestive hints that instructions were transmitted to her.

symbols and suggestive hints, huh... so basically it's a horoscope.

>Only the purest of girls

"purest of girls"? what the hell does that even mean in this case

> are able to come in contact with the gods who detest impurity.

oh, the gods are fucking Lunarians.

>An area of the southeastern part of Lake Suwa in Nagano was, like Shikoku, also protected by a barrier where people could live.

...Another barrier? A second tree, or???

noodle discourse

>It let her feel safe knowing there was a friend out there fighting as well.

she's gon die isn't she

oh fuck I'm going to need to memorize at least five sets of speech patterns aren't I

>"I'm not fondling them! I'm trying to tear them off!"

i see hinata has more in common with togou than her hair color

this'll be a joy to get straight 

we even have multiple soft-spoken girls with long black hair 

interesting to note that yuuna's not pictured yet.

>Normal weapons were useless against the Vertex, only those that the Heroes wielded could inflict damage upon them.

so do the weapons have fairies in them or what

>"Taisha" was written with the characters for "Great Shrine," wait a fucking second is this a different organization

yeah yuuna's a time traveller.

chapter 2 end

guess blossoming is already a thing

for some strange reason I feel like wakaba's the only character who matters here.

>And yet Yuuna was less concerned about herself, and more concerned with Chikage who hadn't participated in the battle at all.

yuuna being yuuna

>The next moment, the cylindrical Vertex began forming a clear red plate-shaped structure.

cancer?

>Out of the infinite records available to her, the one Yuuna now chose was "Ichimokuren".

wait, so yuuna's choosing her fairy?

and stuffing it in herself, which is bad.

>Wakaba had dodged the Vertex's charge with the least necessary movement, and at the same time, she bit off part of the enemy's body with her teeth.

don't bite the alien wakaba

>"Wakaba-chan! You can't go eating weird things like that, okay!?"

pff.

chapter 3 end

so is she referring to actual blossoming here or what

>A foul smell hit her the moment she stepped inside.

welp

chikage's in a bad place

chikage's in a really bad place

>They both cursed her existence.

yikes

>Those who had hurt her once were now trying to get on her good side.

garbage people, the lot of them

>(My worth... is in being a hero...)

oh no this won't end well

>It allowed her to exist in seven different places at once. She wouldn't die unless all seven were killed at the same time.

and this is even one of the fairies mentioned in that report.

chapter 4 end

??? I don't get it

oh hey gemini

>"I see! So then maybe we can use the udon as a diversion if it reacts to it!" there is absolutely no way this will work.

>untamarable what kind of pun is that

chapter 5 end

wait a second is that part talking about udon did they censor udon and intelligent? why the hell would the taisha censor information about instant noodles 

>The one who saved her was Yuuna. She suddenly appeared in the midst of the swarm and started holding them off instead of Wakaba. are you sure yuuna's not the protagonist here

so to temporarily stop the vertexes the taisha allegedly went aztec on what were allegedly six mikos those wouldn't happen to actually be these six characters somehow, would they? and I guess Yuuna would be a zombie...?

end of chapter 6

so apparently the divine tree is blaming humans too? fuck that tree.

guess hinata's hair is purple now.

>"...Her consciousness still hasn't returned." so are comas normal for yuuna

this group is a lot less stable than the other ones.

>Now that it had been denied... just how should she fight from now on?

wakaba freaking out about her girlfriend leaving is cute

ah, anzu's trying to cheer her up by point out how many people she’s been helping.

>(But now... I have to get over it.) :V guess the therapists all got eaten

and Chapter 7 ends with another timeskip.

>And perhaps they would keep on changing. *glances at gin's funeral*

>Aki Masuzu clamoured in misery as she changed clothes. oh boy another new character

>However, all communications with Suwa had ceased after last September.

and another tree circle is confirmed just to be killed off lemme guess, they'll disappear one by one until shikoku's all that's left?

>Finally, the Shinju appeared at the end of the path. hup

even in a light novel, the tree isn't described

>Several of the small stars combined into a brilliance unlike anything I've ever seen... leo again?

>There are two kinds of honetsukidori. Chick uses spring chickens while hen uses more mature chicken meat. Chick is more plump, tender, and easier to eat, while hen has a deeper flavour that oozes out the more you chew on its tougher meat. stop it, you're making me hungry

>All Yuuna was doing was cheerfully humming as she cleaned Wakaba's ears-- but not even Hinata was a match for a technique like that. even in other characters' stories, yuuna reigns supreme

>The fierce battle foretold in the oracle in the midst of the war of humanity's last stand would later be called the Battle of Marugame Castle. Oh, so we're getting into a fight that's actually important?

[End of chapter 8]

hmm. you know what, there's only so long you can string me along with splotches of whiteout before I get desensitized to it.

>Would they just blindly increase in size, or would they guide their evolution into an intentional form? The latter.

>By that time, the black shadows wrapping around her foot had already disappeared. what the heck

>Suddenly, Tamako collapsed to her knees. really shouldn'tve tempted fate back there.

>The fairy she had extracted from the Shinju was Minamoto no Yoshitsune, a general with superhuman martial arts thought it was a divine tree, not a throne of heroes.

end of chapter 9.

So are they going on a "trip" outside the wall? Wonder if it's as much of a primordial hellscape as it is in present times...

>Many buildings had been blown out from the inside as if a chemical explosion had occurred within, and traces of heat-deformation could be seen. That's the first unpleasant thing they saw? Guess the vertexes haven't done... whatever to destroy the atmosphere yet.

>For dinner, they were boiling water in a pot to cook some udon they had brought from Shikoku. It was a dry-noodle kind of Sanuki udon that kept well. of course they're eating udon.

>After dinner, everyone went into the river to wash off their sweat. oh boy another fanservice scene bet there's a cg for this too yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

>"If I become a hero and do my best fighting the Vertexes, I can save people. If we keep saving people, then we can slowly but surely take back the world and bring it back to normal. At least that's what I think!" Yuuki Yuuna is a Hero, after all.

>After the heroes had annihilated the Vertexes, they decided to resume moving for the day. even the story is getting bored.

>"Th... there was supposed to be an Osaka-famous rare book store here! How terrible! The last copies of incredibly precious books could be lost to the world now!" all that devestation, and that's what makes you freak out?

>Instead-- they found a heap of several skeletons. That's... odd. They haven't found any bodies so far, have they? I figured the Vertex don't leave anything behind.

>Wakaba noticed a notebook on the floor. She picked it up and looked inside. It was the diary of someone who took refuge in this underground mall.

oh are we going to read a diary in a diary?

chapter 10 end

[olicitydaydream]

Never enough

Summary: Felicity was aware that she was being petty and childish but she was sick and tired of being constantly outdone by Oliver Queen...

Rating: Mature

Read on Ao3

Felicity Smoak had become Felicity Queen two years ago today. Felicity woke up on the day of her anniversary in the best way possible, with her husband's head between her legs and breakfast in bed. Suffice to say Oliver loved celebrating their wedding anniversary. Oliver was good at celebrating anything though really, any of the big moments in their lives. He knew how to perfectly orchestrate romantic gestures, and always managed to get her the most thoughtful gifts, which naturally made Felicity very annoyed. She was aware that she was being petty and childish but she was sick and tired of being constantly outdone by Oliver Queen. 

In their first year together, or back together as it were, Oliver never missed an opportunity to show Felicity how much he loved her. That's when it started, his never-ending reign of relationship master, she had never stood a chance. That first year he had a package delivered on the anniversary of the day they first met. Felicity - who had honestly not realised the significance of the date - thought it was a work related package, until she had unveiled the bouquet of red pens. Attached to the bouquet had been a card reading, Since the first time you made me smile, you have brightened up every one of my days, I hope this brightens up yours. Always, Oliver. Felicity had practically melted into a puddle on her office floor at that, and then had gone home that night and rocked his world in appreciation. Looking back on this, her positive reaction may be partially to blame for the never ending stream of romance she has had to endure.

For her birthday Oliver had taken her to the zoo, which she thought was kind of a weird present until she remembered a night wrapped up in his arms, looking over the Amalfi coast as she told him about her childhood. That nigh she has revealed to him that her dad had promised to take her to the zoo for her birthday, a week before he walked out. 

Oliver proposed to her (again) on his birthday, because he said, "The best present I could ever hope for would be for you, Felicity Smoak, to agree to spend the rest of your life with me." That one had particularly annoyed her because she had put a lot of effort into learning how to cook his dumb chicken dish for his birthday, which was completely forgotten as she ravished him in front of their fireplace. He then also suggested they get married on the anniversary of the day they met because that was "The day my life truly began." That one she had agreed to not just because he managed to make her a puddle yet again, but also because she realised that would be merging together two anniversaries, and therefore gave him one less opportunity to remind her of how thoughtful and wonderful he is. Yes she is aware that she sounds completely insane. 

On their wedding day he had left a box in the middle of her dresser, which she opened to reveal a small stunning sapphire and pearl encrusted, white gold bridal comb hair piece, and of course with a note. To Felicity Smoak (for the last time), the sapphires were my grandmothers, the pearls were my mothers, the piece I've placed them on is brand new, and it's for you. I love you, and I'll see you soon - I'll be the one in the tux at the end of the aisle, who cannot keep his eyes off you. P.S. There are earrings in the bottom of the box, they're Thea's and she's going to want them back. Felicity had lifted up the small cushion the comb had rested on, to find a pair of pearl earrings. Felicity held back tears as she put the earrings on, while Thea slipped the comb into her hair, because her soon-to-be husband had given her something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. On this one particular occasion however, she had her own surprise for her new husband, and revealed that her beautiful white bridal lingerie had a little detailing that was something green.     

For their first anniversary, Felicity had really thought she had bested him when she had taken a week off from work and surprised him with a trip to Bali. She had arranged everything herself, making sure they stayed in the same place as they had their first trip, and ensuring that the team was covered while they were away so that her husband could have her full undivided attention. Felicity had orchestrated their week-long vacation so that their anniversary was on their second to last day in Bali, allowing her to plan a romantic picnic dinner down by the beach and under the stars for their last night. At this perfectly planned dinner however Oliver had given her his anniversary gift to her, in the form of a what looked like a diary. While Felicity had initially started internally celebrating that she had finally won a gift exchange, an ominous feeling started to set in as she took a moment of pause to remember just how good her husband was. What Felicity had thought had been a diary, had actually been a book filled with handwritten letters from Oliver to her. He had written her a letter for every day that they had been married. She was holding a book that Oliver had written documenting how he felt about her for their entire first year of marriage. Felicity was furious, Oliver had sat down every day and written to her, he had been making this gift since the day they got married, and then Felicity cried. He was so damn thoughtful and he made her so damn happy and she was so damn lucky, and he had spent no money, but so much time on this perfect, thoughtful gift and she was furious that he had bested her again, but she also loved it so much. So then for the first, and more importantly last time (because sand), Felicity Queen had made love to her husband right there on the beach. 

When Oliver's next birthday had rolled around she was done. She had spent months thinking about what to get her husband, and was really trying to come up with something better than some upgrades she could make to his bow. The entire month before his birthday she had been in crisis mode at the company after her firewall had been breached, which kind of meant her head wasn't really in the game - the game of gift giving that was. She had ended up getting him a Rocket's season pass and matching jerseys for the both of them to wear to the games. It was a good present, he loved it, and it was a very romantic gesture that she had signed herself up to going to a season of baseball games when her general sporting knowledge was pretty close to zero. Oliver had shown Felicity just how much he appreciated her gesture while she wore nothing but her brand new Rockets jersey. Felicity however was still reeling from his anniversary present and couldn't stop herself from saying, "Why can't I ever give you as thoughtful presents as you manage to give me?"

"What?" Oliver asked, confused.

"You always give me these perfect, thoughtful presents that always make me feel so loved and cherished, and I just can't seem to do the same. You're so perfect and I just can't keep up" Felicity replied, dejected.

"Felicity, you give amazing gifts, Bali was beyond perfect, and I can't wait to have you by my side for the Rockets this season." Oliver said, and leaned down to capture her lips in a tender kiss."And besides, you don't have to get me anything ever, you already gave me the perfect birthday present when you agreed to marry me. You are the greatest gift in my life." 

"Oh and then you have to go an say that, and I can't even be mad at you for always winning." Felicity grumbled. 

"Winning? I didn't realise it was a competition, and even if it was, you alr-"

"Don't." Felicity cut Oliver off. "Don't you dare say I've already won just by being in your life or something equally as tender or romantic. You are insufferable." 

Oliver could help but let out a full bodied laugh at that. "Felicity, you're remarkable." 

"Why, because I'm the only woman alive that would complain that their husband is too thoughtful?" Felicity questioned, knowing full well the answer. "I know." She sighed, "I'm crazy. 

"You're beautiful." Oliver breathed out and started trailing kisses down her neck to her collar bone. "And I love you, crazy and all." Oliver then proceeded to travel further down her body, pressing his lips against her as he went, and effectively clearing her mind as he rested his head between her thighs and brought his tongue to where she needed it most. 

It's not that she didn't love everything he did for her, she did, that was the problem, everything he did was always so perfect, and she always felt inadequate when she tried to return the favour. For this anniversary though, she was determined, she was going to win. She spent months planning out a night that would be equal parts thoughtful, romantic, and sexy. She had enlisted the help of the entire team to help her with ideas, planning and organising. Then when she was thinking of gifts she sought out the queen of shopping herself (pun intended), and begged Thea for her help. Felicity Queen was planning what she hoped to be the best night of her husband's life. She told Oliver to keep their anniversary clear, and that she had something really special planned for him. For weeks, she worked herself sick on this grand anniversary plan, until a couple of days before, when she realised that she wasn't working herself sick at all.

 Oliver knew that Felicity was planning something big for their anniversary. Ever since what she had said at his birthday, he knew that she was trying to 'win' their anniversary. Oliver thought it was laughable that Felicity was trying to find him the perfect present when she had already given him everything he had ever wanted just by being in is life. Everything he gave to her was an attempt to thank her, and to show her how much she meant to him. Felicity was everything to him, she was all he would ever need, and he didn't understand how she didn't know that. Nonetheless, he was excited for their anniversary night, whatever she did have planned he knew would be perfect, because she would be there.

On Oliver's way home that night he had mentally prepared himself for what Felicity had promised would be an 'epic' night, and was ready for her to go the whole nine yards. So he was quite confused when he had arrived home to no sign of celebration at all, no decorations, no wine, no food, and most importantly, no Felicity. Oliver had searched and called out for her before finally ending up in his bedroom, where he still found no sign of Felicity. Before his mind could go into worst case scenario mode however, he noticed a small white rectangle box, with a thin green ribbon wrapped around it sitting in the middle of their bed. Oliver picked it up, untied it and was met with a folded white fabric with red pinstripes. Now even more confused, Oliver unfolded the fabric to reveal a small white plastic stick with an oval cut out in the middle showing two pink lines. Oliver's heartbeat was reverberating throughout his entire body as he picked up the stick for closer inspection, now noticing that the fabric he unfolded was a Rockets onesie. He stared down at what he now knew for sure was a positive pregnancy test with his eyes suddenly wet. A small creak sounded from behind him and he turned abruptly, his eyes meeting those of his wife, who had apparently been watching him from their closet. Oliver couldn't stop the tears from falling down his cheeks as he stared at Felicity.

"Really?" Oliver asked, more hopeful than he had ever sounded in his life.

"Yes." Felicity breathed out. "You're going to be a dad."

The biggest smile he had even felt broke out across his face as he crossed the room in a blink to pick up the woman who had just said the six best words he had ever heard, and proceeded to spin her around.

"Happy anniversary Oliver." Felicity whispered into his ear.

"How long have you known?" Oliver asked almost breathlessly, as he placed his wife back on her feet.

"A couple of days. I'm almost eight weeks along" Felicity responded.

"A couple-? Then, wait this wasn't the 'epic' night you had planned?"

"No, I scrapped all that when I found out I was pregnant, the team wasn't particularly happy with me, as I didn't exactly explain why." Felicity sighed. "But when I found out, this just seemed like a much better way to celebrate our anniversary than renting out a helicopter to- you know what never mind."

"This is perfect." Oliver breathed out. "Thank you."

"For what?" Felicity asked, smiling widely. "Technically you put it in there."

Oliver let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head at his remarkable wife. "You have given me everything; you and this life, it's everything to me, and now you're giving me our family, and it's just, it's- it's everything Felicity. This is everything to me."

Felicity looked up at him through her lashes and bit her lip. Recognising her tell that she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if she should, Oliver cupped her cheek and breathed out a soft, "What?"

"Does that mean I win?" Felicity asked softly.

Oliver let out a full bodied laugh and picked Felicity up again, "You win! You win every present, you win every birthday, Christmas, Hanukah, and anniversary forever, you win everything. Nothing I could ever give to you could possibly surpass what you have given me in this life."

Felicity's smile lit up her whole face as Oliver carried her over to the bed, lay her down and pressed his lips firmly to hers.

Felicity broke away with a small smile, "Thank you too Oliver, you gave this to me as well." She said staring into her husband's eyes. Oliver was about to lean down to kiss her again when she let out a small giggle. Oliver shifted back to look at her again. "I don't think I'll ever be able to come up with anything better than this though."

Oliver just laughed and leaned down to kiss his wife.

Seven months later when she gave birth to their first child, he laughed again. "Looks like you were wrong." 

Felicity lifted her exhausted and confused eyes up from their daughter to meet his, the small crease between her eyebrows asking the question she was too tired to vocalise. 

Oliver leaned down and kissed his daughter and then his wife, before he whispered, "This is even better than our anniversary."

Felicity smiled then, her eyes sparkling up at her husband, "Happy Birthday Oliver." She whispered.

"Yes, it is." 

[beelieveinfandom]

The Breakfast Cult

A worldbuiling heavy short about the Circle from an outsiders perspective. 1964 words. 

AO3 link

 Vivier stared at the paper in her hand.

It was a perfectly normal looking flier, a low quality print job with bright colors and questionable font choices.

She was really doing this.

She couldn’t believe she was really doing this.

It wasn’t that it was only questionably legal. Ever since she stopped making an effort to pass, it was starting to feel like her very existence was illegal, and knowing that police could find a reason to arrest her for waiting for the bus was making it very hard to care about the possibility of getting caught doing something that actually merited such an action.

It wasn’t that she was afraid. In an abstract sense she realized she perhaps should be afraid - there were many things that could go wrong - but Ison was her best friend and she trusted them. She was also, admittedly, slightly burned out about worrying about her own well-being, which she also knew was probably a bad thing, but frankly she was so tired of being afraid and too angry to keep doing nothing.

There was nothing remotely ominous about the flyer. In large, badly justified letters it cheerfully advertised a planning session for a community outreach program.

She ignored the quiet thoughts that told her that the seeming innocence of the flyer was itself ominous. It wasn’t going to be some sort of strange trap; Ison had told her too much, and frankly if things were going to go wrong they probably would have done so years ago.

From what Ison had said it should be rather innocent. Not that she had expected to be told much, with how reserved Ison always was about their religion. At the time they gave her the flyer she had been ranting for the sake of ranting. There had been some bigoted graffiti that had somehow avoided being painted grey for over a month, and it was really starting to get to her. The rant transformed into her talking about how she really wanted to become more involved in the community. Find some activism work that suited her energy levels. She hadn’t really expected any utilitarian response. She really hadn’t been expecting to be handed a flyer for a cult meeting.

“We’re starting up a breakfast program,” Ison had said. “We’re currently still planning the whole thing, and would love input from the greater community. I think it’ll be a great way to get to know our neighbors better. And the whole thing is totally secular. I’m not trying to sneakily initiate you into the Circle; I know how you feel about it.”

It was interesting that they chose to end the conversation on that note, as Vivier herself wasn’t quite sure how she felt about the Circle.

She was aware of it, of course. Her best friend had been a part of it for years now, even if they didn’t talk about it much. And really, everyone knew about the local chapter of the Circle of the Dreamers’ Star. They weren’t exactly secretive about who they were, at least not on a day to day level. Officially, of course, no one had any idea what could possibly be going on in the former school, as not reporting a demonic cult was technically illegal. There was a general communal consensus that if anyone came asking, everyone had been absolutely terrified that the Circle would feed them to the demon the whole time, hence couldn’t possibly tell anyone about it.

Even if people actually trusted anyone of authority to get involved, it was hard to have anything against the Circle, really. They were surprisingly harmless, all things considered. They did a lot to support the community in small ways, especially with a focus on helping kids. Admittedly, this sounded incredibly suspicious at first, but many of the Circle members had children and they kept true to their official policy of not pushing their beliefs on anyone. They were very adamant about that actually, to the point that joining the Circle was an endeavor that could take months.

To even know the name of the entity they worshipped (although with some of the comments Ison had made, Everline wasn’t sure ‘worship’ was quite the right word) was illegal. Not that it was hard to understand why, considering what had just happened to California, but it did mean the Circle was very adamant on not allowing the initiation of anyone who didn’t fully understand the potential consequences of being one of its members.

They had an open door to anyone who needed it, and considering what they worshipped they were certainly in no position to judge those who came to them. Vivier had actually spent a few weeks under their roof when she first left her parents, back when she had decided she didn’t have the energy to constantly make herself look the right kind of feminine, to look like the right kind of human, to look human at all, to put all her energy into emulating people that would turn on her in an instant if they ever learned the truth. She was perfectly content to just look like a doppelganger. Her parents didn’t understand that. They didn’t understand a lot of what she did. The didn’t understand how she could ‘be too sad’ to hold a job down when she could still do freelance art. They didn’t understand why she spoke so lowly of their ‘friends’ who didn’t know they weren’t human, whom her parents were afraid would find out. They didn’t understand why she was considering HRT if she could just make herself look like ‘whatever she wanted’. They didn’t understand her gender at all, really, and they held her pronouns and name over her like they were a privilege to be won.

They didn’t kick her out. They didn’t even understand why she left.

When Ison got her to the Circle, they welcomed her without any questions. After spending so long under the scrutiny and constant questioning of her parents ‘trying to understand’, such unconditional acceptance was almost more welcomed than the promised shelter. She didn’t have any idea who the people of the Circle were at that point - she had come in from the suburbs and Ison wasn’t yet willing to explain too much about the nature of the organization they were trying to join.

She might have freaked out a little when she did find out. It was probably why Ison thought she had some sort of problem with the Circle.

She hadn’t been back to it since, but that wasn’t out of any malice or sense of betrayal. She of all people understood that there are things you don’t tell a person until you have an idea about how they will react.

The temple was only a block away now. It was an old building, made of ivy-covered crumbling red bricks and slanting tile floors. It had two stories normally open to the public and a basement that wasn’t. According to Ison the basement was mostly utility rooms and other building maintenance things, and the Circle normally performed rituals in the better lit second floor conference room. She managed to keep to herself how silly she found the mental image of a bunch of cultists summoning a demon while sitting in large plush chairs. They probably rearranged the room when they did this. Or maybe they didn’t - Ison’s ‘cultist’ outfit was just an old-fashioned suit. Maybe they worshipped the patron demon of benevolent capitalism - totally fitting for Ison’s extremely leftist political stance.

The exterior of the building had changed little from when it was a school. The old playground - currently containing a handful of excited children - was contained in a large garden in full bloom. Most of the plants were either edible or had some other use. A dense thicket of raspberry bushes lined the fence, with less prickly plants closer to the walking path. A chicken coop had been added to the far end of the property. It was now disused, a change for the last time she was here and it was full of weirdly friendly hens. She guessed some of the neighbors had complained, and she couldn’t really blame them. She didn’t even know how many times they woke her up during her stay.

The pollen filled late spring air pressed down on her lungs and throat as she walked past the garden. Any desire to linger outside quickly passed with her ability to breath easily.

Her grip on the flyer tightened.

She was doing this.

She walked inside.

The interior was largely the same as it had been before. A sign requesting that she disable or turn off all recording devices for everyone’s comfort and safety immediately grabbed her attention, along with the signs flanking it reminding her to avoid having fragrance, holy symbols, or other common allergens on her. There was new information on the two large bulletin boards that lined the entry hallway, but they were still the same old pinboards, lightly disintegrating for years of use as she remembered.

A sandwich board was sitting in the hallway, helpfully directing everyone here for the breakfast program to the open doors of prayer room - the largest room in the building. Inside it, five rows of benches were arranged in a circle around the center of the room, where there was a slightly elevated speaking platform. This particular sect of the circle was non-hierarchical, and arrangement was supposed to foster a feeling of equality among those present, as well as encourage group discussion.

Hanging from the ceiling were numerous banners decorated with a one-eyed star. They had always made Vivier slightly uncomfortable, like they were watching her. Not that it was at all unlikely that something was.

The room was nowhere near full, which wasn’t surprising considering its size. A large wedding might be able to fill it, but even a well-attended community meeting didn’t have much of a chance. Still, there were a fair number of people milling about, only a few wearing the star laden suits (or, in one case, the oversized fuzzy sweater) that the Circle members were garbed in.

Vivier sat towards the back of the populated area. She wished she could be with Ison, but they were busying themself with official duties. They also needed to situate themself towards the front in things like this so they could actually hear anything that was being said, and there was absolutely nothing on this Earth that could drive Vivier to sit in the front right now, years of friendship be damned. Not after how many spoons it had taken to come at all.

Someone cleared their throat on the speaking platform. A spell on it magnified their voice across the room as they introduced themself as the moderator of the discussion and went over the itinerary.

The meeting went surprisingly quickly. Vivier had nothing to contribute to the discussion - there were plenty of people there who had experience planning programs like this and knew exactly what they were talking about and she was not one of them - but by the end of it she did find herself with a biweekly volunteer position doing inventory management and, possibly more significantly, a few people’s contact information.

It was good to talk to other people who felt the same way she did. People who had actual ideas about how to fight back against everything that the world was throwing at them. She felt like she might be able to find an outlet for her anger. She felt more energized than she had in recent memory. She felt very strange, and for the first time since high school found herself thinking about the future with a feeling that could possibly be described as ‘hopeful’.

[biofunmy]

Tainted Pork, Ill Consumers and an Investigation Thwarted

It was 7 a.m. on Independence Day when a doctor told Rose and Roger Porter Jr. that their daughter could die within hours. For nearly a week, Mikayla, 10, had suffered intensifying bouts of fever, diarrhea and stabbing stomach pains.

That morning, the Porters rushed her to a clinic where a doctor called for a helicopter to airlift her to a major medical center.

The gravity of the girl’s illness was remarkable given its commonplace source. She had gotten food poisoning at a pig roast from meat her parents had bought at a local butcher in McKenna, Wash., and spit-roasted, as recommended, for 13 hours.

Mikayla was one of nearly 200 people reported ill in the summer of 2015 in Washington State from tainted pork — victims of the fastest-growing salmonella variant in the United States, a strain that is particularly dangerous because it is resistant to antibiotics.

What followed was an exhaustive detective hunt by public health authorities that was crippled by weak, loophole-ridden laws and regulations — and ultimately blocked by farm owners who would not let investigators onto their property and by their politically powerful allies in the pork industry.

The surge in drug-resistant infections is one of the world’s most ominous health threats, and public health authorities say one of the biggest causes is farmers who dose millions of pigs, cows and chickens with antibiotics to keep them healthy — sometimes in crowded conditions before slaughter.

[Read our other stories in our series on drug resistance, Deadly Germs, Lost Cures.)

Overuse of the drugs has allowed germs to develop defenses to survive. Drug-resistant infections in animals are spreading to people, jeopardizing the effectiveness of drugs that have provided quick cures for a vast range of ailments and helped lengthen human lives over much of the past century.

But public health investigators at times have been unable to obtain even the most basic information about practices on farms. Livestock industry executives sit on federal Agriculture Department advisory committees, pour money into political campaigns and have had a seat at the table in drafting regulations for the industry, helping to ensure that access to farms is generally at the owners’ discretion.

Dr. Parthapratim Basu, a former chief veterinarian of the Agriculture Department’s Food Safety and Inspection Service, said the pork industry regularly thwarted access to information on antibiotic use.

“When it comes to power, no one dares to stand up to the pork industry,” he said, “not even the U.S. government.”

[Like the Science Times page on Facebook. | Sign up for the Science Times newsletter.]

A reconstruction of the Washington outbreak provides a rare look into how these forces play out. The New York Times reviewed government documents, medical records and emails of scientists and public health officials, as well as conducted interviews with victims, investigators, industry executives and others involved.

Those industry officials argued in documents and interviews that farmers needed protection against regulators and scientists who could unfairly harm their business by blaming it for a food-poisoning outbreak when the science was complex and salmonella endemic in livestock. The tension mirrors a broader distrust in agriculture and other business about the intention of federal regulators and other government overseers.

“Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘I’m from the government, I’m here to help you’ — and you know they’re going to screw you?” said David J. Hofer, the secretary-treasurer of the Midway Hutterite Colony, a religious community that runs a hog farm in Conrad, Mont. Mr. Hofer said he was one of the farmers who objected to the farm inspections during the outbreak.

“They might have public health in mind, but they don’t care if in the process they break you.”

In the end, Mikayla Porter survived, but the threat of the infection that nearly killed her continues — not least because investigators still lack access to essential data.

A Danger Grows

There are 2,500 different types of salmonella. The one that infected Mikayla is called 4,5,12:i-minus. It first showed up in the late 1980s in Portugal, and then in Spain, Thailand, Taiwan, Switzerland and Italy. In the United States, infections it causes have risen 35 percent over the past decade, while the overall rate of salmonella infections has stayed constant.

The strain typically resists four major antibiotics: ampicillin, streptomycin, sulfisoxazole and tetracycline.

“We can see resistance is really increasing,” said Dr. Robert V. Tauxe, director of the division of food-borne, waterborne and environmental diseases at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

This particularly virulent strain of salmonella is just one of a growing number of drug-resistant germs that put farm families, and meat eaters generally, at risk.

A study in Iowa found that workers on pig farms were six times more likely to carry multidrug-resistant staph infections, notably MRSA. A study in North Carolina found that children of pig workers were twice as likely to carry MRSA than children whose parents didn’t work in a swine operation.

Those germs can also wind up on pork sold to consumers. An analysis of government data by the Environmental Working Group, a research organization, found that 71 percent of pork chops at supermarkets in the United States carried resistant bacteria, second only to ground turkey, at 79 percent.

Like many outbreaks of resistant infections, the salmonella variant that sickened Mikayla is usually so widely dispersed that the C.D.C. has had a hard time tracking it.

But in the Washington outbreak, the infection was new to the region, and tests revealed the bug had the same genetic profile in patients, creating ideal conditions for scientific detective work.

“This was our real opportunity,” said Allison Brown, a C.D.C. epidemiologist. “Everything lined up.”

A Celebration Turns Dire

The Porter family had invited friends and neighbors to the pig roast to celebrate a major life change: In three days, they would be moving to Costa Rica.

But the day after the roast, Mikayla felt sick, and by 4:30 a.m. the following morning, she had diarrhea so severe that her parents took her to the emergency room.

There, a doctor said she had a stomach bug, assuring them it would pass and approving her to travel. Her parents also felt sick, but not as seriously, and they flew to Costa Rica as planned.

After arriving, Mikayla got much worse, excreting mucus and blood. She lay in agony on the couch, the family dogs sitting beside her protectively.

A doctor at BeachSide Clinic near Tamarindo, the town where the family had rented a house, prescribed the antibiotic azithromycin, medical records show. It did not work.

The family returned to the clinic the next day. That is when Dr. Andrea Messeguer told Mikayla’s parents their daughter could die, and helped arrange the airlift to Hospital CIMA in the capital, San José.

There, doctors determined that Mikayla had a systemic infection. She received intravenous hydration and antibiotics.

Tests came back from the national lab showing the drug-resistant salmonella strain.

Back in Washington, many others were also getting sick.

On July 19, Nicholas Guzley Jr., a police officer, ate pork at a restaurant in Seattle, and at 2 a.m. threw up in the shower. The medical ordeal that followed was so excruciating — vomiting, diarrhea, bleeding, a fever of 103.9 degrees, dehydration and multiple hospital visits — that he said it was worse than a near-death experience in 2003 when he had been hit by a truck.

“If you stack up all the pain from all the injuries, this blew it away,” he said.

On July 23, the head of Washington’s Department of Health sent out an alert, warning that 56 people had fallen ill and publicizing an investigation into the outbreak by the state’s health and agriculture agencies, coordinating with the C.D.C. The Washington State epidemiologist, Dr. Scott Lindquist, took the lead.

On July 27, a restaurant had its permit suspended for food safety violations, including failure to keep its food hot enough. Multiple restaurants were identified as possible sources of tainted pork, along with several pig roasts.

Dr. Lindquist and his team discovered that many of the infected roast pigs had come from a slaughterhouse called Kapowsin Meats. Tests of 11 samples taken from slaughter tables, knives, hacksaws, transport trucks and other spots showed that eight were positive for the resistant strain.

At Kapowsin, the state investigators spoke to the federal official responsible for inspecting the slaughterhouse, who suggested that they look for the farms where the tainted pork had come from.

The Heart of an Outbreak

Records obtained by the state showed that many of the pigs supplied to Kapowsin originated on industrial farms in neighboring Montana.

On Aug. 13, state records noted that the investigative team — including the C.D.C. and the federal Agriculture Department — was in touch with officials in Montana to discuss gaining access to the farms.

Determining where the outbreak originated would have allowed the team to trace other possibly infected pork, recall it and advise the owners on how to change their practices.

But such investigations are extremely sensitive because the publicity can be bad for business, and because the law protects farmers in such situations. Over all, the government has little authority to collect data on farms.

“We have people in the slaughterhouses every day, all day long,” said Paul Kieker, the acting food safety administrator at the Agriculture Department. “We don’t have a lot of jurisdiction on farms.”

The Food and Drug Administration is charged with collecting antibiotic use data. But farms are not required to provide it, and only do so voluntarily.

As a result, the federal government has no information about the antibiotics used on a particular farm and no way to document the role of the drugs in accelerating resistance.

“I haven’t been on a farm for years,” said Tara Smith, a professor at Kent State University and an expert on the connection between resistance and livestock. “They’ve closed their doors to research and sampling.”

Investigators Are Turned Away

Dr. Lindquist, the epidemiologist leading the investigation of the Washington outbreak, pleaded with Montana’s health agency to help him gain access to the farms that had supplied the Kapowsin slaughterhouse.

In a memo to state officials, he told them that such infections were increasing rapidly and that “on-farm investigations will help us better understand the ecology of salmonella” and “prevent future human illnesses.”

Days later, he received a phone call from Dr. Liz Wagstrom, the chief veterinarian for the National Pork Producers Council, a group that lobbies on behalf of the livestock industry. Its campaign donations to congressional candidates have more than doubled in the past decade, to $2 million in 2018, according to the Center for Responsive Politics.

Dr. Wagstrom sought to find out what Dr. Lindquist had learned in his investigation and what he was saying to the media, he said, recalling the conversation. He said she was worried the pig farms might be unfairly tarnished, arguing that salmonella was common on farms, so an investigation wouldn’t prove anything, even if the infection was detected.

In an interview, Dr. Wagstrom said she was concerned that farm visit wouldn’t yield valuable information. “What would you learn that could positively impact public health?”

The industry soon became more involved. Officials from the National Pork Board joined regular crisis conference calls during the investigation, along with numerous state and federal health and agriculture officials.

The board is a group of pork industry executives whose members are elected by the industry and then appointed by the secretary of agriculture, cementing a tight bond between business and government.

Dr. Lindquist initially welcomed the executives’ presence, given their expertise, though he did not know who had initially invited them.

Rules With Big Loopholes

That same year, F.D.A. guidelines went into effect that were supposed to enable the tracking of antibiotics on farms. They required farms to obtain prescriptions from veterinarians to dispense antibiotics, and only to animals sick or at risk of illness. The guidelines said that farms must stop using antibiotics as “growth promoters.”

But the rules have loopholes, which were highlighted a year earlier when officials from the F.D.A., C.D.C., the Agriculture Department and the Pew Charitable Trusts met at the University of Tennessee. The group heard from Thomas Van Boeckel, an expert in statistical modeling and antibiotic resistance who was then at Princeton.

Dr. Van Boeckel told the group that he could build maps showing changing levels of antibiotic use on farms and compare them with changing levels of resistance.

To do so, he said, he needed data sets by region or, better yet, by farm.

“I was told there was a single data point per year, literally,” he said.

That data point: Around 33 million pounds of medically important antibiotics, a 26 percent increase from 2009, were sold in the United States for farm use. The figure, collected from sales data by the F.D.A., was the sum total of the information they were able to provide him.

Dr. Van Boeckel told the group that without more specific information, he couldn’t do any real measurement.

“They said: Yeah, that’s going to be challenging.”

As the end of August neared, Mikayla Porter had stabilized, but in Washington State, the salmonella caseload continued to grow.

On Aug. 26, Kapowsin agreed to cease operations, in cooperation with the state. The next day, there was a recall of 523,380 pounds of its pork products.

At the same time, the Montana Pork Producers Council wrote to the Washington health agency, saying it was “clear that there is little to no value in conducting on-farm investigations,” and that investigators should focus on slaughterhouses.

Anne Miller, the council’s executive director, said she did not appreciate that the researchers were coming at a time of crisis. “The trick to getting good information is get research before you get to that situation,” she said. “Why hadn’t this been done prior?”

She spoke to pork producers in the state, and some expressed concern about being unfairly blamed for the outbreak, worried that government officials seeking information on their farms could unfairly tarnish their image and business.

Mr. Hofer, of the farm in Conrad, said in a phone interview that he objected strongly to the investigation.

“I was animated about that,” he said. “Let’s say they found something — it probably would have screwed up some other markets we had.”

Mr. Hofer said his farm provided pigs to Kapowsin but did not know if the sales had overlapped with the outbreak. He said it was clear to him that the slaughterhouse was to blame. “There was salmonella all over that plant.”

On Aug. 28, the National Pork Producers Council sent Washington State a follow-up letter concurring with Ms. Miller.

“I know that you do not want any inadvertent negative consequences to farms as a result of this proposed on-farm sampling,” Dr. Wagstrom wrote in the letter.

Ms. Miller and others in the industry said farms could provide voluntary information on antibiotic use, but they have taken a hard line on government access because of fears that individual farms would be singled out for a complex problem with multiple causes.

The position stuns some scientists.

“So let’s not do anything to give anyone a bad reputation, including any bad behavior?” asked Dr. James Johnson, a professor at the University in Minnesota and an expert in resistant infections. “The people who stand to benefit from having everyone remain ignorant are the ones who protest the loudest.”

That September, Dr. Lindquist still hoped his team would get the go-ahead to take samples from the five farms thought to have been possible sources for the outbreak, but it never came.

“I don’t know even to this day why this got stymied,” he said.

He said he did not know that Ms. Miller, the head of the Montana Pork Council, had contacted the farms and been told they would not permit a visit from researchers.

The farms officially declined, through her, to comment for this story.

By Sept. 22, the case load had hit 178 known infections, with 29 people hospitalized, but the outbreak was petering out. The investigation ended, Dr. Lindquist said, “with a whimper.”

“During the outbreak, I heard from restaurants, patients, the slaughterhouse, the U.S.D.A., F.D.A., the Department of Agriculture in Washington and Montana, the health department in Montana and the health department in Washington State,” Dr. Lindquist said. “I did not hear from the farms.”

Sahred From Source link Health

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[aesethewitch]

notes from an ex-empath

I almost decided to not publish this at all, but... well, I'm pulling the trigger on it.

This is an extremely personal account of my experience with the empath label (as well as starseed/indigo child, plus some references to twin flames, past lives, and everything else that goes with those things) and the ways it fucked me right up. These experiences have informed my entire life and still impact my witchcraft and spiritual practices to this day, so. It's context.

It's for supporters only right now while I truss up the courage to make it fully public. Cheers.