#i have a longer version to this in my drafts but understand I’m lazy and it isn’t finished lol

[cancerian-woman]

I don’t feel like ranting but in short I don’t believe Enzo or Damon was needed to show Bonnie’s emotional problems.

[lottachaos]

MY BLORBOS (MY MAIN THING YEEHAW)

I have made picrews of my Blorbos I would post art but my sketchbook is in a different room and I am lazy

Veryn, the main one, who is also my persona:

Matthew who is Veryn’s boyfwend:

Hes really tan but I can’t always make him seem that way

anyways gonna rant now

veryn is a gremlin who is a lot like me in real life but more my my ideal version of myself. He is high energy and chaotic and loud but he can be serious when he needs to be. He has chronic RBF (Resting Bedroomeyes Face)

Matthew is chill and quiet and worries and lot and does this cute little worries gentle smile that veryn freaking falls for. He seems like he doesn’t do any chaos crap but then he goes and does some wild thing and you realize why veryn fell in love with him. He is covered in scars bc of various stuff he accidentally got involved with.

veryn lives half in the woods and half in an appartement. He has wings. Sometimes he has horns and these dark on his face and shoulders but that only appears when he’s in very stressful situations.

Matthew lives in an appartement with his sister who is named Katie and has a job or goes to college, I haven’t decided which yet

they are both in their young twenties, no more that 24.

Matthew somehow gets some sort of forestry Wiley thing like veryn has but idk how. All I know is that he gets this long whipping tail with a tuft at the end which is the thing in the back of one of the picrews of him.

Matthew is covered in scars bc veryn is in the middle of this big situation where he’s fighting against these magical eldritch entities and Matthew at one point finds him in the woods fighting them and tries to help and then gets beaten up and bitten by magical snakes and almost dies. That is where most of his scars come from (he has a scar that looks like a dinsosaur on his left side just beneath his rib cage. It’s called the dinoscar) but some various other events give him lil other scars

Veryn is much better at defending himself because he has been having to fight for much longer and so does t have as many obvious scars. He does have on long one on his neck because enemies tries to slice it at one point but he lived.

Matthew usually wears a black turtleneck and this tan cardigan looking jacket. Some of the picrews I used didn’t have that option so I had to make due.

Veryn usually wears a bright green shirt about the color of the “Draft saved!” Pop up that happens in tumblr when you take ages to write a post. Then he wears a brown jacket on top and black or brown pants and some brown boots. He basically dresses kinda like a redneck but when you see the clothes on him you cannot see anything but skinny gay forest being.

Oh yeah Veryn’s wings look like the brown variant of a tawny Eagle. Basically. Except a little more brown and a little less white and dots/stripes.

I stayed up till one am last night writing a (rather spicy) fic for them. I will share SOME of it here in a different post. I will also show some art of these two in a different post. Stay tuned, anyone who’s interested!! Eventually I will probably make some sort of book or smth about these two. Yes Ik I use tropes and it’s not super realistic in a lot of ways but I understand that and I don’t really care because I’m just making the story to be however its best to me and cringe culture is dead .

CRINGE IS TEMPORARY BLORBO IS FOREVER!!

Anyways, there you have it. I’ll post more later. I’m so excited I’ve finally put info about them all in one place bc I rlly needed to do that. k bye

[the-last-kenobi]

I... don’t have a reason for this one. it’s been sitting in my drafts for months so here we go.

_-_-_

Pale tiled floors, shining from regular cleanings and scattered with a few mismatched rugs in warm, rustic tones, each one made from different fibers and threads, each one showing signs of wear.

A long window, curtained over with sheer fabric that still permitted the light of dawn to suffuse the room. It filtered lazily over the furniture, just as mismatched and well-loved as the rugs, and the less tidy kitchen, a grey pot still spattered with an orange sauce left absent-mindedly on the stovetop.

A pair of boots discarded sloppily in the small space before the entry door. Large, mud-spotted, scuffed — Qui-Gon’s, abandoned in a fit of sarcastic humor when he kicked them off the afternoon before, returning at last from a months-long mission.

A book, an actual paperbacked edition with edges made soft by use, by fingers lovingly and unthinkingly caressing the ridges and the binding, lying on the side table next to the coziest chair — Obi-Wan’s, deliberately set aside late last night when he realized he’d been reading much longer than he’d meant to.

Now, just after dawn, it was not surprising that the Master was the first to wake.

Qui-Gon exited his own room and paused in the common area, drinking in the familiarity, eyeing the book with knowing amusement. He went to the window and with what some of the crankier Masters would have called flagrant laziness, waved his hand and let the Force gently part the curtains.

It was not much brighter without them; they were sheer as it was and the smoggy vista this morning did not allow for much sun.

Still, sunshine was sunshine, polluted or not, and Qui-Gon relaxed as it washed over him, barefoot and still wearing his nightclothes under an old robe that had grown so ratty he had cleaned it and resigned it to the realm of comfort clothing.

He looked at the book again and smirked, shaking his head; as he walked past it towards the other door in the room, he ran a finger over the cover, feeling the ridges of the embossed title. Still, he thought, no excuses. I warned him we’d begin today with meditation. He can sleep in tomorrow.

“Obi-Wan,” he said, and opened the door to the boy’s room, a smaller and more cramped version of his own.

The light was greyer, here; the sunlight didn’t quite cross the threshold, and the solar-lamp on the desk was unlit. Shadows played with his eyes for a moment, and then Qui-Gon focused on the form on the bed, folded messily in the soft white sheets, curled on one side with one arm tucked beneath the pillow and the other dangling off the side of the bed.

“Obi-Wan,” he said again, cheerfully speaking with totally unnecessary volume. “Good morning.”

No response.

Snorting quietly, Qui-Gon approached the bed, reaching down to ignite the lamp as he did.

Golden light spilled out, and Obi-Wan’s soft golden-red hair burned like fire in response. Still, he slept on, his face turned towards his pillow and the sheets half-covering his cheek and nose.

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon said, exasperated now. “Good morning.”

He tugged on the braid that he had helped retie less than twelve hours ago, and Obi-Wan’s head twitched on the pillow as he was pulled, but the boy didn’t even blink.

“Star’s sake,” mumbled Qui-Gon, and pulled harder.

Obi-Wan’s whole head turned, his neck limp and unresisting at that mild tug, and the stark white face with its closed eyes and slack lips stared upwards, completely still.

Qui-Gon’s soul felt like it had lurched right out of his body.

He collapsed on his knees on the bed, kneeling over his apprentice, hands moving to frame the pale face and finding cool, stiff skin without a trace of the grouchy blush the poorly rested teenager would have given him any other day.

Frantic, Qui-Gon’s hands searched for a puff of warm breath from the open lips, for a heartbeat from the chest, for a pulse in the limp wrist that still dangled inches from the floor.

But there was nothing.

Qui-Gon shook his head wildly, lifting Obi-Wan’s head from the pillow, trying to make him sit up. The boy rolled limply in his arms and hung there like a rag doll, his face pressed against his Master’s overly worn robe, unknowing and uncaring of how awkwardly he was being held.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon tried to say again, but this time it came out stretched and broken, wavering like a child’s uncertain attempt at handwriting. More of a moan than spoken word. “Obi...Obi-Wan? No, no, no no no...” Begging, denying.

He’d do anything—

Obi-Wan was twenty. Twenty. Young, healthy, a few years at most from Knighthood, which was only the beginning. He was strong and well-trained and he had laughed when Qui-Gon left his boots on the floor last night and shaken his head, saying he was going to stay up and read and have to deal with that eyesore in his peripherals all evening, and he’d smiled when Qui-Gon reached over to tug on the Padawan braid and added a casual, paternal caress of the thumb across the freckled cheek as he did, and —

“Obi-Wan, wake up,” he begged his Padawan, pulling the boy closer, bowing his own head down to touch the slumped shoulder. “Please come back. I don’t understand. I don’t — Obi-Wan. Please.”

The words devolved into hyperventilating breaths, which turned into ragged sobs, which turned into... a blur.

A comm call. Someone asking him to breathe. Hands separating him from his Padawan. Someone he didn’t know casually moving the boots out of the way, as if they didn’t matter, as if they weren’t there so Obi-Wan could laugh at them again. Being led to the Halls. Questions being asked of him. Condolences being offered. Again and again. And again.

“A heart problem,” a distant voice saying. “Insignificant enough that it wasn’t picked up on. We think he had a startling vision, or a bad dream, and his heart-rate spiked but his breathing didn’t match it.”

“A small heart problem,” they said.

“Rare,” they said.

“Might never have caused problems, except...” they said.

“I’m so sorry,” they said.

But nothing they said was making anything make more sense, nothing they said was making reality any less nightmarish.

Obi-Wan was twenty.

He was supposed to wake up grumpy and meditate with him, he was supposed to make the tea because he liked to make the tea, and he was supposed to laugh about the boots while Qui-Gon teased him about his book.

He was not supposed to go into cardiac arrest in his sleep because his heart and his lungs weren’t working together as they should have.

He was not supposed to die.

“I would have felt it,” he heard himself say weakly. “I would have sensed it.”

“We’re not all-knowing,” Mace’s voice said heavily. Had he been talking to Mace? He supposed he must have been, but then he stopped caring and tuned the rest of the conversation out.

Then Qui-Gon was standing in the common area again, fixated on the book, well-loved, gently used, waiting patiently on the side table next to the coziest chair — because Qui-Gon preferred the sofa or the floor cushions, and because Obi-Wan liked to cross his legs and dangle them over the arm and he had been doing that since he was thirteen and lonely and still bearing bruises from when he’d been kidnapped and enslaved when he should have had a Master to protect him, and so that chair was Obi-Wan’s, really, just his — and the book was waiting and waiting and it was going to wait forever.

And that did it.

The boots, shoved aside, unremarked.

The book, waiting innocently on the table.

Obi-Wan was gone, and wouldn’t be coming back. Despite the dawn, despite the chair that was understood silently to be his, despite the promises of early meditation, despite the affection in the touch across his cheek, despite the boots waiting to be smiled at, despite the book waiting to be read again, despite a Master’s protection — a Master’s love —

Obi-Wan had been stolen away again, this time for good, and everything, everything was as ashes.

Qui-Gon stood rooted to the spot and watched the night pass and a new dawn creep up on its heels, hoping for golden light that would chase away some of the cold.

But the light was grey this morning, and he was alone.

Qui-Gon blinked aching eyes, feeling dried tears across the lids as he did. The lights hurt, and he groaned, turning away.

A face slid into view above him as at the same time two gentle hands held his head still, examining his face, and Qui-Gon froze, staring up at the person holding him.

He tried to speak, but he couldn’t, his throat swollen and throbbing from abuse.

“Shhhh,” said Obi-Wan, his face pinched with concern. “Go back to sleep, Master. You’ve been drugged. It’s almost over. I’ve got you. The Healers say you’ll be all right. Go back to sleep.”

Qui-Gon reached up, straining impossibly just to make his shaking hand obey him, and felt his callused fingers glide across the young, sun-freckled cheek, felt warmth and saw a dimple appear as Obi-Wan smiled down at him.

“Shhh,” said Obi-Wan again. “You’ve been dreaming something awful, I think. Nobody has hurt you, Master, you’re all right.”

“So...are you,” Qui-Gon rasped, his voice thin and unfamiliar to his own ears.

A strange look crossed the boy’s face, like realization and confusion all at once. Still, he nodded, and lowered his head down to rest his forehead briefly against his teacher’s. “I’m all right, Master. It was only a dream.”

_-_-_

[bawkrya]

ok so im just gonna pick at fr from a web designer pov because looking at this site on mobile will drive me into madness if they don’t fix it at some point. The rest of this post will go under a read more because it’s both super long and image heavy.

before i hit mobile though, I’m going to point out some things i just don’t personally like in general with the site design (and yes i am conscious that they are slowly updating to a new look)

this will come as a shock to no one, if you’ve seen previous web design related posts by others anyways, but i cant. stand this menu

[ID: A cropped screenshot of Flight Rising’s Main Menu]

fr, understandably, has a shit ton of links. it’s a petsite with lore and all that, whatever. The thing that bothers me specifically is the length of links and where some are placed.

1. i BELIEVE this counts as an accessibility issue where longer links kinda trap shorter links, goes into misclicks to other pages in the site, etc. etc.  2. i don’t think. the search link should be under library personally ? Maybe make it its own category. 

Dev Tracker & Media could go under this category, possibly add separate links to forum, player, and dragon searches with updated formatting

Dressing Room and Scrying Workshop could go under the “Play” category 

Forums can be it’s own category with possible subcategories being: Announcements & News, Help Center, and Flight specific discussion forum, maybe more 

Library category could then just be: Which Waystone, World Map, Game Database, and Encyclopedia.

Support should be it’s own category.

One thing on the shop category, and i hesitate to say this because im not CONFIDENT on this one, but I’m not sure Custom Skins exactly fits? or at least, it should be Purchase Gems -> Marketplace -> Custom Skins, not between crossroads and festive favors

Merch should probably go under purchase gems, and they should maybe uhh..... i guess change the name for it overall? because 1. “merch” alone does NOT look good with its placement, 2. its another actual money purchase thing and I think those should go on the same page

Along with that, in putting merch under that page, they could put previews of the merch with a button to go purchase instead of immediately going to their merch site (which to begin with it should open in a new tab if its going to a separate site?!!)

then this is a mix of both not liking it on laptop OR mobile, 

[ID: A cropped image of Flight Rising’s Clan Home page. The Bestiary link has a bright red box highlighting it]

Obviously these pages are old, but the graphics need to be updated, and there needs to be graphics for every link in the category-- seeing with this category alone there isn’t a graphic for the Bestiary already. On top of this they need to be in link order preferably. if they had a normal dropdown menu for mobile, mobile users wouldn’t be able to access the bestiary unless FR wanted to be STUPID and do further dropdown menus w their 200 links which would be STUPID and CLUTTERED

also in my opinion the Messages link isn’t necessary since we have the button at the top. If they put it there as an excuse for accessibility, they can just. add text to the buttons. like here’s a scuffed mockup but. 

[ID: Screenshot of Flight Rising’s Messages, Friend Requests, and Alerts icons edited to have Messages, Friends, and Alerts written next to the icons]

for the friends tab, they could prolly add friend requests at the top like they do for baldwin alerts, then have an online status thing for friends below with buttons to PM, trade, delete friend, etc. I think you’re already able to disable the online status thing with page visibility? but like, make those options separate if you dont wanna block off your entire page, but dont want to be seen online.

For mobile, they can just make the icons bigger.

then. i THINK. last thing on laptop site. 

[ID: A screenshot of Flight Rising’s Social Media links with old Logos to YouTube, Tumblr, Reddit, Twitter, Facebook, and DeviantArt]

update these fucking icons they are personally killing me, none of these logos are in use anymore (ALSO UPDATE THE TUMBLR THEME JESUS CHRIST)

ok now for mobile. what this post was originally for.

-

as you all know, if you visit this site on mobile, there is literally no form of a mobile version for it. It is just a condensed version of the computer version of the site which is...Very Bad! 

Most of a sites visitors are going to be through mobile, i forget the exact percentage, but like it’s almost a given that people more readily have their phones with them than their laptop or tablet (which. im not going to bother with the tablet version, you can apply both computer and mobile criticisms to the site). in fact a lot of my time on FR is through mobile since I’m not at home 24/7 and I don’t tote my laptop around. Playing this game through it’s mobile site is Not Fun! 

I like, won’t be too pissy or anything bc like. it’s a petsite and I’m making this post for fun. but also like it was made in 2014? 2013? so I’m not going to be u kno. angry. but it nearing the point of ten years with this site and there still isn’t a mobile friendly version. that is lazy. If anything, if they wanted a site update to be the anniversary thing, they should’ve made that update be

Mobile update as primary thing, because designing the site for mobile is a shit ton of work with the amt of pages they have to work through.

Dragon Profile page update (*LOUD SIGH*)

Clan page update

Hoard update (i have thoughts on this too but i wont dive into it this post)

Purchase Gems page update

Dev Tracker update

Forums update

“but that’s a lot to update” well. that wouldve made the anniversary being a website update considerably more worth it, because in my opinion having the dragon profile pages be the ONLY thing to happen during the anniversary was a waste and a bad decision, because other website updates are just. normal whatever updates. it made the anniversary SUPER underwhelming especially bc the past ones (to my knowledge) have only been major game mechanic updates like the eye & ancients update and i believe? the color wheel expansion was an anniversary thing? someone can correct me on that I haven’t played this game as long as most LMAO

as for how i personally would situate the mobile site. shitty graphic time, bc im not putting too much effort into this (warning this will be LONG)

[ID: Image 1. A crudely put together screenshot of the top half of a Mobile View of Flight Rising with comments on either side. It ends with the Latest News segments “Riot of Rot” and “Hoard & Vault Revamp”

Comment 1, Left side: “no banner make it a solid color that matches the burger menu. size the logo correctly etc. Comment 2, Right side: “burger menu w ONLY the categories, goes to the homepages of the categories” Comment 3, Right side: “TWO latest news posts, maybe a button to go see earlier news (which may b something to add to comp too)” Comment 4, Right side: “center dates and comments maybe idfk”

At the bottom of the image there is an added “button” that says “more updates button”]

[ID: Image 2. The bottom half of the mobile view with comments on the left side. There is a put together white box that has the Plague Flight Logo and “plage dom !” written in it. Below it are the Site Status, Random Dragon, and Exalt Bonuses boxes from the site. Underneath that is a red box with “ad space” in the center, with a red footer at the bottom.

The footer contains, “social media! (specifally made icons for site)”, “better formatted links”, and “copyright”.

Comment 1: “idk what they would caption it but the flashy can go here.” Comment 2: “ONE site status update if they keep this format” Comment 3: “probably center these links. i dont know what they use to build the site but im sure you can make icons for social media on just about anything unless this is all handcoded. just. make small icons it takes two seconds and you can copy+paste”]

i dont even want to THINK about how the lair and all that would look on mobile, it was a chore doing the home page alone SOBS

anyways, in ref to these images though--

this is just slapped together and definitely wouldn’t be a final draft, it could use some tweaking

the flashy i refer to is the box that’s above the user box that says what flight is in dom, what festival is going on, etc.

when i mention building the site and “you can make icons for social media on just about anything” im referring to wordpress, wix, whatever is used to format the site. I really only have experience with wordpress thru elementor and divi (so far) so im not CERTAIN about other places but I feel it would be pretty common to have that tool. if not, making icons (or snatching some) is rlly not that hard, probably only costly depending on what their webdesigner(s) charge for icons

I’m not like certain on who does what, how the webdesigner(s) work with/price this site, etc. etc. this is just. going off of my own knowledge. and in general this whole post is my own knowledge abt shit i did no further research to FRs team specifically 

i think this is basically it, i’ll reblog with more if i think of anything, but feel free to add things yourself or in general discuss things. again this post was made for fun so im not taking it seriously or demanding for these changes to be made, just personal annoyances and preferences.

This is also my first time doing picture IDs for a post so if I need to correct anything or the like let me know and I’ll edit it in the post!

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: Atonement chapter 17

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Or: Even's journey from BBS through post-KH3

Chapter summary:  Even and Ansem repair their old friendship, growing closer in an unexpected way. Even's newest research project breaks his stagnation.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

It takes time.

Time of conversations, of walks, arguments. Time digging through the muck of their pasts. It is still hard to trust one another; it might always be. But they seem to be getting somewhere, and Even will take somewhere after nowhere.

He tells Ansem about those long twelve years under Xemnas's thumb; about the replicas, Roxas, all they did to make worlds fall. About vain attempts at Kingdom Hearts, about the dissolution of his rapports with Zexion, Lexeaus, and especially Xaldin; the horrors of Castle Oblivion; his own death. He recounts it with a sort of distance, and then rolls up one of his sleeves to show Ansem part of the scars.

"How's that for karmic payback?" he asks dryly.

Ansem examines his arm with a stricken expression. Then, deliberately or not at all, he runs his fingertip along it. "Does it still ail you?"

The touch is unsettling; though why? Even is feeling something unfamiliar. Discomfort? Uncertainty?

Something else entirely? He was never good at feelings.

"Not so much," he says. "Though most of the flesh is numb. You may get some pleasure from the fact that I was first to die."

Ansem doesn't comment on this. "And this devastation is… total?"

"All but my face, hands, throat, and feet. I suppose I should be grateful for that--hard to do delicate work if one cannot feel one's fingers." He can feel the blood in his face. "My body does not matter, so long as it does not collapse on me."

"At our age vanity is just that," he agrees. "I am… sorry."

He barks an awkward laugh. "What for?"

"None deserve to die so violently."

"Blame Axel's flair for the dramatic. A simple slice to the jugular would have been sufficient."

There are a few beats of silence. Ansem taps the tips of his fingers together, restlessly. “And the others?”

“How did we die?”

“Is that too… voyeuristic to ask?”

“I don’t believe so.” Even sighs. “Xaldin and Demyx were both felled by Sora, Lexeaus by Riku, Zexion by… Axel’s machinations. I’m afraid it’s all rather violent. But it was necessary, to be whole. Seems to go against the grain.”

“It does,” he agrees.

“Things seem to make less and less sense to me the longer I live.”

Ansem chuckles. “That’s how it seems. Wisdom is merely… negative learning.”

Months, and months, and months--

He and Ansem seem to be developing a warmer rapport. It is easier to be with one another, to be frank. Something like their old friendship peers through the cracks. It gives Even hope, for the first time in a long, long while. Hope that they might yet be saved. Things warm between the rest of them, as well. The talk is not so dreadfully existential. This is helped considerably by the two boys; Ienzo’s dry humor and Demyx’s easygoing nature are encouraging. The idea of all having dinner together is no longer so awkward, but rather something to look forward to.

When possible, Even helps Ienzo with his memorial project for their victims, in its final draft. One spring day, the boy presents it to them, explains at length what it means; the symbolism of flowers, the presentation of their records, the histories of those impacted by what they did. It’s the culmination of an entire year.

Hearing it all, Even is filled with something like pride for the boy, the way he so gracefully has taken responsibility. It is something he himself must learn to do.

Radiant Garden elects a city council, a group of seven individuals to take the brunt of the work from the committee. There’s some worry as to whether they may face legal consequences for what they did, but eventually, and along with the committee’s vouch, they’re allowed to remain as they were, so long as they provide their assistance. As this is what they all want anyway, it’s no issue. Ansem acts as advisor; with this to fill his days, he improves.

They’re allowed to build the garden. Almost everyone spends as much time here as possible, doing what they can. It’s good to work with the body.

Once it’s all done…

For a while he and Ansem stand in front of the wall of names. He places incense in the altar, lights it; many other burnt sticks are already crowding the stone.

I’m sorry.

He doesn’t say it, not out loud. They’re resting in a place beyond words, no thanks to him. His heart is racing, and he can feel the wetness in his eyes. As much progress as they’ve made, the guilt will be there, probably forever. And rightfully so.

Ansem rests a hand on his shoulder. “Peace, Even,” he says gently. “It’s alright.”

Perhaps it’s this implication of forgiveness, but he breaks. It seems all the pain is at the surface now; the loss of his family, the brunt of what he’s done. It hurts to be forgiven. He does not nearly deserve it.

Ansem gently embraces him. To be touched is something of a shock, and for a moment it only intensifies this crying fit. More pathetic yet, he’s clinging to him like a lifeline in this storm.

But once it’s through, once he so slowly collects the pieces of himself, dries his eyes, there’s something like catharsis, an undoing rather than a sealing away.

(And, he notes, Ansem still smells the same.)

“I… must apologize,” he says thickly. “This is most unbecoming.”

“I daresay you could use a cup of tea,” Ansem says, letting go of him.

“Perhaps something stronger.”

---

Even knows time is passing, as much as it may not feel like it. He shouldn’t be surprised when gossip is laid at his feet, brought by Dilan, who heard it from Ansem, who heard it from the city council, who heard it from the committee, who heard it from Demyx. It’s a complicated game of telephone, but as soon as Even hears it, he knows it’s not mere rumor:

Ienzo and Demyx are engaged.

He’s gotten used to the boy by now, but yet he feels something like the anger he had when he first found out they were together. Because god Ienzo is just so young . Much too young to make a decision like this. Almost getting himself killed is one thing, but… getting married? At twenty-one?

“That so,” he says to Dilan.

He smirks. “What can I say. My sources are reliable.”

“You should’ve been a journalist, not an engineer.” He leans against his palm. “Has anyone talked to him about it?”

“Not quite.” He shrugs. “Would it be the worst thing?”

“At this point in their neurological development, they are literally incapable of making consequential decisions. I don’t want them to do something they’ll regret.” His heart is beating hard with dread.

A shrug. “I’d take a divorced Ienzo over a dead or depressed one. Besides. Wasn’t your marriage rather spur-of-the-moment?”

He has a point. Still, Even feels blood rush into his face. “I’ll talk to him.”

He doesn’t have to wait long; the boy comes to him with a thick manuscript, a more portable version of the stories he’s gathered from their victims, and the survivors. It feels… odd, to hold it in his hands. Odd and uncomfortable. He knows the truth of it. Yet to hear their words is… well. Power to the boy for being able to handle it. “I never pictured you as a soft scientist,” Even says instead.

Ienzo exhales. He needs glasses now, the first concrete sign of his humanity catching up to him. “You’re going to be frightfully disappointed in me, but I no longer derive any pleasure or fulfillment from so-called “harder” subjects.”

Even frowns. “Why on earth would I be disappointed?” As though pursuing his passions were a bad thing?

“I do recall a period in my life when you found my perusal of fiction a waste of time, when I could be studying.”

He sets the book down. “We all know what a fool I was, back then. No.” He smiles. “The only way I’d be disappointed in you was if you were to waste your life faffing about. But you were never lazy.”

He scratches his cheek.  “I understand the… trepidation, you might feel,” he says slowly. “And… it is quite harrowing.”

Even drops his eyes. “I can only imagine what the experience has been like, for you.”

“...Gathering these stories?” He hesitates. “Not everyone is… willing to share such dark content of their hearts. I’ve had more than one door slammed in my face.” He wrings his hands. “I’d hoped that my suspicion regarding everyone’s opinion of us was mere paranoia, but some folks do feel a certain… ire. Not that I can blame them.” He clears his throat.  “It’s… worth it, to hear their voices. We… need to understand the human impact. I don’t mean the numbers.” He is shy, sheepish. “I have… written something of an abridged memoir, myself.”

Ienzo always loved stories. It must be one of the many ways he’s trying to take care of himself. “It would only make sense. You are one of the victims.” Used, manipulated, stunted, deprived of a normal life.

He flinches. “Victim and perpetrator in one. Seems I am fated to live in dichotomy.” He inhales sharply. “I have already spoken to the others. It might be valuable to give your own version of events. Not necessarily for publication.”

Funny boy. “For the good of my recovery?”

The earnestness almost makes Even laugh. “Well, yes. You had said you were trying to write and reflect, to delineate a new identity. How is this any different? Your perspective could offer some insight to future generations, when they inevitably look back at all this.”

“Record keeping,” Even mutters. “Very well. I… will consider it. Are you alright?”

He flinches, again, and presses a hand to his brow. “I had hoped these new glasses would lessen my headaches, but that appears not to be the case.”

Concern blooms in him. “You’re still getting them? After all this time?” Surely it isn’t healthy.

He smiles, but it looks fake. “Not frequently. You needn’t worry. Take as much time as you’d like with it. I have other copies.”

“I shall, but…” Even looks him over. He is improved compared to those early days--a healthy weight and color--but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still feeling the ramifications of all he did. “ Do let that fiance of yours take a look at you. Apparently he’s quite competent.” He waves his hand dismissively.

Ienzo, hearing the word, flushes; caught.

“Did you actually think you could keep it under wraps?” Even asks. “What with Dilan’s inane gossiping?”

“Not… secret. I don’t see why my personal life should be of interest to anyone.”

“Of course it will be, when we live on top of one another.” He debates biting this bullet. “You are so… very young. So young.”

He scowls. “As nobody will let me forget.”

“I don’t want you to get into something so permanent. You’re barely stable yourself.” When Ienzo says nothing, he adds-- “Even if you were not only twenty-one, you’ve only been with him a year. I realize you are not used to the idea of permanence, but this will be--”

“It was I who asked him.”

He blinks. Not at all what he thought. “I’d’ve--figured--”

He’s rather snappish when he says, “Demyx is very respectful of my boundaries. He would not force me into anything I did not explicitly ask for. Should it end, we will deal with it maturely. But I don’t see that happening.”

Again, his mind’s made up. Concern wells in Even. But he supposes Dilan must be right. The boy should be allowed to make his own choices. His life has already been so tempestuous; this might offer him a shred of stability, artificial or no. “Do you truly want this?” Even asks. “Would it make you happy?”

“Yes,” he says. “And I am already happy. Insofar as I can be, anyway.”

Then that’s that. “I suppose I will always see you as a… child.”

He sighs. “Par for the course when you raise someone.You were always… more my guardian than Ansem. But you must trust I am able to make my own decisions. After all, you--”  He blushes.

“I what?”

“It was not me you came back to Radiant Garden for.”

“You know why I had to leave. Ienzo, I did not want to, but who else would’ve--”

“...I know.” He bites his lip. “Still. A note would’ve been appreciated. You needn’t protect me anymore. Especially from Demyx.”

Even sighs. “Old habits die hard. Or so the cliche goes.”

“...Right. Well. I shall leave you to it, then.” He leaves, allowing Even to consider the manuscript in front of him. It takes a few minutes of culling his nerve to open it.

One could not call Ienzo a “concise” writer. His language is flowery, emotional; he plays with the voices of the survivors, curating it carefully. Even wonders if, had the boy been raised differently, he might’ve been a writer after all.

It is harrowing. The heartbreak and torment these people went through--the snippets of it--

Even once she was back, she was never the same.

He just vanished. We thought it might’ve been the wolves, beyond the city limits. But then we heard those stories about the castle and I… I just knew, in the pit of my stomach. I felt so betrayed by the king. Why did he let this happen?

I kissed their cheek, tied the ribbon in their hair. They were so excited to go; their whole class was rooting for them. They never came home.

Even feels nauseous. Still, he continues. He knows he needs to do this, to listen to them. To again feel that human weight.

Perhaps the most upsetting part of it is Ienzo’s, shoehorned at the very back.

I know people must think we’re monsters. It is only right, it is only true . Yet we were also subjected to the darkness we bore, its ache, the way it destroys all that is good. My unraveling was a slow one, one I am still trying to fix. But is anything we do ever enough?

Is it?

---

So Even writes again, abridging his manic, borderline unintelligible journals from the months prior into something halfway readable. It’s hard to find the balance, between feeling and fact, what will make a cohesive narrative. He was never a writer, nor, he thinks, does he want to be. He gives Ienzo some suggested edits and leaves it all at the child’s favorite desk in the library.

Again there’s that stiff sense of catharsis, of a sort of release. His mind is so much more tangled than he ever thought. More complex.

(More human.)

He wonders, with something like a flash, if in fact darkness harnesses the mind like addiction. It truly is a euphoric pull. If only, if only he had working MRI equipment to study the mind. All he has is blood, is feelings. That doesn’t account for much. Not watertight science.

He finds himself rambling about this to Ansem, of all people.

This seems to shake him; for several moments Ansem just stares into the middle distance, something stricken on his face. Then, “Even, you’re a genius.”

“Don’t be absurd--it’s been in my face all along, yet I’ve ignored the signs--”

“We all have. We thought this was about morality--and it is, of course we’re still accountable for our actions. But all this… difficulty becoming human, the way we were undone so quickly… it makes a sort of sense. Why we couldn’t stop even though we knew what we were doing.”

“Which is why I’m positively aching to study our minds,” he says, pacing. “I’ve no functioning machinery. A blood test won’t tell me much of anything anymore, except chemistry, and it’s so variable considering we’re all basically guaranteed to have multiple mental illnesses outside of this supposed “addiction”. There’s simply no way--”

“Oh, I can think of one,” Ansem says.

Even snorts. “Really? Name it.”

“We do know a few people who work with the body. In a way that is not quite literal.” A smile. “Not everything has to be so black and white.”

He blinks. “That is… absolutely correct.”

---

When Even asks Demyx about it, he also gives him that same odd look.

“Well fuck,” he says. “I mean I’m happy to help, but like, I’ve only been doing this for a few months now. Not sure I can… collect data, or whatever.” He spins idly on one of Even’s stools.

“You said you work with people’s energies. What does that tell you?”

He blows a raspberry. “Mostly it’s a… well. It depends. Like a color, or a note. Your personality, basically. But actually feeling inside the brain…” He looks at his hands. “You know… I’ve been desperately trying to repress it, but I’ve been inside someone’s head. I felt their…” He flinches. “Anyway. I wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“That I can help you with. And I can be guinea pig--if necessary.”

He bites his lip. “This will help people?”

“I’m positive.”

“Okay. Sure. I’m in.” He ruffles the hair at the back of his neck. His knee is jiggling. He doesn’t quite want to meet Even’s eyes. “I’ve gotta… do some reading. Some asking around.”

“I’m sure.”

“So guess I’ll go?”

“Of course. Thanks, Demyx. This means a lot to me.” To think there'd be a day when he willingly sought Demyx's help, his expertise.

He flashes a peace sign and stands.

“Wait.”

He tenses. He knows they’ve both been anticipating this. “Yeah?” he asks cautiously.

“You and Ienzo…” Even trails off. “Is this what you want as well?”

He looks up. He’s blushing. “It really is. I…” He bites his lip. “Love is weird and terrifying, but we kind of… helped each other become human. Kind of literally for me. Not sure if that’s why things between us are so intense. I can’t imagine it changing.”

“...I see.” He can tell there’s some realization to be gleaned from this; he can also tell that he desperately does not want to know it. “Very well.”

“Guess you can’t get rid of me after all,” he says. He smiles a little. “See ya.”

---

Love.

Why is Even thinking about this?

Feelings are complicated enough without adding romance to it. Familial, platonic love is one thing; anything else is too much.

He was married, once.

He still can’t be sure he truly loved that person the way they all blathered on about. A love, not the love. Is this something he would want? Is he worthy of anyone? It’s surely not necessary. But for the first time Even desires a personal life… whatever that may mean. His work/life balance has never been ideal, in his brief time as a spouse, a parent. This vein of thought alone is indulgent. He should shunt it away, bury it. Besides, to want this type of love would mean there has to be an object of such affection… and there isn’t one.

He decides to ask Ansem about it.

“I’m afraid I can’t be much use,” he says, barely looking up from the papers spread all across his desk. It’s a familiar sight, yet also one Even hasn’t seen in years. He chuckles wryly. “But Even, you are a human being. You have a right to these things, should you so want them.”

“What, and force someone else to put up with me? Perhaps my synapses are misfiring.”

Ansem circles something on the paper in front of him. “These people write law like they were raised in a barn.” Then, “I suppose they were. Anyway, perhaps you should view it as a sign of growth. You always held others at arm’s length--even before you became a Nobody. Now, you’re allowing people into your life, your heart.” He twirls a pen vaguely.

“It certainly does not feel like growth.” He scoffs. He shifts a little in his seat. “Is that something you ever saw for yourself? You’ve never mentioned a spouse, a lover.” This almost seems as if it is getting too personal. “Does it simply not interest you?”

“I… wouldn’t say that.”

Oh?

“I am improving, true. I think it will be some time before I can confidently… pursue such matters.”

“...It sounds almost as if you have a certain individual in mind.” Ansem is fond of writing letters; perhaps some pen pal?

There is just the slightest hesitation, almost unnoticeable. “I do believe Dilan’s gossip mongering is getting to you.”

“...Perhaps.”

---

What does it mean?

Moreover, why does he care?

Every time Even tries to push the question out of his mind, it comes back with a vengeance. He keeps coming back to that interaction. And every time, it gives him a jolt of something like fear. He refuses to think critically about it. More important work at hand.

He’s again spending more time with Demyx; moreso, actually, than with Ienzo. If they’re to work together, it’s par for the course. But Demyx isn’t a scientist. Some things are simply beyond his realm of understanding. The boy is trying to study the texts that Even leaves him, but it all seems to worry him.

“Not sure I’m cut out for this,” he says. “You should really just ask Aerith.”

Even frowns. “Why not?”

“I…” He looks down at his hands, which are trembling. “I’m a total newbie. Who knows if what I find is even right?”

“I thought you’ve done this before?”

He flinches. “Once. And… not under ideal circumstances. I had to… stop someone from having a stroke.” He’s flushing.

“This is not nearly so invasive.”

“I know that, but…” He traces a finger along the page.

Even frowns. “What’s wrong? I don’t believe you’ll hurt anyone. I just want to look for injury, response, that’s all. Which is something you do every day.”

Demyx shakes his head. “It’s not that. I guess I should be honest. Family, and all.”

Even feels a thick wave of anxiety. “...What?”

He drops his eyes. “The person was Ienzo.”

His heart falls to his feet. Even feels his hand at his breastbone. “But the boy’s fine,” Even says.

“Yeah. Now. These… headaches. It was more than just the manifestation of his will, or whatever. It was an accumulation of years of stress. Like the glasses. All the fucked up shit that happened to his body caught up to him. I was just lucky enough to be there when it happened.” His eyes are watering, and he blinks hard. “I just feel really icky when I think about it.”

Even squeezes his shoulder gently, in an attempt to comfort. “I don’t… blame you.” Ienzo is the youngest of all of them. If he has--or had--such problems, what could be wrong with the rest of them? “You’ve gotten yourself looked at, I hope?”

“I… yeah. There would’ve been some trouble with my heart. But Aerith knew what to look for, so she fixed it.” He lays a palm on his chest.

It’s becoming clear. “You’re scared of what you might find in the rest of us?”

“Maybe. It’s weird. I’m not used to my patients… being us.”

Even is also unsettled. Of course he knows that he’s treated his body poorly in the past--too much work, not enough food or sleep--but it’s another thing to embody that knowledge.

“At least it can be fixed,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to fuck up. Any time--but especially if it’s you guys. I… sort of care.” He laughs wryly.

“Well I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself into a situation where you must be involved with us.”

“It’s easier now than it was back then. Don’t you think?”

“It gets easier every day.”

---

The pit keeps getting deeper. Every time he thinks he understands just how much darkness has destroyed them, it grows yet more cataclysmic. The stress--while they did not necessarily feel it as Nobodies--is having infinite consequences. After some prodding, he is able to convince them all to give him a sample of their DNA, to further study their epigenomes. It’s engrossing work--work that might help future generations avoid their perilous mistakes. The sample size is still incredibly small, and incredibly skewed. No women, for example, and most of them are middle-aged (or, begrudgingly, older). He wonders if the townsfolk would be willing to participate, but as soon as the thought forms he’s aware of the paranoia.

“I can bring it up to the city council,” Ansem says one evening, in his quarters. “And put out some feelers. They claim to be so interested in the people’s emotional state. And we are desperate for some kind of mental health treatment. This might help beget that.”

Even feels exhausted. He still has so much to do. He has to admit it’s nice to be driven again, to have a goal to work towards. It certainly has lifted him out of that dark, dangerous place. “Oh, I certainly hope so.”

Ansem puts down his pen, stretches his wrist. “I must say modesty becomes you.”

Even scoffs. “Funny.”

“I mean it. You’ve changed more than you think. I’ve so rarely seen you approach things with grace and tenderness.”

“Flowery words.” He picks at the ends of his hair, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “I spent so long working so selfishly. I said it was for the greater good, but really it was for the greater good of… Even.” He winces. “To know I can actually help, or at the very least leave behind a study that might help future generations… is a comfort.” He leans his elbows onto the table. “I’m exhausted.”

“You look it. You should try to get some rest.”

“...Perhaps. I’ll get up when I can find the ambition.”

He picks the pen back up. “No reason you can’t sit with a friend.”

“...You would consider me one?”

Ansem raises an eyebrow. “As if I would let you sit here blathering on otherwise?”

Even rolls his eyes.

“I do enjoy your company. Rather more than I used to. I am starting to… let go of the bitterness. It does nothing except make me harder and less tolerable. You are all trying so hard to better yourselves… I’d best follow suit.”

There’s a few moments of silence, but it’s comfortable. Even finds himself, again, thinking of their previous conversation. He’s almost tempted to ask. Should he? And why is such a thought putting a tightness in his throat? “...So what do you think of this wedding?” he asks instead.

Ansem fully sets aside his work, and leans back in the chair. “I did not think it would happen so soon. But they work well together, as a pair. Why wait, as it were. Demyx is an earnest young man, and he’s also changed so much. He really would do anything for Ienzo. And I think after so much neglect, Ienzo deserves as much love as he can find.”

“...It’s so… funny, I suppose. For the longest time all of us rotting in that castle could not tolerate each other, and here we are… quite literally family.”

“Better than being alone.”

“...It is. It took me a long while to realize I could not live that way. Too long. People need… people.” His lip curls.

Ansem laughs. “Quite.” He takes Even’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Besides, some deserve a fresh start.”

Even blinks. He should move his hand, but finds himself almost immovable. He recalls that night many years before, when he was bedridden with that flu. The way the touch seemed like it was always there. It sounds almost as if you have a certain individual in mind.

Even. You dunce.

Too slowly, he withdraws. “I should… get some sleep. We’ve both had long days.”

Ansem looks vaguely startled. “Yes. Well. Good night.”

“Good night.”

He limps back to his quarters, feeling vaguely nauseous, like he’s been punched. His heart rate is erratic. This is something very like panic, but at the same time, not quite. His mind races. It aches.

Isn't this what you've desired?

With Ansem?

He feels like he can't breathe.

Are these feelings real, or his?

What does he want ?

That simple touch--a squeeze of the hand--is almost enough to unravel him. Much less--

He can not mentally compute it.

Even has to come out with it. To verbalize the thought in whole. To love Ansem?

And yet. Who else could it possibly be?

Is he in love?

He certainly isn't alone.

But isn't love instantly knowable?

Either way, Ansem likely has feelings for him. What does this mean? Is this what he wants?

After so long without anything, love and lust are incalculable. Unobtainable.

What does Even want?

Is he worthy?

He can't breathe.

---

"Even?"

He's pretending to sleep when he hears the voice. "Is something the matter?"

"...I would like a word." Ansem's voice is gruff, scratchy.

"Now?"

"Are you really asleep?"

A fair point. He puts on his robe. Finds Ansem in the doorway. (His heart stutters--a warning sign.) "What do you need?"

"...I'd like to talk."

He gets dressed. Follows Ansem down the hall in this silky blue night. His heart races, flooding him with cortisol.

(And something like hope.)

They walk for a few minutes. "So what exactly couldn’t wait until morning?" Even asks.

Ansem hesitates. "My words fail me. I… can… feel something."

"Congratulations."

He touches Even's shoulder. "I thought you may feel something as well."

His heart about shatters. "Ansem. You deserve more than me. A person who is whole, untainted, better than some wretch--"

Ansem touches his cheek, and his world about stops. "You are so much more than that."

In this dark hallway, Ansem leans up and, so gently, kisses him on the mouth.

It’s bizarre; how the body remembers what to do. It has to be close to fifteen years since he’s kissed someone, but yet something about this is so familiar. His smell, the subtle scratch of his beard. Like it’s all happened before. Something like panic replaces the hard-won pleasure, and he breaks away. He finds himself tensing, breaking away all too soon.

“Are you alright?” Ansem asks.

“I’m not so sure. I just… why?”

“Haven’t we spent long enough being miserable and alone?”

“I… suppose.” He’s infinitely grateful for the semidarkness. He can feel himself unravelling.

“Do you want this?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.” Ansem takes Even’s hands.

“We took this sort of thing from people. Do we really deserve it?”

“And what is the alternative?” Ansem asks softly. “Locking yourself away? Grinding down your own emotions? None of that will meaningfully help you atone.”

He can hear himself breathing tremulously. “Alright.”

“Alright, what?”

Even can feel his words failing as well. “I will… try. But it’s been… I feel so--” A stuttering wreck.

“We’re not young. We’ve no need to rush headfirst into things.”

“I need to… process all this.” He pulls away his hands. “I can find you later.”

“Of course.” Ansem chances kissing him once more. It’s quick, chaste, and yet is all too much. All of this touch is. Even can feel himself getting choked up. “Good night, Even.”

He listens to his footsteps retreating into the darkness. Despite the warmth of the early fall evening, he’s shivering. It’s not normal, to react this way; he knows this much. Below the anxiety, he feels something very like relief. Closure. He’s known Ansem longer than he’s known anyone. It’s only suitable they find one another now.

He sinks wearily into bed, and sleeps.

[paullicino]

Hindsight is 2020

Just one of many posts taken from and funded by my Patreon.

This is a piece of writing about some things that I do know and some things that I do not know. It also is a piece of writing about another piece of writing which no longer exists, a sort of obituary for a document. It is also a confession.

I wonder where it is that good drafts go to die. Those half-finished pieces of work that are simultaneously salvageable and yet also surplus. There are times when words come easy and, if a writer isn’t careful, those words grow like a jungle, sprouting energetically in every direction until they destroy the view, ruin the perspective and reduce those caught amongst them to a sweaty, flustered mess.

I don’t want you to wade into my work to find yourself a sweaty, flustered mess. Otherwise, I’d be in the sauna business.

I throw things out. That’s good. Not everything we make or do will be up to our standards and it’s a wise idea to aggressively cull that which doesn’t work. It’s brutal, sure, but the fact is every writer you know is regularly hurling paragraphs down a secret trapdoor in their home, which they occasionally flip open empty their machine gun into. You have to kill your darlings.

And it's a luxury to be able to murder your mistakes.

But sometimes there’s one that you rescue. There’s one that comes back. There’s one that is pulled from the brink, thrown on the gurney and shocked back into being. "It’s alive," the writer screams, as it twitches once again. Watch it stagger out into the world, walking as if for the first time. Look at its cute little hyphens.

This piece of writing is one of those. It began, more than a month ago, as an attempt to reflect on December. It started like this:

“It’s difficult for me to write about December without also writing some kind of a retrospective for an entire decade. This month has been a hugely reflective one for me and it’s been impossible not to get swept up in the general trend of looking back and taking stock, something that I initially resisted but which has become a positive, enriching exercise. The past has been on my mind in part because it’s infinitely more concrete than the present or the future. It’s so much easier to hold on to. Hopefully it will also be something solid to leap forward from.”

I hope that you feel this way. That your past is something to leap forward from.

I wonder, too, where it is that good drafts are born. I’m not quite sure exactly how much control I have over what I write and I don’t know where the words come from. I know that I don’t wait for inspiration. I chase it. I chase it and I’m armed. It’s not a pretty sight and I’m neither glamorous nor gainly in my pursuit. Sometimes I catch it in lofty places, at the shining peak of a million-year-old mountain. Other times I pull it from a dumpster at three in the morning, scraping off the gunk. But I never understand quite how this catching happens and what the process is that follows. I seem to mostly just stumble into accidents. Just after writing that paragraph that I showed you above, everything went kind of off the rails. It all veered sideways. I wrote this:

“The 2010s were a period of almost constant change and now I’m looking at the possibility of a far more settled future. That feels very unusual indeed. I can’t get my head around it. Even before I gained residency here, my life in Canada offered me so much more stability than anything in a long time and I’m not sure quite what to do with that. While there might be some things I have to worry about going into 2020, there are so many others that have melted away into the past.”

And as I tried to find a way to document and describe some of the transience of that last decade, I began pouring over maps. I'm a very visual thinker and I find that sights and spaces spark my imagination, but the task got away from me very quickly, transforming from something that I was doing to something that was happening. I tried to find something in north London and, by chance, Google Maps dropped me right by a bus stop I could easily have been waiting at ten years ago today, way up Holloway Road and close to an ex-partner’s place.

I don’t know what the logic or whimsy is behind this behaviour, but sometimes Google Maps shows you a place as it looks in summer or in winter, right now or three years past. There���s usually a slider you can drag which pulls you through time and, as I wasn't looking at the Holloway Road of today, I went to try to pull myself back into the present. But it was then that I found I could also jump back almost exactly a decade and see how things looked on any of so many winter mornings or afternoons, as I stood waiting to travel home or to work. With one click, I could hurl myself back almost exactly a decade.

I can’t tell you how powerful that single click was. It demolished a nearby building, it switched out all the road signs, it reopened the old café. It summoned a bold, red 43 bus which loomed nearby and who’s driver would have no patience if I wasn’t about to climb on. I hated that damn bus. The 271, too. They lurched and retched their way north and south, never on a reliable schedule. There was no way of knowing when the next one would come. I’d better get on board.

But I didn’t. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps, winding and squirming my way down routes that weren't just streets I hadn't seen for a decade or more, but often streets that no longer looked this way. Estates have been built, businesses have moved, and while one thing in London can look the same after a hundred and fifty years, whatever sits next to it might change three times in a decade.

I wonder what Google will do when routes themselves change. When they have not only old images, but old layouts that no longer correspond to streets and paths and places that exist. I wonder if we'll still be able to walk through them. I wonder where they’ll go.

It wasn’t difficult to retrace my steps all around each of my old London neighbourhoods, recreating journeys I'd taken countless times. I walked streets just as they looked at the time, took the same shortcuts, remarked at the same details I would've noticed at the time. There was one neighbour's stroller outside their house. There was the same front door, faded before they repainted it. I roamed and I roamed until I found myself looking straight at the face of a building I might easily have been inside at the very same moment that imagery was taken. Like any other, its windows were black holes, its walls were blank, its doorway was featureless. Yet some past version of me could be just beyond. Right then. Right now.

What am I doing in there, I asked myself, and what am I doing in any of these other places I now revisit? The people there aren’t ghosts or memories, they’re living their lives at this moment while this phantom from the future glides back toward them, unable to reach out or to communicate or to leave even the tiniest trace. I could circle these places and their people infinitely. It had never before occurred to me to try to visit the past in this way.

And then I wondered this: If I could step inside, if I could pass through those black windows and blank walls to meet the me of a decade ago, and if I could speak to him, what would I say?

I know the answer.

“Stop being so stupid,” probably.

And also “Keep going and get ready to do an awful lot of things.”

It occurs to me now, as I write this, that the me of a decade ago had a lot going on. He had a lot to juggle. He was sometimes having a much tougher time than the lazy literary bum who types out these words with one foot on the floor and one foot hanging on the sofa. I don't know if he'd appreciate the perspective of someone like me. "Stop being so stupid," he might say. And also: "I hope you've kept going and that you're still trying to do an awful lot of things." The younger me never wanted to waste opportunity.

Other things I wrote in my abandoned draft included this paragraph:

“I’m really bad at relaxing. Really bad. There is always something to be done or something that *can* be done. Most of the last decade I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck, earning enough to get by but rarely to save. I think this has created a constant sense of urgency and an ever-present feeling that I should be doing something. I also think I wasted too much of my teenage years or early twenties and should’ve achieved much more, much sooner. I should be making up for lost time.”

I think now that the me of 2010 would agree we have to find some way to go back further, to the me of 2000, and kick this person into shape. I think we would say "Stop being so stupid," and, particularly "Oh my GOD be more grateful toward your friends, your family and the people you date," which would help us pretend that we don't still need to listen to that advice ourselves. But we do. I know this.

Through most of my life I've watched a British science fiction show called Doctor Who, which tells the story of an eccentric alien who travels through time, going on adventures and solving mysteries. In the course of those travels, the Doctor sometimes meets a past version of themselves and inevitably clashes with them, ending up somewhere between baffled and irritated. But that bit sure doesn't sound like science fiction to me.

I first watched Doctor Who when I was very, very young, at just about the same time when several British organisations worked together on a famous educational undertaking called the Domesday Project, a digital documentation of Britain that existed on collections of enormous laserdiscs, fed into the school computers of the time. They showed you pictures and videos of places all over the nation, letting you take virtual tours around cities or wander in the countryside. My strongest memory of it was of a friend and I getting lost in a field after walking through the most painfully generic and nondescript landscape. We couldn't get out because everything looked the same. To the adult me writing this now, that feels like an apt metaphor for how I felt about much of England, a country I found stagnant and sterile.

The technology used to create the Domesday Project was soon out of date. The media it was stored on was soon out of date. Its images of a country that clearly wasn't always stagnant and sterile were soon out of date. Where is it all now? I don't know. I do know that this makes it very obvious Britain did change, even if to me it didn't, and I can't deny that.

Now come all the coincidences. They start with one more paragraph that I wrote, but then discarded. It is the hardest one to share. It is the confession.

"I will be forty years old soon and I am embarrassed by my age. I know people older who feel so much fresher and people younger who are more capable and more mature. My life is not the way I imagined it would be at forty and I cannot reconcile the reality of who I am with the half-formed expectations that I had. There were things that I wanted to do and things that I meant to do and then an awful lot of other stuff happened along the way. I handled some of that with varying degrees of readiness, resilience and regret, while failing the rest."

I left this paragraph to gain dust and now, by coincidence, I am forty years old at this very moment. Who let this happen? This is unacceptable. Who's fault is this and who can I blame?

And in another act of ridiculous randomness, on the same day I began redrafting all this, a note almost exactly one year old and that I thought I had lost fell out of my notebook. The note pulled me back into the past with all the power of a black hole. HERE YOU ARE AGAIN, said the note, with words that deafened my ears, blinded my eyes and plugged my nose. IT IS 2019 ONCE MORE. I couldn't see or hear or smell anything except for the past, but this time I was armed with all the tools of perspective and perspicacity. I was better equipped to understand everything while also able to change nothing.

I flailed at the past with all the effectiveness of the phantom I had become.

In the third moment of curious concordance, just a few days ago I found myself walking past the first place I lived in Vancouver. It was late. It was cold. I could've decided to head straight home. The night bus was about to come. I’d better get on board.

But I didn’t. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps, winding and squirming my way down routes that weren't just streets I hadn't walked in years, but also streets that no longer looked quite the same. New houses had been built, businesses had moved. This wasn't unusual. While one or two things in Vancouver still look the same after a hundred and fifty years, it's a shockingly young city to a person like me and it regularly rebuilds so much.

It wasn’t difficult to retrace my steps all around my old neighbourhood, recreating journeys I'd taken countless times. I walked streets just as they looked at the time, took the same shortcuts, remarked at the same details I would've noticed at the time. There was one neighbour's bike left on their balcony. There was the same front door, furnished with a new intercom. I roamed and I roamed until I found myself looking straight at the same first apartment I'd rented. Like any other, its windows were black holes, its walls were blank, its doorway was featureless. Someone else lived there now, but someone else had also lived there in the past.

Everything that night was both so familiar and yet also so forgotten. So much had fallen out of my memory so soon and I rushed to gather it all once more. It was then that I realised what true nostalgia really is: It isn't just revisiting the past, it's rediscovering it. It's finding the things that surprise us again even after they've already happened. I know this now.

It brings a very particular kind of feeling. A kind of joy. A kind of reminder. A kind of reinforcement. And I think that's important.

I think it's important to be that phantom from the future, gliding occasionally through the past, because we can forever rediscover and reevaluate that which has already happened. I'm not sure there are many pasts more important than our own and it serves us well to reappraise them sometimes. History is an open book, not a closed one, one which academics continue to re-write, and our lives are the same.

The eternal lesson has always been not to dwell on the past, not to fixate on what has already happened and not to be dominated by what cannot be undone. I don't disagree and I think it's essential that I tell the present version of myself things like “Stop being so stupid,” and also “Keep going and get ready to do an awful lot of things,” and also "Keep chasing inspiration and make sure that you're armed" and a lot more personal, private and emphatic maxims. But it's vital to me to look back from the fresh perspectives I constantly give myself. Our past does not disappear; it is not a draft that we can throw away. It instead forms the ever-growing foundations of what we are and, whether those bricks are made from hope or anger or pride or guilt, we must at times acknowledge them all.

I know this: As we inspect it, we see where it is solid, where it best serves us. That is how it becomes the foundation that we leap forward from.

[ikonislife]

Noona.

-Jungkook x Female reader

-Angst.

-A/n: I’m in the process of purging my draft box so I’ll be posting up a lot of random scenarios the next month or so. Beside from Bobby’s birthday scenario (:

“Why don’t you just leave me the fuck alone, noona?” The way he bit out the honorific term, the one he had abandoned since the first breath of air he took in this world… It left you numb… You had thought you’d be hurt, devastated, heart obliterated and soul shredded, yet all you could feel was a wave of nothingness washing over your stiffening body. He shoved the hand you had been caressing peace back to his anger ravaged body with away without a care and you just. Feel. Numb. You hopped off his bed and stood there in silent, staring at him, rough hand carding frustratingly through the soft locks, anger and frustration taut on the handsome features. “I don’t need your useless advices right now.” He muttered darkly with a sharp glanced at your still frozen body. “What do you even know about me anyways. You’re too old to understand why it matter.” That was it, that was all you needed to know, and all you needed to confirm the suspicion you had about this relationship. You had your doubt, but the heart wants what it wants and damn you for trying so hard to fight it. He had always been so sweet, just a few years younger yet it felt like decades were between you both in the way he was always so carefree with life. While you, worry about your job then worry about your family. You worry from the second the sun hit your face like the rude bitch it is, reminding you that the night is ever so fleeting, that peace and comfort is never permanent. You worry too, till the very last second your consciousness allows you, sometimes even well into dreamland, you still worry. In comparison to your constant dark cloud and ominous aura, Jungkook’s was like the first breath of fresh air after a long 19 hours flight. He’s the embodiment the freshest bouquet of spring flower, and the coolest waves of summer’s beach. He’s the vibrancy of autumn’s leaves delightfully crunching under lovers’ steps, and the comforting warmth of hot chocolate amidst a snow storm. His smile was like bottled sunshine, voice like the personification of rain’s soothing rhythm. He’s everything you’re not and perhaps that was the exact problem with this relationship. So you said nothing, numb and empty, you turned away and walked out the door, leaving the boy to shed tear in silent. Even as your feet dragged your paralyzed body the whole distant of three houses down the street back home, you still didn’t cry. Which, honestly was very surprising for such a cry baby as yourself. Perhaps you had always knew this would be the end, expected it to a point where there was no pain, no devastation, no breaking of heart and shredding of soul… You were just numb. Days past and, well, you surmised this is what everyone would call miserable. Your scheduled remained the same, saved for the hour of lunch dined all on your own instead of with your easily excited boyfriend. Work then home, weekends were especially lively now that the hole left by Jungkook was filled with parties, clubs, and alcohol. You guessed that this is some fuck up attempt of your friends to ease you out of a heartbreak’s perdition, and you were extremely thankful. But you weren’t sure how much longer could your liver, stomach, and poor face could take of the belligerent version of yourself every week. You took the weekend off in hope to hold on to the last bit of normalcy in your life, and the last bit of your paycheck too. Yet weekend proven to be a hard thing to go through all alone because in the first hour alone, you’ve gone through all the post breakup girly home spa packages, gifts from your best friends. No more shows to binge, not when the previous 3 weeks of lonely night were spent staring at your computer screen. You stared at the pile of half eaten instant ramen bowl messily strewn across your kitchen counter and suddenly felt pathetic… Had your life gone to shit, gone to the point of no return that you couldn’t even take care of yourself after a breakup that honestly, you were still numb to. A painful sigh left your lips as you chucked on the thick, oversized blue turtleneck sweater that you had just realized was a remnant of your sweetheart. Far too lazy and far too empty still to care, you grabbed your keys and wallet before throwing on a pair of sneakers to brave to cold world outside for some take out, not that it was any better than a homemade meal but at least it was a start. You swung the front door open without care before finding yourself tumbling a few steps backward in shock… The first emotion you got striking through your hearts in weeks and it was shock, it was on the night that Jungkook was standing there, still so beautiful and… and everything that he was, he stood there at the threshold of your home with a frown on his lips. There was a moment of silent when neither of you had fully processed what just happened, a moment when Jungkook just stared, really just stared at you as he always had whenever he claimed to be admiring your beauty. Yet there was something painful, something so chaotic behind those usually starlit eyes. “Y/n… Baby…” He whispered gently, perhaps not even realizing himself that those words had been vocalized, hitting you in the chest like a freight train. Nostalgia, that was the second emotion you’ve managed in weeks. “What are you doing here?” You deadpanned, and in so many ways to Jungkook, that was so much worse than had you scream at him, throw a shoe at his face, or gouge his eyes out. Silent returned once more when his eyes trailed down to the wide shoulders of the sweater draping over your own, his lips momentarily curled up in a smile at the realization that it was his sweater you were wearing, yet it was gone just as fast as it had appeared. “I- I wanted to talk to you.” Gaze snapping back up toward your face as you crossed your arms defensively, Jungkook muttered pathetically, eyes averting your intense stare. “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, Jungkook. You said all you needed to that day, and I understood it perfectly clear.” You didn’t know you possessed such a stone wall within your arsenal. You spoke calm and clear, without even a bit of waver to your voice when his named tumbled out of your lips. “N-No, that, none of that meant anything. I spoke out of anger and frustration and-“ Panic shuddered through his body like the chill of a cold night but you had cut him off before it could reach his toes. “It meant everything to me. And I understand why you said it, and honestly, I’m okay with it. I haven’t cry, it didn’t hurt. I just am the same person I was before you gave me all those wonderful months. I always knew this wasn’t going to last but your words, they always had such an effect on me.” You chuckled bitterly, watching as the light barely lit behind his eyes dimmed out even more. “I’m glad I got to know what it was like to be Jeon Jungkook’s girlfriend, and even as short lived as our relationship had been, I valued every second of it.” “I do too, I- there’s not even, I’m not even capable of expressing how amazing the time I had with you were, the way I feel for you.” He took a step forward only to halt himself short of probably a hug, those amazing hug he always wrapped you in every time you meet up. “And I’m glad you feel that. But it’s time to leave those wonderful moments in the past. Pack it in a box, put a nice bow on it, and hold it close to our hearts. It will always be endearing and magnificent but it is what it is, a thing of the past.” With the last word being whisked away by the frigid wind of winter, you gave him a parting smile, the smile of the past that you had so neatly put away on the shelf, one last time. You took one step forward then two, by the third you had passed up the boy still stunned by your calming words, standing there staring at the old red door he had grown to love as it closed on this chapter of his life. He stood there until a pang in his heart sent him stumbling backward, wide steps catching up to you as the desperate call of your name echoed through the night. He called and called but don’t dare touch you, following you toward your car like a lost puppy crying for love. You wished him one last goodnight before driving off into the night, leaving him on the side of the road, hot tears streaming down his sunken cheeks. For the first time in weeks, you cried. When you were sure Jungkook could no longer see the light of your car, you pulled over and just cried. You didn’t cry because his the words he had said but rather, you cried because you never wanted to see him cry. Your wish was always for Jungkook to have a smile on his lips so why did you even do this, why did you even hurt him to the point of tear. That was a question badgering at your own heart as you wailed his name, even if you knew he couldn’t hear. You wanted it, you wanted to hear him call you by name, to hear him call you baby, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to fall into his arms again because all you could hear, all that was ringing through your ears was “noona”.

[sethnakht]

Im at work and just had a thought but no one talks Star wars so ill ask you :) when Vader says to Palps in rotl he says MY son is with them. Why do you think palpatine allowed this so to speak, instead of going into the the whole anakin is dead spiel? I always thiught it was odd

Good question! I think the number of interpretations here is probably endless – but will try and put down a few possibilities.

How one interprets the “my son” line depends perhaps most on how one interprets the conversation Vader has with Palpatine in ESB, where we see them speaking about Luke for the first time. This conversation exists in two versions: one produced when there was a definite interest in keeping the “I am your father” reveal a surprise until the end of the film, and the Ian McDiarmid one from the Special Edition, produced at a time when that cat was well out of its bag. I’ve put both versions here together, crossing out what was eliminated for the Special Edition and bolding the new formulations.

VADER: What is thy bidding, my Master?

EMPEROR: There is a great disturbance in the Force.

VADER: I have felt it.

EMPEROR: We have a new enemy, Luke Skywalker. The young rebel who destroyed the Death Star. I have no doubt this boy is the offspring of Anakin Skywalker.

VADER: Yes, my Master. How is that possible?

EMPEROR: Search your feelings, Lord Vader; you will know it to be true. He could destroy us.

VADER: He is just a boy. Obi-Wan can no longer help him.

EMPEROR: The Force is strong with him. The son of Skywalker must not become a Jedi.

VADER: If he could be turned he would become a powerful ally.

EMPEROR: Yes. Yes. He would be a great asset. Can it be done?

VADER: He will join us or die, Master.

In the original conversation, the conversation that most importantly was the one in place when RotJ was filmed, the Emperor names Luke. He has a name for the “new enemy”. He also notes that Luke is the “son of Skywalker”. It’s unclear whether he knows that Vader has been pursuing Luke all this time - in the original 1976 novelization, the Emperor was cloistered away from the world, essentially a puppet - or whether he is telling Vader here that he has caught onto his treacherous schemes. He could also just be saying that the disturbance he felt was so terrifying, it has made Luke’s capture or death imperative. As the Emperor insists Luke is a threat, Vader responds with mollifying, calm suggestions (“He is just a boy” line and “If he could be turned”). Vader’s reference to Obi-Wan could even suggest that they have spoken about Luke before. 

But the salient point here is that the Emperor calls Luke the “son of Skywalker” Why does the Emperor say “son of Skywalker” instead of “your son”? While Watsonian readings are certainly possible, I read this as a dramatic necessity. The film hinges on its twist ending. “Son of Skywalker” is vague and formal and foreboding and above all, it doesn’t give the game away mid-film. Can you imagine the impact of “I am your father” if the Emperor had already casually revealed Luke’s parentage to the audience in a random conference call?

For Watsonian readings, of course, the newer version is more relevant. Notably, this version doesn’t include Luke’s name. This leaves unclear how the Emperor came to zero in on “the young rebel” - whether he saw him in a vision, or has been observing Vader long enough to put two and two together, or something else. It also allows one to read him as pretending surprise (along the lines of: I thought your spawn was dead too, never knew of him before the Force showed him to me, don’t even know his name). Vader also pretends to have never heard of Luke Skywalker before. Otherwise, the dialogue remains unchanged, which could be attributed to laziness, a desire to keep the twist ending intact for those who see the film for a first time and have not yet watched the PT, or some sort of manipulative game in which the Emperor insists that Anakin and Vader must be regarded as two separate people, etc.

Something I think one has to consider in this context is how these films were made. A version of this conversation was already in the original draft of the film, when Vader and Anakin were still in fact distinct people (Anakin appears to Luke as a Force ghost). Basically, Vader reaches out into the Force while in his castle full of gargoyles and encounters Luke, creating a disturbance that the Emperor apparently also feels. Instead of the conversation we eventually got in the film, the Emperor appears “draped and hooded in cloth-of-gold, so that we cannot see his face” but so that we nonetheless understand him to be powerful. Vader bows before the image and has the following conversation:

Vader’s breathing reveals his “fear of the Emperor”. He also angrily knocks over a golden bowl, frightening the gargoyles. Most interestingly, “Skywalker” is a known factor to both of them. Vader also makes no attempt to change the Emperor’s mind; he isn't exactly given the opportunity. My point being that a lot of things were in flux when the films were made, and that the back and forth between them becomes less and less about external threats than mind games with each iteration.

As for RotJ – the fact that Vader refers to Luke as “my son”, placing emphasis on these words, is something that I think opens itself up for a great deal of interpretation, especially since Palpatine immediately questions him on whether his “feelings are clear” on the matter. But I don’t myself read that exchange as evidence that Palpatine insists on a sharp divide between Vader and Anakin, that he thinks them two different people. RotJ was of course filmed before the PT, so there are inconsistencies. But the PT doesn’t suggest this interpretation to me either. I’m not sure such petty external policing would fit with Palpatine’s self-presentation as someone beyond conventional distinctions ( “Good is a point of view, Anakin”, “Keep your mind clear of assumptions. The fear of losing power is a weakness of both the Jedi and the Sith”, etc. ) Certainly Palpatine insists on using the Sith name he has given Vader, and puts Vader in the suit, and in the newer comics, encourages him to identify with that trapping. Certainly Palpatine is manipulative and perverse. And certainly Vader has no interest in being referred to as Anakin. 

But Darth Vader exists because he was willing to sell his soul to save his wife (and possibly also his unborn child). Whether you consider the newer comics and novels (Lords of the Sith) canon or not, they are evidence for a reading where Palpatine exerts control over Vader not least by constantly goading him into confronting his past choices. Each time Palpatine does this - sending Vader to Mustafar, where he was not only defeated but also killed Padmé, to build his Sith lightsaber, giving him Padmé’s ship, ordering him to kidnap the babies of former Jedi, forcing Vader to admit he was a traitor - Vader reaffirms those choices, choosing the Dark, refusing alternatives. Palpatine also approves of Vader’s desires to “find” (resurrect?) Padmé on Mustafar, or at least he claims to do so on the grounds that Vader will learn much and become more powerful in the process. 

I’ve gone on so long already, I should stop rambling! Last thing - I do think Vader’s words in RotJ are extraordinary, of a different character from the EU examples above, not least because he’s speaking of the future rather than a dead past, claiming a future instead of remaining in his little loop. But the difference seems to me a subtle one, if that makes sense? He’s changed his drives, in Westworld-speak: the form and direction of his purpose has changed, giving new meaning to something Palpatine could once take for granted (Anakin = Vader) as a means of control. 

Thanks for the ask, dear friend!

[btsinspirationtakesme]

Burn

This is an alternate version of a story I published sometime ago. Incomplete too, I’m freeing up my drafts and I thought it would be nice to let go of some of my longer drafts that haven’t been finished.

Synopsis: Alone in Seoul, Taehyung proves to be your solstice. 

Three years had passed in the blink of an eye, and although you could never quite forget that you met Kim Taehyung, and sort of knew him...you also felt that you lost some sense of who he was like considering you met him so long ago. That, and he met thousands of people everyday. You were probably lucky to be a flash in his mind. He hadn’t been back to visit since the concert, and you weren’t surprised considering how well known his band had become.

You were now 20, and getting ready to move to Seoul for your first job ever. You had followed your passion for art and landed a place at a prestigious art school. You were also finally leaving the small village that you had grown up in your entire life, which was going to be a huge change for you to get use to. So many things had happened in the three years that you lived in that village. You had experienced your first everything. Your first group of real friends, your first betrayal, your first kiss, your first car and your first taste of what life had to offer.  

Life was waiting outside of that village, and you couldn’t wait.

“Do you have the number that the grandmother gave you!” Your mother had yelled over the phone. You were doing the last of your packing when you turned around.

“I kept it, but do you think it’s still appropriate if I call the number up? It’s been a while since she gave me it.” You said, the grandmother had moved away a year ago to be closer to her family in the city, since she was getting older. She had heard about your move to Seoul before she left from your mother, and had said if you ever had any trouble then you should just call the number. She didn’t say much, apart from some nice people would definitely help you.

“Only call if if there’s an emergency! Seoul’s a big city though, you’re not going to have problems like we do here.” She said. You nodded, and hoped that you wouldn’t have to call any strange number. You were all sorted to live with a roommate in Hongdae, close to the art school. You really didn’t have much to worry about, apart from understanding the metro system.

“If you need any extra money, remember to call me. Also, lock the doors. Make sure you get a full 8 hours of sleep, wear your beauty masks to bed-” You cut your mother off, she had given this lecture seven times.

“I know mother, and don’t forget to moisturise your knee caps!” You both laughed, an inside joke that you both had shared about dry knee caps. You knew you would miss your mother the most, since she had been the one to stay up with you all night whilst you cried thinking your fine art wasn’t good enough. This move was all her hard work and yours put together, since you were worried all this focus on art could possibly never pay off.

That night, you had said a temporary goodbye to your mother and friends (Hay-Jeon was the most emotional), and set yourself on an overnight train that would go straight into your new life in Seoul. You were determined to make yourself, and your mother proud. You wanted your art to  be seen on billboards, and you wouldn’t stop until you had made your dream come true.

New life.

More like con artist life.

Your so called ‘room mate’ had decided to text you last minute, to tell you they were gong to move back in with their ex boyfriend and leave the flat that had half the rent due from her side. You were currently unemployed, though you planned on finding work after you had settled in. You had made it inside your flat which was a small, modest property. You were starting to freak out after a while. You were already overwhelmed from the city, that even this small place of refuge was suffocating you as you realised you only had enough money to cover your bailed roomates side of the rent. That money would have gone to your food and living costs, since someone else would have been paying their side of the rent.

If you didn’t pay the rest of the rent in a week, you would literally be left homeless on the streets. You paced around the flat in worry.

“What do I do, what do I do?” You said to yourself. There was no one you could go to. You didn’t want to give your mother a heart attack already, and quite certainly weren’t about to call your friends from back home who would just tell you to come home. Hay-Jeon was a huge believer that you should just stay in the village, she loved it there whilst you wanted to explore the world. You couldn’t call her, not yet.

Your mind flashed to the number that you had taken a picture of with your phone. The number that the grandmother gave you. You had hoped you wouldn’t call this number so early on in your time in Seoul, or that you would even need to call the number, especially since you didn’t know who it was. You took another hour debating whether or not to call the number, but you sucked up your pride. You were going to be responsible, you were going to fix what had just happened and carry on with your new life so you could go home and make your mother proud.

Hesitating, you dialled the number and paused with a whole load of hope someone would pick up.

“Hello? Who is this?” His voice had gotten so much deeper, like fine wine.

The grandmother had given you her grandson- the now idol- Kim Taehyung’s number to call if you needed help in Seoul! Was she feeling okay? He was in and out of the country most of the time, how could he possibly help, or even want to help you?

“I’m sorry, I think I was given the wrong number!” You said, trying to cover yourself. You were so embarrassed, maybe the grandmother did give you the wrong number.

“Wait, you sound very familiar.” He said, keeping you from pressing the end button. Four years couldn’t change the erratic heart thumping that had happened only when you heard his voice. No one had come close to ever making your heart beat so fast, and you tried to shun the thought out of your mind everytime someone liked you.

“Hello?” He repeated, alerted by your absence.

“Yes...I’m Y/N. Your grandmother gave me this number to call in case I had a problem.” You said, feeling conscious.

“Oh, I remember her telling me. You got accepted into art school in Hongdae, right? That’s amazing! She showed me some of your drawings when she came to visit, they’re really cool. I have the one of me hanged up in my room.” He said casually.

You felt your cheeks nearly burst from the blood over flow in them.

“W-she, how did you see them?” You asked.

“Ah, she took some pictures that your mother showed her and showed me when I visited her last christmas at my parents house. I really liked the other one you drew of me. I showed my bandmates, they’re all jealous.” Yes, you were pathetic enough to draw his beautiful face again even after the concert where you were convinced he was just being a nice person inviting you to see him perform.

“Really? Y-you saw more of them?”

Three years on and with anyone else you came across as a fine young woman, but with this person you just had to be a complete child.

The drawing you had done of him was the one that got you accepted into art school, and you never really told anyone that was your winning submission.

“Yes! Are you embarrassed? You really shouldn’t be, you’re going to be a famous artist one day, i’m jealous. I wish I could draw like you.” He laughed, sending chills down your spine.

“Yes, no, I mean I don’t know what to say! Thank you, it means a lot to me.” You admitted, you didn’t know how to react when it came to him.

“It must do, we’re both artists. I know how it feels to finally gain some recognition for the hard work you put into an idea.” He said, hitting every string in your heart.

“Like a huge weight is lifted from your shoulder...but it’s not enough. You want more, you know?” You said instinctively.

“It’ll never be enough for people like us.” Taehuyng said to you.

“But anyways, since you’ve called me...It’s not good right? Did something bad happen?” He asked, and you were taken back to the reason you called in the first place.

Sighing, you opened up about everything. You told him about the room-mate you were supposed to trust, who ended up running away and not paying her side of the rent which was due in a week and how you had no money to cover both her rent and stuff you needed to live at the same time.

“Ah, I see. It’s actually common, people take good people like you for granted.” Taehyung said.

“I know you must be so busy, but is there anything you think would help me? I really just need a job.” You said, hoping to work for her side of the rent to cover the costs.

“You could work, but you won’t be able to focus on art school if you work for so long just to cover her side of the rent. You need to find another room mate first, but you need somewhere to stay first.” He said.

“Do you know anyone that would take me in? I wouldn’t be a bother.” You said, hoping there was some place that would kindly take you in until you could find another room mate and some work.

“Yeah, I do. I’ll have our driver pick you up and to our dorms. You can work for our stylists in the meantime.”

“What, this is a lot for you! You don’t even know what type of person I am, I could be the most messiest person ever.” You said, blurting out the most stupid things.  

“Sure, my grandmother told me how messy you are. She told me how you don’t help re-arrange her furniture and help clean her kitchen on your own will. She told me how you’re the most lazy girl she’s ever met.” He said laughing, knowing exactly well that you were the opposite of everything he just said. The grandmother had really kept him informed about you. Smart woman.

Your mind flashed back to the concert, and the kiss he shared with the pretty girl. You didn’t want to interrupt anything, especially considering how...attached they were.

“Will I be interrupting anything, I’m a girl and...do you have anyone that would mind?” You asked, hoping he’d get the hint. You didn’t want to stay with him only to be sneered at by a girlfriend.

“No...should there be?” He didn’t understand, and you realised how awkward it would become if you just blurted out if he had a girl friend.

“Great, thank you so much.” You said sincerely. Taehyung said it was no problem, a smile sent through his voice on the phone. After hanging up, you took a deep breath. What do I do, what do I do? Your mind filled with a thousand thoughts, realising how even after three whole years your crush on Taehyung had never quite gone away. You wondered if it would still be as obvious as Hay-Jeon had pointed out after the concert incident.

You had changed a lot in these three years, but it was like you reverted back to being an infatuated girl hearing Taehyung’s voice.

You slapped your cheek. Get a grip Y/N. You can’t like him, he’s just doing something nice for you. Don’t like him. You told yourself.

Later that evening, you had arrived at Taehyung’s after he sent for you. The ‘dorm’ he was living in was a fancy apartment complex, and you were buzzed through quickly.

“Y/N!” Taehyung’s happy smile was one thing that always made your lips curve up. He looked genuinely happy to see you, putting your body at ease.

You greeted him back, and thanked him for letting you stay with him again. Taehyung rolled his eyes, and put his arm around you, friendly.

You tightened your fists, hoping your heart would slow the hell down. Taehyung was easy to talk to, he asked you about your life and what had gone on throughout the three years. He congratulated you on making it to art school, and said he was excited to see the work you were producing. You talked to him about everything he was doing, and you hoped the fan inside wasn’t making an appearance, but you couldn’t help it. Your probably couldn’t help the way your face brightened up next to him. You had to remind yourself that you were just here because Taehyung was a nice person, nothing more.

“Hello, who are you?” Kim Seojkin was sitting on a stool in their kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal whilst he asked who you were casually.

“This is the genius I told you about who drew me, her name’s Y/N.” Taehyung said, your heart beating faster knowing he talked about you.

You were so screwed, head over heels and he was oblivious.

Even Seokjin noticed. He smiled cheekily, glancing at you.

“Ah, the famous Y/N. Do you know every time someone goes into his room, he shows the portrait you drew of him?” Jin’s voice was cut shot by Taehyung slapping his shoulder.

“Yah, you’re just jealous.” Taehyung said.

After their little banter, Taehyung proceeded to take you to where you would be staying. He realised you were tired, and told you to relax and asked if you needed anything after you sat down on the spacious bed.

“You’ve done too much already, thank you.”  You said, turning to him before he left the room.

Taehyung must have sensed the slight shake in your voice, coming back and sitting on the edge of your bed.

“I know how it feels, coming to a new place from where you were. It’s overwhelming, but you get use to it. You even like it, Seoul’s different. You meet so many people, and some people aren’t so nice, but a lot of people are. Plus, cities need people like us. I know you’re feeling down because of what happened with your roommate situation, but you’ll be okay.” He said, re-assuringly sensing your initial discomfort.

“I just want to make my mother proud, she’s so hopeful I do something with my art here.” You admitted.

“It, feels like you’re under a lot of pressure now, right?” Taehyung asked, like he knew the feeling too.

You nodded. “I don’t know why I feel like this.” You said.

“It’s because we want to make something of ourselves here...it never stops. This feeling. It’s because we know what the alternative could have been.” He said insightfully, hitting every thought you were having.

“I loved the art shop I worked at, but there was no future there.”

“I love strawberries, but not when I would have to pick them.” He said, explaining his situation perfectly.

“You’ll be fine, Y/N. I’m here for you.” He said, pushing your feelings everywhere. You smiled at him, but inside  your heart was pulling strings and beating frantically. He had said goodnight and left you to sleep, but your mind had just turned itself alive with thoughts of Taehyung.

You took a deep breath, this was just the beginning.

A month had passed since you had rocked up to Taehyung’s place, shared with 6 other men.

If someone told you this little detail three years ago, you would have passed out out of disbelief.

Yet, here who were, sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen of 7 internationally renowned artists, trying to cover your ears as another small brawl had started on who could have the last box of lucky charm cereal.

“Y/N? Can we have a opinion?” Jimin had nudged you, stopping you from eating your crunchy nut cereal mid way.

“Both of you said you were dieting.” You said, looking at Jin and Jungkook who were fighting over cereal. Yep, a month in and you had managed to become the self that you were always were in front of people you would have otherwise, worried about looking like an idiot in front of.

They paused for a moment, considering your valid point before ignoring it all together and continuing their petty fighting. Taehyung had just come out of the shower, taking the box of cereal from the middle of a heated debate and pouring the last of it into a bowl.

You smirked, well that ended that little fight. Taehyung had a habit of getting too used to your presence, he walked out of the shower with a towel covering his lower half and droplets of water still sliding of his tanned skin.

You were clearly one of the guys in his eyes, despite your feminine appearance.

“Don’t you guys have a schedule today?” You asked, clearing the last of cereal from your bowl and ignoring his lack of clothing.

“Nope, rare day, right?” Hoseok said.

“I’m going to sleep, because I haven’t slept a full night since last month.” Yoongi said.

“How’s your mixtape coming?” You asked, and Yoongi replied that it was going well. You smiled, telling him not to work himself too hard.

At that moment, Taehyung had planted himself down on the stool in between Yoongi and you, breaking up your conversation.

“Don’t you own a shirt?” You asked, this heart-beating thing was getting old, and it refused to stop whenever he looked your way.

“It’s my day off, I can do what I want.” He said, putting a mouthful of cereal in his mouth.

All the other members snorted seeing your interaction. You ignored them, looking at the time.

“I have class in half an hour. I’ll see you guys tonight. Let me know what we’re doing.” You said grabbing the canvas you were working on.

“Can’t you skip? I wanted to hang out today.” Taehyung said, pouting.

“I have a fine art lecture on Khalo, there’s no way I’m missing this.” You said, grabbing your back pack. Your heart needed a break from Kim Taehyung too.

Your fine art course was where you got a little peace from your heart, which was acting like it was this repressed creature everytime Taehyung smiled at you. It was like the vessel was telling you to hug him, touch him, kiss him, smile like an idiot back at him. You were also able to focus, when it came to college.You remembered why you were here, and why a month had passed and no alternative roomate had turned up for the flat you had rented. Taehyung and his friends were kind, letting you stay for free like that. They had also hooked you up to a job with the makeup team at BigHit, which meant you had a job to support yourself too.

You said your byes to everyone, and set out to catch the nearest metro to college.

“Wanna come to my exhibition this evening? I managed to score a room at the national art centre downtown.” Your art school friend, Leo had whispered in your ear as soon as you sat down next to him.

The art centre was notoriously difficult to book a room for, and it was usually reserved for actual artists. Not fine art under-grads.

“Yes! How did you even manage to get a room there?” You asked.

“I asked the owner’s daughter out on a date.” He shrugged.

“You know the owner? How?” You asked, intrigued.

“I looked him up, saw he had family on facebook. Found his daughter, flirted with her. Easy as pie.” Leo said as if he didn’t spend hours trying to search for personal information. You were jealous, Leo was everything that you weren’t like that. He was an artist too, but he was willing to go to the extremes for his art to be seen. His image also helped him, he looked like a young Orlando Bloom.

Meanwhile, you had spent 1000s of applications trying to get retailers to take in one of your pieces.

“I’ll see you there”. He winked, before the lecture lights dimmed and learning began.

That afternoon, you had come back to dorms and changed into slightly more exhibition ready clothes. These were also known as your dress to impress range. The exhibition would have great networking opportunities. You also really wanted to have an exhibition like Leo, someday so the thought of being able to get some really important numbers was motivating you.

“Wah, you look like one of those girls...” Jimin said, glancing at you whilst he grabbed some juice from the fridge as soon as you had come into the breakfast bar to grab some water.

“One of those girls?” You asked, confused on what girl you were. You looked down consciously at your leather jacket and red dress.

“Femme fatale.” He said expressively.

Before you could reply, Taehyung had strolled in from the communal recording studio and stopped seeing you.

He took a glance, and for the first time ever you saw him look...upset?

“You wanted to watch a movie today?” He said, in a low voice. You almost wanted to say he sounded hurt.  

“There’s an art exhibition that my friend invited me to, it’s a really good chance for me to promote my art.” You said, excited.

Taehyung’s face immediently changed.

“That’s great, this is what you’ve been waiting for.” He said, a whole smile on his face.

“I know, I’m hoping I finally land a buyer.”  You said, eyes hopeful. 

Taehyung smiled. “They’d be crazy not to buy your art.” 

You thought back to how much of a struggle it had been to get people to look at your work. Taehyung always knew the right things to say to you. 

“Thanks, Tae. Have a good night.” You said, leaving to go downtown to the exhibition. 

The exhibition was full of faces that you were sure had made it on the covers of Vogue, which intimidated you. You were surprised by how many people Leo knew, because the place was packed. 

“Congratulations Leo, I think you’re about to make it.” You said, once you had managed to catch up with your friend. He was completely wasted, probably from the realisation so many wealthy people had turned up to check out his art. 

“Thank you my lady! 14 years of hard, gruelling work and now my fruits are bearing. Have I introduced you to some people?” He said, voice slurring. 

[dedalvs]

Bodzvokhan: The Orcish Language from Bright

The Orcs in Bright lived most of their existence in the Pripet Marshes. They spoke their own language, but as the Russian Empire grew, many learned to speak Russian, as well. When Russia began a campaign to exterminate the Orcs, they emigrated to many places, including the United States. The Orcish language had an old, ancient script (Vukht) which was replaced by a variant of the Cyrillic alphabet. After the emigration, the Orcs reclaimed their old writing system and began using it once again (with some modified Cyrillic letters used for sounds not present in the language when the Vukht was originally in use).

The language itself is SVO and somewhat agglutinative with minimal case marking. Phonologically, it’s highly permissive of consonant clusters, and has low-high vowel harmony. The Cyrillic writing system is, of course, alphabetic, and the Vukht is abjadic. This is a rundown of the phonemes and how they’re spelled:

These are the original six vowels of Bodzvokhan. They come in pairs like this, so every affix that takes -i with high vowels will take -e with low vowels, and vice versa. These are high and low with respect to one another, not in terms of their exact IPA definitions.

A couple of important notes here on the Vukth (ignore Cyrillic for the moment). The abjad works by placing the two lines you see in the low column below a consonant to indicate that there is an [a] vowel there. Without that, it’s assumed that there is either no vowel or [ǝ]. The original semi-vowels *j and *w are used for the vowels [i] and [u], respectively, and the low mark is used below them to indicate [ɛ] and [ɔ]. Because consonants indicate the vowel that occurs before them, the symbols for [a] and [ǝ] are never really used, and don’t differ from one another (this is also due to the fact that [ǝ] is never written at the end of a word, so usually you only see that glyph if it’s [a] at the end of a word and not obvious).

Here’s an illustrative example:

These are two different words that are nevertheless written with the same characters. The main characters are, in order, <vʀbwʣ>. In the first word, though, <v>, <b>, and <w> have the low diacritic beneath them, meaning that the vowel before them is [a]. When it occurs before <w>, the interpretation is that they combine to form [ɔ]. Thus the first word is pronounced [a.vʁaˈbɔdz], which means “I plant it”, and the second is pronounced [ǝ.vʁ(ǝ).ˈbudz], which means “I yank it”. Each of these can also take a final -a or -ǝ, respectively, but it’s usually left off (more on that later).

The Cyrillic should be uncontroversial, save using <э> rather than <е>. This is done because <е> is used elsewhere. The vowel <ы> was used basically for the “other” vowel in Orcish, and is used in Russian borrowings for the original <ы> vowel. For that reason, it can be pronounced [ɨ], but that’s usually done only by those fluent in Russian, and only in Russian borrowings. Otherwise, it’s just the symbol used for [ǝ]. Also, unlike in the Vukht, the vowels are always written.

Otherwise, the romanization is straightforwardly i, e, ǝ, a, u, o. In the scripts, I didn’t differentiate between [a] and [ǝ] at all (they were both spelled a), since (a) Final Draft doesn’t support <ǝ>, and (b) I was going to be on set to make sure it was always pronounced right. Plus, unless the word has all [a] or [ǝ], it’s obvious which it should be.

Now here are the consonants:

All of these were romanized as you can probably guess (so: ch [tʃ], j [dʒ], sh [ʃ], zh [ʒ], kh [x~χ], h [ħ]. ng [ŋ], y [j], and r [ʀ]). There are just a couple of notes to make.

There are some sounds present in the chart which have spellings in both systems that are no longer present in the language. At this stage, the phonemes and letters associated with the proto sounds *[ɢ], *[ʁ], *[ɣ], and *[ʀ] are all pronounced [ɣ~ʁ], and are all romanized as r. It’s only in the two orthographies that those sounds are still differentiated, leading to some complex spellings one has to remember.

Aside from the glyph for y [j], the entire palatal column has been borrowed from Russian, and from Cyrillic. This entire series is not native to Bodzvokhan, and is not spelled with native Vukht characters.

Those familiar with Cyrillic will doubtless have some questions about the characters chosen for the sounds not present in Russian. I went with systematicity over adhering to any specific Cyrillicization scheme, figuring that the orthography would have been created by a missionary some time in the late 1700s/early 1800s. I think it works very well as a system, but hope it works historically.

Some, but not all, of the native Vukht consonants have a special geminate form used only when the consonants appear as true geminates (so you’d use them for a theoretical word ǝnni but not inǝn). This is a list of them:

Those should be fairly self-explanatory. In addition, there are a number of Cyrillic extensions that are used for Bodzvokhan. I’ll discuss them after I show them:

Russian has an entire palatal series that’s written by having two sets of vowels. Each of these made its way to both the Cyrillic writing system and the Vukht. The sequences [jɛ] and [jɔ] actually do occur in native Bodzvokhan words, so the character are sometimes used for that, rather than the traditional sequence of the character for <j> followed by the modified character for <j> or <w>. Old *[jɔ], though, eventually developed into modern [œ], and so now the new character <ё> is used for that vowel. In parallel, the character <ю> is also used for new [y]. (So now Bodzvokhan has an eight vowel system.) Other characters are used variously in borrowings, with the old Cyrillic character <я> used now in English borrowings where [æ] is wanted.

The old Cyrillic soft sign <ь> was only used in the Cyrillic writing system for Bodzvokhan, and only in borrowings—and even then, inconsistently. The hard sign <ъ>, though, developed a life of its own. Old sequences of stops followed by *[ʀ] have evolved to become hard consonants—probably velarized. Or something like that. As a way of marking these, the hard sign is used following stop consonants. There are no longer any sequences spelled with a stop glyph followed by the glyph for r in either the Cyrillic version or the Vukht. (In addition, velars became uvulars before r.)

Anyway, that’s more or less the phonology. Stress is on the second-to-last syllable of the root.

I see this is way longer than expected. lol I’ll show you some minimal grammar stuff, then.

Nouns distinguish singular and plural, as well as nominative and genitive. Here are some examples:

NOM. SG.: dri “stone”; qǝs “summit”; dǝzhn “language”

NOM. PL.: drif “stones”; qǝsif “summits”; dǝzhnivǝ “languages”

GEN. SG.: drin “stone’s”; qǝsǝn “summit’s”; dǝzhnǝn “language’s”

GEN. PL.: drim “stones’”; qǝsim “summits’”; dǝzhnivin “languages’”

If you take those same three types of words (ends in a vowel; ends in a consonant; ends in a consonant cluster) and switch out the vowels with low vowels, then you get low vowel suffixes. Thus, with örq “orc”, you get örqeva, örqan, and örqeven.

Verbs agree with their subjects, direct objects, and indirect objects, and also mark aspects, polarity, and a few voices. I’m actually going to be super lazy and put up table images, because why not this is huge anyway. lol

These are all things that come before the root. So if nǝd is “give”, ǝmvrǝnǝd is “I give it to [him/her]”, kvǝvrunǝd is “You gave it to me” (can’t have a geminate [v] like that, so the [ǝ] breaks it up), khngrbǝzninǝd is “They always give them to you”, and khngrbǝznunǝd “They always used to give them to you”, etc. The nominalization can be used to make regular verbal nouns, but also complex infinitives, like ǝngvrhunǝd “for me to have given it to you”.

There are two types of suffixes that can come after the verb root:

The position 4 suffixes are optional (used only when needed), and the affirmative polarity suffixes are generally not use save for emphasis at this stage (which is why many verbs end with the verb root, in practical use).

The third person agreement prefixes are also used to form agentive nouns. Thus, the verb form pegazdasa, which means “s/he works regularly”, is also the noun to mean “worker”. (In fact, as a noun, the final -a will always be on there, whereas for the verb most of the time it will not be.) These nouns, then, don’t have the usual case frame, as their “plurals” are actually just plural verb forms. Thus:

NOM. SG.: pegazdasa “worker”

NOM. PL.: khegazdasa “workers”

GEN. SG.: pegazdasan “worker’s”

GEN. PL.: khegazdasan “workers’”

That gives you some of the major points of the Bodzvokhan language. There are adjectives, they come before the noun, and they agree in case and number. There are lots of borrowings from Russian, and some from English. Here’s probably my favorite sign that the art department came up with:

Öl Ruf. Öl El. “Dark Times. Dark Ale.” lol The ale is called Omarzo Gǝrrul “Ugly Gargoyle”. And that word mark for the word omarzo, “ugly”... Just brilliant. You know, I first came up with the Cyrillic script for Orcish, because, based on my understanding of what I discussed with David Ayer, that was the only one that was going to be used. But then he said he wanted another script—more angular and crude-looking—so I came up with the idea of the old script that was reclaimed. I didn’t like the look of it at first, but when I saw what they did with that word mark, I was like, “All right. This works. This is good.” Those art department folk are wizards. There was a guy there that had an Ugly Gargoyle ale shirt with that on it, and I’ve never coveted anything so bad...

Anyway, that’s an intro to the Orcish language, Bodzvokhan. Hope you like it! Up next is Elvish!

[warcrafttimemd]

Thoughts On The Criticism of AU!Draenei Direction

As the fallout from the revelations of the Mag’har Allied Race scenario continues to spread through the fanbase, I’ve seen plenty of good reasons why the decision to turn the AU!Draenor Draenei evil was a terrible one: it’s illogical, it invalidates the entirety of the Warlords of Draenor storyline, it’s a weak-ass excuse to set the Mag’har against a threat they need help with that they couldn’t get from the AU!Draenei that also completely ignores all the other nonsense going on like the crazy plants in Gorgrond, it’s the latest in the increasingly shameful exhibit of how Blizzard doesn’t know how to write female characters, it’s a pathetically lazy attempt to peddle the ‘both sides are evil’ narrative even though the AU@Draenei are not and have never actually been part of the Alliance, it’s just bad fucking writing, etc. It is an awful decision for all those reasons listed.

I have seen one that doesn’t work, though, and it’s been written a number of different ways:

“Draenei don’t/can’t work as oppressors because they’ve always been oppressed.”

“Draenei are victim-coded, so making them evil is wrong.”

“I can’t/don’t feel sorry for the Mag’har because they treated the Draenei so horribly in the past.”

It all basically boils down to this: Draenei, as villains, are impossible. Frankly, I don’t buy it.

“Draenei don’t/can’t work as oppressors because they’ve always been oppressed.”

Being oppressed or conquered in the past, whether as an individual or a group, doesn’t prevent an individual or a group from being oppressors or conquerors in the future. There’s no Ron Swanson-style card they get to hold up that says “I can do what I want.” What it does mean is that, having been treated in this awful way, they should know better than to turn around and do it to someone else. Unfortunately, you can look at the entire history of Azeroth to see how that lesson’s taken hold in others - or hasn’t, in most cases.

To the more severe version of the idea, that Draenei can’t be oppressors - that they are physically and morally incapable of the act on an objective scale, no matter the actual results of their actions - because of how they’ve been treated in the past, I also say bollocks. The ability to dominate and conquer is directly related to the power wielded by a person/faction; when we left AU!Draenor at the end of Warlords, the AU!Draenei were still on the back-foot (back-hoof?), but when we come back to AU!Draenor, even though we don’t have exact specifics yet, we can infer that they’ve grown in size and strength enough not just to challenge the Mag’har, but to become the dominant species/faction on the planet.

Whatever power of the Mag’har/Iron Horde wielded in the past, it’s now passed to the AU!Draenei. They have the power, and they’re happily using it to convert, enslave, and wipe out the Mag’har. When a faction starts outnumbering and enslaving other races, they don’t get to hold onto that ‘oppressed’ title. As Garrosh Hellscream himself said:

“Draenei are victim-coded, so making them evil is wrong.” 

This variation holds the most water for me, although I’d still argue it’s inaccurate. Is turning the AU!Draenei ‘evil’ morally wrong? No. Is it distasteful? Arguably. Is it a poor idea at this point in World of Warcraft’s story? Absolutely.

To a certain extent, I think I see what Blizzard is attempting to do: they’re pulling an ‘Arthas,’ showcasing how dire a threat is by showing that even the best and brightest can be turned into moustache-twirling villains by its influence. I think that Blizzard hopes that in doing so, not only will they add a huge amount of weight to Xe’ra’s actions in Legion, they’ll also be adding a huge amount of weight to the concept that the Light can be just as dangerous as the Void, which has, up until the Xe’ra stuff, seemed more like trite ‘all things in moderation’ philosophy than something concrete.

Xe’ra’s extremist approach was easy enough to pass off as a fluke for a number of reasons: because of existing in a fragmented state for so long, her sanity was questionable (wow, another insane female character, real original Blizz), she was ancient beyond reckoning, coming from a time and place far divorced from Azeroth (and Azerothian ideas about good and evil), etc. Xe’ra was really the first true instance of a Light-aligned character doing some really questionable stuff in the name of the Light; there have been other characters in similar circumstances (Arthas, the Scarlet Crusade, etc.) but all of those were shown to be ultimately under the control or direction of more nefarious forces. There’s no question what Xe’ra is up to. Xe’ra can’t be discounted as a rogue agent anymore. She isn’t the exception, she’s the harbinger, and the AU!Draenei (and potentially more characters in the future) are what she is heralding.

As to whether turning a ‘victim-coded’ race into conquerors is ‘wrong’...I guess I don’t even really understand that concept, that once a race/faction has been established as more likely to give ground than hold or take, then they’ll never, ever do anything but that, and that changing or reversing that behavior is morally incorrect on the behalf of the writers. Honestly, I addressed most of that in the first section. Yes, the Draenei have been shown to be naturally peaceful, and retreating from a fight or attempting to negotiate is their first instinct. However, they’ve also been shown to be easily swayed to drastic action when their faith is appealed to, something both Sargeras and K’ure took advantage of in the past, though for different reasons. A running theme in the Warcraft games is how absolute power corrupts, and there’s no good reason why any faction should be immune from that, no matter what they’ve been through. Dealing with shit in the past earns you nothing on a cosmic scale, which the World of Warcraft writers seem to enjoy reminding us a lot of lately.

That still doesn’t make the decision to have the AU!Draenei go Crusades on Draenor any better. It’s certainly in poor taste. The people of AU!Draenor got about as happy an ending as World of Warcraft affords: the bad guys were defeated, and everybody was pledged to a brighter future because, down at brass tacks, that’s what they all wanted. Then we come back years later - from the clues in the broadcast text, I’m assuming the Mag’har scenario takes place about 20-30 years after the events of Warlords - and find that literally everything is ruined. Nothing the players did really mattered at all; even though the Legion is no longer in the picture, Draenor is still in the hands of tyrants, it’s just religious fanatics instead of savage warriors this time. Who knows what’s happened to the Arakkoa. They were probably first on the AU!Draenei’s ‘to-smite’ list. It’s such an absolutely bitter pill that it almost defies belief. I joked about it in a post a while back, but Blizzard really did make Warlords somehow worse.

“I can’t/don’t feel sorry for the Mag’har because they treated the Draenei so horribly in the past.”

I call this the ‘Killmonger problem,’ because the folks who feel this way don’t assign an intrinsic negative value to certain actions/practices, but rather base their approval of those actions/practices purely on who’s performing them. In other words, they don’t have a problem with objectively evil actions like conquering and/or enslaving, but only as long as they’re the ones doing it or it’s happening to someone they don’t like.

Because the Mag’har were awful to the AU!Draenei in the past, there’s a tacit approval on some of the players’ parts of the idea that now the AU!Draenei should be able to be as awful as they want to the Mag’har. That’s not a perspective concerned with justice, but with vengeance, with ‘getting even.’ I’m not denying that the Iron Horde did some heinous things in the past, but visiting those horrors back on them does nothing but continue the cycle of violence.

Look, if the writers fail to elicit sympathy for the Mag’har, that’s partially on them. The way they’ve botched this entire thing, I’m not surprised. I’m having a hard time myself, although I suspect that’s mostly because I’m still trying to wrap my head around how the AU!Draenei could’ve possibly gone this bad in the first place. But I think the whole scenario also challenges us as an audience to look at this once completely sympathetic faction and what they’re doing now, and ask ourselves “Am I okay/not okay with this, and why? Am I getting a vicarious thrill out of seeing Draenei finally beat some Orc ass after years and years of oppression?” If the answer is yes, then own it, but don’t pretend like you’ve got the moral high ground to criticize story direction when you’re the one condoning or at least complicit with the faction that’s killing people for worshiping the wrong god. Glass houses and all that.

There is one more variation I’ve seen - not listed above - that explicitly has to do with how certain races in World of Warcraft are tied to real world equivalents, but that’s a complete can of worms that’s not really ever worth opening. Once we start talking about how certain factions are (insert race/religion)-coded, we project biases and opinions from the real world onto situations and people in completely different contexts, and we start debating about both as if they’re one, and they’re really not. Every race and faction in WoW is a mishmash of influences from multiple cultures, and trying to superimpose real world history over a fictional universe that exists as such leads directly to The Yawning, Dark Cavern That Nothing Good Ever Comes Out Of.

Sorry if this entire post has come off as completely bonkers. I’ve been drafting and rewriting it over the course of a couple of days, so I know it’s not the most coherent thing in the world, but, for whatever reason, whenever I saw justifications like this for hating on the Mag’har scenario, it just really ground my gears. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the direction that Blizzard has chosen to go with AU!Draenei, but I also feel pretty strongly that there are valid, logical reasons for disliking something, and then there’s just pseudo-socio-political nonsense. Feels kind of like people giving a politician a hard time about his/her looks or clothing choices when they're an abhorrent human being with no morals and terrible politics. If you're gonna go after a problem, go after it for the right reasons.

[imsarahcate]

Sitting here re-reading what I think is the final version fo the email to country dad.  I hate to sound so... passive aggressive, and I hate to basically beg at the end.  But this is the best I can do after many drafts of varying levels of anger and pure frustration and just... I need him to understand what he refuses to HEAR me say.  And i needed to still ask him to buy me an expensive powerchair so really the whole thing was a juggling act of several days worth of writing and rewriting and rewriting and rewriting.  Under the cut because it’s fucking looooong.

Hi Dad,

Got the birthday card today, thank you.  Tell everyone thanks, someday maybe I'll be able to afford the trip and actually be up there with ya'll for one of these reunions.  

. When it comes to the article, I appreciate that you thought of me, but I don't think you understand the pain situation I live with still.  That alternating advil/tylenol trick can be effective- for acute pain issues or unexpected injuries.  Short term solutions for short term, acute pain.  It's actually something I've done before after surgeries.  I don't have acute pain.  I have chronic pain.  It never stops.  It never gets better.  I feel like even after all this time, you still don't really understand what I live with every day, Dad.  And it's really frustrating.  I feel like you are disappointed that I'm on opioid painkillers- as though it's some decision I made that I keep up because i want them.  As though it's a choice at all for me- when really I have tried pretty much everything else.  Every time we talk anymore- I end up feeling like I have to defend the one thing in 5+ years that has given me ANY measure of relief, and even at that it's hit and miss.

. So here's the truth, My feet always hurt.  Not a little, not now and then, ALWAYS.  And more than I can even make you understand I think.  From one minute to the next it can feel like my feet are white hot on fire, being smashed by sledgehammers, crushed in a vice.  And then for extra fun, a lot of nights (most these days) they also get supersensitive- to the point that even with only the air touching them it's excruciating.  Do you know that even when I manage to sleep deeply enough to dream- I hurt IN my dreams?  That's where things are at now.  I am so lucky to have a doctor who is even willing to TRY opioid painkillers.  And HE is the one asking if we should be stepping up doses Dad, not me.  And he is not pushing opioids on me, he is doing his best to treat my actual, very real, very debilitating pain.  I regularly moan in my sleep so loudly that I wake myself up. And when the meds don't work well enough, or if I try to push beyond my limits- my whole body freaks out.  I have a whole roster of stomach meds because what happens is- like last week for example- when I continue to go on through the point where I know I should stop and rest- I spend anywhere from 1-3 days with sour stomach, severe nausea.  I can't eat. I end up with vicious muscle spasms in my abdomen or thighs or calves, or my feet- or all of the above.  Because if I push past that line, the nerve damage is so bad that it literally affects my entire body- just to get me to STOP and recover.

. I do my best to try and stay positive, to take care of the rest of my health to the best of my ability- and frankly, if it weren't for the pain, I'd be overall in great shape.  I am not lazy or addicted or unhealthy.  I have pain that is borderline dehumanizing, that is constantly getting worse even while every other part of me gets better.  And I am so frustrated by the feeling that you still don't understand that.  I haven't been up there because it is exhausting for me to make the drive.  i haven't been up there because when I come, I want to be able to do things like... go for a walk with you and Thor, to cook dinner, to go see the cows and the horses and everything else- and I can't.  I can't even manage the 2 hour drive just to get there.  Do you know how frustrating that is?  Do you know how frustrating my whole LIFE is these days?

. So I appreciate that you thought of me dad, I do.  But the help I need isn't alternatives that I have already tried that I already know do not work.  Last month my doctor and I had a hard discussion.  My crutches aren't enough anymore, and with Kris moving in with Tom after the wedding, I'm going to have to take up a lot of my own errands that I've been able to rely on her for when I was flaring.  We found a really great powerchair, weatherproof, folds, would fit in the trunk of my car.  Something I can manage to set up and break down on my own.  The battery holds a charge when the chair is off- so if I had a good streak or we found a sweet spot with pain meds, it would still have a charge when I eventually did need it again.  Ultimately I'm hoping to get reimbursed for it by medicare or my supplemental plan.  But as I'm now having to appeal my disability decision altogether (apparently the ancient doctor who asked me NO questions about my pain decided I am no longer disabled) I don't know how long that could be.

. Which brings me here.  I need your help again.  It's a one-off, but a big one. Call it every birthday and xmas gift for the rest of our lives.  And, eventually if I AM able to get reimbursed, I will gladly sign the check directly over to you without even cashing it first.  But with the way my pain is progressing having the chair sooner rather than later would make a huge difference to me.  So I'm swallowing my pride and asking if there's any way (if you can) if you would buy this chair for me:

https://www.foldandgowheelchairs.com/travel-friendly/heavy-duty-fold-go-electric-wheelchair-turquoise/

. They're normally $3800, but they're having a sale right now so it's $2795, no tax, free shipping.  I can't promise I'd be able to pay you back for it- but if my appeal goes through I'll be putting into my insurance to get reimbursed for it (the company that makes the chair can actually help me with that) and if that gets approved, I'll give you whatever they give me for it.  I know it's a lot.  I've spent the last month trying to figure out another way to get this huge thing that I need without having to ask you for it.  But this move to a chair, even part time, is inevitable with the way my pain is progressing.  And my doctor agrees that this chair would be a great solution for me as things get worse.  Easy enough to maneuver and holds a charge for the time when I don't need it for everything, but powerful and well made enough to use all the time when it eventually comes to that.

. I'm sorry to ask Dad.  I've been glad not to come to you for every little thing since I started on medicare and didn't need your help with my health insurance anymore.  But this is too big for me, and having it may even let me get some of my independence back.  

. Either way,  I love you, I miss you, and as soon as I can make the drive again- I still owe you and Thor a home-cooked dinner.  

Hope everyone's enjoying Nebraska Time... looks like a lot of fun.

Sarah.

[theliterateape]

Four Words That Will Change Your Life (and the Internet)

by Don Hall

"If you’re not a liberal when you’re 25, you have no heart. If you’re not a conservative by the time you’re 35, you have no brain."

Churchill did not say this. Attributed to him but completely inconsistent with his own political journey (Conservative at 15 and Liberal at 35) the quote joins a rather long list of quotes he was supposed to have said, but didn't.

To quote the Mandalorian, "This is the way."

As is often the case, who said it is less relevant that what was said. I mean, somebody said it even if they just made it up to falsely attribute to Churchill, right? That somebody had a point and the point is that people change their ideologies with experience. That is true no matter if it were Churchill or the batshit crazy cat lady on the street corner with the tinfoil hat and the shoes made of stuffed animals.

Experience forces perspective. If one is open to that perspective change, this new information allows the ideology to shift one way or the other.

A friend recently told me he thought I had gained a modicum of wisdom in my advancing age. He then stopped and corrected himself "Maybe it's not wisdom but age plus exhaustion. You aren't wiser so much as you are too tired to be the dumbass of your youth." There is some truth to the assessment. I am too tired to fight the same meaningless fights as I was so thirsty for in my younger days. Some of them are no longer relevant; most are just dull in repetition. 

I find myself get ginned up about some thing in the news or online. I start to write about the bigotry of Critical Race Theory or the pernicious grip Trump has on the bizarre amalgam of GOP legislators. I get bored or tired or filled with a sense of futility so I write about something I watched on Netflix or pop out 3,000 words in my draft of the book on working at the casino. The angry piece gets sidelined and I move on to something else.

I've always been a fairly angry guy but anger (usually a response to some other less proactive emotional state like fear or despair) takes a fuck-ton of energy and with age goes the energy. 

Oh, boo-fucking-hoo! When the life expectancy of the human body used to be around thirty years, you made it to fifty-five without too many dents in your fender and now you're bitching about needing more naps?

Not complaining. Just acknowledging the inevitable loss of steam to fuel the pissed-off. The other noticeable difference is that I can see clearly how my mind has been changed on so many things since I was young, dumb, and fulla cum. 

At a time of such stridency and polarization (and let's be honest here, it's almost always been like this—we just have social media to stick it in our faces at nearly every waking hour and we're all fucking addicted to our devices like truck drivers and five-dollar whores) being able to both change your mind but also admit it and move on is quite the sign of either wisdom or age+exhaustion.

Back when I was a giant fatass, if you asked me about hitting the gym, my reaction would be the derision of a true believer in delusional fitness. I was strong(ish) but horribly out of shape and strolling leisurely down the path of late-stage diabetes and heart failure at the ripe age of forty-five.

Out of nothing but vanity, I started working out regularly. I lost eighty pounds (the equivalent of four and a half bowling balls strapped to my frame) and found a sense of Zen that my otherwise lazy rage-boner could drill.

Today, while not one of those wheat-grass drinking, Instagram humping fitness cultists, I think that a bit of exercise could do everyone some good. My mantra is simple: any exercise is better than no exercise. If all you can manage is a single pathetic push-up, do it. One push-up is better than no push-ups.

In terms of a massive change of mind, this single shift is significant in that it has been life-changing. Despite my smoking (years sucking on cigarettes and now more years on pipes) and my waning tolerance for too much alcohol (a coupla beers and a shot pretty much does me in these days) I'd wager I've added at least a few years toward the finish line. 

The change Churchill decidedly did not make note of (but note was made, that can be certain) is a sign of evolution. Not growing gills or something bizarrely nineties as all that but a personal evolving from a stupid twenty year old to a slightly less stupid fifty-five year old. In the grand scheme of things, less stupid may be a low bar to clear but it's at least a goal.

In the 1990's, as with all twenty-two year olds, I thought I had it all under control. I knew the world, saw its hypocrisies, and fully believed I was as put together and confident as a frat boy with a roofie and a Scooby Doo van. I easily dismissed anyone over the age of thirty as a sell-out, anyone past forty as societally obsolete, and couldn't believe that anyone past fifty wasn't walking around asking people who shit their pants.

And, like twenty-two year olds of every decade in every generation, I was a self righteous cunt about it.

In terms of evolving, in experience changing my mind about fundamentals, it took some trudging through certain trenches and seeing the world from multiple angles to shift perspective.

“Do what you love. The money will follow.”

Bullshit. As a younger man I loved this mythological smegma on my chest but it simply isn’t true. The more correct version is “Do what you love because you will lie on your deathbed one day and if you spent your one life doing what you despise so you could buy shit, you’re a fucking moron.”

This epiphany came to me after years of experience because that's how these things go. 

The ability to change one's mind does not come from other people telling you what to do. Sure, instructions are helpful but being told what to believe is almost always a non-starter. This has been true for all time as far as I can tell. 

Two things are at play in today’s marketplace of ideas: the ability to change one’s mind and the desire to demand fealty to competing sets of beliefs. Most people have the skill to take in new information, reflect upon it, and shift perspective. Few are willing to shift perspective taking orders from others.

In the grand scheme of things, less stupid may be a low bar to clear but it's at least a goal.

When Vegas was in the early stages of COVID shutdown, I genuinely believed it was overblown and Chicken Little hysteria. “It’s just like the flu!” I recall saying to guests on the casino floor. I made jokes about licking machines and drinking Purell. Then the information started rolling out as scientists began to truly understand the gravity of the situation.

I changed my mind. I began to take it seriously. I did the reading and paid attention. 

“You said it was just like the flu a week ago!”

“I did. I was wrong.”

Those three words cannot be forced. They cannot be scolded into existence. They cannot be demanded. “What if you’re wrong?” is far less powerful than “What if I’m wrong?”

That’s really the essence of the thing. If more of us asked ourselves that question perhaps the marvel of digital communication would be less populated by wannabe neighborhood watch types vomiting out their putrid opinions on how everyone else is wrong. Maybe—just maybe—we could relax a bit and reflect on our own perspective shifts and engage in society with more grace than an angry, underserved nun with a hard-on for punishing those around her.

When I was in my twenties, I was terrified of homosexuality, I voted for Ronald Reagan, I drank until I blacked out and got into bar fights, I treated sex like it was a prize to win through manipulation. No one shamed me for these ideas. At some point, with experience and at least an ounce or two of self-reflective ability, I asked myself if I was wrong. I was wrong so I changed my mind and thus my behavior.

The goal is to become a better human before your clogged heart shuts down or a bus casually caves in your rib cage. The goal is not to focus on the guy in the Walmart parking lot screaming about the government making him wear a surgical mask to buy cheap macaroni and powdered cheese or the woman pushing the white fragility book on you. The goal is to become better at this life before it ceases to be.

To become better, ask yourself “What if I’m wrong?”

[thehandworld]

Rp’s comfort

RP Comfort Meme A valuable hella long meme for any role-player! Come display your comfort levels so your role-play partners are aware of what they can do, and of what they should avoid! A healthy relationship between role-play partners is the key to a good time! While this meme shows the basics, please remember to communicate with your role-play partners!

Tagged by: Lol I took this from @queenharumiura​ lol Tagging: feels tagged if you want.

It’s really long

RP Basics

RP Methods I am comfortable doing:

im: Honestly I prefer that IM be only ooc, so I really don’t like playing there.

Asks: I have done that, honestly I like doing memes threads. Also I’m fine with either turning in threads or just keep from ask.

Skype: I do played a little but it’s way messed up, if it’s for nsfw I don’t mind. But I prefer if it’s just for that or for plot.

Google Docs: Never tried before o - o, so I can’t say lol

OOC/Headcanoning/RP Planning Methods

I do love to talk ooc, but I need say that: I’m really shy and I take a lot to loose up to talk about. About headcanon or rp planning I really don’t mind in talking about, yet i need say I’m more likely go with whatever you give me lol.

im: The only bad side of IM is that the window is so... small that annoys me lol. But it’s a place there I can be always found since I mostly likely look tumblr twice a day.

Asks: Talking on asks can be annoying because of tumblr limits, yet I find it more easy than IM, since if I’m the one answering I can write as much as I want LOL and the plus side I can find it later.

Skype: It’s always online, because my phone is always online on wifi lol. So this is the quickest way to find and talk with me lol.

Participants I am comfortable with:

One on one RP’s: I mostly always do this one, it’s the easy ones since the track is not messed up so yeah I like this one.

Up to three people (including myself): I don’t mind, as far that we talk and so make an order to who will answer first and go on. 

Four or more people: The same thing with the three people, just talk about who is going to answer who and then will be fine.

RP Style I am all right with:

Lit/para: When it’s a plot or either a person I feel comfy I mostly likely will end in this lol. Mostly because I write a lot when I feel like. You don’t need match with what I write and I always try to match yours lol. Sometimes I end up writing a way more. Do I’m making sense?

1-3 lines: I do like those when I’m bored or when I don’t have mind for longer ones, but those probably get lost in the void.

[text]: Hm... I don’t get about this? I can do those, but in the end I always write more than normal lol

Post Length

I usually write about:

1-3 Pragraphs: This is the length that I normally likes to play and write and I tend to stay on those.

3-10 paragraphs: This here happen when I’m loving the thread or when I have A LOT OF THINGS that I want to write. Later I will try to go back to 1-3 tho...

PAGES: Erm... honestly I don’t think I write this much to turn in pages... The only time I did it I ENDED REGRETTING A LOT. So no, I try to avoid it the best I can.

Partner Post Length I am comfortable role-playing with people who write:

Do whatever you want: Honestly, I will do my best to match whatever you write, one-liner, multi-para, pages, just don’t wait me to answer WAY TOO quickly to pages! And please you don’t need match my length honestly sometimes I write paras and paras others I write like 2 paras lol. So yeah, do whatever you want.

Just please, don’t answer a multi-para with an one-liner okay? That is a nono.

RP Speed

I usually reply:

Within minutes: Normally short threads and crack threads that is easy.

Within a day: Thiiiis... happen when I have inspiration to. Normally I try to answer everything within a day when I have inspiration.

Within the same week: Well that happens when I’m really lazy and I have half inspiration, I tend to be picky with what I will answer or not.

Within a month: ... That happens a lot when I lost muses, I tend to disappear and ignore my drafts. If this happen please send an ask and I will explain.

Longer than a month: Hahaha... that happens when I lost muses longer than I thought I would lost. I tend to just vanish and not answer anything as well skype or IM lol.

Sporadic: I tend to be online for 5 minutes check if I have something, go play for 4-5 hours, come back and answer lol. So yeah... that is how it’s works when I’m online all day xD.

I expect my partner to reply:

Please, do as you wish: I’m lazy and slow, and I can wait your replies as far that you let me know you will answer. Just please don’t drop it and be silent. I wish to know if you want or not continue. I’m fine with drop since I know muses lost interest.

Within 1 years: I can wait... Yeah I can wait one year, maybe 2 years. But mostly like I will forget a few things.

Role-play Requests

The people I’ll take rp requests from:

Mutualship: Mutuals normally means I want to play with you, but as well that I read your rules. So just hit me up and we can talk, or drop a meme and we can continue from there.

Non-mutuals: I will check if you’re a rp blog or not, if you’re not I mostly likely not follow back, mostly because I prefer a clean dash. If you’re a rp blog I will go follow you and read your rules and then I will answer anything you send me.

OCs: I accept OC’s and self-insert very well, mostly like give me something about your muse, a faceclaim, or a fandom whatever and I will work from there.

Charas from other series: Honestly as far that I know the fandom I will mostly likely accept play with you, if I don’t know the fandom it will be kinda off but I can try? I dunno I like and dislike doing crossover lol. So it’s a so so.

Expectations

I expect my RP partner to:

Have read my rules.

Send me for who you send an ask and who you want to play with.

Be kind with me: I’m not english speaker and I do a lot of grammar mistake so please be kind about it. Also please have a grammar that I can understand, otherwise I will let it to void lol.

Understand my mood: I mostly likely have swing moods, I sometimes love to play and others I hate it, so my active is not always 100% here. 

Romantic Relationships

Just... tell me? Sometimes I ship it but I don’t talk about it because I don’t want to be pushing, others I just didn’t get it, sometimes I don’t think muses have chemistry but we can figure out about it. Just, speak is key. Shipping I am comfortable shipping my characters:

With chemistry: This is probably the number one rule? Let’s the muse get to know each other. Let’s them fight, talk and things like that. Ooc talk is good to get chemistry between muns and as well muses.

With considerable interaction: It’s not an automatic ship, mostly likely it will be friends or things like that. Like I said I only will assume that is a ship if we talk before.

AU: An AU can happen anything, mostly likely I can do a pre-stabilished relationship if you want, but in the end will be only for this AU version.

If you want to ship with my characters:

Interaction/chemistry: Just... have interactions before, it’s really a no no get in a ship without know if they will have chemistry or not.

Ask: Ask about the ship and I will answer the truth about it, if I like or if I don’t. We can talk about it more and maybe later I will end up shipping it.

HC’s/Angst:I don’t plot headcanons a lot in a ship, but we can talk about those ~! I would love to talk about it! Also a head up, I LOVE ANGST! So in a ship I will mostly likely throw a lot of angst in you ~!

I’m mostly likely open to all ships: Maybe I won’t know how to react or play but that is what RP’s is create for, to put you in situations and get to know how to work with ~! Yet if it’s really pushing my limits I will tell you and I ask you to understand if I stop shipping it.

NSFW material

NSFW material i’m comfortable with:

Blood: I can write things with blood as far that is not real blood lol. Mostly because a couple of fandoms have fights and the muses get wound, so yeah. I’m comfy in playing that.

Torture: I have muses that can torture and muses that had been tortured before, so those are things I’m okay and comfy with playing, although I probably don’t know how to really write those ups.

Smut: Hahaha... I mostly like will be under read more and with a NSFW tag. I normally don’t have mood for this but, if you do make me have mood for this please, do in read more okay ~?

Others types of NSFW: As far that it’s chat before or plotted I won’t mind. Like I said, I don’t think it will be well write but I’m up with anything ~!

On a side note: I can’t do smut or a few types of NSFW if the age difference between muses are really bigger, more than 5 years. That is a no no. I can’t.

[wildlycertainbasement-blog]

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