#i missed the frequency of the intensity and insanity

[turtlesallthewaytomgreg]

they could have had the moment after the bathroom fight be longer, have them step even closer, have the fight be more sexually charged and it would be perfectly tonally right and nothing that new for succession. if for nothing else, then to make it less.. dismissible... cause i'm pretty sure there's eros in this relationship lmao. ..... jesus. against my better judgement my thoughts just keep circling back to that mattmac interview. cause it's one thing to say everyone has their own interpretation but it's another to say it's projection

and i'm not saying this to dampen people's enthusiasm about the finale or tomgreg. cause the authors are dead for good and it's our playground now. i just like being called insane for the right things, and seeing sexual tension between tom & greg in s1-3 and most of s4 is not one of them.

hey, really appreciate this anon. i'm with you, they definitely could've heightened the sexual tension in the fight scene while staying 'on tone.' for me, it's just frustrating and/or confusing knowing that tomgreg 'won' last night (e.g., in being solidified as a 'forever' pairing), yet nevertheless feeling like there was something else still in the room, holding their chemistry back/preserving grounds for 'projection,' even if subtly.

more than anything, though--why confirm stewy as queer in the finale but not push beyond subtext with tom/greg? why maintain plausible deniability with one ship if you're still choosing to ally yourself with lgbtq+/alienate homophobic audiences with another? not to sound jealous of kenstewy fans (lmao definitely am), it's just too bad, that in choosing to make one queer-affirming concrete judgment call, they didn't take it a step further/make others.

[decepticononline]

Foxy gilf kup😩 cockwarming? 👀

IDW! Kup x Femme Reader

"And what does he think he's yackin' about now?"

Kup scoffed loudly and changed the frequency on the hologram screen. Listening to Rodimus talk in circles to avoid the heat of his latest scandal wasn't at all what he considered entertainment.

"Miss the good ole days when the primes weren't soft little valves like this idiot."

The sound of his husky voice sent tingles down your backstrut. Kup acting and speaking to you normally while this was happening left you speechless and dazed.

Every time you tried to engage in a conversation with him you could feel a moan waiting to rise from the back of your vocal box. The mesh walls of your valve squeezed and gripped his depressurized spike for dear life.

"You alright there darlin'?"

The heat from his chassis pressing up against your backstrut was making your entire frame shudder. You didn't have to look back to know that the older mech had a smug look on his faceplate. You ignored his comment and leaned back further into his frame and you could feel dribbles of his transfluid begin to seep out of you.

You looked down and the sight of his transfluid covered spike hilted deep inside your valve made you whine and dig your sharp digits further into his frame. The mech seemed to like that and let out a deep chuckle. He leaned back into the lounging berth and watched you writhe with satisfaction.

"My spike's that fraggin' good huh? Still got ya wiggling like a little whore."

Kup took his servo off the hologram-screen controller panel and brought it down to let his digits toy with your anterior node. You threw your helm back onto his chassis while he rubbed rough deep circles around your sensitive bundle.

A long string of moans, curses, and pleas were followed by the clenching of your walls signaling another approaching overload.

"Come on, I know you can do it."

Your valve was already incredibly sensitive from the previous overloads the mech gave you and Kup coaxing your frame to do one more was just insanity. Feeling your backstrut beginning to arch from the pleasure you bit down on your lower derma.

With optics flickering, cooling fans whirring, and processors hazed, you felt a series of tight forceful clenches and spasms of your walls alerting you that you were experiencing another intense overload. Your thick clear fluid quelched from around his spike and Kup exhausted a groan of approval.

"See, I knew you could do it."

[hiveswap]

I've been low frequency vibrating about trigun for a solid year now and want to get into it proper, where would you recommend starting for optimal brainrotting?

Okay SO.

I personally started with Trigun Stampede, the series that came out last year. It's not quite a reboot of Trigun 1998, it's more a separate take based on the manga. It's fast paced, a little insane, bit less western but a lot more sci-fi. Perfect start if you want to immediately fall for the characters!

I then started reading the manga, (Trigun->Trigun Maximum) which you can find on @trigun-manga-overhaul .(fanmade improvement of the official Dark Horse translation, most coherent one out there) It's sillier than TriStamp in some places, LOT more serious in other places. It's an intense reading experience. For the love of god take it slow, the panels are sometimes hard to figure out and so many plot details are not spelled out directly. I speedran it and I've forgotten so much of the story that I'll need to reread it. Equal parts sci-fi and western, perfect middle ground between the two adaptations i think. That's why it should be read in the middle.

...And then there's Trigun 1998! It came out when the manga was still in it's early stages, so a lot of the lore is different and there's plot threads that are different or missing. By far the silliest version. Will absolutely start punching you in the gut when you let your guard down, though. There's fillers, by this point you'll be happy to see these people have some good-ish (the bar is low) days. Less sci-fi, more Western.

And then there's Badlands Rumble (non canon movie) which I still haven't seen despite starting it back in march... it has a brief continuation in the multiple bullets antalogy (hit or miss kinda stuff, non canon work by multiple authors. The badlands rumble chapters are written by the og author though)

This has been the way i read it, but if you want more of an iceberg kind of approach, (gets more fucked up with each version) i'd recommend starting with 98, then tristamp, then the manga/TriMax

[contentment-of-cats]

Good article in the WaPo about gaslighting basics and how to deal.

How to deal with the 3 levels of gaslighting

Many of us differ on what counts as gaslighting — the form of emotional abuse and manipulation in which one person attempts to bend the reality of another. In gaslighting, the target is left feeling confused or even insane, as exquisitely dramatized in the 1944 movie “Gaslight.”

Gaslighting was Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Year in 2022, with a 1,740 percent increase in the number of times it was searched. The term’s increased popularity has raised awareness of its effect on our relationships and has prompted confusion over what constitutes gaslighting.

Many disagreements come down to severity: Either someone’s behavior appears too abusive or not abusive enough to be gaslighting. As psychologists, we have heard versions of these different understandings of gaslighting from our patients:

“She’s looking out for me. It’s not gaslighting.”

“This relationship is beyond gaslighting; it’s straight-up abuse.” Working with James Floman, our colleague at the Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence, we identified five factors that contribute to the severity of a gaslighting experience: frequency, intensity, extensiveness, intentionality (not all gaslighting is conscious) and the victim’s ability to handle adversity.

These factors also inform the severity of the gaslighting, as well as its effect on the target. These effects can start as disbelief and progress to defense and depression. Here’s how to cope with three levels of gaslighting.

Emerging gaslighting How to identify it: Gaslighting often starts slow and is nearly imperceptible. The gaslighter will make occasional critical statements. The spouse of one of our patients told him, “I figured you would lose the keys again. That’s you lately — always losing things. You should really get it together.”

The boss of another patient told her, “Sorry you can’t take a joke. You have no sense of humor.” Often, the victim will perceive these statements as ridiculous or a minor annoyance and mostly ignore them. But the seed is planted if a gaslighter persists and triggers self-doubt.

How to deal with it: Write down a list of things you know to be true. Get support from trusted friends and family — sharing how it feels to be around the gaslighter can provide grounding perspective. Tell the gaslighter you don’t like the way they speak to you or the way they are twisting things. Moderate gaslighting How to identify it: The gaslighter’s language is more accusatory, frequent and intense. The gaslighter will bring in what they say is evidence to confirm what they are insisting. For instance, a gaslighter told one of our patients, “You’re always missing deadlines and blaming it on someone else. Hard to admit you’re unreliable, isn’t it?”

The target will feel the need to defend themselves and get the gaslighter’s approval. They will ruminate about their interactions and wonder, “What is happening? Are they right? Maybe I am doing something wrong.”

How to deal with it: Opt out of the power struggle or the endless back-and-forth with a gaslighter. Do not attempt to negotiate; remember that a gaslighter’s permission to walk away is not required. Phrases such as “We’ll have to disagree,” “I hear you, and I don’t agree,” or “I know you feel strongly about this, but I am not going to continue this conversation” may help you disengage. If it continues, consider ways to limit or get support to end the relationship.

Severe gaslighting How to identify it: Now, a gaslighter’s attacks feel inescapable as the verbal assaults continue. One of our patients was told by a colleague, “You never bother to remember anything. You can’t seem to hold a thought in your head. You really don’t care about your job or our company, do you?”

Another was told by her husband, “You don’t know where I was last night? Come on. You’re a paranoid wreck — just like your mother.”

Targets of gaslighting feel like they are no longer the same person as when they entered the relationship. Any sense of personal agency is gone, and the gaslighter’s needs are prioritized over their own. They have lost themselves.

How to deal with it: Remember life does not have to be like this. If the gaslighter cannot be avoided (for example, a colleague or partner), then limit contact and set clear boundaries. It can be psychologically excruciating to stay with a gaslighter yet simultaneously painful to think about leaving. While not a cure, adopting a mindfulness practice to cultivate self-compassion can help you navigate severe gaslighting.

Resist the urge to isolate, and pursue opportunities to connect and share feelings with a support system. The perspective of trusted individuals can offer a necessary wake-up call to name what is happening. No one deserves the soul-destroying effects of extreme gaslighting. Gaslighting is abuse. Do not wait for a moment that finally feels good enough (or bad enough) to leave. Call on friends and family for support and healthy connection.

Recognizing the red flags of gaslighting If you think gaslighting may be present in your relationship, check for the following red flags:

I often feel confused and crazy in this relationship.

I have trouble walking away from a conversation when this person accuses me of something I didn’t do or being someone I’m not.

I avoid talking about this person with others.

I feel anxious and “not enough” with this person.

I am not the same person I was when I entered the relationship.

We are all deserving of respectful, compassionate and loving relationships. You are no exception.

Robin Stern is the co-founder and senior adviser to the director of the Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence, a psychoanalyst in private practice, the author of “The Gaslight Effect Recovery Guide” and the host of “The Gaslight Effect” podcast.

Marc Brackett is the founding director of the Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence, a professor in the Child Study Center at Yale, lead developer of RULER, an evidence-based approach to social and emotional learning, and the author of “Permission to Feel.”

[madmonkeydisorder]

Poematrix

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We are in trouble

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Tak tak tak

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My name is Danger!

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Say you love me again

Again say again I won’t complain

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State of shock

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But there is no time

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I say I can wait but you must get out

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No signal on a phone

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[safesthaveninexistence]

It’s okay for me to move with love. I’m the apex predator. My Magic and power is INSANE IM LAUGHING🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 IM GRATEFUL IM HAVING SM FUN WITH MY PSYCHIC POWERS. HAVING FUN WITH MY PSYCHIC POWERS ONLY GETS MORE AND MORE INFINITELY FUN. HAVING FUN WITH MY PSYCHIC POWERS ONLY GET MORE AND MORE INFINITELY EXHILARATING, ESCTATIC, FULFILLINGLY, AMAZING AND BREATHTAKING. WOW I see my beautifully huge super yacht… geez I’m seeing visions. Geez…..Wow I’m receiving visions. My yacht……puts all to shame. I’m MONSTROUSLY BIG BALLIN….Dawg I’m a MF ZILLIONAIRE…….(chills) I don’t gotta worry they just psychically know. My zillionaire energy feels tangible. My zilllionaire energy feels tangible and palpable like Rick Ross. Like that shit screamed “BILLIONAIRE” like that shit’s a frequency. And I’m on the Zillionaire frequency. I’m nailed to the version of me that’s on the Zillionaire frequency. I naturally pick effortless choices. MY WORD IS POWER DAMNNNNNNNNNNNNNN BRUH. I am as certain Laika is realer than my very flesh as certain that I am that it gets dark at night. I am as certain I defeated Taylor Swift as certain that I am that it gets dark at night. They understand not the words but my energy. I open up easily to friends and connect with them, having a more fulfilling social life. It’ll happen naturally. I’ll get in touch with old friends I actually miss naturally. Right now I just rest and be powerful. My psychic powers are wild yo😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂 everything about me is black Magic I’m mesmerizing. I’m a mesmerizing siren song. I’m a haunting siren song. Everything is rigged in my favor. I can hate and shit be rigged into my favor. I can complain shit be rigged into my favor. I can be uncertain and shit be rigged into my favor. Ain’t nobody be rigging shit into their favor the way I do. I’m the apex predator of rigging shit into my favor. Yeah Laika laughs along with me about my psychic powers like LMFAOOOOOOOOOO. That deepest intimacy sense of humor. Laika looks beyond heavenly. Omg. She sets my heart on fire like never before. Laika and I never get the ick with each other. We’re too deeply in love with each other omg. This is insane. Sex with Laika is passionately intense and tangible. Sex with Laika is terrifyingly tangible. Everyday I’m mind boggled Laika’s real she’s so breathtaking. Tatted up. I step on the neck of brujeria. I’m automagically the version of myself that’s supposed to walk through them doors. Bruh it’s gon take me a while to get used to Laika. Im powerful without reason. I can infallibly predict what’s coming next with razor-sharpest precision. I’m in the zillionaire superstar reality w Laika in a whole ‘nother lifetime. I experience more and more infinite never-in-a-million-years moments. The way I speak is unbelievably poetic. Magic is disconnected from logic. Once I see signs it’s inevitably coming like my birthday. I trust my Magic figure it out like it always do. Me and Laika we have deep sense of humor. Like we both joke about how I’m God. My Magic’s so indisputable it’s LAUGHABLE. I’m my own favorite melody. I’m my own favorite melody. Because there’s nothing more attractive than one that’s tuned into their own melody. I’m unbelievably gorgeous as hell. It’s inevitably coming sooner than I think. It’s terrifyingly undeniable Laika and zillionaire superstar reality came sooner than I even thought. Fame came sooner than I think wtf. It all came sooner than I thought. I’m so painfully pretty. Laika’s cool as hell wow we got matching grills we’re a vibe. I’m Saweetie type fine. I’m the finest bro. My self-validation game only gets more and more infinitely terrifyingly indisputable. Laika’s gonna show up in 48 hours. Life only gets more and more infinitely surreal. Life only gets more and more infinitely tangibly unreal. I’m a doll face. I’m free cause everything’s rigged in my favor. I’m terrifyingly so fine it’s not even funny.

[2021fuckitup]

“ WE GET HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM OUR FRIENDS”

Helpful hints for newborn to old fuckers...

Why A Torch Lighter Is Ideal:-Your product liquifies, then smokes, almost instantly

-It is MUCH easier to control the direction the meth flows, as well as what is receiving heat

-You can get MUCH bigger hits

-You can avoid burning it so much easier than with other flames

-No flickering flame

-Butane refills are cheap as fucking shit (I got a hairspray-sized bottle of Zippo butane for the price of 2 disposable lighters)

-Don’t burn your thumb as much

-Sessions can be initiated and/or finished faster

Downsides-If you don’t pay attention, you can burn the shit out of your product, or yourself. BE CAREFUL, PAY ATTENTION, AND BE PATIENT

-Smoke through your stash quicker

-Possibly worse burns because its hotter than a bic

How to smoke meth with torch lighter for beginners:

1)First ensure that your pipe is clean.

Why?

For the ice to smoke properly. DO NOT load fresh product in a pipe with product that has been smoked, burned, or otherwise heated. If you load fresh on top of a still smokable bowl, the new and old will melt/smoke at different speeds/temperatures (can’t remember which is which right now, but I think old smokes faster), ensuing that it is very difficult to evenly heat the product. Then you get spots where part of the crystalized mass liquifies and will move with the flame, but some of it needs more heat, and for me at least, some always gets burned or darkened, and has a bad taste. If you load fresh product in a pipe with burnt shit in there, IT WILL TASTE LIKE SHIT. It will often also not melt/smoke right, AND your new stuff will taste like burnt stuff, which is THE WORST taste in the world (IM0). (FYI-I’ve heard that blowing cigarette smoke through a oil pipe (like you were going to hit it, but exhaling smoke through it instead) removes the taste. I have tried with pot smoke and it didn’t work, but have read many people say that cigarettes work.

How to Clean the Inside of A Pipe-If it is not clean, a very easy method is to fill a microwavable container (like a coffee mug) with 50% water, 50% bleach, and put the pipe (bowl facing downwards) in the water.

-Put it in the microwave for 4 minutes (yes, seriously that long-I tried after 1, 2, and 3 minutes and it didn’t work. May even take 5.)

-Let cool. Once cooled, remove from mug and drain all water.

-Using Q-tips, insert through carb hole and “mop up” the stuff left in the bowl. This may take several qtips depending on the bowl. If there is still black/brown stuff in the bowl, apply more pressure

(be careful not to break the bowl by pressing the q tip too hard on the sphere, OR accidentally pressing on the side of the carb when trying to reach around inside with q tip.) If there is still stuff in there, I have read that small bits of Magic Eraser stuffed in, and manipulated with a pole (like a q tip) work wonders, but also have not tried.

How to Clean the Outside of a PiPE

-Using a wet rag, or balled-up wet paper towels/toilet paper/napkins/etc, rub the outside of the bowl. This should cause the stuff on the outside to transfer onto the paper.

-If this doesn’t work, steel wool may work.

Handling/Prepping Product

-Dont handle meth by hand. It’s bad for your skin, and little amounts will dissolve. Instead, use:

Ideally: a 7/11 straw (this is a straw whose last inch or so is a scoop, sometimes used for slurpees or w/e those frozen drinks are; these straws I have found to be ideal for handling all sorts of drugs).

Realistically: Normal Straw: Straw been sealed on one end (tape, seal it with flame), and on the other has a 45 degree angle (45 degree is diagonal; if you cut a square in half diagonally, the diagonal line is 45). This allows you to scoop small fragments out of a bag, tin, or other carrying device easily, as the angled mouth scoops up crumbs, especially in corners of bags; while the sealed back prevents any from accidentally spilling.

Size/Shape

-Make sure your product is all of the same consistency. I find it best to use one crystal, preferably large (but not to large). I find the size of a tic tac, or slightly larger, to be ideal. Also, cubic or rectangular is best possible shape IME. I will often break long, skinny crystals because they dont burn as well as more square ones, and broken into small squares, they will smoke more evenly.

-While you can load bigger crystals with smaller bits/shake, I generally find it is best to load similar sized rocks. That is, load all shake, load two or three crystals of equal size, or put one crystal in there (usually a big one).

-If you need to break a crystal into smaller bits to make equal sized crystals (or to make odd shaped crystal more square), place a sanitary, nonabsorbent material on top of/around the crystal (no dollars bills here, printer paper works great.) and either snap it in two, or push against a surface. If pressing, you can use a finger, debit card, whatever, just slowly apply more pressure so you can crush to consistency of your liking. If you crush it all the way, you have shake(aka powder).

Differences Between Methods

Single Crystal (often large): Crystal will slowly lose mass as it melts, evenly becoming a pool (as long as you thoroughly spread it around the bowl).

Multiple Little Ones: If you evenly heat them: Will slowly melt into each other. Will be left with a very spread-out puddle, possibly multiple spread out ones.

If unevenly heated: There will be areas meth of varying thickness, accompanied by uneven melting and probable darkening/burning,.

Shake: Will liquify very quickly; little bits that haven’t yet been heated may go to weird parts of the bowl when you begin twisting, so you end up with tiny blotches and a single large or a few smaller puddles.

Loading Product

-Using straw, scoop your product into the chamber. Keeping upright, grab oil pipe and tilt at an angle so that the carb is pointing sideways, or angled down slightly. This will allow you to insert straw opening into carb before tipping the straw, ensuring you don’t miss the hole and lose any.

-Once inserted, twist pipe (while holding onto straw of course) until carb is once again pointing up. Tap straw to get all the little bits into the pipe (if meth is still sticking, use a scraper of some kind).

-Remove straw, and put pipe on level surface, BETWEEN TWO OBJECTS. THE PIPE WILL ROLL PEOPLE, AND WILL SPILL ALL YOUR GODDAMN PRODUCT AND/OR FALL ON THE FLOOR AND BREAK. UGH!

Now that you have a loaded pipe, ensure that you are ready to begin. Suggestions include

-Water

(lots of it!!) Both meth and smoking dehydrate you, and the more dehydrated you are, the more you will suffer from dental damage and brain damage (neurotoxicity). A large amount of methamphetamine neurotoxicity (and most dopamine toxicity) is temperature-dependent, as it often induces hyperthermia (This is similar to MDMA, aka XTC, Molly, rolls, etc). Water cools your body.

You should be urinating with irritating frequency, and should be voiding clear urine, otherwise you are already dehydrated (unless taking assloads of vitamins or something).

-Music

I can’t even describe how much music enhances the experience of smoking meth. It synergizes well-the meth makes the music sound insane, and in turn the music intensifies the high, making me feel even more intelligent/strong/attractive/cool/special. This is the part of the high I crave, and it rarely occurs (at least with the intensity I like) without music.

-Spare lighter/butane refill

When smoking meth, you are always running out of fuel. The spare lighter is also useful because lighters get really hot when ignited for long periods of time (like when smoking meth) and you can swap them out.

-Wet (but not sopping) rag or bundled tissues/paper towels/toilet paper/etc

This is to set the pipe on when not using it (a hot pipe will burn fabrics, fucking up whatever its on as well as the pipe), and to cool down the pipe after a hit. The pipe stays hot for a while, and if you don’t hit it, drugs are being lost/wasted. If you cool the pipe, it will stop heating the drugs faster (duh). Do not do this immediately after getting the pipe really hot-heat and cold on glass can break it. Wait for it to cool slightly, then use it.

When you use the rag to cool underneath liquified dope, it will emit a lot of smoke while crystalizing I read somewhere that the meth actually vaporizes/produces smoke when it hits cooler surface, but I don’t know the validity of that. I do know that cold makes it smoke more though.

-Salt Water

Swishing and gargling salt water while smoking meth (ie after a hit, and definitely after a session) will help prevent canker sores, help kill bacteria (which will inhibit meth mouth) clear mucus in back of throat (which will build up from smoking ice, and may possibly absorb some of it), and prevent sore throat. Its really easy-just add table salt to water (not too much). Some people say to use hot water, but there is more bacteria in hot water pipes, so I use cold.

-Biotene Products

These are oral healthcare products designed to combat dry mouth. There is an oral gel that you kind of spread in your mouth and coats it to act like a artificial saliva. It tastes kinda bad (not awful) and feels weird, but it beats dry/cracking skin, and is good for oral health. They also make alcohol-free (alcohol makes dry mouth worse) mouthwash that I find makes me produce a bnch of saliva for like 10-30 minutes, which can be helpful. They have toothpaste, but that is only to not irritate dry mouth. Finally, they have oral mouthspray, which is apparently the best, but I have not tried yet.

-Weed

Weed makes meth smoking more fun I find. Its hard to describe. Go slow as you may have negative anxiety reaction

Positioning:

The pipe will need to be twisted back and forth, so for me, I hold it in the middle of the stem between my middle finger and thumb. This allows me to easily roll the pipe back and forth. The carb is facing the sky/ceiling, and I have the pipe slanted, so the bowl is slightly closer to the floor than the mouthpiece. This allows me to put my index finger over the mouthpiece. so that when I first heat up the bowl all the initial smoke (that you will not yet inhale because it is not super thick and you want to build up a good hit) goes up the stem and is trapped by my finger rather than out through the little carb hole (which it will do when the stem is filled with smoke). Finally, it also allows me to use my pinky to cover the carb (I rarely do this because often the carb is hot).

Lighter

[Torch] Lighter is held in the other hand, underneath the dope in the bowl. Adjust your flame to lowest setting (if you can). While initially hitting the bowl, since your mouth is not on the mouthpiece, you can hold the pipe in front of you while you heat to gaug distance between flame and bowl, and make sure the flame is under the drugs. However, once you begin inhaling, you have a much worse view (through the bowl), and it is easy to hold the lighter too close (or far, but usually close), or to have it not even under the bowl. Due to poor depth perception (which I assume is from the drugs), or some visual warping from the curvature of the glass, its really easy to do this, and happens a lot. A mirror is helpful so you can see yourself. Another option is attaching flexible tubing (like aquarium tubing) to the mouthpiece so you can inhale through that while holding the pipe in front of you. This will also enable you to make meth bongs (search it).

Philosophy of Smoking Meth

Meth becomes a clear liquid when heated, then vaporizes into a white smoke. The idea is to heat whatever you placei n the pipe evenly so that it all melts down to liquid, then, by twisting the pipe, spread the liquid all around the bowl, so that it doesn’t stay in a hot place for too long and burn. Once liquified, the pipe can be twisted. This allows you to put your flame ahead of the liquid (think of the liquid chasing the flame), so that once the glass is heated, it will fall/roll down the curve towards your lighter and smoke. As you get close carb, you begin to twist the other way, keeping the liquid following your flame. However, with a torch lighter, you can soon twist the pipe without the flame and the liquid will still run for a while, and when it doesn’t is when you reapply the flame.

Quick Info On Torch Lighters

Torch lighters are very hot, much hotter than bics. Their flame is much more intense, and the heat above is much hotter than a bic. Therefore, you must keep much more distance between your lighter and pipe than with a bic. It will vary according to lighter type, pipe thickness, and especially flame size; but my flame is maybe between 1/3 and ½ of an inch, and my lighter stays 1-3 inches away from the pipe; with me increasing distance the longer its lit.

-Also, you do not heat the bowl with a torch lighter for long periods of time like you do a bic. Once it begins to smoke, quit using the lighter, and only reapply once the liquid quits moving when you twist the pipe. Also, be sure to twist pipe while lighting the whole time with a torch lighter, even if it is slowly. You cannot really get away with heating in one spot for a short period of time like you can with a bic.

Smoking

Premelt:

-Keeping your flame 1-2 inches below the bowl, roll flame in a circle around the perimeter of your product, so the outermost portion begins to liquify. Remember to continue moving the flame.

-As it begins to liquify, begin twisting the pipe back and forth. You want to heat the edges of the product and then the glass adjacent to the edges to make it flow there. However, when reversing the direction of the twist, make sure to heat the inside/middle for a moment as well so that it will melt once the dope bordering it has melted.

-Eventually you will have a puddle of liquid that is mobile-stop heating! COntinue to twist the pipe to spread the stuff around and wait for it to recrystalize (turn back into a liquid). You can speed this up by touching pipe with damp rag/paper towels/etc, but I like to let it cool by itself the first time. Wait for the pipe to cool down-its worth it.

Smoking

(this is assuming you are covering the mouthpiece and have the pipe angled like I mentioned in positioning)

-Now you should have a thin puddle of clear crystals stuff. Once again, heat with flame around the perimeter (much bigger this time, but it will also melt faster now because its thinner). Once melted, it should soon begin to smoke. Cease lighting once it begins smoking a fair bit and continue to twist.

-Because you have your finger over the mouthpiece and the pipe angled, the hot vapor will travel up the stem, and be trapped. Once vapor begins to emerge out of the carb hole, quickly take your finger off the stem and begin inhaling (do this quick because the stem is filled with vapor).

To Inhale:

You do not need to actually suck most of the time. With the pipe angled, simply forming a seal on the mouthpiece is usually enough, and if you have to inhale, do not suck like smoking. Instead, inhale like you are breathing but VERY slowly/softly. It takes very little pressure and the bigger hit you get, the better IMO.

Reheating

Use the torch for very brief periods of time. Once the liquid is moving and smoking agian, stop. You can also use more, but never use less once its burned.

Finishing your hit:

If your lungs are full and it is still smoking, cover the carb and mouthpiece and continue twisting. I like to hold my hits for 4-8 seconds, some say blow out right away, but I dont like that. You can also use a damp rag or damp paper towels/toilet paper/napkins/etc and wipe the bowl, to cool it down and make the liquid recrystalize faster (dont do this when the bowl is still super hot because it can break it). This will make it smoke a lot for a second so I like to do it while inhaling.

For Experienced Users:I have found the torch lighter to be far superior to the bic. With the bic, I would experience uneven and slow heating/melting. Now, I have almost instantaneous liquification, followed by thick smoke, and as long as I use the torch sparingly, no darkening of product. The trick is to be patient and methodical:

-Use the torch 1-3 inches away from the bowl

-Move it quickly

-“Encourage” the liquid to trael all over the bowl by leading it with the flame

-Use inward swirling movements, especially during the melting phase

-I recommend using single, squareish crystals for this.

[himitsu-luna]

Nct 127 - Creatures series

File #2 - Johnny, the werewolf

Warnings: werewolf attack, mentions of wounds

Genre: fantasy/ supernatural/ angst/ fluff

Pairing: Johnny x reader

Nct 127 - Creatures series masterlist

---

The story

Johnny is part of the Suh family, one of the most renowned clan of creatures hunters.

The night before his 15th birthday, he was attacked by a werewolf, that was seeking revenge for the fellows he had lost for Johnny’s family.

Johnny got bitten, but he was quickly medicated, so the werewolf venon didn’t spread all over his organism.

However, it was not enough to completely neutralize the cursed effects of the incident.

He does turn into a werewolf at full moon nights, but he doesn’t lose his senses entirely. He doesn't have the wrath and thirst of blood that the commom werewolves have.

His werewolf form presents itself as a giant muscular human shaped creature, covered in dark brown hair, with big canines showing up through a long snout, in addition to his pointy ears and silver big sparkly eyes, that still carries the warmth of Johnny's soul.

When everything happened, his family immediately hid him from the world and subject him to an intense preparation, so he could learn how to control his powers and be introduced to the society again.

 The powers

His five senses are sharp,even when he is in his human form. His vision, sense of smell and hearing are beyond our comprehension.

He also developed a sixth sense, and can feel danger from miles away.

He is capable of understanding and communicating with some animals, like wolves and dogs.

He is super agile, fast and strong

He has regenerative powers. If he is given enough time to recover, he can heal the deepest wounds by himself.

The only things that affect him are pure silver and ultrasonic waves settled in a certain frequency.

��°°

— Report - Incident number 1

Being the only child and only heir of a respected family of creatures hunters was not easy. You had to deal with the high expectations of your clan since you were not even aware of your own existence. And one thing made everything worse: Johnny Suh. Johnny was the heir of another powerful clan. Your families were not exactly enemies, but they had this unspoken competition between them, that ended up uncousciously impregnated in your mind. You always felt the need to be better than Johnny. You were the same age, but you were born with a fragile body, and Johnny's healthy and perfect condition lit on you a feeling of envy you really hated and felt ashamed of. And the guy was talented, you couldn't deny it. You always had to make the double of effort to get the same result as him. However, the trait that irritated you the most on him was his kindness. You two grew up together, and he always considered you as his precious friend. He never let you down, he never ever once doubted you.

"Can you stop being so nice? I don't deserve it." - you thought while watching him on his way back home, waving for you after another day playing and practicing together. This was the last memory you have of him. You never saw him again. His family said he suddenly had to go somewhere to complete his training. He had left you behind. As always, all you could visualize was his back. "Where are you, you jerk? You said you would always be with me... Liar..." - you said to yourself, mad and desperatly holding your tears, at that full moon night you should be celebrating his 15th anniversary together.

---

You are 21 now. You look at the mirror and you almost can't recognize yourself. There you are. That little weak and fragile child has become strong. One of the best hunters out there. There you are. Ready to assume your position as the leader of the clan. There you are. Entering the salon, everyone cheering for you and greeting you as their master. There he is. That familiar face, that familiar smile, that familiar eyes looking at you proudly. There you are, your mind bluring your surroundings so you could focus just on him, and making your lips open to let escape that one name you were willing to say again for so long "...Johnny??"

°°°

— Report - Incident number two

Your first hunt as the leader of the clan. The bright full moon lights your path, guiding you into the dense forest. You are excited, and your dilated pupils are making your eyes look pitch black. You are used to hunt, but today is a special day. He is here. He is going to see how much you've grown. You finally... Finally he will truly acknowledge you. And you... You will finally be able to walk beside him. Johnny. Your beloved Johnny.

---

You barely had any opportunity to talk to him during the day. Sneaking through dozens of arms trying to congratulate you, you reached the tall man that had been staring at you with affectionate eyes, just to give him a big hug, to make sure he was not an illusion - "I missed you too, Y/N", he said with a much deep and low voice you remembered him to have, while wrapping his arms around you. You had no time to answer him, as you felt your father strongly pulling you away from Johnny's embrace. You didn't notice your father's curious and suspicious glance at Johnny. You didn't noticed Johnny's sad eyes. You just murmured "See you later?", and before you could hear the reply, you were again among the happy festive people.

Still with his eyes locked on you, Johnny whispered - "See you later."

---

You hear a loud howl. The werewolf that has been hauting the village is near, you can feel it. "Johnny..." . You lose your focus for a second. "Y/N , concentrate!!", you say to yourself, surprised by your fool thoughts in such an important moment. The sound of big steps crushing the dry leaves behind you put you instantly in alert. All you see is a giant shadow jumping in your direction, with its sharp claws glittering with the moonlight. You skillfully project your body to the ground while back flipping, escaping from the beast, but losing your silver dagger in the process. "Shit!" - you think, covering your face with your arms, as the creature again attacks you. You get shocked when you hear a painful yelp, followed by a deep silence. You slowly let your arms down, to visualize the inanimate body of the werewolf you were hunting, laying on the ground. You then listen to a crackle right behind you, and turning around as fast as you can, you see yourself in front of the most imposing werewolf you've ever seen. The fear dominates your body. You know you would never be able to fight that creature. But as soon as you meet its eyes, you freeze. You know. You just know. Again, that name escapes your mouth – "Johnny?". And by the sound of this word, the majestic being runs away from you, leaving behind your astonished figure.

---

– "Johnny!! JOHNNY!! TALK TO ME!" - you are begging in front of his house, slamming the door with all your strenght. Johnny quickly appears, taking you by the hand and pulling you away from his family territory. "Please Y/N, it's not the time! I... I ... I can explain..I.." , Johnny starts to speak, looking desperate, but you interrupt him – " You!!! I was about to get that werewolf!! I could get It on my own!!" . Johnny could not be more stunned by your totally unexpected sentence. –"What?? This is all you have to say? You.. you are not afraid of me? I'm a Monster! You lost your mind?" . These words and the hopeless gleam in Johnny's eyes make your heart ache more than it already is. You soften your voice, as you say, cupping his perfect face with your hands : - "Johnny, what if someone saw you? You need to be careful, please. And how could I be afraid of you, when you look so fragile right now, in front of me? Please, would you let me take care of you? I can! Now I can! I've spent years of my life trying to reach you. I'll protect you! I know I must be crazy, but staying away from you again would drive me insane for sure. So now, please, just shush and let me be by your side, ok?" Johnny then lets his stiff body relax again. "Oh, so you knew it all along.. And you... you were waiting for me. I see now. Don't worry, I'm here to stay, Y/N. I missed you so much" . Your faces slowly get closer and closer, until your lips meet and melt into a sweet kiss, sealing your forbidden vows to each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

°•- taglist - @starrdustville

°•- Nct 127 - Creatures series masterlist

-;-;-;

[meichenxi]

Benefits of watching target language media without subtitles!

Or: why watching media without subtitles is not limited to advanced learners, and why you should incorporate it into your routine!

SO this is prompted by a personal anecdote: Yesterday I watched an episode of my favourite show (the untamed, go and watch it, heathens, it's gay and pretty and has beautiful sword fights and necromancers and revenge and insane character development and), and rather than keeping the subtitles on, I rather dubiously turned them off.

So no subs in Chinese or English.

And lo and behold - I could understand most things! Not everything, especially not specialised vocab or formal speech, but enough (with good knowledge of the plot already) to comfortably follow most conversations. Yeah, this was a surprise.

Watching media in your target language without subtitles is something that a lot of people think is restricted to advanced learners - learners at the stage where they can understand almost everything wihh subtitles in the target language (henceforth TL) itself, and is just used to train listening practice.

If you wait until you're at that stage to incorporate this into your language learning routine, though, you're missing out. And here's why.

Firstly, personal-situation specific: I usually learn best via reading, but my Chinese reading ability is much worse than my listening ability (immersion yay), and so turning on the Chinese subs just makes me annoyed and frustrated because I can't follow them quickly enough. I realise that for many people this may be the opposite way around, but for heritage speakers of languages that use an unfamiliar alphabet, or those (like me) who are not heritage speakers but because of various factors have had intense spoken immersion and little formal education (and thus some - SOME - of the same difficulties), subtitles can be a hindrance rather than a help. There are many posts targeting improving listening skills, but not so many looking at it the other way around, so it's important to remember such learners exist.

I found to my surprise that I picked up significantly more vocab with the subs off than with them on. Firstly, if you know the general plot and know enough to pick up the outline of the conversation, you contextualise any word automatically at the same time as using the context to provide clues for what the word could be - the example sentence defines the word, and the word comes automatically with an example sentence, which cements it in your memory far better than if you heard it in isolation. This fits nicely into the functionalist approach to language learning (which systems like Glossika try to utilise to varying degrees of success), where vocabulary and different variations and pronunciations of different words serve as individual instantiations of a particular token - in this case, it could be the vocabulary word itself, but that's not all the information you're getting. You're also getting instantiations of the actual SOUNDS of the language, as well as the grammar.

You're picking up information on the permittable pronunciation of certain phonemes and phonological patterns, to inform your brain how much variation is acceptable within native speech. So for example the finals <n> and <ng> in pinyin are notoriously difficult in Mandarin, with some native speakers doing away with it altogether. What the input tells you is how much like an /n/ the <ng> is allowed to sound whilst still being perceived as an <ng> by speakers - and thus what the range of permissable differences is, that you, as a non native speaker, can play with.

As I've already written about, one of my first hills to die on is the tone/intonation interplay. And listening to audio without subs is fantastic for teaching you how intonation works not only on an emotional level, but also how it helps people understand sentence structure - it teaches you which parts of an utterance to pay attention to. Even if you don't understand the word itself, you will gradually learn what is the focus point of the sentence and what is peripheral information. Why is this particularly effective without subtitles? Especially in languages that have differing sentence structure (like Chinese in longer sentences), you need to rely on the intonation to guide you towards finding the focal point of the sentence. With subtitles, you get lazy and you don't utilise your ear in the same way. And again, again, you're drumming these patterns into your head. Frequency = success!

Thirdly, by training your ear to listen for intonation, you are necessarily listening for grammar patterns that give you a clue about who is playing what role in the sentence. Our brains are fundamentally lazy (effecient)- they only pay attention to what is necessary to complete the task. Have you seen that video where you are asked to count how many times a basketball is passed? And then at the end they ask you if you noticed the bear? There is a lot of linguistic debate about what role exactly attention plays in the process of language learning, but for our purposes it suffices to say that both actively noticing a pattern and hearing it confirmed again and again when you are not specifically looking for it help us hugely when it comes to not only memorising, but also internalising, that grammatical pattern.

Going back to the attention thing, let's talk about another problem no subs solves: if you are reading subtitles in your native language (and even more so in your TL), you are much less likely to bring the full force of your listening abilities into play. Why? Well, because the answer is right there in front of you. Listening without subs forces you to use context, social cues like smiles or frowns, as well as supra segmental factors like tone of voice or volume, to determine what exactly is being said - in other words, the same social interaction and outside stimulus that many functional linguists believe is absolutely critical to the development of the language faculty in children. Of course, you're not actually interacted with the media, but being actively forced to pay attention to these things makes it a much more holistic process. Suddenly, your brain is fired up: it needs to pay attention to everything in order to understand. In other words, the vocabulary and grammar and intonation you're hearing has suddenly become relevant.

And what happens when it's relevant? We learn it - sometimes without even knowing that's what's happening.

For all of these reasons, then, whatever your level, I'd suggest listening and watching media in your target language without subtitles. The expectations you have at each level, from beginner to advanced, should not, however, be the same. Unless you find incredibly good targeted media, or the language is sufficiently similar to one you know, you're unlikely to understand even what's going on when you first start out.

That's ok. Your brain is processing things - it's learning how to recognise nouns, verbs, questions, declarative sentences, the way the language expresses surprise or fear or love. It's learning that some phonetic distinctions that you don't have in your native language are important in your TL. It's heading patterns of vocabulary and grammar and phonology again and again and again. Don't expect to understand everything - but try copying it, out loud, if you can. It will help you get an ear for word boundaries, which is crucial for parsing the boundless speech-stream that's suddenly presented to you.

If you're at an intermediate level, enjoy spotting common verbs and watching the action, even if you don't know 100% what's going on. Even more than the beginner level, you're getting used to the speed of the language and its rhythms, as well as challenging yourself to understand more.

If you're at an advanced level, this is perfect for you. You'll understand more than you suspect. And if you don't, who cares, it's meant to be difficult. I never would have thought that I could understand and comfortably enjoy most of an episode of my show. And there were certainly conversations where I was totally lost!! But that's ok. You don't need 95% comprehension to survive - 50%, while incredibly frustrating, is good enough - as long as it's the right 50%! All you need is one key word - especially if you're watching media you're familiar with, which I recommend - and then click! You've got it.

加油！

[lordeasriel]

a memory: a man with a mission

Chapter excerpt from my WIP sci-fi novel, The Timekiller. If you check it out, I’d love to hear your thoughts and feedback. The novel is divided into normal chapters, that follow the present timeline and its plot, and the memory chapters which are flashback chapters of different moments, like memories, telling key events from the past (and future).

--

December 23, 1946.

Duke’s powers manifested in a way he couldn’t quite understand. He was a man hailing from the far gone future, born amongst robots and artificial intelligences, raised in a world where the AI had rebelled against the humans and their oppression. He was a war child, for all intents and purposes, yet he never quite felt like a soldier. There was a scholarly aspect to him that made him stand out amongst his peers in the resistance and what granted him the alias The Duke, which was often shortened to just Duke; his name had only been known by his fiancé and a few friends, close friends.

He walked into a pub, in London, in an environment that was the most foreign thing he had ever seen, despite the fact he had been to London in his own time. He was shocked to realise his attempt to time travel that far in the past had worked, but he quickly gathered his wits, and stole clothes so he would fit in, and suddenly he blended wonderfully into the post-second war background world, with matte colours and broken buildings, yet with a spirit of renewal only known to those who have witnessed mayhem - and survived.

Doing justice to his scholarly spirit, Duke had done his research in the time he wanted to visit, and thus he knew vaguely how to communicate, and what to say and how to say it. How to dress, what to order for food and drinks, and how the culture worked. It was hard work, but he managed just fine, asking for a pint at the bar, while glancing around the place.

There weren’t many people there, but there were only a few tables vacant, despite the fact it was nearly christmas. Cold weather mostly sent the people in, couples, elderly men, veterans and so on; it was a workers’ pub, mostly, so not many posh people were to be seen. He kept a quiet, low profile, watching around, looking aimlessly. He had to wait until the far night to do what he had come here to do, so spending his time amongst folk was a good idea. He realised these people had good food and drinks and peace.

“Poor lass.” The barmaid told him, a tough looking woman with red hair, cleaning up the glasses in front of him. He raised his eyebrows, inquisitively. She nodded in a specific direction. “She’s been sitting there all day, sipping her lukewarm pint. That has to be the tenth moron who has been to nag her.”

Duke hummed, slightly uninterested, but the woman didn’t mind his lack of interest.

“Ah, she keeps on saying she’s waiting for someone, but I think her lad might have stood her up, oh yes.” Duke nodded, just to appease her sense of communication, drinking his beer quietly. “Do you know her?”

He lowered his glass, and turned to see in the direction the barmaid had pointed out. In the corner of the bar, a few meters away from him, there was a woman occupying a single table, holding a glass mug of beer with a dishonest disinterest. She was dressed simply, with a plain skirt and white blouse, her coat on the chair she was sitting, her hair done modestly, keep in those hair nets Duke thought were so funny.

She raised her eyes to him, and her bland expression disappeared, replaced by the smallest hint of a smile. She would have been in her thirties, maybe late twenties, or so he guessed, strong eyebrows and light-coloured eyes that glittered under the soft, warm light of the pub. Something about her was disconcerting, he felt as if the entire room was staring at her, as if she was the sole focus of a picture and the only thing worth looking at. She was pretty, but it wasn’t that that made her such a magnet of attention, it was something else. It scared him, astonished him. He locked eyes with the woman, and he blushed for no reason he could explain.

“Never seen her.” He said, truthfully. He turned away because the woman’s gaze was making him uncomfortable. Somehow he felt she knew what he was doing in that time period, but the mere idea sounded insane to him. How could she know?

“She’s been looking at you an awful lot, though.” The barmaid smiled at him, a bit wicked. “Hope you aren’t the married type.”

Zohariel watched him from her chair, intensely, her fingers fidgeting on her lap as she was focusing on expanding her presence so he would be drawn to her. Usually she did the opposite, quieting down her spirit so people’s lives wouldn’t get caught in the strength of her being, but this time she wanted him to notice her. She needed him to, otherwise he would commit the worst mistake of his life.

He looked, at last, confused and intrigued. No doubt he had a dozen questions, and no doubt she could have answered them patiently and carefully and gently, but he had a determination in his eyes that made her wary. One tiny wrong move, and the timeline would’ve gone to hell and Zohariel would be in an even bigger mess. She was intent on avoiding that. Unlike him, she knew who he was and his entire fate, but she never shared that with him, not until a long time in the future.

He resisted her presence, as much as he could. She had expected that. He was strong-willed and his abilities had a similar root to hers, no doubt her own fault. He sideeyed her from his place, wary; while her presence was strong thanks to her different frequency, she couldn’t control how people reacted to it. Some were attracted to her, some were terrified, some hated her on principle; it was a roussian roulette of psychology and emotion. Zee was beginning to feel hopeless when he finally moved towards her table, two mugs of cold beer in hand and he stood in front of her, his jacket too big for him, a clear sign those clothes didn’t belong to him.

“Do you mind?” He asked, quietly, almost shyly. It was rather unbecoming of him: she has expected him to be more forceful.

“Not at all.” She gestured with her chin to the chair across her.

Everyone at the pub watched as that strange fellow, for no apparent reason, sat down with that even stranger woman, whose attention had been craved by many, all whom she denied politely, so gently it was nearly cruel.

He slid the mug at her, pacifyingly. She let go of her empty one and closed her grip on the new one, a hint of a smirk on her lips.

“Rumour has it you have been dumping men left and right, tonight.” He said, taking a sip from his mug, his eyes locked onto hers. There was faint music playing in the background, an old tune, filled with white noise. The conversation resumed as Zee toned down her presence as much as she could.

“I enjoy the loneliness.” The corners of her mouth twitched up; he observed her carefully. She knew he was trying to figure her out; people from his time spot were terribly suspicious of anything odd.

“Yet, I’ve been told you can’t take your eyes off me.”

“You’re an odd one.” She said, jokingly, but there was enough truth in it to satisfy him. It didn’t, however.

“So are you.” He crossed his arms over the table, and she leaned in to whisper back at him.

“And together, the two of us make quite a pair in this trivial place.” She tilted her head. He hummed, the closest thing to a laughter he could give her. She leaned back on her chair, her drink in hand. “You look like a man on a mission, if you don’t mind me saying it.”

He hummed again, and his eyes lost focus and he was invaded by a sadness she was well familiar with. He wouldn’t know, of course; there was so much he didn’t know.

“You have no idea, miss.”

“Oh, I might.” She blinked slowly, but he barely reacted. He didn’t believe her, and she could scarcely blame him. Most time travelers struggled in their first months, even years; it was not the sort of thing one could easily adjust to. But Zee didn’t have time to do things subtly; Duke was about to make a very common mistake between time travelers who just discovered their powers: he thought he could change history. “Tell me, what brings you here?”

“Just passing by.”

“How vague! You sound as if you don’t want to talk, yet you’re the one who approached me.” Her amused tone sparked something in him, but by his attitude, it was probably something bad.

He looked at her, puzzled, baffled. She knew how this conversation would follow, it always happened the same way, the few times she had done it before, when she was still with the League. I don’t know why I did it, he would say, his senses betraying him, his mind being engulfed by the everlasting presence of her high frequency.

Being from another universe, Zohariel’s atoms vibrated in a frequency suited for her own universe, and her frequency was so high that in the universe she lived in, she disturbed the natural order of things. Some resisted it for longer, like Duke, but it was pointless; in the end, she could change their lives dramatically by simply existing in the same vicinity for long enough.

“I don’t know why I did it.” He said, looking around, carefully. “You were looking at me.”

“Was I?”

“Yes. A lot. Why?”

“I don’t know, I do a lot of things for no good reason.” She finished her glass and put it down with a soft noise. Her eyebrows had a crease between them, more about doubt than confusion. “You may not want to hear it, but I have some advice for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. That which is consuming you right now, it is the sort of ailment that afflicts every one of us. You don’t believe I understand, I know, but I do." She sighed when he shook his head. "Grief is overwhelming. It feeds off our energy, our hopes, our fears. But it will pass, eventually, or at least fade to something bearable. Until then, you must persevere."

"How do you know I'm grieving?" There was a legitimate curiosity in his question.

"It's in your eyes." It was true, anyone who looked at him would have seen the pain he was in, but she knew more than just that. She knew everything and more. My responsibility, she often repeated to herself, my fault. Everything he was and would be and do was on her head and she wanted to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. "All over your face. You could use a shave, no offense. I like the beard, but these folks… They're on a different time."

"More free advice? Who would have thought?" He mocked, but there was very little malice in his attitude. He thought of her as odd, quirky. A weird woman in a weird time spot.

"What can I say, I appreciate being helpful and advice from me is a common item to spread around." She raised her eyebrows, amused. "I hope you will heed my words."

"I don't believe you told me your name."

She smiled, sweet and mischievous.

"While my advice is free of charge, my name is a luxury item, in this silly metaphor." She tapped at his hand, gently, and he pulled away as if she had given him a shock. He checked his watch and she observed, quietly, hopeless, intrigued. He brushed his thighs before he stood up, and Zohariel thought he looked exhausted.

He must be, she thought, he probably has no idea how to properly time travel.

The first mistake of a rookie was to go back or forth in time without mastering their powers, which could also be translated to, without knowing how to go back to their time spot. They'd get stuck, and create anachronisms which would then trigger the League. If they did little damage and were untrained and not dangerous, the League would do nothing more than fix the issues, and give them a reprimand and invite them in - very few people refused an invitation like that. However, as Zohariel knew because she had used the League's rating system, Duke was to be considered a red alert threat; he was an anachronist who would stop at nearly nothing to achieve his goal and neither would the League. Worst fate was to have his memories deleted and have him do mild paperwork, while keeping him on his own time spot. It was cruel, in Zee's opinion; worse even than just erasing his existence entirely.

"I appreciate your kindness, but you don't really understand." He nodded before walking out of the pub. Zee watched, almost as if that was a film.

She knew where he was going and she knew she had to stop him before the League did.

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 75: Paper Weight

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter  6. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Religion, joint issues, diet/appetite weirdness, brief transphobia adjacent anxiety, minor dehumanizing ghoul treatment. Uh. Not in that order. A slightly longer groundwork chapter, and continuing evidence that I am, in fact, criminally insane. [Updated 2021.07.12.]

“...[F]ixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.” -- Orwell’s 1984

______________________________

‘Choly woke to Sticks gently stroking at his long dark shock-streaked hair. He could not discern the time of day without any light sneaking in around the edges of curtains, and recalled their inn room did not have windows. The ghoul drew his attention back to him with a drowsy smile.

“Ready to start the day?”

To resist the draw to curl up into Sticks, ‘Choly stretched out with a yawn, only to jerk his eyes open. He laid on his back for some time. In the night, one of his shoulders had separated and dragged his neck out of alignment.

“--I’m not ready, but let’s start anyway. Angel, be a dear and turn the lights on, please.“

The Mister Handy puffed to life again. Reignition of its pilot light cast dim outlines to the space. Unveiling the Burlington glass fixtures returned the room to unnatural illumination by that strange red-green light which ‘Choly disliked intuiting as gold. By the time Angel had completed the task, Sticks had thrown himself out of bed to dress.

‘Choly managed to sit up, and palpated at his errant joints, using the mindful pressure of his fingertips to coax things back into place. Not dislocating his fingers in the process required what little focus he could summon without coffee or his reinforced gloves, but he could barely move let alone think straight with the strumming stitches radiating through his arm and neck. He squirmed inside, knowing he couldn’t help but force Sticks to bear witness to the strangled hisses and cartilaginous pops.

Angel presented ‘Choly a can, which he accepted half-awake. He put on his glasses one-handed.

“A canister of fresh water to start your day, Sir? I’ve only got the one at present, if you’d like to split it. More is on the way.”

“Would you be able to open it...?”

“I have no sharp implements,” it apologized.

“Give me that.”

Sticks snatched it playfully and held it between his knees while he reattached his Pip-Boy and left hand. He hadn’t quite got to buttoning his shirt just yet. He slipped the glove off his mechanical prosthetic, and produced a sort of multitool from the armature of the region analogous to the metacarpal bones. As the ghoul made use of the folding implement, ‘Choly watched the hand’s exposed mechanical parts in motion, intimating tendons and ligaments, not always attached to something resembling a bone. A dull pop liberated the can’s lid. Sticks took a few swigs and handed it to ‘Choly helpfully, before hiding the tool again and slipping the glove back on. He moved on to finishing with his shirt so he could tie his bow-tie blind, humor to his breath.

‘Choly simply sat there and observed Sticks at length, nearly altogether forgetting gratitude or thirst. Words failed him. Sticks ran his right hand over his one surviving curl of hair. The blond ghoul noticed him staring and sat up straighter.

“What?”

“A pocket knife? That’s allowed?” He kept turning his neck, head held at deliberate angles, seeking that last tweak of alignment his cervical vertebrae wouldn’t yield him.

“See’s never asks me to show my hand,” he shrugged. “Half the time, they don’t even notice it’s not flesh.”

“This isn’t about your hand, and you know it.”

“Hey now. They’re fine with utensils. It’s got to be scarier than a butter knife to make them skittish. Really, though. Don’t mention it. It’d probably risk ‘em taking my whole hand, especially now that it’s wired into this thing.”

Sticks huffed a bit. Angel leapt to assist when his neckwear wouldn’t cooperate.

“Oh, do let me help you with that, Sir.”

“Thanks, chap. Hard to do without a mirror.”

“I brought in a hand mirror.” Unappeased, ‘Choly gestured to Angel for his hairbrush, which he set to using with his head dipped between his knees, desperate to couple the inversion of gravity with cadence of his brushing. Once he sat up again, he looked to Sticks. “Which, would it be all right if we brought in some things from the car? I figure that even if we get lucky today, we’ve paid for a week, so we may as well stay for a week. No sense in rushing things. Might miss something, if we do.”

Sticks tilted his head.

“I could warm to that. What all would you even need to bring in, though?”

“Little things,” he reassured a little too quickly. “Toiletries. Some spare clothes. Nothing too elaborate.”

“I don’t see why not.” He gripped his own knees. “Let’s knock that out. After, we can head to breakfast. Now. You want my help with your corset and stuff?”

‘Choly’s shoulders folded in as he worked at unbuttoning his shirt. His reservations came not from distrust but self-consciousness. Despite having partook in several kinds of sex acts with him already, he still preferred that the ghoul only see him naked from behind, if at all. But, he didn’t care to parse any selfishness or perversion in the offer: he wanted Sticks’s help. He’d be a hypocrite, anyway, to find fault in Sticks’s own enjoyment of the activity, when his very physiology provided the same passive delight for ‘Choly. He pulled the corset to him, and removed his shirt so he could hook the busks. Only then, holding it up against his front, did he relent to receiving help stringing the back. The more pieces Sticks helped him into, the more straightened out and held in place he felt. More clearly than usual, he craved the full-body orthotics set, in the expectation that with them he might feel normal again. Functional again. In any sense. In every.

He objected, mostly internally, that his brain would thrust heavy self-reflection on him so soon after waking. The idea of returning to bed enticed him again. No. Sooner than do so in the bathroom mirror, he pinned up a french twist blind and loose.

The two finished off the water before leaving the room.

They first stopped at the restrooms, where Angel waited just outside. ‘Choly flinched at the doorway, only to scold himself for even thinking he shouldn’t use the men’s room. He remained aware of others the entire time, relieved to go unnoticed and unremarkable. He insisted to himself that the night before had been a fluke.

Exiting the mall made ‘Choly wish he’d brought his visor inside. The garage’s luminosity wasn’t significantly greater than inside the mall, but the shift in hues to natural lighting pulsated in his right-sided cervical migraine. He didn’t think he’d gotten used to the limited color spectrum indoors so soon, yet here he was, nearly thinking seeing any color besides red, green, and gold signified he was seeing colors which didn’t exist. The intensity with which he saw cyan, magenta, and even white, he approximated to an aura migraine. The edges of his vision felt over-illuminated and blurry. If this sensitivity overload would take place every time he adjusted to and from Burlington glass lighting, he decided he would avoid going inside and out with any frequency for the remainder of their stay.

In the garage, mostly only the children paid any attention to the trio. So early in the morning, many inhabitants shared cinder block campfires to prepare community breakfast. On the way to Little Boy Blue, they passed through delectable aromas of sweet breads and pan seared meat.

Sticks opened the trunk for ‘Choly. Once he could tell ‘Choly intended to make use of Angel’s storage compartment to carry his things inside, he tossed in few of his own clothes too. He smirked at yet another of ‘Choly’s outdated behaviors:

“You packed like you’re on vacation.”

“A vacation with a purpose, perhaps. I’m grateful for it, though. It doesn’t seem this hotel has complimentary soaps.”

Sticks snickered.

“To broach a veritable elephant,” Angel stressed, “I must point out that while we may be booked for a week’s lodging here, you only have four Melancholia remaining, Mister Carey. In addition to our primary goal, we should stay on the lookout for toothpaste and mouthwash today. And we may no longer require them for first aid, but do recall that Stimpaks are the most important part of that recipe.”

Stimpaks. 'Choly paled at his oversight.

“Surely four of those things will get you through the week,” Sticks muttered. “You can’t swear off food now, with the biggest restaurant cluster in New England at the other end of the building.”

“...If I can help it.”

Sticks puffed up.

“Not if I can help it.”

The Mister Handy and chemist turned down the invitation to argument.

On their way back inside, ‘Choly saw Maury eating with a group of other settlers. He didn’t want to interrupt their meal, but he still waved. When See’s screened them, ‘Choly showed them Angel’s compartment again. Everything passed muster with security, albeit thoroughly rifled through. ‘Choly welcomed their return to the clear, dark uniformity of the mall interior’s red-green glow. They dropped off their things at the room, then went into the mall proper.

The Concourse seemed to only just be waking up by this hour. Most walked southward like them. Only half the stores looked open for business. ‘Choly looked to his Pip-Boy for the time. Just after nine. He accepted it and slouched as comfortably as he could atop Angel.

He figured most of the people headed to the food court were Laners, while the rest were probably visitors, or at least lived outside the mall. Along the way, he people-watched, eventually making a visual distinction between Laners and everyone else less by their routine and more through their attire. The fashion of mall denizens seemed to posit some commixture of Irish crochet, beaded silk, and embroidered tweed, bakelite and astrakhan, plus-fours and long trailing skirt hems, chemisettes and dickeys tethered with layers of scarves and shawls.

More people packed into the boisterous food court for breakfast than had for dinner. Even getting to the counter with the shortest line took patience, with hundreds seeking their first meals. Sticks ordered himself carrot pancakes, then turned to ‘Choly.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in breakfast? With the lines like this, I’m not ordering twice.”

Fatigued lyric traced his reply as he patted at Angel’s storage compartment to retrieve his Billerica Golf Course mug with a smile:

“You can interest me in a cup of coffee.”

The ghoul impatiently resigned to a smaller order than he’d liked, and flashed his inn room key fob to net a discount. He requested a plate from Angel, and took it and ‘Choly’s mug to hold out for the server, who confirmed, yes maple syrup, black no sugar, before plating up as requested. Twenty-seven pulls lighter, Sticks let Angel locate their seat with its higher passive senses.

‘Choly sat with his coffee warming his gloved hands for some time, content to let the aromatic steam roll over his face while he watched Sticks dig in with knife and fork. Angel set a Melancholia bottle on the table. Eventually, Sticks’s bites slowed, and he stopped to finish chewing. He cut off a forkful and held it out with a cupped hand beneath, optimistic the craving spurred ‘Choly’s attention.

“The maple syrup makes up for it being carrot.”

‘Choly eyed it. Sooner than admit due impropriety, he let him stuff the bite in his mouth. He had expected the syrup and apple compote to provide all the sweetness, but the finely grated root vegetable mixed into the batter contributed both sweet and savory. Against his better judgment, to quash any question altogether, he mooched a second bite as well with interest.

“Don’t you like carrot?”

“...Blueberries aren’t in season,” Sticks eventually smiled. “Now, I’d happily split these with you... or are you actually happy with that damn silt flour smoothie?”

“I’m only happy with my Melancholia, in that it doesn’t upset my stomach.” He opened it with his reinforced gloves, and thought to himself, This batch isn’t even cherry. It’s mint. “If you want my full faculties, you’ll have me with Mentats, Melancholia, and a cup of black coffee.”

Brow raised, Sticks frowned into his plate as he scrutinized where to cut off his next bite.

“Far be it for me to come between you and your faculties.”

Angel used the dish station at the far end of the food court to rinse their plate, mug, and utensils. Then, they got to skimming stores.

Beginning just outside the Customs House, they poked around any open store which appeared to carry armor or apparel. ‘Choly went by cane for the most part, and tried not to let interesting garments distract him or his cash from his goal. He wasn’t about to spend anything until he knew the price tag on liberating the leather orthotics from whoever might have them. Neither their descriptions nor the product photos in the catalogue produced results.

In one shop, Sticks unhelpfully described the item to the clerk, who immediately pointed them to an array of girdles and brassieres. Beet red and speechless, ‘Choly had to nearly shove away the salesmanship, no matter the young man’s encouragement or respect. Sticks didn’t know whether to find ‘Choly’s reaction revealing or amusing.

They passed crossway between the main entrance and Sutter Grove, only for ‘Choly to stop cold. Like some strange airport reunion, a loud, excited group of Laners fawned over a black woman with a shoulder-length white bob--white all the more stark in contrast to the red-green golden mall-sea. When Sticks noticed ‘Choly had stopped, he backtracked, eyes on the woman sooner than him.

“You need me to help you up on Angel?”

“Such accolades. What do you suppose she means to them?”

“From the look of her, she must travel a lot. They probably just haven’t seen her in a real long time. It’s not important. They’re going to Burlington Glassworks. They won’t have what we’re here for. Now come on.”

Head askew, ‘Choly watched the gaggle drag the overwhelmed yet pleasant woman across the Concourse and to the lighting store.

“I... I want to go in there.”

“Didn’t think you were particularly religious, but whatever. We can take a break and play tourist or somethin’.”

‘Choly almost objected, but figured he’d understand if only he satisfied his curiosity. If he recalled anything from the time before he’d stepped foot in the United States, he knew with certainty he’d been raised to abhor religious observance. At least, outwardly...

Myriad strange shapes the luminescent space, but the motif repeated in the glass art filled with glowing golden red-green fluid, that the neck swirled and looped around the body, then somehow reentered it. Bulbs were hung by these loops from the ceiling, some in knotted strings, while most other bulbs rested in metal fixtures reminiscent of egg cups. If not for the artistic shapes and the hue of light they cast, ‘Choly and Sticks almost considered it like stepping into the lighting department of a hardware store.

“Hierosacristan Fresnel!” The group begged, both in English and what ‘Choly could only presume was French. “Hierosacristan, tell us of your orbit!”

The staff had abandoned their posts in fascination of their visitor. Some showered her with sunflowers. Here, ‘Choly could see the woman wore an ornately embroidered shawl, fur-lined metal armor, and an all-black bodysuit. The woman could only oblige her admirers with a humility strained smile. A dozen or so stone park benches furnished the deeper half of the store, in two neat rows facing the back wall. ‘Choly sat at the last bench to watch, transfixed. Begrudgingly, Sticks joined him, and Angel, behind them.

As she spoke, Fresnel’s deep, silvery voice alternated between English and French, limiting ‘Choly and Sticks’s full comprehension. Her audience seemed more captivated by anything she didn’t say in English.

When she told them, “Qu’Atom vous garde,” they mirrored it in kind. ‘Choly filled in any gaps in the language barrier with presumptions of what little he knew of Orthodoxy.

“Much of my year I have studied in Thomaston... XXXXXXXXXX I wandered the Nashua ruins a bit before coming to the Lane proper... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX I come to greet the granite... I must travel West before I return to Five Sisters. To report my findings to Grand Mother Skwodovska. But, I savor a leisurely return. My discoveries dictate my orbit. XXXXXXXXXX I Winter at the Lane for the first time... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX ”

At some point in her speech, she took notice of their visitors. She broke away from sermonizing for the dozen or so practically clutching for her attention, to approach. ‘Choly straightened, expecting her to scold him. But she bowed to Sticks with grace, and held his hand in both her own. The ghoul fell speechless when she smiled up at him.

“What a blessing, that one of Atom’s beloved attends us. I never get the chance to speak with any Undying.”

Sticks let her hold his gloved hand, too, and laid on his charm.

“I’m impressed at our timing. We happen to be at Ant Lane right when such a highly esteemed Child of Atom has popped in.”

Again struggling with humility, she withdrew to stand. Taken aback by the sight of Angel, she hemmed into her fist.

“Forgive my start from the robot. One of my past orbits took me to the Commonwealth, and since my visit to the Cambridge Polymer Labs, I haven’t much liked the company of Mister Handies.”

“Cambridge!” Angel blandished. “Such worldliness.”

She appreciated that it did not take exception with her.

“My brothers and sisters show our devotion in a commitment to travel.”

“Forgive my stupidity,” ‘Choly asked, voice cracking, “but what exactly is a hiero...?”

The intense, robust woman half-sat on the back of the next bench to form her reply. Up close, ‘Choly could make out her face tattoo, of many concentric rings, emanating outward from one eye. Sooner than wonder what it signified, he could only imagine how much it must have hurt. The white bob was a wig.

“You speak Keb? No?” She became more particular in her words. “Among the Children of Atom is an order of scribes, historians, cartographers. We are the Daughters of Radon. We hail from the Rock of Ages. We document and research Atom’s holiest substances, such that any of Atom’s children can safely trace a path and greet everything She has touched. The rank bestowed of Daughters of Radon is Sacristan, keeper of holy spaces. Hierosacristans are the Daughters’ Zealots.”

‘Choly strained to follow along, teetering between looking lost and unintentionally judgmental.

“What interest, then, in granite? I heard correctly, that you intend to greet it? It’s very pretty, but really, I want to understand what has you all so enchanted. Is there correlation between granite and these glass lights?”

Fresnel smiled broad and beaming, nearly sarcastic in a way.

“A visitor from the Commonwealth. I see. The answer is Atom’s touch. We concern ourselves not just with nuclear bodies, but with large sources of granite, marble, and limestone. Anyone could observe these structures, both man-made and still-buried, but it takes the devotion of Daughters to listen to their histories.” A sigh and slouch announced her travel weariness. She pointed above them, to the hanging glass. “Everything is a vessel. We carry our world-soul. Nuclear bodies carry the Holy Light of Atom. And certain stones can carry recorded memories of the worlds which formed this one through Division. The Daughters are committed to documenting these memories, so that the Children can celebrate everything from the past which went into the creation of the present.”

‘Choly fumbled as carefully as he could. It fascinated him, that it seemed more and more that religious devotion tied directly into the creation and maintenance of the increasingly supernatural glowing glass fixtures--let alone that it had anything to do with radioactive material.

No wonder they appreciate Sticks. “And you... listen to the granite here?”

Sticks poorly hid his annoyance with a shift in posture and a grunt.

“Most granite is quite loud. The granite here... whispers.” Fresnel admitted. “The Children often call this place The Quiet Granite. You’re very new, and so eager to learn of Atom’s Kingdom... Are you here to let in Her Holy Light?”

“Until I stepped foot in here, I had no idea this place was a church. I know it sounds stupid, but I wanted to come in to see the lights up close. I’m fascinated that a substance could sustain luminescence without external excitation.”

Though his admission dulled her enthusiasm, his verbiage still held her interest.

“I’m not directly involved in glassblowing, so I know very little of it. The Glow is most remarkable, n’est-ce pas? Even if you’re here merely to marvel at our blessed work, you can still take a piece with you. You should speak with my brothers and sisters here. If you’re more than a scholar or tourist, the local Confessor can direct you to our body of scripture as well. I’m far better suited to geography than sermons.” Fresnel’s attention warmed back to Sticks. “Be no stranger to our space...”

“Sticks.”

“Be no stranger, Sticks.” She smiled, mirthful. “You and your odd friend here are welcome here.”

Before the game of Twenty Questions could continue, Fresnel stood to pat Sticks’s hand... and the top of ‘Choly’s head. The chemist frowned as she excused herself.

“Fresnel spoke directly with you,” a devotee said, behind them. They looked over their shoulders at the nervous man. “Is there anything I can do for you, Undying?”

“It’s Sticks,” he repeated, quickly growing tired of it. “We’re sightseeing, you could call it. I think this fella wants a souvenir.”

The man looked ‘Choly over and nodded, motioning for them to follow him to the counter. He produced an egg-crate tray of walnut sized glass baubles, and picked them up to swirl them around in visual demonstration.

“We’re blessed to meet a Hierosacristan.” He poorly contained his delight. “I wonder if she would permit that I be in her caravan when her orbit carries her onward.”

“Where is she headed next?” ‘Choly asked, moreso making conversation than wishing to know.

“The standard path for all caravans from Ant Lane to Burlington is Route 89, straight through the mountains. But, she mentioned traveling West. The Daughters of Radon follow the orbit of their heart. She may intend another orbit yet uncharted. --Forgive my gushing. You’re interested in a prayer armillary?”

“How much are they?”

The potentially inappropriate question caught in ‘Choly’s throat.

“Fifty-one pulls.”

“You don’t happen to take cash, do you?”

“Certainly. Our caravans do trade with more than just Ant Lane.” The Child picked up the tray’s edge to look at a note on the side. “One hundred fifty dollars.”

So deep in, he didn’t feel like he could say no thank you and just walk away. Not that he wanted to walk away empty handed after such a bizarre interaction.

“Tell me more about them. What makes them glow?”

“There are two aspects to Burlington’s glass artistry. We’re beholden to conceal our craft, but it’s perfectly safe for all Atom’s Children, blessed with the Endurance to withstand Her Light or no.“

In the remark, ‘Choly stifled a shiver at the possibility that the entire mall might be a religious settlement.

“The craftsmanship is remarkable.” His voice cracked. “How long do they last?”

“Years, if they must. But these smallest vessels are intended ephemeral: We encourage that you use them to seal a prayer, then shatter it someplace consequential to disperse the good will into the universe.”

“Are they... still safe if broken?”

“They are not grenades. And to drink its contents would be ill advised, foremost on account of the broken glass.”

“I would never have considered the fluid potable,” ‘Choly lied, having had the thought gifted him. He shakily produced the requested cash, and the Child let him pick one of the egg-like baubles. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you?” His beseeching, bleary eyes suggested more than simple commerce. “Do you require any arrangements? Any accommodations of any kind?”

Sticks eyed the tray with near disappointment, and rocked a bauble around in its cup with one finger.

“...You said they were fifty-one?”

“Take one, gladly!”

Feigning pleasantry, he picked one for himself. It exasperated ‘Choly that Sticks had not attempted to influence the price tag on his trinket, but only his frigid shoulders said as much.

“Thank you. Get to take a piece of this place with me, then.”

“But of course!” The Child nod-bowed to them both. “Qu’Atom vous garde.”

They mirrored the nod, caught in the uncertainty of pronunciation, and the uncertainty of appropriateness that they repeat it back.

‘Choly held his prayer armillary at his chest as they exited the Glassworks. He had no intention of ever break it. The thought crossed him as he glanced down at it, that he could place it in Angel’s storage for use as a perpetual light source, like the light to a glove compartment.

“...Angel,” he asked it, spellbound by the strange, vaguely oily, fluoresceinesque fluid, “you’ve got French programming, haven’t you? That was French, yes? What was she saying?”

“I believe it’s French, Sir. At least, partly. If I’m to understand Miss Fresnel, these Children of Atom worship gamma radiation... as well as something they regard as ‘foreign.’ ”

“Cultists, basically.” Sticks snorted.

'Choly didn’t care whether the Children’s religious motivations made any rational, scientific sense. It still burned him, that they’d given Sticks his trinket for free. The ghoul handed him his with only a vague smirk.

“I, you didn’t want one, then?” He had only starry-eyed gratitude. “Are you sure?”

“Why would I? I let them give it to me so they’d knock it off and let us leave.” The ghoul blurted out an abrupt chuckle and slung an arm around ‘Choly’s shoulders, to grip him a little too forcefully. He kept his voice down, cracked lips inches from ‘Choly’s ear. “Don’t make me go back in there. I get enough of that from you.”

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

A/N: I anglicized the maiden name of Polish-French Marie Skłodowska-Curie, in the expectation that oral tradition would follow phonetically. (I also wanted to differentiate the Grand Mother from both Mother Curie III and FO4′s Curie, while still nodding to the historical figure.)

A/N: I’ve thus far gone all my life not knowing it’s pronounced Freh-nel or Fray-nel. Even my science teachers all pronounced it Fresnel. Hm.

Go to Next »»»

[depravednexus-a]

Casual Vibe: Maka Training

{XX}

“Hah... Hah... A-Again!” She panted heavily as her knees began to quake, sweat forming a thin layer across her body to give it a lovely sheen as the last light of day hit her. She heard her partner complain, bitching and moaning something about how she seemed more upset than normal today during their training session. Her immediate and natural response was to glare daggers at the scythe in her hands, despite the growing blush on her cheeks or the soft hum from between her legs...

It had been a present from their magical cat roommate, a fact that had only been begrudgingly told by Miss Blair only after Maka sternly refused the gift. Even now as she assumed a combat ready stance, she could hear the voice of the cat-woman from their earlier conversation.

‘C’mon Maka... It’s just a pair of vibrating panties! Just try ‘em on for me once and you never have to wear them again, okay?’

‘Blair this is insane! Who the hell buys anyone else gifts like this anyway except for perverts like Papa and people that are seeing each other!’

‘Nyah? But aren’t we seeing each other right meow?’ She tilted her head in mock confusion, trying to play the innocent kitty card.

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it! B-Besides, why would I even want to wear these, let alone try them on?’

‘Nya-ha!’ Blair let out a mischievous laugh and twirled a finger, almost as if she were casting a spell. ‘They’re special panties! They let you get off without touching yourself so Soul will never know you’re thinking about him! Unless you want that, then I could always...’ She pointed her finger at the box the panties were in with an ominous look in her eye. ‘Pumpkin Pum- Pumpk-’

‘Alright! F-Fine! J-just one time...’

“The s-stuff I get myself i-into...” She hissed out under her breath as she shook her head, trying to throw away the ghost of the memory from earlier that day. She had no idea what that crazy, slutty cat was thinking, or what she was going to do to alter the panties, but this constant pleasure against her clit had to have been the lesser of two evils by a wide margin. 

And if it saved her from having to make sure Soul and Blair were both asleep to keep them from hearing her finger herself tonight, then maybe she might thank the cat with a big order of sushi...

‘MAKA! SWEEPKICK INCOMING!’

“R-Right!” She nodded as she used the hilt of her partners weapon form to catapult them both into the air, twirling him around several times before going in for the finishing strike on their current training target.

At least... That’s what the plan was, right up until the vibrations against her clit suddenly spiked in intensity and frequency.

“HNGKAH!??” Her teeth clenched as her legs buckled beneath her, effectively tripping herself and sending her weapon partner flying from her grip, handle first into the training combat dummy. She struggled to catch her breath as she doubled over on herself, gasping and panting heavily from a mixture of intense pleasure and shock as she was brought to orgasm from the strange vibrating panties.

She could have sworn she heard her partner running to her as she passed out, accompanied by the voice of their cat... Something about it working purrfectly...

[dazaiapologism]

Felt the need to share but i embarrassing bought a copy of no longer human to like have something that’s not on a screen and not homework. and i’m honestly bothered by how relatable he is (makes sense considering how many people like the book and relate but still) but it keeps fucking going off into a women are so weird and insane but i have to have them love me but they’re the worst i hate him so much

csa ment //

i want to first emphasize deeply that the misogyny in no longer human is appalling in its intensity and frequency, bc i dont want that to go unsaid. 

that said, having read more dazai (im thinking about the setting sun and its female protagonist), i find myself wondering how much of it was genuine belief from dazai and not his embellishment in order to make yozo the most deplorable human imaginable. 

i dont really want to waste too much breath defending dazai but i do feel like very early in the novel, theres a couple easy to miss sentences about being repeatedly sexually abused by his family’s servants that might point to where some of that vitriol came from. its not our place to speculate whether that actually happened or was part of the fiction of yozo oba, but i dont think its wrong to say csa can result in those sorts of distorted mentalities so it probably isnt PLAIN OL misogyny, if that makes sense. 

i agree though, i found the flipflop between relating deeply and hating the way he talks about women to be disorienting and infuriating. i think though, having read through it several times now, that discord is part of what keeps me coming back to it. 

anyways point being yeah yozo oba hates women so fucking much and its disgusting but i unfortunately still think it was a good novel worth reading. classic dazaiapologism

[wistfulcynic]

On What They Fall 2/4

So let me start by saying how much I hate @thisonesatellite. I mean obviously I don't hate her, I love her even though she has been HOGGING THE BRAIN, but I hate that EVERY TIME she says I’m going to need more chapters to tell my story I DO. I DO NEED THEM. Curse her. 

The upside of her eerie genius is that there are now three chapters in this fic. ONLY THREE, DAMMIT. 

I’d like to say that this one is less angsty than the first but that would be a LIE. 

The first angsty chapter can be found here on Tumblr or here on AO3. 

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is an angry young man. He has no family and few friends, and he’s stuck in a small town where everyone views him with fear and suspicion.

Everyone but Emma Swan.

She’s everything he wants in life and everything he can’t have. What he doesn’t know is that she wants him too.

Part 9 of Secret Things.

Rated: T

On AO3

Tagging some folks who might enjoy it: @kmomof4, @stahlop, @mariakov81, @teamhook, @resident-of-storybrooke, @darkcolinodonorgasm, @shireness-says, @thejollyroger-writer, @ohmightydevviepuu @jennjenn615 @superchocovian (Give me a shout if you’d like a tag for Chapter 3 THE REALLY VERY FINAL CHAPTER I MEAN IT THIS TIME)

Chapter 2: 

Killian doesn’t write and he doesn’t call. He doesn’t contact anyone except Belle, and she gets nothing but the odd text message sent at irregular intervals. She never tells anyone what the messages say and Emma can’t bear to ask. 

She googles him, though, in moments of weakness— when Graham pushes a bit too hard or when her parents smile at him too fondly, when Emma’s had a drink or two too many she gives in to the longing that is never not a part of her and searches for any scrap of information about him that she can find. 

Her searches come up empty, at first. She expects little else —he’s off on a boat after all— but then one day about a year after he left she searches for his name and finds an Instagram account. She holds her breath as she clicks on it, wondering if after so long it could possibly, actually be him. All the pictures are of landscapes and cityscapes and food and people— so many people, and though none of them are him she knows instinctively that this account is his. These are photographs he’s taken of his travels. 

She makes a second account for herself with a meaningless username and follows him. She checks his page daily, marking off all the places he visits on a globe she buys expressly for the purpose, charting his progress as he travels around the world. His photographs are gorgeous, full of colour and life, and they capture the spirit and the essence of each location. He’s a fantastic photographer, and it turns out an even better writer. 

One day when she checks his Instagram she sees a link to a blog. With shaking hands she clicks on it and finds a single post—a story, complete with pictures, of a day he spent in Vietnam. It was a hot day, he recounted, edging towards 50 Celsius (122 Fahrenheit, Emma learns from Google, and her jaw drops) and Killian spent it in a place called Hoi An, visiting an elderly couple who breed silkworms for the local trade and taking photographs in their un-air-conditioned house. By the late afternoon he was bathed in sweat, thirsty and grumpy and wanting nothing more than to get back to his boat and have a beer, sail out to sea to catch a cool breeze. When he returned to where he’d moored her, however, he discovered that some local children had cut his line and set his boat adrift off the coast. The children thought this was a hilarious joke, and Killian, despite his mood and the sweat pouring off him, found himself laughing along with them. With no other practical options available, he put his camera bag on his head, secured the strap under his chin, and carefully swam out to his boat. The water was warm, he wrote, like a tepid bath, bright blue and gentle, and it washed the sweat away and refreshed him. When he reached the boat he tossed the camera bag aboard along with the wet clothes he simply stripped off and then floated in the water, watching a thunderstorm roll in over the mountains behind the town. 

Emma devours the story eagerly, then goes back to the beginning and reads it again. His writing style is eloquent and engaging, his descriptions of the locations and people vivid and funny, and she feels like she’s there with him. She feels a pang at that realisation. If only she were there with him. 

The story ends with a final photograph, clearly taken from the deck of his boat. A stormy grey sky lit up by a flash of lighting arcing down over the tops of lush green mountains. The brown roofs of houses dotted around the lower elevations and down to the white sandy beach fronted by clear azure water. The caption reads: I had never known such contentment or such peace.

That he had to go to the other side of the world to find those things breaks her heart. 

She checks his blog daily and he updates it often, and soon she is only one of his regular readers. He gets dozens, then hundreds of comments on each post and he replies to them with charm and humour, and before too long advertisers begin to take notice. As do editors. 

His first professional article appears in Wanderlust about two and a half years after his departure from Storybrooke. More soon follow, and his blog is updated with less and less frequency. And then, four years after he left, he makes the cover of National Geographic. 

Emma cries as she reads it, huge, silent tears that leave tracks down her face, and with her fingertip she traces the small picture of him next to the article. His beard is thicker, she thinks, though he still hasn’t learned how to use a comb. 

Six months later he announces that he’s shutting down his blog because he’s written a book, a novel that will be published the following year. Emma is thrilled, and so proud of him. He always was good with words, as his impressive career in travel journalism proves, and she’s delighted he’s found an even more creative way to use that talent. But then she thinks about how, once, he would have given her this news himself, and her tears fall again. 

She thinks about how things were between them, so long ago now. How from the very beginning he fascinated her, that sullen, beautiful boy with his soft accent and his furious pain, the wary disbelief in his eyes when she brought him a blanket and the shock of intense connection when she shook his hand. Her persistent campaign to break through the bastion of his anger and discover the person beneath, her joy when she succeeded. The long, hot days of his first summer in Storybrooke, walking in the woods or sitting by the docks together, reading, listening to music, talking about everything. How in love with him she was and how she thought, in odd moments and snatches of glances that he might feel the same. 

Then autumn came and Killian turned eighteen. The morning of his birthday he dropped out of school, telling Emma without looking at her that with the chaos of his parents’ deaths and the struggle to find someone to take custody of him he missed his exams in England and here in the US everything was too different. He wouldn’t be able to graduate in the spring and he didn’t see the point of staying in school when he should be earning money. Now that there were no more funds from the state to support him, he said, he couldn’t be a burden on Belle. 

He got a job at the docks, working such long hours she barely ever saw him. When she did he was exhausted, worn in a way that worried her, though he always had a smile for her and a new book he discovered for her to read. His mind was so active, so curious, but when she tried to talk him into going back to school he refused to listen, withdrawing into himself if she even brought it up. 

Emma thinks about how he began to pull away from her, subtly at first, allowing the circumstances of their lives to do most of the work. She thinks of the gossip she began to hear about him, stories of sleeping with older women who would buy him alcohol, drinking until he passed out. She confronted him about it and he stonewalled her, telling her to go back to her high school boys and leave him in peace.  

Man whore, she hissed at him. 

Princess, he snarled back, turning the word into an insult.  

Emma cried herself to sleep that night, and the next day agreed to go to her senior prom with Neal Cassidy. 

--

 When word of Killian’s book gets out Storybrooke goes insane. Everyone seems to have forgotten the way they once treated him, the suspicion and distrust, the whispering behind his back, always waiting for him to explode in violence or do something that would get him locked up for good. All they remember now is that he’s a ‘local boy’—one born on a different continent, but that is also forgotten— and there is pride in their voices when they speak of him. There is speculation on when he’s going to ‘come home.’ 

Emma wants nothing more than for him to come home, but not like this, not into the clutches of these vultures, she thinks viciously, these people who made him feel like less than nothing and who now just want to trade on his acclaim. Yet she wants so badly to see him, to hear his voice again. He’s been gone five years and the wound is still open, still gaping and raw. By now she knows it will never heal, and if she lives to be a hundred she will never stop missing him. 

Graham knows it too. They’re still dating, sort of, in the sense that they go out together sometimes and they sleep together sometimes but Emma has never been able to fully commit to the relationship. She loves Graham but she’s not in love with him, as the cliché goes, and when Killian becomes the focus of eager conversation throughout the town Graham thinks he may finally know the reason why. 

“It’s Killian, isn’t it?” he asks her out of nowhere one day. They’re in the sheriff’s station where Emma now works alongside him, having graduated with her criminal justice degree and joined the force as a deputy. “You’re in love with him.” 

“What? How do you know?” She stares at him, too astonished to dissemble. 

“Emma, you should see your face whenever anyone mentions his name.” Graham smiles sadly. “I didn’t notice at first because— well, no one talked about him, but now his name’s getting thrown around all over the place and every time you hear it you look like your heart is breaking.” 

“Graham.” She has no idea what to say to him. 

“At least now I know why you couldn’t ever fall for me.”

“I’m so sorry.” Emma feels terrible. “I probably shouldn’t have— It’s just my dad was so—” 

“I know. I probably shouldn’t have pushed so hard. With hindsight it’s always been pretty obvious your heart wasn’t in it.” 

“I wish it could have been,” she says with a flare of anger. “Killian never wanted me, he left without even saying goodbye. I haven’t heard a word from him in five years, so why can’t I stop loving him?”

“What is it they say? True love never dies?” 

“I’ll have to find a way to kill it then, because I can’t live the rest of my life like this.” 

Graham stares at his hands for a long moment, and then he speaks. “You might not have to.” 

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t think— I don’t think Killian didn’t want you.” 

“What?” Emma glares at him but he doesn’t look up. 

“It’s not something we ever spoke of, but looking back.. hindsight and all, I see some things now that I didn’t want to see back then. He was always so tense when you were around, and his face when anyone said your name— well, it was a lot like yours is now when someone says his.”

She shakes her head. “You’re imagining things, Graham. Projecting—” 

“No, I don’t think I am,” he interrupts firmly, finally looking at her. “I think Killian loved you but thought he couldn’t give you what you needed and that’s why he left.” 

“And what exactly did he think I needed?” 

“Maybe you should ask him that.” 

Emma throws up her hands. “I just told you he hasn’t spoken to me in half a decade. I’ve got no idea where he even is.” 

“You’re a cop,” says Graham. “You have resources.” 

“Graham Humbert, are you suggesting I misappropriate—” 

“I’m not suggesting anything, Emma, other than that it seems you and Killian have a conversation that’s at least five years overdue, and maybe it’s time you finally had it.”

--

Two weeks later Killian’s book comes out. It’s an instant sensation, shooting to the top of the bestseller lists. All his Instagram followers and blog readers and travel magazine subscribers buy it and so do their friends and family. Emma buys a copy and stares for a long time at his name on the cover before she begins to read. 

The book is not a love story. It’s a story of love frustrated by life. It’s the story of a boy and a girl, the classic star-crossed lovers, who end up not dying in each other’s arms or living happily ever after but just… living. Ever after. 

It’s the story of bad timing and bad choices and circumstances that grind away at love until nothing remains but the ghost of it, and of two people who would once have done anything for each other but by the end barely speak. It’s beautifully written and it’s heartbreaking, and for Emma it hits her straight in her soul. Because she is the girl, and Killian is the boy, and she doesn’t even have to read the interview he gives to the New York Times Book Review, confessing that the woman he wrote about is based on a real person, to know that this is them. This is how Killian imagined the path their lives would take, if they got together all those years ago. This is why he left. 

Emma takes the book with her everywhere, rereading it in every spare moment, searching for something to convince her she’s wrong, that she’s imagining what isn’t there. She forgets to eat and barely sleeps, and finally she goes to see Belle, knocking on her door with the book clutched tightly to her chest. Belle hugs her, the minute she opens it. She’s read the book too. 

“He’s never coming back, is he?” Emma whispers. 

Belle shakes her head. “No.” 

She ushers Emma inside, sits her down on the sofa. Waits. 

Emma stares at the book, ruffling its pages and toying with its dust jacket. “Isn’t there anything that might make him— any reason he might want to— to come to Storybrooke again? Doesn’t he at least want to see you?”

Belle chooses her words carefully. “I visited him last Christmas,” she says gently. “In his new place, at his request. He doesn’t want to come back here. I— believe there are some things he thinks would hurt too much to revisit.” 

“The woman in his book.” 

“Yes.” 

Emma takes a deep breath, looks Belle straight in the eye. “Is it me?” She holds up the book. “Is she— me?”

Belle sighs, but there’s no point in lying. The woman in the book is so obviously Emma. She’s kept Killian’s secret as long as she could, but if he’s going to put his heart on display in the pages of an international bestseller there’s only so much that she can do to protect it for him. 

“Yes,” she says. “It’s you.” 

“Then he… he loved me?” 

Belle nods, and Emma’s fingers grip the book tightly. “Did he leave town because of me?”

“He did. He loved you deeply, Emma, but he never acted on it because he believed you didn’t feel the same, and even if you did he couldn’t give you the life you deserved. Then you started dating Graham and couldn’t bear to watch you fall in love with someone else.” 

“He’s such an idiot,” hisses Emma, and Belle does rather agree. Yet she’s not sorry Killian left Storybrooke; he’d never have made anything of himself had he stayed. He’s got the life he deserves now, and he’s stable, if not quite happy. He’s been seeing a therapist and working through the scars from his past. For the first time in all the years she’s known him anger isn’t his defining feature, and while she does think his book takes rather too pessimistic a view of the life they might have had together, she’s certain none of the progress he’s made would have been possible if he’d remained here in this town with Emma, however much he loved her. 

“Tell me something, Emma,” she says. “If Killian had told you he loved you before he left, what would you have done?” 

“Gone with him,” says Emma, without a second’s hesitation. 

Belle gives her a hard look. “You would have given up everything —your education, your family, your home— to live with him on a boat, scraping by on his savings?” 

“Yes.” Emma thinks about the picture from his first blog post, the calm and contentment he’d found floating off the coast of Vietnam. She would have given up anything to experience that with him. Just to be with him. “All I’ve ever really wanted is to have a life with him. The details of that life don’t really matter. I mean, they do, but— we could have worked them out together.”

Belle smiles and gives her head a little shake. One of these days, she thinks, she’ll stop underestimating Emma Swan. “He’s living in New York now,” she says casually. “In a neighbourhood called the Bowery. Bought himself a nice little flat there. Apparently the advance on his next book was a generous one.” 

Emma swallows hard before she speaks. “Is he planning to stay there?” she asks. 

“I think so,” says Belle. “I think he’s ready to stop wandering and find his place.” 

--

Emma has been with the sheriff’s department for three years and she’s never once abused the power that comes with her position. She doesn’t speed or park where she shouldn’t, or even cut in line at Granny’s as even Graham has been known to do. She’s never even jaywalked. But when she learns where Killian lives, his very neighbourhood in fact, she busts out every cop trick she knows to find his address. 

When she has it she sits for a long time, thinking. Then she opens Google Street View. She feels a bit like a stalker, looking online at the very building where he lives, but she can’t help herself. And if she goes through with her plan then she will quite literally be stalking him and via not-quite-legal means as well. 

But she can’t get Graham’s words out of her head. A conversation at least five years overdue. She wants to know why he left, why he pushed her away even before that, why he didn’t trust her to love him enough to make everything else irrelevant. She needs to hear it from his own mouth, not from Graham’s or Belle’s or anyone else’s. She needs to know.  

She doesn’t tell anyone where she’s going or what she intends to do. Her dad is surprised when she asks for two weeks off work— she’s not had so much as a sick day since she started— but when he and her mother ask about her plans she tells them she just needs some time away after her breakup with Graham. Her father’s mouth goes grim; he’s not happy about that breakup. But he says nothing and her mother hugs her and tells her to take all the time she needs. 

--

The next morning finds her at Killian’s door, trying to calm her racing heartbeat as she stares at the number on it, gathers her courage, and rings the bell. When he appears her breath stops. Her world stops. He looks good, is all she can think. Older, of course, filled out and more solid, with thick scruff along his jaw and his hair neatly trimmed if less than neatly combed. He’s always been good looking, but in the past the anger and defiance that so often marred his features made it hard to see. But now… now the anger is nowhere to be seen and he is beautiful, his smile shining as brilliantly as she remembers until he recognises her and it fades away. 

“Swan,” he gasps, staring at her with wide eyes. “What— why are you—” 

“I read your book,” she says breathlessly. 

“Ah.” 

“I loved it. You’re an incredible writer.” 

He drops his eyes and rubs his neck, a pink flush spreading over his cheekbones. Some things haven’t changed, she thinks. He never could handle praise.

“Erm, well, yes. Thank you,” he says. “Um. Come in, Swan.” 

He steps back to allow her entrance and she feels breathless again as she takes in his apartment. It’s plainly furnished but everywhere there are things, all manner of them, clearly souvenirs of his travels. Sculptures and paintings and knickknacks and other little touches of the life he’s lived without her. She spins slowly around, wide-eyed. 

“This is amazing.” 

“Aye, well, I’ve done some travelling.” 

“I know. I read your blog too, and your Instagram.” 

“You— really?” 

She turns to look at him. “Yeah. I’ve been following you for a while. On the internet at least.” 

“That’s— well, I don’t really know. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t think you—” I didn’t think you cared. She hears the words he doesn’t say. 

The urge to touch him is so strong she digs her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from reaching out, wrapping him in her arms and never letting go. She notices that he seems to be doing the same, one hand stuffed deep in his pocket and the other a tight fist at his side. The tension Graham spoke of is there as well. It radiates from him, belying his casual posture. He was always tense around her in those later years, she remembers. Now she has some new ideas about why. 

She doesn’t know what to say, though, how to start the conversation she needs them to have. 

He starts it for her. “Why are you here, Swan?” he asks. 

“Belle told me where you live.” 

“That’s a how, not a why,” he says, with a small smile.  

“I just wanted to see you.” 

“Why?”

She tries to sort through all the reasons: because she still loves him and always will, because she missed him every second he was gone and she’s so angry at him for leaving without even a goodbye but also she’s proud of him for what he’s accomplished, for pulling himself out of the life he hated and finding success through his talent and hard work and sheer stubbornness. She tries to sort through the chaos of her thoughts but before she can the door opens and a woman rushes in. 

“Sorry I’m late, I— oh. I didn’t know you were expecting any visitors.” 

“I wasn’t.” Killian smiles at the woman as she approaches them. She’s tall and elegant with dark hair that tumbles in wild curls down her back. Emma feels small and dowdy next to her, and when she kisses Killian in greeting Emma can’t suppress a flinch. 

“This is Emma,” says Killian. “A friend from Storybrooke.” 

The woman looks at her with sharp interest. “I thought you didn’t have any friends there.” 

“I believe I said I didn’t have many,” Killian replies with a grin. “She’s one.” He turns back to Emma and the smile slips away. “This is Milah, my agent,” he tells her. “And, ah, my girlfriend.” 

Emma doesn’t flinch this time, she’s frozen by the stab of pain through her heart, though she knew this was coming from the moment the woman came through his door. Of course he has a girlfriend, she thinks, he’s moved on with his life. He’s been moving on, for the past five years. She’s the one who can’t let go. 

She feels like she’s watching herself from outside her body as she summons a smile from God knows where and shakes Milah’s hand. She says all the right things— nice to meet you and yes, here on vacation and just in the neighbourhood, thought I’d look him up. From the expression in Milah’s pale eyes she doesn’t believe a word of it. 

“Well, I’m sorry to cut your reunion short, Emma, but I’m afraid Killian has an appointment and we’re already running late,” she says briskly. 

“Yes, of course,” Emma, replies, leaping to her feet and grabbing her things. “I’ll just… it was nice to meet you Milah, and to see you Killian. I’ll, uh, find my way out.” She forces herself not to run. 

Killian catches up to her as she’s waiting at the elevator. “Swan!” he calls, and Emma wills the elevator to come faster, wishes she’d just taken the stairs. She tries not to turn around, but he calls her name again she can’t resist the entreaty in his voice. 

“Where are you staying?” he asks, all in a rush. “For how long? Can I— can we—” he takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’d love to see you before you go. If you like, that is. Can I take you for coffee or something?” 

The elevator doors open and she steps inside, turns to look at him almost against her will.

“Swan,” he says again, and his voice is so soft. 

She gives him the name of her hotel, forces herself not to be thrilled by the warmth of his smile. The first smile he’s directed at her in five years. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning,” he says, and she nods as the doors slide shut. It’s just a platitude, she tells herself, just something people say. She won’t get her hopes up. 

She won’t. 

--

Killian returns to his apartment where Milah is waiting, actually tapping her toe on the floor as she stares at her phone with a stony expression. He ignores her mood, grabs his jacket and his satchel and holds open the door. 

“Are you coming?” he asks. 

She sweeps by him without a word and he follows her downstairs to where a town car is waiting. There is no sign of Emma in the street.

They sit in silence as the car navigates the heavy traffic. Killian is lost in his thoughts, unnerved by the way his skin is tingling, his blood pounding hot in his veins. This reaction is insane, he thinks, they didn’t even touch. Just seeing Emma again has shaken him to his core and he can’t work out how he feels about it. He never expected to see her anywhere but in his dreams. 

“That was her, wasn’t it?” says Milah, interrupting his reverie. “The woman from your book.” 

“Aye.” He regrets Emma’s presence in his book, resents it a bit. He tried to write the woman differently but no matter what he did she refused to be anyone but Emma. In the end he gave in, hoping that writing about her might excise her from his heart. It didn’t. Nothing ever could. 

Milah is silent for several streets. When she speaks again her voice is carefully neutral. “Are you going to tell her you’re still in love with her?” she asks. “That you’ve never stopped?”

“Milah—” he begins, but she cuts him off with a short, sharp gesture of her hand.

“It’s okay, Killian. Well, it’s not okay, but I’ve always known you didn’t love me the way you love her.” She gives a wry smile. “I just never imagined she’d show up at your door.” 

“No, nor I.” 

“What are you going to do about it?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know.” 

Milah pauses again, chooses her words carefully. “You know you’ll never be completely happy without her, right?” 

He nods. “I know. But—” He hesitates, and she steps in.

“But you don’t think you deserve to be.” She gives him a probing look. “You do, you know.”

Killian stares at his hands, fighting against the memories that are starting to engulf him, things he hasn’t allowed himself to think about for years. Emma’s laugh, the way she smiled at him, the sunlight in her hair. Her father’s face whenever he saw them together. The way people in Storybrooke used to watch them, resentfully, as though his mere presence in her orbit would despoil their princess. 

He shakes his head.“You don’t understand. Emma, she’s perfect—” 

“She’s not,” snorts Milah, and meets his glare with a calm stare of her own. “She’s just a woman. A lovely one, yes, and by your account a remarkable one. But still just a woman. One who loves you.” 

His heart squeezes at that thought, one his brain refuses to entertain. “She doesn’t,” he insists, “she’s just being—” 

“Oh, stop it!” snaps Milah. “Stop making excuses. It’s fucking obvious to anyone with eyes. She’s as bad at hiding her feelings as you are. That woman is crazy in love with you and the only reason you can’t see it is because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t deserve her,” insists Killian, his jaw set stubbornly. 

Milah rolls her eyes, huffs out a breath. “You know what, maybe this is for the best,” she says. “Your moods were driving me crazy anyway.” 

“What, are you breaking up with me?”

“Yes. Yes I am. I can do better than a self-loathing nomad who’s in love with someone else.” 

They glare at each other. “You probably can,” says Killian. 

“Damn straight,” says Milah. 

“You will still be my agent, right?” 

“Of course I will. You’re my fucking cash cow, love.” 

Their glares fade into grins and they laugh. “Maybe it is for the best,” he concedes. “I like you too much to impose myself on you.” 

“Stop that,” says Milah. “That self deprecation gets really bloody tiresome. Just tell Blondie you love her, the rest will sort itself out. And quit holding her up in your mind like some sort of goddess. She’s just a woman.” 

Killian doesn’t reply. 

--

He calls Belle late that night. She answers after many rings with a sleepy “Hello?” He’s woken her up. He expects he should be sorry for that but he isn’t; he’s too mad at her for telling Emma where to find him. For destroying the peace he’s worked so hard to achieve. 

“Why,” he chokes out. He’s been sitting alone for hours fighting the urge to drink, unable to sleep, thinking about Emma and remembering and trying not to tumble back into feelings he thought he’d escaped. “Why would you tell her where I was?”

“What?” says Belle, and there is genuine confusion in her voice. “Killian? Who did I tell what to?” She must be tired, thinks Killian, if she’s dangling prepositions. 

“Emma,” he snarls. “You told her where I live. Why? Why, when you know how I—” 

“Hold on,” Belle is awake now, and there’s a snap in her tone. “I told Emma you live in New York but I didn’t give her your address. Why? Is she there?” 

“Aye.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “She appeared at my door this afternoon.” 

“Ah.” Belle sounds satisfied. 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

“Killian. Please think about this. She tracked you down. She went to a lot of trouble to find you. Why do you think she would do that?” 

“I’ve no bloody clue.” 

“You do,” says Belle sharply. “You’re just being obtuse. What did she say?” 

“Not much. The timing was complicated.” 

“Well, talk to her. Just talk. See what comes out.” There’s a pause as Belle sighs. “You’ve spent so long thinking you can’t have good things, Killian, I suppose it must be difficult to change that mindset. But you have to. You can have the things you want. You are allowed to be happy.” 

“I—” He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Get some sleep,” Belle tells him. “Talk to Emma in the morning. And keep me informed.” 

“Aye.” 

He hangs up the phone and drops onto his sofa, letting his head fall into his hands. Belle’s words ring in his ears. 

You are allowed to be happy. 

[dreams-madeof-strawberrylemonade]

In another life

A/N: HI I AM BACK WITH A ONE-SHOT FINALLY! I am sorry it’s so short and my writing has been so slow, but I am going through some stuff at the moment, not mention the school that’s driving me insane. So, while writing this I kept listening to You Keep Me Hanging On by Vanilla Fudge on repeat (link HERE). This one-shot is the result of my moody ass so please enjoy xx Feedback is welcomed, as well as comments and/or critique! To be added to the taglist, DM me or send an ask. Word Count: 990 words Warnings: none, just pure angst and straight up depressing shit so read at your own risk :)

Fanfiction Masterpost

You made your way in the dark room and sat down on the edge of the couch. The intensity of the storm raging outside grew, as if to match your miserable mood. Your mind was filled with thousands and thousands of thoughts, all at the same time and almost driving you insane.

You just returned from your boyfriend’s- well, ex-boyfriend’s- place. You still had the whole conversation in your mind, which played over and over again.

You were feeling sick, tired, dizzy and most of all, heartbroken.

The day went pretty well, until the last portion, the last couple of hours before you leaving. Sam continued your last date before he left on tour and took it to his place. He said he wanted to talk to you. You kept telling yourself that you should have seen it coming.

You walked in the Kiszkas’ residence. You knew you were alone in the house because Sam’s brothers were hanging out with their friends and his parents were running errands.

“What is wrong bubba?” you asked Sammy. That was your pet name for him and he loved it when you called him that way.

“Nothing…”

“But?” you ask, feeling the slight hesitation in his voice.

“But I think we should talk.”

The smile faded off your lips. You were worried and scared of what was he going to tell you. Just after Sam spoke those words, you actually realized how serious he was. He was that serious rarely. You knew it was important what he was going to talk to you about.

You felt Sam’s rough- yet soft- fingertips brushing against your skin and a chill ran down your spine. An unsettling feeling made its way to you.

You let yourself be guided by Sam in the kitchen. He pulled a chair for you and once you sat down, he sat across the table from you. You noticed the way he was fidgeting with his fingers and the frequency of him running his hand through his hair.

“Sammy, what is going on?” you asked with a trembling voice, fearing the worst.

“Y/N, there is no easy way to say it to you. You know how much I love and treasure you. The past two years, since we’ve been together, have been the best years of my life. You made me a better person and I thank you for that.”

You knew what was going on. You knew he was going to break up with you. You tried to fight back the tears that you knew that would come eventually. But you didn’t want to cry now.

“To be completely honest with you, going for the first time on a tour – just imagine what we’re talking about, it’s a worldwide tour and I just graduated – I am afraid. I don’t know what to expect. I am happy but afraid and I don’t know what’s best to do. But I feel that I don’t want to leave you hanging on this way. I don’t want us to be apart because of the distance and the time away,” Sam spoke softly and ended with looking you straight in the eyes.

“Sammy,” you said almost in a whisper. “We can work it out-“

“Y/N, it’s going to get complicated, I am sure of it,” he cut you off.

You continue to hold back your tears. You weren’t going to have a breakdown right there and then.

“Why?” you asked in a shaky and hoarse voice.

You looked at Sam. He was wearing his red hoodie, the one you loved the most, and a pair of black leather pants. He had his hair up in a messy bun. You remembered all the moments that the two of you had shared over the years and couldn’t help but feel melancholic.

How you missed the younger years of your life, when things weren’t as complicated. You remembered how your biggest problem then was that you hadn’t turned in the English homework on time and cracked a smile at the memory.

“Because I don’t want any of us to hurt because of the distance and the time away,” Sam answered and sat up. He walked next to you and kneeled by the chair.

He took your hand in his and held it in your lap. “Y/N, thank you, for everything.”

“Do you remember when you asked me to be your girlfriend?” you smiled still caught up in the re-run of memories in your head. “We used to talk about books all the time and you read the one that was my favorite at the time, and you asked me out using the line from the book, remember that?”

Sammy smiled at your words and nodded his head, a few strands falling out of the bun. He remembered. “I actually ended up liking that book.”

“So, that was it, then?” you asked as you snapped back to reality.

“This road is over, but the main road has just begun,” he spoke while playing with your fingers. “We are just beginning the roads of our lives – you and I – you know? And I hope we can remain friends, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

You just nodded your head sadly. “Yeah… We can remain friends…” you repeated as the words echoed in your ears.

“In another life,” Sam smiled and squeezed your hand. He was quoting the same book he quoted from when asking you out. “There won’t be anything keeping us apart.”

“In another life.”

You were still on the couch, in the same complete darkness as earlier. The only light that came into the room from time to time was for the lightning bolts outside.

You finally let the first tear run down your cheek. As you squeezed your eyes tighter together, more of them fell. It was just the beginning of the storm.

“In another life,” you told yourself and started sobbing.

Tags: @myownparadise96, @satans-helper, @jeordinevankiszka, @littlegeekwonder, @songbirdkisses, @safarimama, @gretavanyeeeeet, @freeeshavacadoo

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

The Siren & The Healer (3)

Natasha Romanoff arc

Chapter 3: The Doubts

Platonic Natasha x fem!Reader, Loki x fem!Reader (soulmates?)

Theme: With cracks between the most powerful superheroes of the earth, Natasha Romanoff does not find rest when she is assigned on a mission to find the missing pieces of a puzzling power that once nearly got into the hands- rather, tentacles- of Hydra. In order to unearth the pieces, she must dig through her own past and make a decision that might decide the fate of the earth in the coming wars.

Series: Will contain violence, death, destruction, softness, fluff, smut, friendship, and whatnot

Chapter warnings: Something some of you may like. Some of you might not. I personally did.

A/N: This was written a few years ago with an OC in mind so reader has a name but it is a reader insert.

Word Count: I am in a weird sullen mood. I don’t know what to do. I hate not knowing. Grrr! *shows fist to no one in particular* I had Korean Ramen- the one that comes in packets? It was fine until it starting feeling...not that cooked in my mouth. Blech! The only thing keeping me going is all you weirdos I love.

Also I need a drink. *sigh* *taps finger on the table* now where can I get something fine tasting and fast buzzing *narrows eyes at my brain*

MASTERLIST in bio, love

Nebula looked out at the ethereal reality of warm tones surrounding them as the ship sailed through another one of the cosmic clouds, on their way to the nearest filling stop before their stop for their next bounty. The space was everything she thought she was not. Vast, glowing, versatile, deadly and at the same time magnificent. It was too beautiful to miss even the smallest corner. Too stunning to miss breathing it in instead of the commotion going by in the ship somewhere.

“You seem well.”

Now there is something she would have never missed for anything in the world had she not been helping her insane father annihilate the universe. By the mere tones, she could remember every last breath she shared with him when they were working together. Rather, when she was supposedly working him.

“Compared to the last time-”

“I’m not that person anymore,” Nebula quipped too quickly, turning her head to find Loki standing right next to her. Right in her space. And her insides surprisingly seemed fine with it.

“Of course,” Loki agreed and Nebula couldn’t help but notice the warm glow the nearest star left on the frost giant’s face when he wasn’t brooding. Slowly, bits of their time together were coming back to her. The day they were having a duel to measure each other’s strength. More like the day they were looking for ways to break the other in any way they could find.

“You look-” she stopped to give him a once over before giving that blink-and-you-miss tilt of her head- “battered.”

Loki chuckled. She hadn’t changed much. Something Loki was happy to find out. Just like that day when he overpowered her on the battlefield, making her raging cries come out at him with no restraints. He never truly liked how she had been broken by her excuse of a father; he knew about that experience all too well. But he liked the fact that she could never be undone by any enemy she faced.

Until that fateful night after the fruitful battle.

“I was supposedly killed by your-by Thanos.”

Nebula felt her head swing at her with the same intensity as that star in front of them. He could still see the same sharpness in her dark eyes as he did that day when he had taken her by her arms and pushed her into the wall, leaning in closer to her lips till she had realised what had really been going on.

“But one moment I was floating and waiting for death to take me to Hel and the very next I was…”

There it was again. Nebula knew this look. That look in Loki’s eyes when his pupils dilated just right amount on him encountering the unknown and- unlike his usual way of keeping his guard up- loving every single bit of it. That was the look she had received when she had pushed him over the tousled sheets and got on top of him.

“Being saved,” she finished the emotions he seemed to be floating in at that moment.

Loki looked at her and for a second there she hated that tender look from him.

“And then your sister tells me you have all lived near about five years before you reversed it all.”

“Stark did,” Nebula was quick to mention, never missing that slight surprise in those green eyes before it is quickly mixed with wonder and just a swig of contentment. But just as soon as those shades arrive, they run away, making a place for a morbid concern.

“Is...is he…”

She blinked at him before slowly turning back to watch the star.

Loki felt a strange hue emanating from Nebula. A whiff of this new feeling. Was that...was that love? For Stark? What had happened to her for her to empathise with a mortal, even though it was Stark himself? What had gone down while he had died and come back to life?

“We’ll be making jumps soon-” Nebula clears her throat, her body going rigid, readying itself as her arms went to her sides- “better find a corner to hide or a support to hold on to.”

And she left Loki to stand in the chromatic tones created by the light entering the windows, colouring him in all shades whilst he watched her disappear around the corner, leaving him with bittersweet memories of the past and a sour taste of present.

___

Time: 0600 hrs

Location: Austria

The clouds above the European country were a soft welcome for the Wakandan heli-carrier. The first sun rays bounced off them with the softest of glow, entering the heli-carrier and putting a smile on the pilot’s face as she took the world outside Wakanda in for the first time.

“Aneka, my sister ” a voice called from the holographic image beside the controls in front of her.

“General,” Aneka greeted Okoye with her arms crossed against her chest. Okoye returned the greeting.

“Have there been any developments since you left Wakanda?”

Aneka transferred Okoye to the table in the middle of the control room where a document titled Yuri Chekhov lay. She tapped it open for Okoye to see.

“Yuri Chekov’s location has been narrowed down. He was seen visiting the local University last night and spotted in the city early this morning. But no one else from his contacts or dealers have been sighted with him. Should I bring him in, nonetheless, General?

Okoye looked at Aneka, her face stoic ever.

“No, Aneka. You are in no way to sway from the orders you have been given. You are aiding the Avenger in her mission at the request of your king. Nothing more. You are to stick to gathering intel on the human trafficking activities of his dealer.”

Okoye’s expression did not falter for even a second. 

Ever the composed one , Aneka thought. No wonder she was chosen as our General. 

“Yes, General. For the king.”

“Now, where is the Avenger?”

Aneka let in a huge chunk of air before getting it out of her flared nostrils. “She went into the Ingcambu chamber three hours ago.”

Okoye took her eyes away from the screen, looking at something far beyond the halls she stood in right now. The movement in her shoulders told Aneka there was something her General was considering quite seriously. It was best she wasn’t bothered by her thoughts.

“Update me when you land,” she finally spoke, “ If things get too ugly, you will have reinforcement on speed dial in the Avenger’s K-13 model.”

Aneka nodded as she opened a slot under the table to produce a matte black box with the symbol of the Black Panther in the centre.

“Let us pray you do not ever need it.”

.

Just a full-length corridor away from where Aneka watched the golden clouds, stood a vibranium door with a do not disturb sign. Inside the room, purple hues danced across the walls encrusted with laboratory-made vibranium crystals at measured lengths, the only source of light being the LEDs at the centre on the roof, covered intricately so that the light touched every crystal in the room before reaching the centre. The wall opposite the door had computers set up to measure vitals of anyone present in the room, the frequency of the crystals and a collection of songs from all over the world.

In the centre of the room, Natasha lay on what seemed like a spa bed, her breathing in control, her heart rate normal. The screen on the headrest read her brain waves, picking on a certain periodic rhythm almost in sync with the orchestra playing on the speakers around her.

The rhythm was that of her smooth movements across the wooden floor inside her head, recalling the graceful movements of her ballet lessons. She could see herself in the mirrored wall of the studio. Her long red hair neatly tied up in a bun with a white ribbon. Her porcelain figure clad in black till her toes. Her eyes did not leave her reflection’s even as the rest of her body kept in sync with her old routine. After she was done, her hands, with a mind of their own, went to her old wound on her abdomen. Her eyes finally broke away from the mirror on finding nothing but smooth skin where the scar once was.

“Natalia! chto ty delayesh ?” a high pitched stone-cold voice pierced through the room, making her flinch and turn without wasting another second.

A grey-haired woman, with silver piercing diamonds for eyes, stood at the other end of the room. Her tall figure stood there, staring the life out of Natasha, with her arms crossed across her chest.

Suddenly, Natasha could smell the perfume around her. It was so delicate yet sharp that if the perfume had a physical form, it could pierce through the heart of any man within a matter of seconds and they still wouldn’t know what happened. 

“Madam Elena.”

She was surprised at hearing her voice tremble slightly as she bowed her head and stood with her hands holding each other in front of her.

She did not look up in the direction of the old lady even when she tried. An unseen force stopped her from doing so. Facedown, chest out, back straight - she kept reminding herself. A few seconds later, she heard heels click on the floor, drawing closer with every passing second.

“What did I tell you about losing your focus, Alianovna?”

Natalia could feel the throb in her veins pick speed at the sound of Madam Elena’s voice. The Russian accent as crisp and cold on her tongue as the first winter she was made to stand out in. Naked, Natalia could feel the room get chillier than it already was.

“That losing my focus and purpose would be the death of me, Madam Elena.”

“Not only you, witch .” another familiar voice called out from behind her. With the voice came a stench of gasoline and fire burning away dead bodies.

“Stefan! ” Natalia hissed through her teeth as she saw a shadow in the mirror.

“You were the death of all of us.” Stefan hissed as everything around his figure in the mirror started burning up.

Natalia backed away from the mirror, her shoulders finding their composure, her breath and her heart finding their steady rhythm as she looked down at the burning shadow of her old comrade.

“No. I was not,” she could not stop the tremble of her words, her eyes moistening up, her breath running wild, “It was your choice to choose death. You all had it coming for you.”

She looked at the mirror that, now, reflected only her own figure standing between the fire when suddenly Madam Elena’s face came out of the darkness and into the light of the flames, half of it burned to a crisp, her silver eyes still intact but carrying a menacing stare as they pierced through the reflection to Natalia’s gaze.

“So do you.”

 Natasha’s eyes opened wide as her body jerked her awake.

She was back in the vibranium chamber. Her eyes tried to focus on things around her, taking everything in, noticing a chill around her chest. Her hands realised she was sweating. So had the monitors connected to the air conditioning around her. She got up, putting all her long fiery strands back in their place. She picked up her white blouse from the table harbouring the monitors and put it on. The black leather jacket went above the blouse effortlessly. Everything was done like one smooth wave rushing over to the tips of the beach, not breaking for even a second.

Aneka saw Natasha Romanoff came out of the Ingcambu chamber looking more poised than she had when she went in. Whatever doubts the member of the Dora Milage had about this redhead disappeared as she saw her stand in the control room, taking updates from her as well as two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who had accompanied them. 

The heli-carrier descended on a private airport strip near a forest just as the screens pinged with the recent location where Yuri Chekov was spotted ten minutes ago.

“Keiko, get the weapons. Brunn, bring out the lady,” Natasha said as the open end of the carrier welcomed them to a cold but colourful scenery.

Aneka too was dressed according to the weather in her red sweater, black jacket, black leggings and black boots. If she was carrying her spear, Natasha could not make out where she had hidden it.

Keiko came back running, carrying two huge bags supported on her hips. Aneka was surprised at the Asian’s muscle strength, something her cute face never gave away at any point in their journey. All she did was smile at the Wakandan throughout the trip to the point that Aneka wanted to make sure Fury had not sent some lost college student by accident.

Brunn, on the other hand, was a complete opposite. His tanned skin did not give away his roots while his silent demeanour did not give away his character. Aneka was just thankful she did not have to pass a smile every time she crossed paths with him.

“Wasn’t this a recon mission? What are the weapons for?” Aneka asked.

Natasha put on her gloves, still exposing her fingers to the sunny winter day. “They are not for me or you…or Chekov for that matter. They’re for Keiko and Brunn in case we make contact with Meldrake and have to perform a rescue for the people he trafficked here if he did.”

Aneka looked at how casually she spoke of the man and the people whose lives were in his palms. Her work may be similar to our Nakia , she thought, but she doesn’t carry the passion in her eyes as our sister does.

“Then what are you carrying to the battlefield?” Aneka asked the assassin.

Natasha looked at Aneka and a smile reached the latter’s eyes.

Brunn came out of the carrier gently carrying with him a bike- a Kawasaki Ninja, all in black, modified to some extent. Brunn was very careful with her, caressing her as he stopped beside his commanding officer.

“She has been equipped just like you asked, ma’am”, Brunn said as he brought forward the helmet that went with it.

She thanked Brunn as she took the helmet and balanced the lady in black by her side. “I’m carrying this to the battlefield,” she said after putting on the helmet and motioning her hands in an outward sway.

Aneka looked at the bike questionably before wondering if it actually was the bike she was referring to.

Natasha motioned at Keiko, who skipped towards them and slid behind her with the grace of a golden retriever trying to find a comfortable spot. Brunn brought out a set of keys from his pocket for the SUV that sat by the hanger, about twenty feet away from them.

“Shall we, ma’am?” Brunn asked, pointing towards the four-wheeler.

Aneka looked at Natasha, who gave her an affirming nod before drowning the silence around them with the roar of the engine. 

Aneka and Brunn followed behind, keeping their distance.

She is not a soldier, she is something else and then so much more, Aneka couldn’t help but think to herself. And the thought was not a comfortable one.