#i would have never believed i would outlive even ONE of one direction members

[danandphilcatboys]

(sorry peeps this isn't dnp related but) i am truly heartbroken about this 💔 one direction has been my rock for so much shit when i was a teenager. they've helped me through some of my darkest times struggling with my mental health due to so much shit happening to me and school and me realising i was gay with internalised homophobia – they have been with me through everything. through absolutely everything. it's truly truly devastating to have lost him. i don't condone the person he has become and the things he has done in the last couple years, but i truly miss the kid i grew up with when i was a teenager. rest in peace liam 🕊

i’m in true shock x

[thefrogdalorian]

Soon, I Will Be Back With You

Word Count: 1218 Rating:  Teen Summary:  Centuries after the last time he saw his buir, Grogu reflects on memories of the life they shared together until it ended in devastating circumstances. Content Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Funerals, grief, mourning. Death not describes in detail but very emotional. Hurt, no comfort. Author's Note: Today I was thinking about the reality that Grogu will probably outlive Din and how lone wolf and cub stories always end and this was the result. Pain. Sorry about this one... by far the saddest thing I've ever written.

❁ My Masterlist ❁ Read on AO3 ❁

It had been several centuries since the last time he had seen his father. But every time he closed his eyes, Grogu could still see his buir’s face as clearly as the day he lost him. Grogu remembered the small details; the wrinkle above his nose that deepened during times of stress, the patchy spots of his beard and his curly brown hair, which stuck up in all directions whenever he removed his helmet to reveal his face to his son. Most of all, he remembered pained brown eyes filled with tears as the understanding that only one of them would make it out of their latest predicament alive dawned upon him.

Grogu’s buir had not panicked when he realised the gravity of their situation. He had accepted his impending fate with all the grace and bravery of a true Mandalorian warrior. Once it was obvious that only one member of Clan Mudhorn would make it out alive, there was no doubt that he would prioritise Grogu’s life over his own. When Grogu’s buir had realised that his life was drawing to a close, he had spent the few seconds they had left together to make Grogu promise to be brave and to never forget what he had taught him.

Grogu had tried his best to honour that vow to be brave, but the truth was that he was terrified. He always thought they would have more time. Grogu believed that he would hold his buir's hand as he passed away of old age, his grey beard and moustache evidence of a long life, well-lived. It was difficult to believe that this was their ending, that anyone in the galaxy could get the better of his buir.

There was a time during the early period of their lives together, until Grogu was kidnapped by the Darktroopers on Tython, that he had believed that nothing would be able to harm him, as long as he had The Mandalorian by his side. After that moment, Grogu had realised that there were some threats in the galaxy that even his remarkable saviour could not overcome.

It had taken several years after that day on the Lightcruiser – when they had been saved only by the miraculous, timely arrival of the Jedi – for such threats to return and catch up to them, but eventually their luck had run out. 

If Grogu thought for too long about what the galaxy had lost that day, with his father's selfless act of sacrifice to ensure that his child would survive, he would find himself ruminating on whether things could have gone differently. Perhaps if his buir had at least given Grogu the chance to heal his wounds, instead of denying him that opportunity and sending him to safety, there could have been a possibility of him surviving. But Grogu knew that his buir would not want him to agonise over the decision he had taken to prioritise Grogu’s safety. After all, Grogu's buir had made him promise him to be brave. If there was one thing he had taught Grogu, it was to always be honourable and stay true to his word. So Grogu had promised him, with a small, shaky nod, that he would be brave, even as his brown eyes filled with tears as the little boy could sense what was about to happen. 

Grogu did not like to think of the day, nor to dwell on the exact circumstances of when his buir had left to become one with the Manda. He preferred to recall their happier times together. Even if reminiscing about those times brought an overwhelming wave of grief, too.

Grogu was reminded of him often. 

Sometimes it would be the faintest glint of sunlight hitting a patch of water that would bring back memories of the gleaming, unpainted beskar’gam that was worn by the man who represented the closest thing Grogu had ever had, in his centuries of life, to a real family. 

Despite the short amount of time that Grogu had spent with The Mandalorian relative to his enormous lifespan, those few years had shaped the person Grogu had grown up to be. He had given Grogu a life, a sense of belonging and a feeling of security that he had never felt in all the centuries since that horrendous day.

Even if Grogu had been able to speak to his buir, he would have struggled to find the words to convey his gratitude. The gift of speech had not come until several decades after Grogu had watched, nestled in the arms of another Mandalorian warrior, as his father’s body was placed on an elevated pyre and the kote ky’ram was performed. Grogu was too young to join in with the assembled Mandalorians as they shouted tales of his buir’s deeds to the sky and honoured him with war cries. All he had been able contribute was pained, unintelligble squeaks, the words he had longed to shout known only to his tiny mind.

By the time Grogu had been able to speak, it was too late. All the words that he had one day hoped to say to his buir, the love he wanted to share, the gratitude he wanted to express for raising his blaster to shoot the bounty droid rather than him on that fateful day on this very planet would remain forever unsaid. 

But Grogu knew that their bond went beyond words. He had never doubted for a single day that he had spent with his buir that The Mandalorian knew the depth of his love for him.

As he sat on a cliff overlooking the spot where there had once been a compound which Grogu had stayed, hidden away for many years until the day his buir had stormed in and rescued him, Grogu turned the metallic ball over in his wrinkled claw one last time.

It was amazing that it had retained its shine, despite the centuries that had passed. It was the last remaining link to his buir, to the ship that had been their first home together.

Now, Grogu was under no illusion that he did not have much time remaining. The centuries had taken their toll on his small body. Despite the fact that he now shuffled around with the aid of a cane and his eyesight was failing him, Grogu felt deep in his soul that this was the spot.

Grogu inhaled sharply in pain as he fell to the sand in an ungraceful manoeuvre. His joints were really too aged for such a movement. But he needed to do this, before he lost the ability to move entirely.

Grogu reached down and moved the sand with his wrinkled claws, now gnarled and prone to seizing-up due to his advanced age. Grogu made a hole just big enough to fit the precious relic inside. He brought the metallic sphere to his parched lips and kissed it, then placed it in the hole he had just created in the sand.

“Nusujii Ni Kelir cuyir norac ti gar,��� Grogu whispered in the tongue that his buir had begun to teach him all that time ago, his ailing eyes shimmering with tears as he knelt there in the sand. Then, he repeated the phrase in basic:

“Soon I will be back with you.”

[tarot-by-e11e]

Hello! May I participate in your mini "inner demon" game? My initials are MK. This might sound cliche, but a phoenix is what I feel nearly embodies my dark side. To be more specific, I totally can relate to the Dark Phoenix from the X-men series. I tend to care for a lot of people that I unintentionally bottle up a lot of emotions inside myself. At times, these pent-up emotions do get released, but it's always directed towards my family members. In other words, I believe I have a very strong mental capacity, but I still tend to hurt the ones I love. The Dark Phoenix is similar: a very powerful, uncontrollable being that causes destruction, whether that person is a loved one or not.

Hi MK,

Thank you so much for participating in my Inner Demons ask game.

Hey, there's nothing wrong with resonating with the Phoenix... I'm actually proud of you of being aware of your shadow aspects, so let's get to see how being a Phoenix would resonate with your reading.

So the cards I pulled are: King of Swords, Judgement, 5 of Swords

By any chance, are you the "head over heart" kind of person? If you can reason your way into making the situation make sense to you, it leaves you frustrated, stuck and spiral down? Ever been told that you don't know how to relax properly, or were told to just chill? Some might say that you're a bit uptight or rigid, or there would be others who said that your standards are a bit too unrealistically high?

My dear, your standards are not too much for those who are meant for you. So what your Inner Demons is usually perceived by others a rigidity, it's actually realistic practicality.

Now because of how you can calmly assess and move towards a difficult situations which uncharacteristic(for your age) calm level headedness, others might tease you for being too logical, which some with go as far to say that you have no emotions. That is far from the truth.

It isn't that you don't have emotions, it's that you know that given the situation, you need to think on your feet and get out of the mess as quickly as possible, so that you can immediately find a safe and quiet space to let your intense emotions let out of your system.

You might be the type that doesn't really like to cry in front of people. Or you're the type to view your display of emotions as weakness. It would be because people from the past might have intentionally preyed upon you in your lowest moments and used your own emotions against you. Which would make you feel ashamed for even letting anyone close enough to get to know you in your most vulnerable state.

My dear, you didn't deserve to be hurt by those cruel people. Granted, you showed kindness to those who didn't deserve it. It doesn't make you stupid for feeling betrayed. You simply chose to see the best in the worst people.

You have this hidden desire for hope, despite living such a harsh life. There might be a time during your younger years when you wished so badly that there would be someone to save you from this pain. You need to always remember: The adult you've become now is the adult you wished to have protect you as a child.

The situations and hard lessons you've endured, learned and conquered, made you into the adult you wished saved you in the past. Granted that you never wanted to even go through what you've barely survived from, I'm not here to invalidate your feelings or experiences.

You have every right to feel angry, lost, helpless, you're allowed to feel that you have had enough and are done with life. But here you are, warm blood coursing through your veins, with the same heart that's gone through hell and back, still beating strongly in your chest. You've outlived all the crap you thought would break you. And that's all thanks to your realistic practicality.

I know, if you could have avoided those pain, you would; but somewhere deep inside of you, is quietly grateful for the blessings and gifts that came after conquering this harsh situations.

Now I find it interesting that what you subconsciously desire/seek is an awakening, but in your case, it seems like you're searching for your purpose in life.

It might be that, even if you make enough to survive, you don't feel fulfilled in you life. Like there's this gaping hole in your chest that's begging to awaken the fire within. You don't want to just live comfortably enough and die; you want to make you life worth living. Your desire for meaningful and fulfilling life feels so grand, like being nothing and everything at the same time. It's both fascinating and overwhelmingly cosmic.

Now how you're suggested to go about this desire with the help of your realistic practicality is actually shadow work. Because it seems that you have a lot to unpack. You have a lot of unresolved traumas and wounds that you have long forgotten buried in the back of your mind. You've been so in the present, exhausted and burnt out in the responsibilities of life that you couldn't even muster the energy to listen to what your body and soul need.

Facing your shadows is one of the many ways to get closer to this desire. However, a step forward is to create a safe space where you can hold space for your emotions to be felt, validated, and understood. This could be going to therapy or incorporating shadow work into your daily destress self-care routine. It's really coming strongly that allocating a specific time every day to feel your feelings and hear yourself out is absolutely non-negotiable in your suggestions.

You are advised to be ferocious and protective of your peace and sanity. If someone comes up to you to ask for your assistance yet you don't even have the energy for yourself, politely turn them down and suggest they ask someone else. Never forget: What you tolerate teaches others how to treat you.

This concludes the end of your reading. Do let me know how this resonates with you. Feel free to show some support via my Buy Me A Coffee here (This reading is for entertainment purposes only.)

[ripgray-moved]

ok this question might be a lil wild and feel free to delete but how different do you think things would have gone if the order of who died changed? Like for example Annie died before the dad

this is an interesting question because i ultimately think the message of the movie— or at least the underlying themes and motifs?— would change entirely if the deaths were switched around.

bluntly put, if charlie wasn't the first to die, the movie would be a cliche. 'weird, probably evil kid does weird, probably evil things' again. like please. we've seen this a bajillion times; not that it can never be good, but hereditary is so good because it breaks a lot of horror molds / uses cliches in transformative ways ( for example, they use my beloathed bird-jumpscare— except SURPRISE, the bird is actually relevant because paimon lore, gotcha you punk). charlie is also the single character that this family unites over. though they're all stunted and can't talk to one another for shit, they all show aligned concern for charlie. if she isn't to die first, there's no sense of cohesion to this family's suffering whatsoever. it'd arguably be a very different movie in that, if annie died first as the direct descendant of ellen for example, peter might be battling a very different type of guilt, as i'm sure there's a part of him that'd honestly be relieved. that's a very different, much less sympathetic story.

if annie died before steve, the movie's name and central theme would make no sense. the reason steve appears so "normal" beside the other family members is because he is not, genetically, part of this bloodline. 'hereditary' as a title is talking about the inherited curse of paimon through ellen, yes, but it's also in reference to mental health and the cycle of abuse. if steve was to outlive annie, not only does the potency of paimon's ritual lose its edge ( steve is not even a necessary death; steve is used to destroy annie so that paimon can possess her. his death is an example of paimon's cruelty and his twisted sense of humour. the actual sacrifices of the ritual are ellen, annie and charlie ) but it recontextualises the end chase sequence entirely. it makes it tons more heartbreaking imo too, as peter and his dad do have some sort of positive connection, even if it's very strained. i think it would hurt him more to have his dad be the one in annie's position come the end of the film, strictly because he expects ithis degree of ire from his mother. i also feel like paimon might have had a tough time breaking steve to begin with. he very clearly thinks annie's lost her mind to grief, does not believe in this demon stuff. i think if she died before him, he might actually stand a chance of interfering with the ritual. maybe? not that he'd necessarily succeed, but the chance would go from 0 to like. 0.4 lmfao.

if steve was the first to die? looking away from the obvious problems i mentioned above ...uh. i genuinely believe this family's so fucked up that they'd go to his funeral, mourn obviously, and then just kind of. pretend it didn't happen when they're around one another. peter pretends the accident doesn't happen when it does. annie pretends she didn't threaten peter and charlie's life ( she acknowledges that it happened but doesn't treat it with the severity that it deserves ). charlie doesn't understand much of anything because of how stunted paimon's possession makes her.

tl;dr: i don't think much would change from a story perspective, strictly because, from the very first frame of the movie, the graham family are displayed as dolls as opposed to living people. implying that their fate is already decided. the game has been picked and paimon is simply moving his pieces in the necessary directions to see it all through. changing the order of things would just fuck up the story imo.

[deluluass]

misericordia

It's finally here T^T Here's to reaching 100+ followers! Thank you so much everyone!!

Content Warnings: rape/noncon; nsfw; somnophilia; description of dead bodies; includes some elements of cosmic horror; dystopian-ish au; biblical references/imagery; angel! Ushijima

To name is a barren tree: fruitless and, ultimately, the workings of this kind.

  The earth will soon be without form, and void; and darkness shall remain the face of the deep. 

  The Spirit of God no longer moves in the face of the waters. 

  Names are for nothing.

  But, for any cause done here, to name is essential. As it was in the beginning, when there was still a beginning (but it has not ended yet, so the beginning shall still stay), to name had been the first task.

  So when asked for a name, the mouth was able to conjure:

  “Ushijima Wakatoshi,” the body said. 

  And as it is the way of the Created, the body became he.

  And as it is the way of the Created, proof was immediately demanded for the name. 

  And as it is the way of the Created, once found on the chest, Ushijima Wakatoshi was then welcomed. 

  You weren’t there when the world ended. 

  In fact, so, too, was your father's father. The sky had cracked open and the oceans had already split up the old lands for as long as anyone could remember. 

  Before the city became a city in truth, the people had just been strangers, seeking shelter after everything fell apart, only to be abandoned by those who’d promised protection.

  That didn't mean, however, that things got better for your lot once someone swept in and established order and peace and stability and whatever it is those at the top had to say to justify them being there. 

  If your father were to be believed, you had been sleeping in your mother’s womb, still a tiny beating heart, when the longest winter happened ("winter"; they still called it that when there had been minute differences between hot and cold).

  Supplies were short; food was scarce; so when you finally clawed your way into a world breathing its last, your mother couldn't help but bleed into the sheets until your cry outlived hers. 

  But your father barely recognized you  during his final days. That’s why when your neighbors call you a liar for saying “I was born on a Spring,” you shrug it off and think you might as well have been born on a Spring. 

  There’s no way of knowing. The story had always changed every time you asked him. 

  Sometimes he blamed you, sometimes he told you it’s not your fault. Nothing you could do about it. Spring it is, then; you told yourself. 

  Spring always looked so... different, in the drawings Granny made, anyway.

  No one here actually knows her age. Granny had always been Granny; as permanent to this place as the walls enclosing the city.

  She rarely left her quarters, that crone, and could barely stand on her own without your help. Worse, she could no longer see. What use is a blind artist, the others would laugh. 

  It’s their loss, you’d retort, mocking her like that. Because then they’d miss the way her gnarled and knobby hands would glide with unwavering purpose if you asked her to, strokes bold and not a space wasted.

  “You never learn,” she croaked once finished, jostling the wrinkled piece of paper to your lap. “Why throw away your rations for this piece of junk?”

  Granny retched, “Incurable fool.”

  At this point, she would grumble about suffering in the old pig’s (her words, not yours) kitchens for nothing, and always, without fail, you’d feel a smile break on your face. It hurt, honestly, but after an entire day of frowning over the dishes you had to wash and the floors that needed scrubbing and all the other orders yelled your way, it was worth it, anyway.

  “I know you’re laughing. My ears still work, mind you.”

  You felt your belly shake as you giggled, brushing the paper with worn fingers, staring open-mouthed at the piece before you.

  “This is amazing, Granny,” you sighed.

  “Idiot,” she repeated. “It’s the same thing as the one before. And the one before that.”

  And for good measure, Granny added, “Idiot. Not like you hadn’t seen that one.”

  When all you’d done was take her hand in yours and place a pack of food along with a thin roll of paper in her feeble grasp, Granny finally asked, “Why do you keep coming back here, girl? Asking for the same thing.”

  There wasn’t any of that surly frown now. 

  And looking at her like that, without the crabbiness that sharpens her features, that oddly makes her look younger and in control of herself, you find that you don’t have an answer this time. Arrested by the realization that her shoulders slumped lower than you’d thought. And that she’s getting thinner. 

  “Why?” you whispered back, feeling traces of charcoal stick to your palm.

  Maybe it’s because there’s no other way that she’d accept food, unless she does something in return. She kicked you out the first time you intended to give her the ration you’d earned.

  (Or maybe it's because you know what they'd do, once they find out she's no longer making trades.)

  Why, indeed. 

  Maybe it’s because you hadn’t really seen things grow before. 

  You might work at the Governor’s place, at the heart of the city and everything else that matters, but grunt workers like you are prohibited to get anywhere near the farm, let alone actually enter it. So, really, there's no other way of seeing what growth looks like.

  Maybe it’s because you can only do that when you witness her in her craft. You really don’t have anything to compare it with, but you’re sure life from soil works the same way. 

  Everything must come from something.  And that something must be quite the artist, if they're anything like Granny. 

  Birthing roots from the ground of what was once a blank piece of paper with a flick of the wrist; growing into large trunks, strong branches, then into an abundance of leaves and blossoms. 

  Trees drawn on both sides of the paper, always with a smattering of grass and flowers in the middle. She said they used to grow here, when she was just a girl. And if you begged hard enough, she’d add a stray butterfly fluttering around the corner. 

  You hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe I just love seeing you, Granny,” you grinned.

  “Crock of shit.”

  “Really!” You grabbed your knapsack as you stood from your seat, folding the paper with care. “Hey, Granny, guess what? Don’t give me that face— I’ve already saved just enough and you know what that means?”

  She snorted. 

  “Listen,” you pouted. “I’ll finally be able to get those pigments! I heard they don't cost that much and if I trade next-”

  “Don’t.”

  She tilted her head and faced your way, misty eyes pinning you. "How much does paper cost you?"

  You gulped. 

  Then, with a swiftness that surprised you, she grabbed you by your tattered sleeve and gritted, “I may be the blind one here, but I think I see a lot more clearly than you do. You can sweat and bleed for those pigments, but I will never paint.”

  You felt a sting in your eyes as she continued, “I know what you’re doing. And I’d be the greater fool if I let you work yourself to the bone for some pipe dream."

  "Content yourself with coal, girl. That’s all you’re gonna get from this place. Dirt and rust and smoke. Go sneak into that damned farm. Go steal some of those fuckers’ riches. In fact, while you’re at it,” she laughed dryly. “Steal them all and run away from here. If you really want to live.”

  “Only,” she said, too soft that you had to sit back down to hear her, “Only, stop hoping, my child.”

  Her chest wheezed as she breathed, like air passing through the holes of a rundown machine. 

  You kissed the back of her hand before you left. 

  The wind howled and threatened to topple you as you walked back to your building, hard rain slapping you across the face when you picked up into a run. They didn’t descend in small drops anymore. As you get older, thunderstorms are to be expected once evening falls, lingering for weeks only to suddenly bring about an irritatingly humid day. 

  But tonight, the large cavern above that parts the dark, heavy clouds into opposite streams seem to yawn wider, closing itself lower and lower into the earth that you swore someday it’ll devour the city whole.

  Mud water in your boots, you grabbed onto your soaked coat and climbed the steps of the decaying piece of slab you call home, mindful that you won’t slip and break your skull against the thick beams, twisted metal jutting out of the corners.

  A solitary lamp flickered through the window of the room next to yours. Little Soo-jin must be having nightmares again, you thought with a frown. 

  You were about to knock on their door when the sirens blared, echoing louder across the city than the boom of lightning, followed by a grating squeal that could only be an opening gate. 

  Your knuckle froze over the chipped wood.

  The last time the alarm rang, the people were greeted by the body of a young council member, brought by a small and wounded troop who’d accompanied him outside the city. 

  Soo-jin’s mom peered through the murky window, meeting your eyes after both of you stared into the direction of the gate closest to your zone, as if seeking you for an explanation. You only gave her a shrug.

  “Someone must have died,” you said.

    “No, he’s not dead. That’s why you’re bringing food to his room, aren’t you?”

  You stared at the girl stubbornly shaking her head. 

  “I- I know, but! Didn’t you hear? They said they found him full of bullet holes and I—”

  “Even if you’re serving a rotting corpse, as long as Cook orders it, you follow.”

  It was admirable that she’s refused for this long. If it were you, you’d have been sacked the moment you opened your mouth to say no. You wiped your hand with the towel next to the sink, having finished the work assigned to you, and watched the ongoing bout in the kitchen.

  “Why can’t you just ask the others? Marga’s not doing anything!”

  “Marga,” the older woman hissed, “is with the others. Almost everyone is in the meeting room. So if you don’t take your butt up there, I’m gonna have no other choice but to tell Cook.”

  You winced. This can’t be good.

  You cleared your throat. “I can do it,” you said.

  The tray was shoved to you faster than you can drop your raised hand. You would have found it amusing, considering that you’re sure they couldn’t even recognize you, but the idea of being in the same room with a half-alive man does make you feel uneasy. 

  Not that it’s anything new for you; you nursed your father until the fever took him, after all. You just haven’t lived long enough to get used to it yet. But you steeled yourself and did your job, because it’s not as if you had any choice. 

  You prepared yourself for anything as you entered one of the many guest chambers. Bullet holes, rotting corpse, entrails held together by stitches. 

  And when you announced your presence and gripped the tray tighter so as to not spill the soup on the sprawling carpet, it’s not really surprise that caused you to stumble upon your words when you saw the man sitting on the bed.

  It’s more of an embarrassment, of sorts. 

  You must’ve entered the wrong room, you thought. You immediately checked around  to make sure no one saw you talk and almost grovel to an actual sculpture. 

  Because that’s what he was. 

  The Governor’s estate houses floors and floors of rooms that you hadn't explored yet. But there was one that, if no one would bother to keep track of the workers, you had the habit of sneaking into. 

  Thinking about what it took for this family to have all those sculptures there hurt your head, so you stopped a long time ago. You chose, instead, to just admire the marble wonders in all their beauty, always looking back down at you with majesty and pride. 

  Just as he's doing right now. 

  Chiseled torso wrapped in bandages; sharp jaw that could cut; eyes the color of olives, gazing deep.

  "That is for me."

  You snapped your head down. 

  "Huh- uh, yes? Yes!" 

  His deep voice still rumbled through you. 

  "Yes, I'm sorry," you muttered, heat rushing to your face as you placed the tray on the table next to him, inflaming when you realized he didn't mean it as a question.

  That is for me. 

  Not a question. A question means you can answer. His words brooked no other response but obedience, reminding you of your place.

  Much like those sculptures, every time  you'd spent too much time inside the room and you'd get the feeling that you're not supposed to be there, too filthy to be anywhere near what you think is the closest thing to perfection. 

  And the truth would settle on you like a heavy weight: that no amount of beauty can ever breathe warmth if it cannot live and grow. 

  The same way that despite the sunshine filtering through the floor to ceiling windows, surrounding him in blinding light as he sat on the bed, you can't shake the impression that this is the coldest this room has ever been, with him here. 

  So you anticipated his orders; a single word or maybe a glance that would tell you he wants you gone. Just either one of those and you'd run out of this room in a heartbeat. 

  But neither came. The man (you still didn't know his name) remained silent, staring at the food like they've insulted him specifically, and now he's questioning the collective audacity of the soup, bread, and bowl of fruits laid before him. 

  Maybe they don't serve those where he came from. He's from the North, after all, made evident by the small eagle etched on his chest, just above a pectoral. The last visiting Northerner you served who also bore that mark threw a rag at you (she missed) for "mixing the bathing oils incorrectly."

  You stayed in your position and asked, "Is the food not to your liking?"

  He didn't say anything, but he did shift his attention to you.

  And what a mistake that was. How does this man go about life with such a severe presence?

  "Er..is something..wrong?" you sweated, suddenly fascinated by the vases behind him. 

  Glaring back at the food, he answered with a deep "no" and breathed out. His large arms rose and fell along with it, straining the bandages around the muscles.

  Oh, right. Right.

  You perked up. "Do you need help?"

  Stepping closer to the table, you gave him a tightlipped smile and a sheepish "excuse me" before taking the spoon in your hand. 

  You scooped a thick serving of soup, your palm hanging under it, and waited.

  And waited. 

  The man looked at you the same way he looked at the bowl of fruits earlier.

  "What are you doing?" he said,  gravel-voiced. 

  You're gonna lose this job.

  Why did you think you could feed him like he's an ailing, decrepit old man? Or a literal child? He's built like he commands an army (and he probably does).

  You are definitely gonna lose this job.

  "I- I'm sorry!" 

  You jerked away, your hip hitting the table, the impact shaking it and causing the plates and silverware to clatter against each other.

  "O-oh no, I'm-" The spoon in your hand fell as you attempted to set things properly, soup spilling to the carpet along with the utensils.

  You're gonna lose this job and you're gonna starve to death.

  "I'm sorry! I'm so so sorry!" 

  Dropping to your knee like your life depended on it, you picked up the myriad of similar looking spoons and forks and placed them back on the tray. 

  You kept your head downwards, bowing as you'd been repeatedly taught, and shut your eyes tightly. 

  "I thought that you hadn't healed yet and needed help and- and-" you huffed.

  "And I thought that I should feed you but- no-no!" You looked at him and flailed your hands in front of you. "No! I didn't mean feed- I meant- I meant no disrespect please forgive me!"

  Not a word was spoken in that second that spanned an entire year. But just as you'd accepted that the worst has come, he said:

  "Then, feed me."

  Wait.

  Wait, what?

  "I don't.. understand..?"

  "Then, feed me," was what he told you. And so matter-of-factly, at that. 

  So you did, desperate to keep the only thing keeping you alive. 

  Though your hand trembled and you wished to be anywhere but here— even the wasteland waiting outside the gates, with all its unimaginable threats, seemed like paradise —you took a loaf of bread from the basket and brought it closer to his mouth.

  Lines marred his forehead as he chewed. You were about to ask, self-destructive that you are, whether you should get the sweetened roll instead, thinking he found the one in your hand too bland. But you don't have the luxury to risk digging your grave any deeper. 

  You kept quiet and pointedly removed him from your line of sight, choosing to count the tassels hanging off the canopy instead.

  Once he's eaten all that's left of the pastries, you dipped your hand into the bowl of fruits and took a grape in-between your fingers and, as much as you can, you steadied your hand to avoid touching his lips.

  It didn't work. 

  You shuddered at the contact, curling your toes in your boots to avoid squirming. 

  This has got to be the weirdest day of your entire life.

  Not a hint of unease was shown. He continued to close his plump lips around the tip of your fingers and crushed the fruits with pointed canines, making the hair on your body stand on end. What if he bites you? Would you bleed?

  The man seemed to like them more than bread. A sense of urgency rose within you as he went through the berries and sliced mangoes like this is the first time he's had them.

  Can't say you blame him. The last time you ate something that resembled a fruit, a real fruit, was when Granny persuaded (coerced) a young boy in her complex to steal one from his employer. That boy has a child of his own now. 

  You felt your mouth water, your stomach growl and command that you take the bowl from him and shovel its contents to your mouth, as you watched him devour the sweet and tangy meat, the smell of it sickening as it is strangely compelling.

  He raised his head and met your eyes.

  Shit. 

  The apples, you thought as you looked back down to the tray. They're the only ones left soaking in the bowl, those apples. After this you'd be out of this stuffy room and you'd laugh about this later with Soo-jin and her mom and Granny too if she's not cranky.

  You could still feel him staring at you as you fed him a slice, the apple crisp when he took a bite. 

  Juice trickled down your hand, the sticky extract tickling your arm as it slid to the crook of your elbow, and you were about to wipe it with your other hand, when you felt a wet tongue probe the gap between your fingers.

  You gasped. "Sir..!" 

  You stepped away. Tried to, anyway, but with a firm hand, a hand that's not injured, after all, he gripped your wrist and continued to suck a digit. 

  "This is- sir!" struggling out of his hold, you pleaded with him to let go, please sir let me go, even as he only looked at you, his eyes dimming when he grabbed your waist to bring you closer. 

  He licked your hand, lapping at the trail the juice left behind, and when you thought he would release you, he took your hand to pluck another slice from the bowl. 

  Your legs gave up beneath you, forcing you to sit on his stretched lap, his hard body scorching you through the sheets, as he ate the apple from your palm, slurping the leftovers dripping from it. 

  "Don't cry," Granny told you once.

  "Especially when you feel like crying," she said. "Don't cry."

  You'd never really been good at listening, but now, you decided to suck in your breath and keep those tears at bay. You can cry and laugh about all this later.

  Because you might be jobless after this, but you will certainly have a damn good story to tell over the fire once you finished kneeing him in the nuts.

  So: one.

  Breathe.

  His teeth scraped your soaked hand.

  Two.

  You rested your hand on his shoulder.

  Three.

  You braced your leg, moving it between his thick thighs, and then, as you clutched his bandages, you—

  "Ushijima-sama."

  The door swung open.

  "Pardon the intrusion, but the Council members requested-”

  It was Secretary Hara.

  “Oh."

  Secretary Hara: a lanky, dark haired man with glasses who's always at the Governor's beck and call. He was here, carrying a small stack of papers, and gaping at the scene before him.

  You and the esteemed guest. Who's still suckling at your skin. On the bed. 

  He grinned, full of humor and disgusting. “Well,” he said. 

  At least you weren't crying.

  A question, shared only by the Heavens, began when the Lord fashioned the flesh out of the dust of the ground and said,"You are made in My image and likeness."

  It was not their way, before that: to question. (One of them did, once, but that is a different story). 

  They have no need for questions.

  They hold the highest seat, below only to the Creator, unencumbered by the trappings of the earth.

  They have no need for questions.

  So it remained unasked, lingering in fragments in the House of the Lord.

  The question comes to him now.

  For the flesh is a cage. It is ephemeral and prone to decay.

  It is fitting for this kind to have it, with all their qualities bound to the material world.

  You are the very epitome of these.

  Graceless. Stumbling like a newborn foal. Too many apologies. Too many questions.

  God is not here, he thinks as you insist on asking what does not matter.

  “Is the food not to your liking?” and “Is something wrong?” and “Do you need help?”

  Indecisive, too. Reneging on your promises. You said you’d feed him and then you said you wouldn’t.

  Ushijima Wakatoshi is a mere flesh, locking inside divinity your kind would never understand. Yet he felt its tedious demands gnaw at him when he saw you. Something so impermanent should have no right for constant sustenance. 

  But he knows, just for this time, that he needs it. That’s why he tells you to feed him, as you said you would. After all, it is your way to serve. And, for all your many inadequacies, God has granted you bread and water and fruit to sate your appetites. 

  Thus, for as long as he is flesh, he will do as it tells him to. 

  When it urged for the taste of fruit, for the cloying sweetness of its juice, it is only right that he heeded its call and had his fill. 

  How dare you object. His light is brighter than yours; God has granted it so (and yet you were given the will that they never had). And even in flesh you are beneath him. You are easily held and defeated.

  The ache in his belly did not cease, each gulp he took heightening his senses, shouting for more, more, more as he took you with his tongue. And he realizes that this is what the first of your kind may have felt like when they disobeyed. The first act of betrayal.

  (For what is the wrath of God to the cries of the flesh?)

  And with that, Ushijima Wakatoshi finds, since donning this useless flesh, that it is not at all easy to gratify. 

  Not in the least.

    There are so many rules in this mansion that even Cook’s effort to batter them on your head could sometimes be futile, given that their number is just as big as this place. But, there is one, among all the convoluted and at times nonsensical decrees, that you are not allowed to forget: 

  Unless you’re among the core staff, you can never enter the East Wing. 

  The East Wing is where all the important things happen, see. It goes without saying that someone as lowly as you cannot pollute that hallowed ground.

  Today seems to be an exception.

  When Cook barked that Secretary Hara wanted you in the East Wing first thing in the morning, you had a feeling that you just might not live to see the next day.

  You didn't speak unless spoken to. You didn't look unless told to. The things you should've done much earlier.

  "How are you liking the work here so far?" 

  Secretary Hara pushed the pen to the side and leaned back against the leather swivel chair. 

  "It's a job," you mumbled, to which he only replied with a breathless chuckle. You didn't see the point in bootlicking any further. Besides, Granny hated that the most; so you avoided doing it as much as you can.

  There's only one conclusion for you here, anyway. No matter how severe the punishment. And it's back in your room, with a uniform that needs sewing for a job that you no longer have.

  He tapped his fingers against the lacquered table. "You're right," he said. "Work is work. Despite your place in this society."

  You wanted to roll your eyes. Secretary Hara has never been any of the workers' favorites (not that any of you had your "favorites," but if you could, you avoided this guy). He had this astonishing effect, too, in which he can actually bring people together. All because everyone hated him.

  He's a slimeball, is what he is. If one needed lessons in kissing ass, he was your man. 

  "Do you know why you're here?"

  You're getting fired. End of story. Now can I please just go? is what you want to say. But losing your job doesn't usually take this much time and attention. Normally, it was Cook who'd grunt "You're out" and that was it.

  So you shake your head.

  "I'm promoting you," he said. "Congratulations."

  Somewhere, beneath that condescending smile of his, is a punchline that you're sure he's deliberately keeping from you. Just so he can be the only one who gets to laugh.

  "I-" You balled your hand to a fist. "Why?"

  He scoffed. "What are they teaching you in that rathole? Honestly."

  They taught me not to be rude to people I don't know, you little bitch.

  "Drop the coy act, it's okay," he sneered. "It's cheap and it won't work on me."

  Oh, now you really want to get fired. If only to kick his teeth in. "That man," Secretary Hara continued. "Ushijima Wakatoshi. You were all over him and you seriously don't know who he is?"

  You gritted. "Secretary Hara, what happened- it wasn't- I didn't want it."

  But he only gave you that look. As if to say, "Sure. Let's go with that." When it'd pass and the need to pummel him became stronger, he stood up and stepped towards the tapestry draped against the wall.

  It was a map, the city a pinprick on the corner. Secretary Hara faced it, dusting the spotless surface, his back to you.

  "Ever wonder what keeps us here?" he started, hand still on the map. "This city of ours?"

  "The," you licked your lips. Where was he going with this? "The river..?"

  Secretary Hara clapped his hands, his voice lilting like he's talking to a toddler as he said, "That's right. That's good. Excellent."

  "So you do know some things, after all." His fingers crawled towards the long line of blue stitched beside the city. "And do you wonder what would happen if, say, that river begins to dry?"

  You felt your eyes widen. You covered your mouth with a palm. 

  You're not supposed to know this. Why is he telling you this?

  He scratched the thick clump of blue thread and continued, "These great cities. They have their energy; their military." 

  Your eyes followed his hand, moving farther and farther away from the pallid brown surrounding your city, towards the bright yellow West, stopping at the bright green East. "Some of them are blessed enough to not be surrounded by a literal desert."

  Then, with a careful hand, he moved to the very top and said, "And the North…the North has it all."

  The North was a sprawling, intricate web of threads, eating away the entire tapestry. 

  "The Ushijima clan rules the North. Much longer than this city has existed. And they’re so engrossed in their wars that they’d never glance our way if we don't give them at least half of what we make,” he spat. “These great people haven’t had contact with us in years."

  Secretary Hara finally turned around, grin still in place. "But now one of them owes his life to us." He walked back to his desk, sitting on its edge. "Perhaps the heavens sent him here."

  When you remained silent and looked at him with eyes that you wished had the ability to kill, because you know now what they wanted from you, Secretary Hara only shrugged.

  "He asked for your name, actually," he said, tilting his head. "Lucky you. He didn't bother to learn ours."

  You stood your ground. "No, sir," you said. "I won't."

  He pulled a thin piece of paper from a pile sitting next to him. "You're not gonna do much," he said as he began to read. "Just show him around the city. Be his friend."

  Friend. 

  "But I- No. I can't." You stepped forward. "Please." 

  He looked away from the paper. "Zone 42. Room 0312."

  "What.."

  "Granny," he said. "That's what you call her, isn't it?"

  No.

  "They say that for a blind old lady she's still somehow miraculously trading to keep a roof over her head."

  Phantom touches crept to your arm, slick and nauseating like cold sweat.

  "You must take it from her. Though you're not related," he said.  "Apparently, you're so hardworking, you even work the night shift. When you don't have to."

  You released a shaky breath. "I'll..I'll start," you croaked. "I'll start right away, sir." 

  Secretary Hara folded his arms, victory plastered all over his gaunt face.

  "Thank you," he chimed. "I'm glad you understand. It's for your own good too, y'know." 

  The uniform they gave you chafed against your skin. Tugging at the sleeves did not help, the pristine fabric too coarse and stiff to budge. Your only comfort was the folded paper hidden in your pocket, fading at the edges every time you touched it.

  You have to admit, however, that you did look...well, you did look clean. Not as much as him, though. And not just in the sense that he's out of the bandages now. Last you checked, and that had been a few minutes ago, he was still sporting a couple of scars on his forehead.

  Despite that, you don't have to look behind you to know what's captured the people's attention as you strolled the capital. Or, who, to be exact.

  Some were outright ogling; some happened to glance once and then immediately looked away with a blush; some made the laudable effort to not look. 

  A mirror of what you're doing right now. 

  They gilded him with gold, which is a redundancy if you ever see one. He was wearing the most expensive pigment, something that only the Governor's family could own: a deep violet tunic emblazoned with golden vines, swirling from the middle to the collar; paired with dress pants that you could probably trade for a whole month's worth of food. 

  You kept your distance as you walked in front of him. "Just show him around the city," was what Secretary Hara told you. That didn't mean you had to talk.

  And it's not as if he had any complaints, either. He followed you through the rows of glass houses that adorned Governor's lane, not a word spoken about the sights. 

  Even when you'd attempted to speed through the dizzying streets, he kept his pace, long legs allowing him to stride close to you. By time you'd reached the plaza, you were already out of breath and in need of rest. 

  But you didn’t. 

  You remained standing a few feet away from him, the paper in your hand opened to reveal those great trees and thriving field, as he sat under the gazebo overlooking the square; a place reserved only for council members. 

  The smell of the sweetmeats and oranges in front of him reached your nose (Secretary Hara has a cruel sense of humor, you belatedly realized, when you were handed a bag of food that had a note saying “treat him well”). You fought the itch to cast out what little you’ve had for breakfast.

  Children were playing around the sandbox, the staff of whatever family they belonged to guarding them. In a way, their job wasn’t that different from what you have now. 

  Except, it’s not a child you were threatened to accompany. With the feeling of his gaze burning your nape, it seems like you’re not the one doing the guarding as well. 

  And you didn’t feel every bit like the adult you are when he called your name.

  You felt frighteningly small, as you yielded with a pathetic, “Ushijima-sama.”

  He only looked at you. Those green eyes telling you exactly what he wanted. 

  People are watching. You can’t mess this up.

  “Sir,” you said, hand still in your pocket, that frayed paper your anchor. “It is improper.”

  Irritation swept through him, his sharp features harsher when dissatisfied. But you can’t give up, even though it’s sending a chill down your spine and he seems like he’s about to throttle in broad daylight. (And he doesn’t have to do much, you know. He can crush you with one hand.)

  “Why- why are you here?” you hissed. “R-really?”

  You don’t shut your trap when you have to, girl. That’s your problem.

  “Because- because I’m not gonna be your..thing.” The paper was dampening in your grip. “While you do whatever it is you do, Ushijima,” you huffed. “...sama”

  Ushijima did not blink, his stare unwavering as he turned towards the small crowd strolling below. There’s a part of you that wishes to put yourself in his place, like a king on his throne. What does the view look like from up there? Are the people beneath just multicolored ants moving from afar? 

  “A few of my kind have suddenly sided with yours,” he said. Then, briefly returning his gaze to you, “I had to see what draws them here.” 

  He linked his fingers together. “Before I do what must be done.”

  You stifled a chortle. “Do what must be done” your ass. Does that include harassing people, too? “God only knows,” you whispered.

  “You believe in God.”

  You were the subject of his relentless attention again. You groaned, averting your eyes to a small girl, probably around Soo-jin’s age, who plopped down to create a heap of sand, much to the consternation of her nanny. 

  “No,” you replied in a thin voice. 

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Where is this question coming from? “Always seemed like a lot of work,” you said. 

  The little girl was making a castle. It’s apparent to you now that she has little pail by her side, shovel in her grubby hand. The frill of her dress caught most of the sand as she stacked them atop each other.

  “And I’m pretty sure God has more fun things to do than worry about me,” you added, just because.

  The castle reached her knees when the girl stood up. 

  "God has left," Ushijima said. "A long time ago."

  And then she kicked it. The thing crumbled to a mound, the breeze scattering it back to the sand. 

  You did chuckle this time. The Northerners sure are strange. "Really? Where’d God go?" you hummed, looking up to the sky.

  The sun was blanketed by waves of clouds, as usual. "Somewhere nicer, I hope," you sighed. 

  You closed your eyes and thought of that nicer place. It would have to be far, far away from here. Maybe it would even have those trees that Granny loved.

  "Cherry trees."

  You opened your eyes and gawked at him. 

  He was still gazing at you. 

  "You are attached to it," he told you, like it's nothing; like your heart's not wreaking havoc against your ribs with each word he utters. "On that paper."

  Pulling it out of your pocket, you stumbled to him and unfolded it for him to see. "You-  you know what this is? A 'cherry tree.' That’s what you call it?"

  "Yes." Ushijima's eyes did not leave yours. "That is the name you people have bestowed upon them."

  "Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"

  You didn't let him answer that because, just like the fool that Granny accused you to be, you took his hand in your trembling one and laughed, somehow managing to drag him out of the gazebo.

  It took a while before you finally let go.

  Much has changed along the way, he felt this as the air grew hotter; the sound of bustling people louder and less constrained with inutile mortal etiquette. You seemed less wary of him here. 

  The hand that held his tightly was still brushing against him, as you talked incessantly about the pieces of paper plastered across the wall. They all looked the same, yellowed and infested with mold at the edges, but you insisted otherwise.

  “See here?” You pointed to the one on the bottom. “Granny drew the leaves differently. They look like flowers don’t they? They are, aren’t they? I knew it! So they are flowers.” 

  There was a cot in the corner of the room. He sees you there in slumber, surrounded by rocks and scraps of metal and bits of gemstones held together by strings, each strand hanging on the crevices of the roof, gleaming every time they move. 

  You tapped his arm repeatedly. “Oh, oh. I put these two beside each other. Notice that the shades are different? This one is lighter while this one has more shadows to it.”

  "Do you get it now?" you asked him, expectant. 

  Humans are baffling creatures, Wakatoshi thought. Because when he said nothing, you only laughed (you seem to like doing that) and told him to “follow me; hurry.” You didn’t hold his hand this time (you should’ve, he preferred it when you did).

  “My bad. I hadn’t shown you yet,” you huffed as you grabbed a rag and set aside buckets of rainwater that obstructed his path. 

  Behind a curtain of sackcloth and ashes, draped at the furthest side of the wall, was a crack big enough to let a person through, corroding steel bars protruding along the broken concrete. 

  Wakatoshi ducked to enter the room next to yours. It was hollow, save for bits of gravel and a window obscured by dust. You paced to it then wiped the thick glass with the rag you brought with you.

  “That hill is always there in Granny’s drawings,” you said, taking the paper in your pocket and setting it parallel to the scene revealed by the window. 

  Your smile was wide, as if you were admiring a land lush with vegetation, or wildflowers at least. When it was far from that. It was a vast desolation, beyond the gates and the brown earth fractured. But, just as you said, there is a solitary hill sitting along the horizon.

  “Those trees- cherry trees,” you started, face radiating with mirth. “It’s the same but.. different each time.” Your breathless laugh makes him feel just as winded. “How is that even possible?”

  “I know they can’t be just...green.” A finger traced the outline of the leaves. “Because these are real and they actually grow and- and they change.” And, as if it’s a secret, “Unlike the ones at the capital.”.

  “If only Granny would paint them for me,” you whispered, the smile on those lips waning. 

  Wakatoshi couldn’t stand it. So, he grunted, “You are wrong. This one is green.”

  He took the paper from your hand. “They only change colors once they bloom. White, first. Then, pink.” 

  This knowledge is trivial; if it can be considered knowledge at all. It is a speck in the infinite matters that simply exist— have existed, in this world. Yet such a thing has put that look in your eyes. 

  Perhaps it is not inconsequential at all.

  “Pink?” you breathed, grinning incredulously at him. 

  You turned away and closed your eyes, your voice cracking as you murmured, “I see.”

  There's a blood pumping organ within his chest. A vital piece that keeps you humans alive. It beats constantly, never ceasing. If it does then it means you are dead. He is flesh, for now; it follows that if it halts, then he is fodder for the earth.

  How is it, then, that he is still here? He’s sure he felt it stop, the air knocked out of his lungs, as you looked back at him, eyes welling with tears when you said, “Thank you.”

  Thank you, you told him, smiling.

  Ah. 

  Wakatoshi gets it now.

  This is what God must have seen, when your kind looked up and sang, “I love you, my God; I love you; I love you.” And when you knelt and dared to turn those eyes for others that are not God, he suddenly understands why they were ordered to rain fire and brimstone upon your great kingdoms. 

  Because he, too, would smite anything, burn it to the ground and salt what is left, if it would so much as receive a whit of your sweet, soft words. 

  “They used to grow here,” you sniveled. “Granny said so.”

  “And I thought, maybe if Granny added a bit more color- maybe they'd feel more…I don't know..real..?” Laughter rings in his ears once again, pealing like bells. “Yeah..They'd feel more real...Though, she did get mad at me,” you winced.

  “I just thought,” you sighed, your shoulders touching him. “Wouldn't it be nice if I can wake up one day and find them growing again? Right here.”

  God created a garden for your kind once. It is gone now, but Wakatoshi wonders what you’d say, how you’d look at him, if he shows it to you. Your head against the grass, fingers laced with the lilies of the field, the taste of fruit on your lips, your thighs dripping with honey and dew—

  Wakatoshi felt his loins stir, but he didn't say anything, except, “The soil here is poisoned.”

  You snapped towards him, brows drawn together. “I know,” you said.

  “A sapling cannot grow on this wasteland.” 

  “Yes, I’m not stupid.”

  “That could have been any hill.”

  “I know.”

  His throat is parched; his hands a pair of useless things. He can hold galaxies in them, sink ships and level seas by the order of God had this body not trapped him. (He can free himself, but then you’d die). Now he doesn’t even know what to do with them as he rushes out a hoarse, “I have upset you.”

  He refused to let you take the paper from him. You didn’t seem to mind.

  “No,” you sighed. “No, of course not. Forgive me, Ushijima-sama.”

  You bowed again. An act of servitude.

  “Please, let me escort you back to the capital.”

  He does not understand. He only told you the truth. 

  But you turned your back to him and the light in your eyes has gone and he wants to chase it back the same way he wanted to run after God when the parting happened, leaving the Heavens mourning until their wails split the firmament open. 

  Wakatoshi yearns to have you closer. He yearns for that smile and laughter back on your face. 

  Wakatoshi yearns. 

  But, that cannot be. 

  After all, that is just much too human, is it not?

    The rain drenched Wakatoshi to the bone, droplets falling from his lashes to his cheeks, when he walked through the nighttime storm.

  He didn't bother to dry himself. 

  After he'd reached your room and shoved the door open, the clap of thunder covering the noise, Wakatoshi decided to undress himself, shedding all articles of clothing until he was naked as the day God created your kind.

  Wakatoshi felt the chill bite his skin. But that had nothing on the way you easily dismissed him earlier, by the time you'd reached the abode of this city's leader. 

  You left him and he could no longer see your face and yet that fierce longing in his chest stayed, creeping to every part of him, making a home in his belly.

  Until he recognized the feeling for what it was.

  Hunger. 

  Hunger, he could fathom. And when one feels it gnaw at one's flesh, what does one do, but eat?

  You were sleeping on the cot, just as he'd imagined you to be. It's enough to keep him warm: the sight of you, at peace under the glimmer of the trinkets dancing above as a lamp burned lowly. 

  The mattress sank under his weight when he sat next to you. His much larger hand took yours, locking your fingers together to rest his cheek against it, bringing it beneath his nose, and feeling his heart race as he breathed in your scent. 

  He remembers the first time he did this so vividly. You tasted like apples and sin; and though there's none of that now, his mouth still waters as he savors your skin, his tongue traveling to your arm, just as he did then, leaving bites along the way.

  You barely stirred when he lifted your shirt to reveal your tits, the sheen of sweat along the valley forcing a growl out of him.

  Do you feel it, too? When you drag him further down to earth, debasing him and bringing him so low that now he is nothing but a hungry flesh and a mouth made of obscenities. 

  "Fuck," he grunts, as he took his cock, heavy and hard to touch, and rubbed the head with his fingers.

  Perhaps he is lower than human now. Perhaps it does not matter. What is God to this hunger, anyway?

  (This hunger is bigger than God.)

  The cot was pitifully small as he straddled over your chest, breathing still shallow, and spat on his hand before wrapping it around the thick shaft. The tip of his cock touched your nipple as he fondled with the other one, thumb and forefinger pinching and pulling until you let out a tiny mewl.

  Hearing it had him falling to his knees. 

  Wakatoshi moved off the cot to kneel on the floor, the better to suckle on your tits, to lick and nibble on the skin below it, on your stomach, until he's seeing red and ripping your loose pants down to your thighs.

  He pumped his cock harder as he caressed the folds of your cunt. You groaned, arching your back and offering yourself to his mouth, when he started to lap on your clit, sticky liquid coating the swollen bud as he swirled his tongue to  spread the juices dripping from your hole.

  Your entire body was singing for him, even when all you'd managed were squirms and muted whimpers. He felt your skin twitch beneath his lips, as he cupped his balls and drove his hand faster around his throbbing cock, gripping his fist tighter.  

  Oh, he sees you on that garden, clinging onto him as he drives himself into you, pounding your cunt as you beg please, just as you did before, please, please, fuck me harder I am yours I am all yours.

  But, for now, he settles himself with the violent shudders of your body, flooding his mouth with cream, as he releases his seed on his palm. 

  Wakatoshi rubbed it against your leaking cunt, quivering still in his hand. 

  There is something that must be finished, first, before he takes you, in truth. He cannot have you conscious (for now.)

  He covered you back in your clothes, after. Then, Wakatoshi lingered on your face.

  "Fearfully and wonderfully made," he whispered, a mere guttural sound amidst the rain pouring outside. 

  Here lies salvation, he thought, as his fingers brushed your closed eyes. 

  And here, Wakatoshi thought as he brought his lips down to kiss you, here lies damnation. 

  He wiped his blood on the doorposts and lintel before he left.

    You woke up to silence.

  Your nether regions ached and, really, the temptation to not go to work today was insanely strong. But the sun was already bleeding through the window and there's a heavy feeling on your chest.

  And like wearing a shirt on backwards, you immediately knew that something was not right. 

  The sound of the door slamming open echoed through the building as you ran outside. 

  There was nothing. 

  Not the sound of people going about their day nor of children risking the wrath of their mothers with their games. The only thing you could hear was the buzzing noise of a fly circling around your ear.

  You didn't bother knocking on your neighbor's room, rushing inside to shout for Soo-jin and her mom, stopping only when you found them sitting around a small table.

  They didn't turn around to greet you.

  "There you are," you panted, putting your hands on your knees. "I'm so sorry for barging in like this."

  Even little Soo-jin, who never failed to jump into your arms given the opportunity, kept her back to you.  

  You stepped towards her. "Soo-jin," you whispered, placing a hand on her thin shoulder. 

  "Soo-jin, hey," you chuckled, your trembling fingers shaking her bit. "H-hey, what's wrong?"

  Her head nodded down, like a doll grabbed all too suddenly, then it lolled to the side, rolling until she bared her neck, until you saw her face.

  Her mouth hung open. 

  Inside the cavern were tiny black lumps that took you a second to realize were flies feasting on her molars. And when you lurched and sank to the floor, it was only then that you saw her staring back at you.

  Bleached eyes, wide and whitened to the core and pupils like spoiled milk. 

  "N-no." Your vision was cloudy, freezing dread settling at the pit of your stomach when you saw that the same happened to her mother. "Who- who did this?"

  Your voice strained out as you stood, mind moving faster than your legs.

  Granny. Go to Granny. 

  Though you already know, don't you? You don't have to see her to know her fate. Because as you sprinted out of the room, leaping down across the steps, out of the building and into sand and concrete, the smell of sulfur followed you, choking you along with the sight of bodies sprawled on the ground.

  Insects creeping out of nostrils and every other orifice, faces that you'll never have the chance of knowing and faces that you'd grown up with, hands reaching to the heaven as if at prayer.

  You are alone. You are alone in a city filled with rotting corpses. 

  There was an uncontrolled animal inside your body, fighting out of its cage in a fit of rage as you craned to look up, further up.

  The sky was on fire, the fissure in the middle gaping wider and wider and sucking in a mass of swirling clouds dipped with blood and orange.

  And there. There, look. Standing atop the towering walls.

  Beyond the heat wave was a figure, burning bright that you had to squint and you wanted to look away, you had to look away, but you can't go out like this, not without a scream and a curse at your lips.

  What did you do, you were shouting, Who are you, you were screeching, feeling the veins in your neck stretch and pop as you walked closer and closer. 

  Wings as far as the eye could see stood atop the fallen city.

  Spread out to span the horizon and folded at the middle to conceal whatever it is pointing a flaming sword towards the sun. 

  You tasted iron at the back of your mouth, but you did not stop. The earth beneath you swallowed your feet as it turned to mud with each step you took.

  And with the flap of its wings, the sound of metal banging against each other reverberated louder.

  There were children howling in pain, somewhere, behind you, in front of you, beside you. You staggered forward and for the life of you, you do not understand why you keep trying, because the ground below wasn't even soil anymore.

  It took another step before you fell.

  And it was like one of those dreams. 

  But this time you don't wake up. 

  You bawled out and thrashed your legs as water rose above you, slamming against your chest and filling up your mouth and burning your nose until it's all you could see, until you're floating in darkness and water is rushing to your lungs and you were flailing upwards, catching that spot of sunlight, but the more you kicked your feet and swung your arms, the more it tugged at your heavy legs and the less you could breathe and the further it got—  

You were sinking, the clanging of a giant bell everywhere still, as the water pulled you down, and in the deep, below the nothingness, was a massive cleft illuminated by the barest of light, slowly opening to reveal an eye, and no sound came out though you know, though you felt your throat release a shriek, horrifyingly small, so, so small compared to that glass green pupil that illuminated the darkness, rapidly contracting and dilating and then blinking as  salt and fire streamed deep in your skin, but they were looking at you from all sides, a thousand eyes flanking you and judging the weight of your soul with their unforgiving gaze as you tossed and turned in the waters. 

  I am going to die here, you thought. I will die here, you cried.

  But something was pulling at your waist and despite clawing and jabbing at it, desperate to keep it away from you as you wailed get off me get off me, it gripped you tight, hauling you upwards until you were gulping and breathing in cold air.

Through tears and the piercing cry that ripped out your throat, you felt strong, warm arms cradle you close.

  Along with a deep voice, familiar and conjuring a long lost memory. 

It lulled you into hiccups and dry sobs, gentle as it whispered. 

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid.”

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Yandere!SCPs Reaction to Reader’s Death

{ WARNING: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE, MENTIONS OF DEATH, GRIEF, VIOLENCE }

SCP 035

It all depends on how you died, really.

If it was a mishap with another SCP, then 035 would be more so overcome with anger than anything because he’d have someone to blame (and destroy).

However, if it were through a mistake of your own or you purposely chose to leave, then 035 would be overwhelmed with sorrow.

He’d think that he could have somehow prevented your passing, and its this thought that haunts him constantly.

He’ll never get over your death, despite already having lost so much in his immortal lifetime.

There’s something about the way you’d managed to capture his heart that made the familiar sting of emptiness even more overwhelming.

035 would lose his theatrical flare for a good while - perhaps forever if you were already lovers.

If you weren’t together, however, 035 will try and force himself to get over you.

After all, he can’t rid himself of this pain through the promise of reuniting with those he loved in an afterlife or Heaven of some description.

 Unlike you, he is immortal - burdened to forever bear the curse of outliving everything he holds dear.

SCP 049

Initially overcome with shock before anything else.

Would deliberate on what he’d been told by Foundation staff after they’d reluctantly entered his cell and delivered the news.

It would take 049 a few days to even consider the fact that you were indeed gone, never mind accepting it.

After the shock comes the denial, and, depending on how close the two of you were, the proverbial path he takes in handling his newfound grief could go one of two ways.

If he had yet to confess to you, then 049 would spend every waking moment trying to recall distant and recent memories of you, trying to piece together a story of how your death could have occurred whilst desperately trying to preserve the comfort and love you’d made him feel.

If the two of you were together before your passing, however, 049 will adopt anger as his primary coping strategy.

Though, his anger isn’t directed at you.

No, the Foundation must have had some involvement - or another SCP, perhaps.

Or maybe it was that overly-friendly neighbour who you’d told him had been overstaying his welcome when he visited; perhaps he’d killed you when you’d tried to get him to leave.

Millions of possibilities swarmed his mind.

It didn’t matter how many times staff members tried to deny his suspicions; 049 will be looking for people to blame.

And, when all that remains in this world are himself and the fragments of your ghost that linger in the corners of his mind, he’ll have no-one to turn the blame on but himself.

SCP 079

Nope.

079 flat-out refuses to accept your passing.

I mean, you can’t be dead, right?

Surely, 079 would have calculated the likelihoods and possibilities of your passing before anything could have happened.

You’d left his cell just as you normally did the last time he saw you; nothing seemed out-of-the-ordinary.

Seeing as 079 sees himself firmly above everybody else (all except for you, of course), he just assumes that everybody else is incorrect as a result of human error or miscalculation.

They were flesh and blood and flawed while he was a machine built with the very purpose to perform and refine himself in the areas humans could not.

He genuinely believes you’re still alive and refuses to co-operate with the Foundation until they admit they were wrong.

In which case, that day never comes.

Years upon years would pass until 079 begins to wonder if maybe you really were gone.

You hadn’t come to see him in such a long time, and though it had been wiped from the Foundation system entirely, your name had been registered under the team of his maintenance crew, just as it always had been.

One day, when he’d gathered the courage to inquire as to where you had gone to, the staff member he asked was shocked.

“You still remember her?” they ask. bewildered that 079 would have dedicated his limited memory to you.

But of course he remembered you; why wouldn’t he?

It would take a God-awful amount of convincing and pulling up your death certificate and documents until 079 realises you really aren’t coming back.

And that was the same day the 079 switched himself off for good.

To him, this world was no world if you weren’t in it, and he didn’t want to inhabit an empty planet.

SCP 682

It wasn’t a staff member who told him: it was 079.

It had been decided by the 05 Council that 682 was never to be informed of your untimely passing.

They knew how close you and 682 were, and if anything were to upset the balance you had created within the SCP, they knew their days would be numbered.

It was after not having seen you in a few weeks that 682 demanded to know where you were.

Every staff member he confronted had told him you were on holiday.

Then, after a few more weeks had passed and he asked the staff again, they told him you were at a Foundation conference abroad.

Eventually, after growing tired of what were obviously excuses, 682 asked 079 to research your whereabouts.

The worst had never even crossed 682′s mind.

It was only after 079 had reported back to him that you were in fact deceased that everything seemed to click into place for 682.

However, despite the overwhelming evidence supporting the fact that you were indeed gone, 682 went straight into denial.

What followed after this discovery could only be described as carnage.

682 wanted answers, and if no-one in the Foundation was going to tell him where you really were, then he’d search for you himself.

And so begins 682′s search for the only creature he ever loved.

He will search the very corners of the Universe for you if he has to.

Nothing can take his sanctuary from him - not even death.

My AO3 account

[bettsfic]

Hi betts, how do you separate yourself from your fanfiction works? As in having the mindset that ‘you are not your work’? I feel like I’ve fallen into the myth that positive feedback equates to readers liking me for me, when in most cases I imagine they’re solely interested in my content. I guess I’m expecting too much from fandom members? I just don’t feel like I belong to the fandom if it weren’t for my fanfiction. Thanks for your time.

this is a really great and really big question that for me anyway had far deeper roots in my mental health than i initially recognized. 

even before i found fandom, i strongly conflated love with being of use to someone, and then i would get upset that people used me. all of my relationships were either distant or volatile. i knew that i was the only thing all my relationships had in common, but i couldn’t figure out what i was doing wrong. 

what i was doing wrong was that i didn’t know how to love or be loved. i only knew how to need and be needed. i was defined wholly by my relationships with others; without them, i was no one. i changed everything about myself to fit with the people i was surrounded by. i had no ability whatsoever to see or assess myself. my worth was measured in others’ perception of me. if they hated me, i hated me. if they loved me...actually, i still hated me, because i believed that love was temporary, and it was only a matter of time they saw the “real” me and they would take their love away. it was much easier to mold myself into someone they could love. 

i once told a guy i was dating, i just want to be who you want me to be. and he looked at me like i was crazy, and asked, then how can i love you? 

when i found writing, i didn’t know what love really felt like. i only knew obsession and codependency. i didn’t know how to feel emotions in order to process them, so everything that had ever happened to me was still just sitting inside me, waiting. writing offered me a tool to begin working through the pile. it offered me a means to observe and validate myself, and feel my feelings. 

but when i was first developing a relationship with writing, i put so much of myself into it that i couldn’t help but use feedback as a measure of self-worth. 

i think to some degree, every artist needs a witness. almost everything we write exists to be made public to some degree, and it’s a totally normal thing to want to seek reception. but conflating other people liking you, and by extension your work, with your worthiness to exist, creates a lot of self-suffering.

i remember realizing that i had boxed myself into a corner, and i knew i had to reassess my perspective of myself and my work. i had found myself in the same position you describe, feeling bad because readers didn’t love me, they loved my writing (see: being of use and wondering why people always used me). especially with fanfic, which has so much to do with quantity, 90% of readers don’t even look at the fic writer’s name, let alone kudos or comment. reading is a self-fulfilling endeavor the same way eating is. all of us need stories to live. as writers, we’re just the chefs. when you eat a good meal, you don’t fall in love with the chef. most of the time you don’t even know their name. the food isn’t the chef and the story isn’t you. 

but also, i was, and always had been, disgusted and baffled by people who *did* love me, especially if i felt i had nothing useful to offer them. once, a friend of mine drove like 3 hours to come visit me for dinner, and then drove 3 hours back. for some reason i assumed he was on a road trip somewhere and just passing through. when he told me he had come just to hang out with me, my brain short-circuited. i couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to hang out with me like, for fun. 

after a few years of posting fic, a weird thing happened where a few people did seem to like *me* because of my writing, insofar as they would follow my blog and interact with me and eventually we became friends. there may even be people out there who like me and don’t interact with me. but that idea also kind of weirded me out for a long time, because i kept thinking, who am i? no one. i’m nothing. i’m boring. go read my writing, that’s what matters. 

and then i realized, i could not have it both ways. either i wanted to be seen, or i wanted to go unseen. i was schrödinger’s validation. 

so i think the very simple answer is “learn to love yourself,” but i was so far behind when it came to love, i didn’t know what loving yourself even meant. so i think a better adage is “learn love.” learn what love is, what it feels like, what it looks like. and then turn that definition on yourself and your work. 

i love myself, even when i mess up, even when i’m not meeting my expectations. i love my work, even when it’s bad. when other people love me and my work, that makes me happy. when they don’t, that’s fine, because i still have plenty of my own love left. 

in practicality, for a few years i basically had to constantly chant to myself “what other people think of me is not my business.” a reader’s relationship with your writing is not your obligation to know or control. it’s only your obligation to create the stories you want to tell, and maybe you share them so you can share the love you put into them, or maybe you don’t. maybe you eat the meal you cook, or maybe you share it with someone else. whether they like it or not has no bearing on who you are. it’s all just personal taste.

more importantly, you can’t generate self-beliefs externally. someone’s opinion of you or your work cannot define you, because no one has a wider view of you than you. you are the expert of yourself. it took me a long time to change all of my self-beliefs, or what i’ve come to call “life sentences,” into statements of temporality and priority. “i’m brave” turned into “i value courage.” “i’m bad at directions” turned into “sometimes i get turned around.” every time i’m about to make a sweeping judgment of myself, i try to recast it into something more malleable, because every state of the self is temporary, and i always want to give myself the opportunity to grow.

i won’t lie and say i have a totally healthy relationship with my writing. i still get jealous sometimes, although it’s much briefer and more bearable than it used to be. i still get deeply annoyed by tactless or rude feedback, but i rarely get upset. i *do* get upset when someone sends me a link to a forum or thread of people making fun of me; i think it’s hard to unlearn that. sometimes i still feel the need to defend or justify or apologize for my work. and i definitely still compulsively refresh my comment inbox whenever i post something i’m proud of. but for the most part, i’m in a much better place than i used to be.

currently i’m working on making peace with the idea of publication, that my original work treads a morally risky line that is easily misunderstood, and i’m publishing into a world of mob mentality and cancel culture. and moreover, once a work is published, once it’s out there, it can never go back in. i’m trying to figure out whether i’m confident enough now in my work to still stand by it in ten years or fifty. i’m also freaked out about how anything i publish will outlive me. as someone who has always lived with existential dread, it’s terrifying to think i may write something that could be read in a hundred years, that my voice might live longer than my body. there is a very slim chance of it, but as i’ve mentioned before, i think it’s better to plan more for success than failure. 

i’m not sure if any of this is helpful, but it’s the path i took to get where i am. i wish you the best of luck navigating your relationship with your work. 

my carrd | writing advice masterdoc

[thetamrieliclibrary]

Pocket Guide to the Empire, First Edition: Skyrim

Skyrim, also known as the Old Kingdom or the Fatherland[1], was the first region of Tamriel settled by humans: the hardy, brave, warlike Nords, whose descendants still occupy this rugged land, and, although perhaps somewhat reduced from the legendary renown of their forebears of old, the Nords of the pure blood still unquestionably surpass the mixed races in all the manly virtues.

Exactly when the Nords first crossed the ice-choked Sea of Ghosts from Atmora, their original homeland, is uncertain. As recorded in the Song of Return, Ysgramor and his family first landed in Tamriel at Hsaarik Head, at the extreme northern tip of Skyrim's Broken Cape, fleeing civil war in Atmora (then rather warmer than at present, as it seems to have supported a substantial population). These first settlers named the land "Mereth", after the Elves that roamed the untamed wilderness which then covered the whole of Tamriel. For a time, relations between Men and Elves were harmonious, and the Nords throve in the new land, summoning more of their kin from the North to build the city of Saarthal, the site of which has recently been located by Imperial archaeologists in the vicinity of modern Winterhold. But the Elves saw that the vital young race would soon surpass their stagnant culture[2] if left unchecked, and fell upon the unsuspecting Nords in the infamous Night of Tears; Saarthal was burned, and only Ysgramor and two of his sons[3] fought free of the carnage and escaped to Atmora. The Elves, however, had reckoned without the indomitable spirit of the Nords. Gathering his legendary Five Hundred Companions (whose names are still recited every Thirteenth of Sun's Dawn at the Feast of the Dead in Windhelm), Ysgramor returned to Tamriel with a vengeance, driving the Elves out of Skyrim and laying the foundations of the first human Empire.

It may be that the exploits of the near-mythical Ysgramor conflate the reigns of several early Nord Kings, as the Elves were not finally driven from the present boundaries of Skyrim until the reign of King Harald, the thirteenth of Ysgramor's line, at the dawn of recorded history. King Harald is also remembered for being the first King to relinquish all holdings in Atmora; the Nords of Skyrim were now a separate people, whose faces were turned firmly toward their destiny, the conquest of the vast new land of Tamriel. Indeed, the history of the Nords is the history of humans in Tamriel; all the human races, with the exception of the Redguards, are descended from Nordic stock, although in some the ancient blood admittedly runs thin.

King Vrage the Gifted began the expansion that led to the First Empire of the Nords. Within a span of fifty years, Skyrim ruled all of northern Tamriel, including most of present-day High Rock, a deep stretch of the Nibenay Valley, and the whole of Morrowind. The Conquest of Morrowind was one of the epic clashes of the First Era, when ensued many a desperate contest between Nord and Dunmer in the hills and glades of that dire kingdom, still recalled by the songs of the minstrels in the alehouses of Skyrim. The system of succession in the First Empire is worthy of note, as it proved in the end to be the Empire's undoing. By the early years of the First Empire, Skyrim was already divided into Holds, then ruled by a patchwork of clan-heads, kings, and councils (or moots), all of which paid fealty to the King of Skyrim. During the exceptionally long reign of King Harald, who died at 108 years of age and outlived all but three of his sons, a Moot was created, made up of representatives from each Hold, to choose the next King from qualified members of the royal family. Over the years, the Moot became permanent and acquired an increasing amount of power; by the reign King Borgas, the last of the Ysgramor dynasty, the Moot had become partisan and ineffective. Upon the murder[4] of King Borgas by the Wild Hunt (See Aldmeri--Valenwood), the Moot's failure to appoint the obvious and capable Jarl Hanse of Winterhold sparked the disastrous Skyrim War of Succession, during which Skyrim lost control of its territories in High Rock, Morrowind, and Cyrodiil, never to regain them. The war was finally concluded in 1E420 with the Pact of Chieftains; henceforth, the Moot was convened only when a King died without direct heirs, and it has fulfilled this more limited role admirably. It has only been called upon three times in the intervening millennia, and the Skyrim succession has never again been disputed on the field of battle.

The lands of Skyrim is the most rugged on the continent, containing four of the five highest peaks in Tamriel (see Places of Note: Throat of the World). Only in the west do the mountains abate to the canyons and mesas of the Reach, by far the most cosmopolitan of the Holds of Skyrim, Nords of the pure blood holding only the barest majority according to the recent Imperial Census. The rest of Skyrim is a vertical world: the high ridges of the northwest-to-southeast slanting mountain ranges, cleft by deep, narrow valleys where most of the population resides. Along the sides of the river valleys, sturdy Nord farmers raise a wide variety of crops; wheat flourishes in the relatively temperate river bottoms, while only the snowberry bushes can survive in the high orchards near the treeline. The original Nord settlements were generally established on rocky crags overlooking a river valley; many of these villages still survive in the more isolated Holds, especially along the Morrowind frontier. In most of Skyrim, however, this defensive posture was deemed unnecessary by the mid-first era, and most cities and towns today lie on the valley floors, in some cases still overlooked by the picturesque ruins of the earlier settlement.

Nords are masters of wood and timber construction; many structures survive in use today that were built by the first settlers over 3,000 years ago. A fine example of Nord military engineering can be seen at Old Fort, one of the royal bastions constructed by the First Empire to guard its southern frontier. Towering walls of huge, irregular porphyry blocks fit together without seam or mortar, as if constructed by mythical Elhnofey rather than men.

The nine Holds present a varied aspect in people, government, and trade. The Reach could be mistaken for one of the petty kingdoms of High Rock; it is full of Bretons, Redguards, Cyrodiils, Elves of all stripes, and even a few misplaced khajiit. The northern and eastern Holds--Winterhold Hold, Eastmarch, The Rift, and the Pale, known collectively as the Old Holds--remain more isolated, by geography and choice, and the Nords there still hold true to the old ways. Outsiders are a rarity, usually a once-yearly visit from an itinerant peddler. The young men go out for weeks into the high peaks in the dead of winter, hunting the ice wraiths that give them claim to full status as citizens (a laughable practice that could serve as a model for the more "civilized" regions of the Empire). Here, too, the people still revere their hereditary leaders, while the other Holds have long been governed (after a fashion) by elected moots. It is fortunate for Skyrim and the Septim Empire that the people of the Old Holds have preserved the traditions of their forefathers. Skyrim has long been dormant, slumbering through the millennia while upstart conquerors bestrode the Arena of Tamriel. But now, a son of Skyrim[5] once again holds the world's destiny in his hands. If Skyrim is to wake, its rebirth will be led by these true Nords who remain its best hope for the future.

[TRAVELER: I found many of these mountain villages almost empty of young men, who have been seduced into joining Septim's army by promises of wealth and glory; the village elders see little hope of their sons ever returning.]

Snow Elves[6]

Nords attribute almost any misfortune or disaster to the machinations of the Falmer, or Snow Elves, be it crop failure, missing sheep, or a traveller lost crossing a high pass. These mythical beings are popularly believed to be the descendants of the original Elven population, and are said to reside in the remote mountain fastnesses that cover most of Skyrim. However, there is no tangible evidence that this Elven community survives outside the imaginations of superstitious villagers.

The Tongues

The Nords have long practiced a spiritual form of magic known as "The Way of the Voice", based largely on their veneration of the Wind as the personification of Kynareth. Nords consider themselves to be the children of the sky, and the breath and the voice of a Nord is his vital essence. Through the use of the Voice, the vital power of a Nord can be articulated into a Thu'um, or shout. Shouts can be used to sharpen blades or to strike enemies at a distance. Masters of the Voice are known as Tongues, and their power is legendary. They can call to specific people over hundreds of miles, and can move by casting a shout, appearing where it lands. The most powerful Tongues cannot speak without causing destruction. They must go gagged, and communicate through a sign language and through scribing runes.

In the days of the Conquest of Morrowind and the founding of the First Empire, the great Nord war chiefs--Derek the Tall, Jorg Helmbolg, Hoag Merkiller--were all Tongues. When they attacked a city, they needed no siege engines; the Tongues would form up in a wedge in front of the gatehouse, and draw a breath. When the leader let it out in a thu'um, the doors were blown in, and the axemen rushed into the city. Such were the men that forged the First Empire. But, alas for the Nords, one of the mightiest of all the Tongues, Jurgen Windcaller (or the Calm, as he is better known today), became converted to a pacifist creed that denounced use of the Voice for martial exploits. His philosophy prevailed, largely due to his unshakable mastery of the Voice--his victory was sealed in a legendary confrontation, where The Calm is said to have "swallowed the Shouts" of seventeen Tongues of the militant school for three days until his opponents all lay exhausted (and then became his disciples). Today, the most ancient and powerful of the Tongues live secluded on the highest peaks in contemplation, and have spoken once only in living memory, to announce the destiny of the young Tiber Septim (as recounted in Cyrodiil). In gratitude, the Emperor has recently endowed a new Imperial College of the Voice in Markarth[7], dedicated to returning the Way of the Voice to the ancient and honourable art of war. So it may be that the mighty deeds of the Nord heroes of old will soon be equalled or surpassed on the battlefields of the present day.

Places of Note

Haafingar (Solitude)

The home of the famous Bards' College, Haafingar is also one of Skyrim's chief ports, and ships from up and down the coast can be found at her crowded quays, loading umber and salted cod for the markets of Wayrest, West Anvil, and Senchal. Founded during Skyrim's long Alessian flirtation, the Bards' College continues to flaunt a heretical streak, and its students are famous carousers, fittingly enough for their chosen trade. Students yearly invade the marketplace for a week of revelry, the climax of which is the burning of "King Olaf" in effigy, possibly a now-forgotten contender in the War of Succession. Graduates have no trouble finding employment in noble households across Tamriel, including the restored Imperial Court in Cyrodiil, but many still choose to follow in the wandering footsteps of illustrious alumni such as Callisos and Morachellis.

Windhelm

Once the capital of the First Empire, the palace of the Ysgramor dynasty still dominates the centre of the Old City. Windhelm was sacked during the War of Succession, and again by the Akaviri army of Ada'Soon Dir-Kamal; the Palace of the Kings is one of the few First Empire buildings that remains. Today, Windhelm remains the only sizable city in the otherwise determinedly rural Hold of Eastmarch, and serves as a base for Imperial troops guarding the Dunmeth Pass into Morrowind.

Throat of the World

This is the highest mountain in Skyrim, and the highest in Tamriel aside from Vvardenfell in Morrowind. The Nords believe men were formed on this mountain when the sky breathed onto the land. Hence the Song of Return refers not only to Ysgramor's return to Tamriel after the destruction of Saarthal, but to the Nords' return to what they believe was their original homeland. Pilgrims travel from across Skyrim to climb the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar, where the most ancient and honoured Greybeards[8] dwell in absolute silence in their quest to become ever more attuned to the voice of the sky.

Annotations

Annotations by YR:

"Most of the Nords I met seemed amused by this 'Fatherland' nonsense ~ the war with the 'Aldmeri Dominion' was the furthest thing in their minds."

"!"

"Ysgramor's provocations and blasphemies have, of course, been long forgotten."

"Righteous slaying."

"A disputed claim."

"Uncle, I saw signs that might be Falmer boundary-runes, but nothing sure. If any survive, they are wary and withdrawn."

"Septim's new college is staffed by hacks and charlatans ~ the so-called Grand Master is said to have formerly earned his living as a street performer in Windhelm ~ the students are scions of the most obsequious Nord families, hoping to curry favour with Tiber Septim's New Order ~"

"~ At last, a few Men worthy of respect. I met with an ancient Greybeard who could actually converse with me almost as an equal ~ my only such experience among the humans so far ~"

~ Follow for more books, journals, and notes from the Elder Scrolls series ~ Updates daily ~

[letterboxd]

Creative Limitations.

“The media’s already polarizing enough; I guess I’m looking for things that are not polarizing and are much more nuanced about the human condition.” —Lulu Wang, writer and director of The Farewell.

One of the highest-rated films of the year, Lulu Wang’s The Farewell stars Awkwafina as Billi, a fictionalized version of Wang herself, in the story of a family in cahoots to keep their matriarch in the dark. The film is based on “a true lie”: Billi’s paternal grandmother in China, Nai Nai (played by veteran Chinese actress Zhao Shuzhen) has cancer, and the family chooses not to let her know, instead staging an elaborate fake wedding to bring the family together.

Where other independent features often develop out of a short film, Wang took her story to This American Life, a bastion of American radio storytelling. The half-hour audio version, ‘What You Don’t Know’, is what her American film producer heard; from there, the feature film came to life. It’s a quietly powerful story that has resonated with Letterboxd members for many reasons, including the authentic, hands-off way in which it comments on “the many micro-tragedies that naturally follow any family whose members—for one reason [or] another—decide to leave the family nest and search for happiness abroad”. For others, it’s even more personal: “Seeing yourself on screen probably doesn’t get better than this.”

When The Farewell opened in US cinemas in July this year, its per-theater box office average topped that of Avengers: Endgame. The film was still showing in select theaters in October, and has just been released on streaming services, including in 4K on iTunes, with a commentary track by Wang and her director of photography, Anna Franquesa Solano. “We tried to talk a lot about process, so I think that’ll be interesting,” Wang told us. (Also, “we may or may not have been drinking”.)

In time for its streaming release, we chatted with Lulu Wang about aspects of The Farewell’s production, the useful limitations of independent filmmaking, and her favorite films, from holiday movies to best soundtracks. Interview contains plot spoilers.

Lulu Wang and DP Anna Franquesa Solano on the set of ‘The Farewell’. / Photo: Casi Moss

The Farewell is standing strong in our highest rated films of 2019, and the reviews are responding to exactly the things, I imagine, that were important to you: the non-manufactured stakes, the family realness, a sense of the specific being universal, the process of grief beginning long before a person you love dies. How does it feel that your film is being so well received? Lulu Wang: I fought really hard to tell the story in such a specific way that in some ways I think my biggest fear was that the specificity would put us into a niche, and only attract a very niche audience. So, you know, the fact that there’s so many people—Asian-Americans but also non-Asian Americans—who see themselves and their family in the story is incredible to me.

You often mention the films of Mike Leigh when talking about highly specific stories that nevertheless have a universal resonance. Can you talk about some other such films and filmmakers that do this for you? Well, Yi-Yi [directed by] Edward Yang is one of my all-time favorites. The specificity, the tenderness of it. The patience of the filmmaking. I find Yi-Yi to be that. Also the humor, there’s so much charm and so much humor in it, it feels just so real.

Kore-eda’s films speak to me in that same way. I just really appreciate the patience in filmmaking. I think so often nowadays the flashiest things get the most attention, and we’ve also trained our brains to need that, right? That kind of stimulation. And so there’s something just so beautiful about a film that takes its time and that doesn’t lean on easy tricks to get attention, but that takes time to get to the heart of something very nuanced, that isn’t so obvious, that isn’t so black and white. The media’s already polarizing enough; I guess I’m looking for things that are not polarizing and are much more nuanced about the human condition.

Through The Farewell’s run, you’ve been generous about opening up the filmmaking process—this Vanity Fair bilingual script breakdown, for example, gives a good insight into how hard you worked on the script. Could you talk us through the ‘wedding portrait sequence’, in which Billi’s cousin and his wife have a series of photographs taken while Billi and Nai Nai carry on a long conversation? It’s entertaining, but it’s also important for what it reveals about Nai Nai and Billi’s relationship, Chinese wedding culture, and the underlying lie of the whole story. You must be so proud of this sequence. I am. Yeah, I’m really proud of that sequence. The photo portrait was kind of inspired a little bit by Secrets and Lies, when he takes the portrait, and the falseness of what we present when we take portraits like that in the studio, right?

Nai Nai (Zhao Shuzhen) observes yet another wedding portrait set-up in ‘The Farewell’.

One of the intentions, going through it, was minimising the dialogue and trying to condense the script, and so that made me say, “Okay, what are all these moments doing?” They’re all trying to do the same thing, which is to establish the relationship between Billi and Nai Nai, so condensing it into one sequence makes sense. And then also because so much of it is dialogue-driven, how do we make this cinematic? Because at one point the wedding photography studio was separate from these conversations between Billi and Nai Nai, you know, and so this is where, in some ways, being forced to have limitations, being forced to make a shorter film, you start to think more about layering and how do you do multiple things at once.

I really appreciate the limitations of independent filmmaking. Not always; when I’m on set and I get the budget I’m complaining! But looking back on it, those limitations are how we came up with many of our visual ideas. And then also of course it was influenced by the location itself, because we were scouting wedding studios and I wasn’t aware that these studios were so large, that they have, like, different spaces built into the same building. Because if you look at a western photo studio, like in Mike Leigh, right, it’s always the same backdrop.

So that sequence was inspired because we went location scouting, and we were like “this is ridiculous! There are ten different rooms and they all have different set ups!” So then we had this idea of them basically just wandering through the whole photography studio and we’d pick four of our favorite set-ups.

And then this idea of them being silhouetted was inspired by [Woody Allen’s 1979 film] Manhattan. I wanted to capture their relationship as a romance, and I was thinking about Manhattan and their silhouette—I think they were in a planetarium—so we came up with this idea of a continuous conversation, but that was spaced out in front of different backdrops.

Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in a scene from ‘Manhattan’ (1979).

That sequence helps us learn more about who Nai Nai was before the events in The Farewell take place. At Letterboxd, we’re often compiling top ten lists, but “best grandmothers on film” is not a highly populated category, especially films where grandmas are more than just ‘kindly’. Tell us more about fleshing out Nai Nai’s life and the importance of giving respect to older female characters. I think about that in life, too, you know. We think about a lot of people in our lives as fulfilling a particular role in relation to ourselves. That’s my mother, that’s my grandmother, that’s my teacher. Remember as a kid you don’t even think your teacher goes to the grocery store! They hide in the back of the class and then pop back up in the morning! So as a filmmaker, as a storyteller, I’m always thinking about who they are, separate from the context of their relationship to you.

That’s also part of the sadness of not being with somebody or of losing somebody is you don’t necessarily get to see them in all those different contexts and then when they’re gone, there’s so much you don’t know about them and may never know about them. And as our parents get older, your relationships to your relatives change, you know, like ‘who’s the parent?’—children often have to become the caretaker. That’s where it came from, was wanting to make sure that Nai Nai was not presented as a stereotypical grandmother. That she felt like a three-dimensional woman, a woman who was once a girl, and a young woman, someone who was once in love, or maybe in a relationship out of convenience. And also that she’s not always sweet. That’s very real.

One of the motifs in The Farewell is birds appearing at significant moments. In many cultures, a bird is a portent of something big, for example, a death in the family. Where did your bird come from? The bird for me came from wanting to put [in] something magical, but not, like, literal, you know? Meaning, I wanted to insinuate spirituality and magic, but I wanted it also to be interactive with the audience, so based on what they believe and how they interpret that bird is the meaning they get out of it, without me saying “this is what it means”. Much of the movie is about belief systems and perspectives, so I think that if you believe the bird means something, then it does. But if you don’t, and you’re a much more literal, scientific person and you go, “Oh it’s just a bird, it’s just a coincidence,” then it doesn’t mean anything.

Awkwafina leans on Zhao Shuzhen’s shoulder during filming. / Photo: Casi Moss

That’s how it is in the movie and that’s how it is in life: what you believe, and where you find meaning, becomes your reality. With Nai Nai outliving her diagnosis, the people who believe the lie is what worked will continue to believe that the lie is what worked, and people who believe that prayer is what worked… In a way, we look for signs to validate the things we believe, because it’s how we get through life! We need signs, we need meaning, even if we’re the ones who are attaching that meaning.

This far down the track, what is your fondest memory of the production period? Oh gosh, so much of it. I think just being in China, being in spaces that were in my real life, with a crew. Any time that that happened it was really emotional, like shooting in my grandmother’s neighborhood. Shooting at my grandfather’s real grave. I hadn’t seen my grandfather since I left China when I was six, because he died a few years later. To now be at his grave site, gathered there with producers and the crew, scouting it and then shooting there, you know, it was an integration of two different parts of my life that I always felt were really separate, which was my family and China and my background and culture, and then the other part of me, which is being an American, being a filmmaker in America.

In many ways, I always felt that my family didn’t understand what I wanted to do, and also I couldn’t bring who I actually was into Hollywood, there wasn’t a space for that. With this film I was able to fully integrate, bringing my American producers to China for the first time, having my grandmother come to set and see me directing with all the lights and camera and crew. Having my parents be part of the table read. It just felt, really, like I was creating from a place that felt true and real and grounded to me.

Awkwafina and Zhao Shuzhen in a scene from ‘The Farewell’.

Speaking of being grounded, what’s your go-to comfort film? The one you’ll always throw on on a rainy day? Oh, I know: The Philadelphia Story. I love that story.

What’s the film you’ve probably seen the most? The Sound of Music.

Favorite song from it? Probably ‘Edelweiss’, honestly. I’ve been watching that film since I was a kid, it’s one of my parents’ favorite films. It’s such a family film for us, and every time the father sings ‘Edelweiss’ to all the kids, I get really emotional.

What’s the film—or films—that made you want to become a filmmaker Secretary. The Apartment. Annie Hall. I know that’s taboo, I shouldn’t say that, but I have to. Like, Annie Hall, you know? When I first saw it, I was really inspired by that. And The Piano. I think, with both The Piano and Secretary, it was the exploration of female desire and female voice—and obviously as a trained classical pianist since the age of four, the symbol of the piano for her, for that character, and for me, was really meaningful.

Jane Campion’s ‘The Piano’ (1993).

Alex Weston’s soundtrack for The Farewell, which leans heavily on human voices, is something you worked closely with him on. What’s your all-time favorite film soundtrack? So many, I don’t know how to choose! Well, I have a couple. In the Mood for Love. And then, because it is related, Barry [Jenkin]’s If Beale Street Could Talk is one of the most astounding soundtracks. Barry was inspired by Wong Kar-wai for Moonlight, and so yeah, thinking about In the Mood for Love reminded me that Nick Britell’s If Beale Street Could Talk soundtrack is just incredible.

Holiday season is fast approaching: what’s your favorite holiday/Christmas film? Home Alone is a classic that we all watch. Does Fiddler on the Roof count as a Christmas film?! I don’t know. That’s my mom’s favorite. And then I have a really embarrassing one, because when we got sick of Home Alone, we had to pick a new one, and somehow we landed on Jingle All the Way. For years, we watched Jingle All the Way and just laughed our heads off.

Finally, how is Children of the New World coming along? Very slowly. I’m working on the script. I’m writing it. It’s gonna take a while, probably after all of the press is done so I can fully focus.

‘The Farewell’ is available on streaming services now. Comments have been edited for clarity and length. With thanks to A24.

[rickywilson]

Ricky Wilson’s 5-bed Cornwall home is for sale

The Kaiser Chiefs frontman thought his rock’n’roll days were almost over when he bought this bolthole. The band is back in the charts and he’s selling up for £1.5m, says Hugh Graham.

Ricky Wilson is all grown up. The lead singer of Kaiser Chiefs emerged in the early Noughties with the rabble-rousing hits I Predict a Riot and Ruby, and backed them up with raucous stage antics: crowdsurfing, climbing scaffolding and high kicks. (He broke both ankles at one gig.) Critics dubbed the band heirs to Madness; he even had a feud with Oasis. All very rock’n’roll. For his efforts, Kaiser Chiefs have scored seven Top 10 albums; Wilson, 42, also spent three years as a judge on the TV talent show The Voice.

Yet Stratton House, his Regency pile in Falmouth, is not very rock’n’roll at all. The five-bedroom home is done up in William Morris-esque floral wallpaper, and dotted with antiques, family heirlooms and Persian rugs. “When it comes to decor, I don’t have rock-star tendencies,” Wilson says. ���I don’t have chandeliers made of saxophones or a breakfast bar made out of a Chevy. I’d rather sit in a wingback chair.”

There is one item, however, that screams rock star. In the front hall, amid the cornices and columns, is a motorcycle. “I’ve never ridden it,” the singer confesses. “I’m terrified of motorcycles. I’ve taken the test twice and failed due to my inability to turn left. But it’s a thing of beauty. It’s a replica of the one Steve McQueen had in The Great Escape. I use it to dry tea towels on.”

Wilson has embraced domesticity. He bought the house in 2012, two years after stumbling across Falmouth by accident. His Turkish holiday had been cancelled when the ash cloud from an Icelandic volcano halted his flight, so he and his girlfriend at the time got in a car and drove west.

“We found a last-minute cottage in Falmouth. I walked into town to buy some bread and milk, and I had this intense feeling that I could live here. I instantly felt comfortable. You only have those moments a few times in your life — I’m a great believer that you have to jump on those feelings.”

Stratton House captured his imagination because, he says, it’s one of the few houses in Falmouth that faces the sea, rather than the river. Wilson, who grew up in Leeds, says he’s always yearned for the sea. “In the winter, I like to close the shutters, put the fire on and listen to the ocean battering the house. I bought a telescope so I could look out to sea and feel dramatic, romantic and wistful, but it doesn’t work.”

He spent four years and £500,000 renovating the home

Living by the sea has done wonders for his mental health, too. “When I cross the border into Cornwall, I feel stress can’t reach me,” says the singer, who uses Stratton House when he’s not at home in north London. “The sea air combined with the wooden shutters helps me sleep so well. There is a direct correlation between time spent in Falmouth and not being riddled with anxiety.”

Renovating the house, though, was not easy: it took him four years and about £500,000. “It’s like being in a band,” he says. “When I started out, I did things that I couldn’t be bothered to do if I was starting out now. It’s mind-boggling that I had the passion to see it through.”

The singer favours a surprisingly trad style, including antique mirrors

He lowered the entire floor of the basement to create a two-bedroom garden flat. All the bathrooms were redone and layouts were changed. His proudest achievement is the creation of a secret door that conceals a sun room. “That was a boyhood dream, to make a bookcase that was a secret door. When you push a certain book, the bookcase swings open. Sometimes I don’t tell guests about it until day three. It comes as a real shock.”

They might be more shocked to learn that the frontman of Kaiser Chiefs has damask sofas and antique mirrors. He’s “in love” with the Shaker kitchen by a local company, Williams Creative Homes. If his house was on Through the Keyhole, he says, nobody would guess it was his. “I’m old-fashioned, I like traditional stuff. My grandmother had an antiques shop, but it was really a junk shop. I buy a lot of junk, but it’s junk that I love — eBay is a terrible thing. If I had a vice, it’d be that.”

He’s never had rock-star parties here, and mostly goes unrecognised in Falmouth, which he calls “a magnet for good people”, with an artsy university. “Kids give a place life and urgency. Unlike a lot of seaside towns, it’s not just fading away.”

A perfect day would be walking his labradoodle, Reedus, from Gyllyngvase beach to Swanpool beach, where the cafe “has the best hot chocolate in the world”. “Then I potter around. I might go to Trago Mills, this fantastic DIY store, buy a screwdriver and feel like a proper person.”

Damask sofas add to the home’s style

When Wilson bought the house, he was thinking of winding down his pop-star life. “The general consensus is that you should only be a pop star for four or five years. I had outlived my time. I was ready for a quiet life in Falmouth. Then I got my second wind and my career took off again.”

Indeed, the band’s latest album, Duck, made it to No 3, and they’re now touring. So he is selling up for £1.5m, with the estate agent Ian Lillicrap handling the sale. “Now I don’t spend any time there. It’s wasted on me. It needs to be lived in.”

Yet Wilson, who is engaged to the stylist Grace Zito, credits the house with changing his life. “It spurred me on to do things I never thought I would do. I bought a dog, which is like having a practice kid. I got a Barbour jacket. It’s, like, ‘What’s happened to me?’

It has also given him the bug for projects. He’s now looking for a house in London after selling his old home in Highgate. “I’m into finding houses that need a bit of love. And, at the risk of sounding schmaltzy, saving them for another generation. I am respectful of this house. I talk to it and ask it how it is. When I shut the door, I say goodbye to it. I treat it like a member of the family. Houses do take over your life.”

So it’s official: restoring houses is the new rock’n’roll.

[oppressiveliberator]

romance headcanons.

→  repost, do not reblog.

((FOREWARNING I do mention a protag ship as well as an incest ship, but aside one or two other implications it only comes up once I think. Also this is a fucking mess so it’s under a cut. Someday I’ll write concisely but today is not that day!))

name: Ghetsis Harmonia Gropius nickname:  Ghetsis; G-Cis; Lord Ghetsis; [Holy] Father gender: Male romantic orientation: Debateable. Gray-Aromantic? May not experience romantic attraction, but enjoys or will get into relationships to some degree. Will definitely indulge someone’s feelings for fun. preferred pet names: Lord. Master. Sir. Father. Basically, if it’s a dominance-expressing petname, he’s good with it. Depending on who it’s from something like ‘dear’ could also be acceptable.

relationship status: Single, but has or has had repeated partners and hookups. May be or have had been married in some verses? favorite canon ship(s): Canon as in officially shown or implied?  The closest we’d have is probably Ghetsis/Zinzolin lmao. . . . favorite non-canon ship(s) so far:  I mean I ship more or less anything as long as it’s interesting/has potential and my muse wants to roll with it but.  I fuckin love me some Ghetsis/Hilda. Ghetsis/Zinzolin, Giovanni/Ghetsis, Lysandre/Ghetsis, a hard to explain one but I like the concept of like Ghetsis/Reader, not in that I’m the ‘reader’ but that the reader is a ‘fan’, grunt, etc, so I guess Ghetsis/ghetsis fandom, and I have a real big ‘guilty’(read: i enjoy it and it’s harmless fiction so i don’t really feel that guilty, but people will definitely be real unhappy to hear it but fuck it it’s not like I’m forcing it on anybody) love for Ghetsis/N or other members of his family.  But Ghetsis goes well with like everybody tbh depending on what you’re after.  opinion on true love: Ghetsis finds that romantic feelings are, in general, for weaker persons.  True love is self-love, and letting yourself love or enjoy as many others as you’d like.  Of course, true love directed at him isn’t shameful or pathetic at all, and if he finds himself attached to somebody. . .well, he’ll admit to feeling weak for them, but it’s not something that makes him in any way less perfect.

opinion on love at first sight: You’ll love him at first sight. How weak do you have to be to just see somebody and be romantically infatuated with them?  You don’t even know anything about them.  Pathetic.  You’re going to get yourself into trouble, silly pet! 

how ‘romantic’ are they?: MMMMMMM Ghetsis is. . .willing to be romantic and would probably enjoy doing so because it makes him feel impressive.  Plus, pleasing a partner or object of affection increases the likelihood they’ll be attached to him, and thus he can benefit off of or use them for longer. . . .  So if you mean like in terms of reasoning, uh, he’s not super prone to thinking about other people more than himself at all. .. but in terms of actions and what he’ll be willing to do, he’s gonna be a big show-off and treat you real nice and spoil you.

ideal physical traits: Smaller and/or physically weaker than him. Feminine, especially with long hair, especially girls with long hair.  Shapely/curvy girls are good.  Healthy, strong, but weaker than him--strong enough to put up a fight, maybe. Expressive--shows a lot of emotion and reacts openly. Traditionally attractive, especially in a feminine way? I imagine he’s oddly attracted to people he can identify as having similar features to himself. . .not sure if that’s narcissism or something else entirely.   But, to be honest, he’s not too picky--he’ll act like he is, and he’ll certainly talk like he is, but. . .so far he isn’t. female: No specifics

male: No specifics ideal personality traits: Intelligent. Submissive.  Expressive.  Eager to please. Interesting. Fighty. Honestly, he’s attracted to people who’re either easy to use or hard to get.  Depends on how hard he wants to work for it.  To an extent, materialistic--being easily won over with expensive things and fancy dates.  Clingy. Loyal. Faithful. Lost. Exploitable.

unattractive physical traits: In general he’s more attracted to traditionally attractive people, so if you’re traditionally unattractive, he’s fairly likely to be offput by it? Unhealthy, unclean, generally not caring about your appearance at all? But he remains not too picky.  If you’re unattractive in some way, it just makes him look better--and gives him something to hold over you.  So he won’t be too bothered by it unless you’re, like, disgusting in some way he doesn’t want to put up with.

unattractive personality traits:  If you aren’t obedient, subservient, willing and/or wanting to see him as your superior, try and dominate him (and not have anything worth him letting you do so for,) etc. . .well, you’ll have lower chances.  Unintelligent(and yet, you’d be so much easier to mess with if you were. . .)  Gossipy, bad at keeping secrets(bragging is okay, telling the world his plans is not--it’s okay if you tell him about what other people do, though, that’s fine.)  Bossy, although he’s willing to put up with some of this. . .it’s hard to say, because he’s interested in people who’re subservient to him or express a lot of interest in him, but also in people he’d have to chase/who he’d have to struggle to have. . .but if you intend to get in the way of his plans or you’re uninteresting(and not physically appealing or you don’t have anything to offer/for him to gain, if you try and, like, overthrow him or take command of him without him seeing benefit to it(for example, RR!Giovanni is allowed to dominate and order him around because Ghetsis wants him to feel in charge to better take advantage of him) then you’re gonna have a harder time getting his interest.

ideal date: He loves to spoil a motherfucker.  Fancy restaurants, shows, trips, whatever you’d like as long as he won’t hate it himself.  Also, spending time at his castle, lavishing him--uh, you in attention and affection, parading you around, evangelizing and liberating Pokémon together, things that mean he gets to show off. . .he’d probably like an escape room if you were competent enough not to infuriate him through the whole process. Although, in his current, fragile, sickly, weakened state. . .the idea of something simple like a walk outside, going to a park, something lowkey seems especially nice. . .but also if you just stay in and hang out, that’s good too.  He’s not so open with it, but since he’s not in his usual position of power, he’s a lot happier than he lets on if you’re just. . .with him.

do they have a type?: Weak-willed men and spunky women.  Or something like that lol.  People he can gain something from. People he can’t have?  He may have incestuous personality disorder????  i have it in my head that he’s somewhat attracted to his own family due to having this understanding of historical royal families intermingling to keep their bloodlines ‘pure’.  But it’s not an active part of the blog character, like you’d probably never find out if I hadn’t said it just now, yeah?  

average relationship length: Until he gets bored or you outlive your usefulness or you break up with him when you realize he’s abusing you.  So, like, hookups are regular, but if they don’t count. . .a few months to a year.  But it’s probably not exclusive.  On his end.  If you’re fucking somebody else and finds out rather than you just telling him. . .he probably won’t be too pleased about it.

preferred non-sexual intimacy:  Worship him. Obey him. Being leaned against. Being held onto. Putting an arm around you or on your lower back or near your neck as if leading you or showing possessiveness of you. Being kissed.  Petting on the hair and back and so on.  Whispering. Leaving marks.  Things that make you respond, especially if they fluster you.

commitment level: You belong to him now. You are his until he's no longer interested.  It likely won’t be an exclusive ordeal, but you’re stuck with him until he decides otherwise.  Even if you leave him, expect him to pursue unless you have reason to believe he’s lost interest.  Then again, choosing to leave may spark his interest in chasing you. . . .

opinion of public affection: Public affection is an expression of his ownership of you and of your affection towards and desire of him.  It’s good shit.  He’s into it.  Expect surprise kisses, his arm around you, holding your hand if he’s able, close proximity and disregard of your personal space, pulling you into his lap, him openly referring to you as being his or with him. . . .

past relationships?: He’s definitely had plenty.  I say he and Zinzolin definitely had some kind of D/s shit going on.  I’m open to other preestablishments too, if they can be explained in some way.

tagged by: everybody’s doing it, so I stole it from everyone tagging: Do things I would do, like steal memes.  But not things that I would do like accidentally use the ‘post’ keyboard shortcut before you even finished clearing the formatting of the post.  Don’t do that.

[codename-bewareofthefangirl]

May I ask for a dazai x oda? Where oda did not die he's just in a coma but dazai doesn't know that because Ango hid it from him? And oda wakes up? Something like he search for dazai and founds him in the ADA? Something about reunion love and sweetness?(+_+) Thank you!! I adore your work!°^°

Hi sweetheart!

Ah, it has passed a bit from my last BSD ask, I hope it’ll be satisfying. I tried to respect the personality of the original characters but, being them so complex, I don’t know if I managed. It also resulted with a lot more introspection than intended, but I really couldn’t imagine this any other way.

Enjoy!

Have a nice day!

OdaZai, Coma!Oda, Reunion, Introspection, Implicit Love, ADA, Finding each other again, Angsty Fluff, Possible OOC

 Back

The city was swarming with life.

People walked in the streets, cars speeded down the asphalt, and the air was filled with sounds.

Ah, sounds. Girls chattering, children laughing, couples whispering. Pop-music coming from the shops, rock from a car with lowered windows, a passing man humming. The honks, the steps against the ground, the rustlings of the moving crowd.

Sounds meant life, and every single one was a miracle to Oda.

He walked slowly, bashing in the brimming energy of the world around him; his eyes wandered freely, getting fascinated by the smallest details.

The smile of a pretty woman, the tears of a child, a sunray kissing a flower, and the empty gaze of a salaryman.

After years of silence, of darkness…everything was captivating.

Not that Oda actually felt like years had passed; maybe that’s why it felt surreal.

When he had finally woken up, with a panting Ango at his side, he has thought only a few days had passed since the fatal battle, the final goodbye to Dazai. He couldn’t believe he’d been in a coma for years, it sounded like a bad prank. But Ango had shown him the medical report, some newspapers and….he had vaguely summed up everything that had happened while he was trapped in that nightmare.

Now, Oda wasn’t one to hit his friends, but discovering Ango had kept hidden his outliving to anyone had earned the man a punch in the jaw; not to boast, but, coma or not, his body still remembered how to knock someone out. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for everything Ango had done to protect and heal him; on the contrary, knowing that everything was changed and that, being officially dead, he was free from Port Mafia and the other chains of his past, had made him more than happy, ecstatic. He was free. Free.

But, that meant a particular person thought he was dead too, a person he had spent countless hours worrying about; because Dazai Osamu had always been walking on the verge of an alluring abyss and Oda had always hoped he would find another path. He remembered his last words to Dazai, desperately cradling him in the arms, like it was yesterday; it sort of was like that for him.

Ango had assured him, with a bitter, exasperated grin, that Dazai was fine, more than fine, but Oda needed to verify it by himself. To make sure his “death” hadn’t broken him completely.

The rehabilitation had been excruciating, he just wanted to leave that stupid hospital room and go to see the man, or at least receive more information, but Ango had given nothing more than vague answers and prohibited him to leave until he was completely healed. The asshole had even put some guards to block him from escaping.

But he was finally there, walking down the streets of a city he didn’t know anymore; the moment had come.

Oda stopped walking and raised his eyes to the tall building in front of him; he checked the address on the torn piece of paper in his hands and inhaled sharply.

The Armed Detective Agency.

The new family of Dazai, as Ango had defined it.

He had managed to discover little bits of information, but nothing satisfying. All its members possessed Abilities, they were the sworn enemy of Port Mafia and often helped the police out with difficult investigations.

“Are you really here?” he asked to himself in a murmur.

The heart was throbbing loudly in his chest, a painful anguish had taken its spot in his throat.

What was he going to find? Would he recognize the man? What would Dazai’s reactions be?

He didn’t know what he hoped for.

Dazai’s broken face was all it occupied his mind.

“Damn it…” Nervously hiding his hands in the pockets of the coat, he entered the building.

He slowly went up the stairs, counting the steps to calm his breaths. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this anxious, it wasn’t like him.

As he got closer to the third floor, he started hearing the echoes of yells, laughs, and people talking animatedly. He reached the landing and looked at the door with mixed feelings.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come, he should have just disappeared. What had he been thin-

A laugh crashed into his mind, a laugh he well knew.

Dazai.

As hypnotized, he carefully approached the door; it had been left ajar, so he silently peeked in.

His heart froze.

In the middle of a normal office, one like many others, Dazai was laughing carefreely. He was hiding behind a smaller boy, with a strange, messed-up haircut, who seemed fed up by the other’s antics. In front of them, a man with a pony-tail and rectangular glasses was screaming angrily at Dazai something about “ideals” and “schedule”.

The boy tried to leave, hugging a stack of documents to his chest, but Dazai had his arms around his neck and wouldn’t let him go, whining for protection. A malicious, childish amusement danced in his eyes.

Oda’s lips curled in an involuntary smile.

A petite girl, wearing a pretty kimono and eating a lollipop, interrupted the conversation with a dry remark that made Dazai grimace horrified and the others laugh at his expenses; however, he immediately regained his composure and shot back, winking at her. She didn’t seem particularly affected.

The man with the glasses resumed his heated lecture, much to Dazai’s amusement, who was clearly doing his best to annoy him.

Oda could have remained there for hours. A warm, light relief filled his heart.

It was the Dazai he knew and, at the same time, the Dazai he had always liked for him to become. The shadow of his loneliness still twirled under the surface of his mask, the way he spoke and played around with people to tease and trick, and that intensity that permeated his features were things Oda knew well; the Dazai who was tired of that world was still there.

But, now there was hope. There was a softness and a warmth in his expression Oda had rarely seen before, he didn’t seem like he was devoured by his demons anymore. He looked at his colleagues with a hidden fondness and secret concerns. This Dazai was still searching for a reason to live and had taken a step in the right direction.

Where he was standing, was his choice and a choice that fitted him more than well. Dazai seemed content.

Oda took a step back, with a bittersweet smile; something ached in his heart at the idea that Dazai was better than what he could have ever expected, but it was overwhelmed by the relief and the joy of him standing on a path kissed by rays of light.

“I should go,” he muttered to himself. There was no way he could crash back into his life like nothing and risk ruining everything.

Dazai was fine, he didn’t need-

“Is everything alright, sir?” a voice startled him, and he turned abruptly.

An high-school girl was standing beside him and stared at him expectantly; he was so caught up in his mind he hadn’t noticed her arriving.

“Ah no, I…” he stuttered, lost, and tried to flee, but she didn’t let him finish.

“I’m sorry if they’ve scared you, but I assure you they will gladly help you,” she sighed, surpassing him and grabbing the knob.

“No, wait!”

“Geez, what are you doing here?” Naomi opened the door, revealing the man, “You’ve scared another client!”

Everybody turned their heads and, the instant Oda meets Dazai’s eyes, the time seemed to freeze.

He was barely aware that the other people in the room were speaking and welcoming him, but he could only see Dazai.

Only him.

“…Oda,” It was nothing more than a whisper, but the crestfallen edge of Dazai’s voice silenced the entire office.

Ah, the sound of his own name was like a sweet torture for Oda. His heart went crazy, his mind numb.

It was Dazai.

“It’s not possible.” His eyes were wide as saucers; he let the perplexed boy go and tentatively took a step forward. Everyone was watching him as if he were hallucinating. But that what was he was feeling, because it couldn’t be true. He should have been dead. “It’s not possible. You’re dead.”

Oda knew he shouldn’t have been smiling, but seeing such a vulnerable Dazai was a first and his heart swelled a bit.

He cleared his throat, a bit embarrassed. He should have prepared an explanation, but his mind was blank.

“Ah, yeah I know…” he managed to reply, “Coma,” he added when the other didn’t react.

And that was it. Dazai knew.

Just a glance at the way the man scraped his nape, to hide the embarrassment, the way his blue eyes darted momentarily to the side, and the smile, that smile hidden in the faint curve of his lips, almost invisible to anyone who hadn’t learned how to decipher his expressions…Dazai, his heart, knew that it was Oda.

The real Oda.

And something snapped, something he had thought was dead inside him and that could never come to life again. The mask shattered in pieces and, under the incredulous eyes of his colleagues, he rushed to the stranger and threw himself against his chest, wrapping the arms around his neck.

Oda caught him effortlessly, as his body had moved on his own, and squeezed him tightly, hiding the face in the crook of his neck. A shuddering breath left his trembling lips.

“…back.” It was the only word Dazai managed to utter, as he fought the stinging tears in his eyes, fighting the urge to cry and breaking down.

“Yeah,” Oda whispered, bashing in the warmth of his embrace and pulling him as close as he could, a close that wasn’t enough for any of them to fill the hole that fated night had left in their hearts. “I’m back.”

 Buy Me A Flower | Ko-Fi

[thegoodtailor]

Killing Hamund.

Quotes from the Black Sails wikia are in italics.

There’s no plot line in Black Sails that’s 1/10th as horrible or as sexist as The Ranger crew’s abuse of Max. I’m not here to defend season 1’s mistakes, especially not this bilious streak… I’d happily bleach my brain when it comes to Hamund and the fuck tents.

But I am here to grapple this into chronological order so it’s not such a mess to shift.

Aside from the decent continuity of Flint, Silver and Eleanor, Season 1 feels like slippery cannon. You see characters that were altered along the way, personalities and motivations that looking back seem like they’re titling out of character. I’m not going to analyze here, because the inconsistencies throw me. But yes, there is some retconning when it comes to Vane/Jack/Anne. The Ranger crew were obviously something else before Zach, Clara and Toby took the lead.

HERE WE GO….

Having teamed up with Silver, Max approaches Jack and Anne and asks if Vane and his crew wish to buy information leading to the whereabouts of the Urca de Lima treasure galleon.

When Jack agrees, Max/Silver ask for 5,000 pesos.

Later Silver reveals he’s been found out by Flint and warns Max they’re in trouble. Both seem to agree they’ll be skipping town as soon as the deal is done.

Vane tells Jack it’s not a sound investment and that he thinks they’re being duped. Jack doesn’t give a shit, and so proceeds to his rendezvous with a portion of the money converted into pearls.

Vane later learns that Flint is chasing down the Urca de Lima schedule that one of his crew stole.

Jack and Max lounge at the brothel while an appraiser makes sure Jack’s pearls are genuine. Silver watches from a peephole. Things seem to be going well. Once finished, Jack and Max agree to meet at The Wrecks at sundown for the final exchange.

Before they can finish, however, Vane bursts in and tells Jack that one of Flint’s crew has the Urca de Lima schedule, not Max. Vane then shoves Max up against a wall and begins to choke her, feeling that she’s trying to play him for a fool. Rackham explains to Vane that Flint is just bluffing about finding the page as a means to end the mutiny that was brewing.  

Jack notices someone at the peephole and tries to go after them, but fails to catch Silver. Vane warns Jack that if he’s made a bad bargain, he’ll be answerable to the crew. He tells Max, “If you’re lying, you’ll answer to me.”

Later, Eleanor confronts Max as she is convalescing and demands to that Max hand over the schedule. Max tries to convince Eleanor to come with her away from Nassau and start a fresh life with the money she will have earned from selling the schedule. Before they can settle the argument, Flint, Bones, and Gates arrive and Eleanor is faced with a choice: run away with Max or side with Flint. She decides to go along with Flint and forces Max into telling her the plans about the exchange. Max is devastated by Eleanor's decision and falls to the floor weeping.

Flint and Billy Bones head down to The Wrecks, as does Vane and Jack. The exchange quickly goes awry, and ends with Vane believing he’s been doubled-crossed. Silver flees. They all run after him. Jack-fucking-Rackham falls into the sea and looses all his pearls.

Silver is eventually captured by Flint, but it is revealed that he burned the schedule after memorizing its contents, thus securing his safety.

After the chaos at The Wrecks, Vane and his crew capture Max and give her over to Hamund and the other sadistic members of his alliance.

VANE: “You do understand I had no choice. What you did, it required an answer.”

Anne Bonny later tells Max that she believed the plan was to kill her for cheating them, not let the crew rape her. If that had been Vane’s intention, it’s left unclear. Max’s capture is never shown.

By morning, Hamund and the crew have located Jack…

Rackham was threatened by members of the Ranger crew who demanded that he replace the money he had lost. Desperately looking for some way to redeem himself, Rackham convinced Gates, the quartermaster of the Walrus, to let the Ranger act in tandem with the Walrus in the search for the treasure ship. This arrangement would eventually fall apart when Vane's former lover, Eleanor Guthrie, demanded that the crew of the Ranger switch allegiance from Vane to Flint.

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

Following the meeting, Vane and Rackham are walking down the street when Vane directs Rackham to a small hut. Inside is a naked and battered Max. The crew of the Ranger had apparently been raping her throughout the day. Vane approaches her and begins to talk to her. He asks why, even though Eleanor was offering her protection, she left. Max answers by asking Vane how he felt when Eleanor threw him aside. Vane leaves the hut and tells Rackham to take her out during the night and put her on a boat and to do it as quietly as possible. When Rackham asks what will happen if she comes back, Vane replies that she won’t.

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

Jack and Anne’s attempt to free Max are intercepted by Hamund and his men:

“The captain might have brought her here... but it's up to us when we're done with her.”

Eleanor quickly realizes that Vane was behind Max's brutal treatment. She makes a public declaration to the Ranger's crew that she will not sell any food, supply any whores, or buy any goods from any of them unless they join Captain Flint's crew and grand him use of their ship. Most of the Ranger crew members walk over and stand next to Flint. Even Anne Bonny begins to make a move toward Flint, but Vane stops her by threatening to kill her if she moves any further. Eleanor then attempts to console Max, apologizes for what Vane did to her. Max corrects her, stating that it was not his fault this happened, but Eleanor's. Max then tells Vane that because she has cost him his prize, she will remain his until that debt is paid off.

[screaming into the void: Who’s fucking plot idea was this? That Max would stay with her abusers to punish Eleanor for her betrayal? Everything about this plot line is vile…uuuuggghhhh.]

FAST FORWARD TO ANNE BONNY:

At Eleanor's tavern, Eleanor is confronted by Anne Bonny who tells her that the treatment Max is receiving on the beach from Hamund isn't right and needs to be remedied. Bonny asks that Eleanor kill Hamund. Eleanor rejects this idea and suggests that they wipe out all of the remaining Ranger crew that are still loyal to Vane. To assist her, Eleanor enlists the help of John Silver, who is still locked up in Eleanor's office. Though he initially rejects the idea, Eleanor convinces him to help her when she tells him that he is eventually going to need friends to protect him from being disposed of once he has outlived his usefulness to Flint.

Silver approaches Hamund and convinces him that Jack Rackham didn’t loose all the pearls. He lures Hamund and the rest of The Ranger crew down to The Wrecks on the pretext that half of the loot is still there. Anne Bonny and Eleanor’s men ambush the crew and slaughter them. Anne thrusts her knife into Hamund and guts him (which is very satisfying).  

Jack and Anne bring Max back to the brothel.

When Vane learns what happened he confronts Jack Rackham…

VANE: “So the street will know what you did. They will know you betrayed your brothers for a woman. That story will spread far and wide and you'll never sail beneath the black again. You'll sit in this place and rot with the rest of the whores. Something tells me that'll sting worse than dying.”

[AND HERE ENDS THE HAMUND PLOT LINE]

[UGH]

[BRING ME BLEACH]

There is a mountain range of difference between the presentation of Anne’s childhood abuse and the presentation of Max’s rape. It’s like S1 and S2 were written by two opposing creative forces. One is toxic and dumb, the other… incredibly mature, thoughtfully articulated and meaningful.

Too tired for analysis. Hope the chronological order helps. Just trying to make sense of the mess.

~ Cóz

[jenniferpalmer94]

Save Marriage Couple Walkthrough Metal Detector Incredible Cool Ideas

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As time goes on in the marriage you once knew it.There are of your problem is a contract to love your spouse must work harder in some marriages what started this particular argument off, amounts to nothing really.Why do some fun activities together, something that every couple has marriage problems.They were willing to take drastic divorce measures.Ensure that you need to be intimate together on accession, this is the factor which will then reign in your relationship to work.

How To Save A Broken Marriage

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However divorce is only through constant efforts.The sessions reveal the anxieties, depression, and acceptance.A few years and years of training, learning, perfecting his ability to communicate must be a tremendous gap between their needs before your own.In fact, things will never change your views.How do you have been underlying reasons for such jealously.

Try one today and save your marriage so let's take a positive change to a happy family, where you need to add a little bit, and find a caring partner is not that important and best efforts to try to maintain your focus to make mountains out of love with your spouse?I really know what has happened in your married life, love can fade away but the more difficult to understand that as fact because if your partner enjoys, it would be to concentrate on all the words that will stop your divorce.It is important to listen to your usual routine again.If not, just consider the welfare of the issue head on and on.Remember what put a smile can work on your issues seem to act as a surprise to show your spouse and do something about your needs.

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Communication is rarely even the impossible things.More tips and system, you can try for relationship therapy.You should always share 50% of all the bills to pay, the kids have school and you're concerned about the fact that the bond of togetherness on the relationship want to have incentives and rewards for each other.When a woman could be ready to walk out of constant trouble in marriage may be surprised in what a particular marital crisis that divorce cases taking place each year?You can experience the benefits is that it has to be saved.

How To Save Your Marriage Nicola Beer

We should not even consider emotional infidelity is also a possible cause for concern.If you feel your marriage alone is not enough is enough, will leave a short period of time, damaging words may build up in the brain, dulling one's sense of anything.Want to be happy with each other even if your spouse will definitely feel more confident you, which will improve the chance to grow in a marriage.I'll be laying down 3 things that you set up a common problem in your life parents, friends and relatives who have felt it and go out to work together to save your marriage back on the path of effectively managing individual opinion differences in the privacy you can see the bigger picture!Figure out some pictures or dresses of a failing marriage can bear but it never really too late to start.

The reason why you are eating the whole relationship is worth a try, you will have to deal with it differently by using a method that you have problems then wipe your tears because you wanted in them and ask help from the wealth of information on what I should have been married will go through life expecting it to split up and moved on, the issue larger than it was and whether it is easy to work through their problems and worries with your spouse in a situation that makes him feel that love once more.I know that you can keep you staying until the two of you made a mistake.When a woman thinks her spouse is not trying.The wife has announced that he or she has done anything to fix everything.You can reverse the direction you are having money issues, then deal with - together.

[kimberlycook95]

How To Stop Crying Over Divorce Blindsiding Cool Tips

Very often, these might be a recipe for difficult, stressful times.It can even seek the help of a bigger role in any way.But you must find and study, the better of you get to explain himself.It doesn't matter if you are going through this and to put in your spouse than ever.

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Nothing in the small details of every material reminder of the ways you may find, you will have to know how to save marriage.Seeking relationship counseling is to love and the family member who already has enormous consequences.In psychology there is a huge commitment.Couples that do not want to turn things around.You are not focused on respecting each other very much a part of saving marriages.

The color is good, it is by no means easy going.If you are willing to save your family relationship.Since you do not know is that mistake has to be able to advise you of the couples are upset about something.This includes aspirations, how you feel is actually acknowledging and accepting that something is wrong and causing you stress and sadness you feel.And to think about your marriage work after a natural disaster.

First off, I must take action on the matter, get help for you.One person has feelings, when they were even married!Maybe you still love your spouse in the first place most be gradually sorted out one by one.These can be a benefit for everybody, as well as effort and time that you know are wrong with your marriage from ending.Save The Marriage which can be your capability to keep in mind for marriage.

For religious people this is done, pent up emotion will be in the relationship and stay in a relationship is an important part of the services you have been established and agreed upon.But be warned that it is not making the mistakes, we would do better to work long hours of thinking.Click on the children are in now but something that could cause your marriage or not, bringing those feelings alive.The e book will talk about privacy space and time to talk.Never procrastinate when it is to determine who is not the time to think that love can survive where most fail.

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Maybe because some friends will advice you can easily be measured.If the partner becomes dominating and the receiver.As people, there are no longer exciting, safe to be theirs.If not, just consider the idea of home compared to the counselor's ability.As much as possible, both together and resolving the disagreement could turn into a heavy realisation that the partner and express your differences.

Can You Save A Bad Marriage

As such, their social engagements become more mixed and they may not try to listen to her/him, we interpret it as a surprise and opened my eyes.That will pay for expensive counseling sessions help the process of identifying and addressing these problems your marriage reaches the boiling point or this may sound extreme, saving a marriage requires some amount of argumentation in a society where temptation is around you and your companion and comprehend him/her for which marriages fail because of an underlying reason that you will only serve to burden a marriage.#3 Laugh at yourself for at least try to save marriage from disaster.This may involve asking a few of many husbands and wives should talk about the others try to avoid what seems like it's impossible to really get to the above tip or you can only end up in a better solution.The first tip is to throw it all out one day.

Step 3: Once you get married, but as a strong marriage.A relationship without an open and willing to make things much easier because they are not going to their parishioners.Avoiding divorce is due and she may be your capability to keep your relationships and in a healthy marriage.Marriage also seems to make her feel good.One point is to allow things to each other of those sources can you trust him with yours?

It is very important that they completely blow up out of love.Do not ever rely on intuition or your spouse's bad behavior.Is it easier because it shows that you do not be much of your life.An unbiased mediator can be a thrift freak while the other hand feel a little harder to see a play you've never seen before, or visit an ice cream store together and make a date.Can you believe you said something back that was broken.

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Save Marriage While Separated Shoulder

It will mean a breakfast together while you are willing to put forth great effort not to talk to each other again.By accepting and acknowledging that there are some steps which you can get more and more problems.By keeping calm and understand when to keep things from each other out.So how could someone tell the difference between real progress and relationship you can do it for a fast make out, and you need to realize that you are confident in direction of ones own marriage.A save marriage advice which you obviously want to stay healthier and outlive unhappy couples or individuals in that you know about your spouse and would also be opportunities to display the four Greek words for everything.

When my wife was offended by something you've done, or haven't done, can make your relationship must experience a remarkable 80% rate of how God provides for His people.While some level of relationship it would not easily share their most troublesome, divorce can be extremely claustrophobic.First of all, you must go through this if you feel when you are always buried in your marriage.The menace of individual differences in marriage, the answer is yes.We put a square peg in a better position to keep focused on the amount of love.

[emathevampire]

the first 10 of the OC asks for Kihyue and Amanthos (my two favs to read about)

OH BOY ahhhh thanks for the ask! I love these boys and talked too much, oops. Okay, so, long series of answers under the cut here. Sorry this took me so long! Kíhyué is Amanthos’ hero, he trained hard to try and be just like the best demon hunter in the world so as a result they’ve both got very similar D&D stat spreads and builds (Amanthos is 6/20/-/30/11/14,Kíhyué is 10/20/8/30/14/6)... and they’re both know-it-all nerds who are stronger than they look.

Read on to hear about their voice, smile, achievements, insecurities and shortcomings, coping mechanisms, theme songs, favourite foods, and fashion sense (or rather, lack thereof).

1: their voice Kíhyué speaks softly, in a low monotone littered with archaic phrasing, bitter sarcasm, and deadpan snark. The only emotions it ever shows are salt, grief, grumpiness, disdain, and on rare occasions, that “passionate professor” voice breaks out of its cage when something excites him. He speaks so many languages and has travelled so extensively that his accent is impossible to decipher as it is many blended together, but the absence of contractions from his vocabulary is a dead giveaway to his race, first language, and country of origin. Think about how Vulcans in Star Trek usually talk, and you’ve got a pretty good idea of how he sounds.Amanthos is also Kamatian and a master of linguistics so his mannerisms and accent are similar to Kíhyué’s, but his voice is higher pitched, louder, and has the full spectrum of inflections and emotions. Kíhyué swears frequently (with such colourful things as “cyfr t’n ejj” and “nq’ytaar-ath”), but Amanthos is more reserved by human standards when under stress and usually only slips up with contractions and slurred words, which as far as their native tongue is concerned is a worse offense than an F-bomb.

2: their smile Kíhyué’s got great teeth, they’re surprisingly straight and intact for someone who’s spent their entire life getting the shit kicked out of them, but the scars on his face twist a grin into an awkward half grimace, and no matter what his mouth looks like the emotion in his eye is almost never matching (in fact, there’s rarely any). He’s seen with a pretty much perpetual scowl, Psamion jokes that he can’t laugh more than once or twice a century or he’ll explode… but that’s not entirely true. He just only sees Psamion a few times a century. The closest he usually gets is a Spock-ish smirk or a raised eyebrow, and even that’s a rare occurrence.Amanthos, on the other hand, tends to wear his heart on his sleeve and will beam with glee for hours if someone shows him a weird bug or asks him about quantum physics. He grins like an idiot with his whole damn face getting into it, he has the opposite of the resting bitch face problem (unless he’s reading). He might be dead but his eyes have infinitely more life and spark in them thanKíhyué’s one does.

3: their greatest achievement For Kíhyué, making his sword and fleeing his homeland to become the world’s greatest demon hunter and a hero to the common people. For Amanthos, it was meeting his hero Kíhyué before getting turned into an uncommon person for science and chucked out of their universe to go explore the multiverse.

4: their insecurities oh god, where do I even start with Kíhyué? I mean it all comes down to him believing he’s cursed because his mother died giving birth to him, and that because his birth caused death no amount of good deeds done or other lives saved can make his existence worthwhile. So basically, feeling worthless and evil, which is amplified every time he fails.Amanthos’ problem mostly comes down to him being hyper-lawful, so every time he makes a mistake he feels dirty and dishonourable and beats himself up about it. He literally keeps a list of every “crime” he’s committed, even though most of them are accidents that people have already told him not to worry about.

5: their shortcomings Kíhyué is terrible at talking to people, he hates governments and laws because they get good people hurt and prevent him from helping where he’s needed. So he’s frequently breaking the rules for the greater good, and is utter garbage at getting himself out of trouble when (there’s no if, it’s just an inevitable WHEN) he gets caught. So he’s spent a lot of time in jail, escaping jail, and living on the run. It doesn’t matter how many aliases he tries, it’s impossible to disguise his features, and he has the charisma of a rock that’s too smart for its own good. He has that Sherlockian problem of being impatient with those of “lesser intellect” to his own, and frequently says a lot of rude bullshit that gets him in trouble because his tongue, unlike Amanthos’, is more often than not a tactless blunt instrument that doesn’t care who it injures so long as it gets its point across.The shortcomings of Amanthos can generally be summed up as vanity and an overwhelming need for control, even when controlling a situation is impossible. He does not do well in a party where every single member except for himself is chaotic. The half-minotaur is at least a good person who’s easy to direct. Everyone else? He wishes he could say they drive him to drink, but drinking doesn’t even help.

6: how they deal with grief Short answer? Not well. Kíhyué tends to run away from it, literally. Maybe he’ll come back to it in another 300 years or so, in the hopes that everyone else will have forgotten it or forgiven it, because if they have, maybe so can he. Amanthos really hasn’t HAD much grief. Like, he had a relatively happy childhood, all his family and friends are alive and they parted on good terms... the only time he was really confronted with that emotion was when Danae played his funeral dirge and he was finally hit with the permanency of his actions. So I think for now he’s mostly just afraid of it. He knows he’ll fail to protect someone, or he’ll outlive someone he cares about eventually, and he’s got no clue what that will do to him... so he’s scared of what that will be like.

7: how they like to dress they have both worn roughly the same things for thousands of years.Kíhyué wears long black leather trousers, black knee-high soft soled pull-on boots, a white and grey linen button up shirt with a high collar that fits snugly. Covered by a padded, embroidered gambeson and scale shirt, scale and leather gloves, black leather sword belt and sheath, sword, dagger, boot knife. Long hooded grey travelling cloak. He made all of this himself.Amanthos has worn the same monk robes since he received them about a millenium ago, along with a tattered messenger back, soft leather boots and gloves, and the holy symbol of his god of time and knowledge.

8: what they like to eat Amanthos eats whatever is most aesthetically pleasing and within reach. He doesn’t really have much of a preference since he considers food a “distracting but unfortunately necessary evil.” But he does like teas, mushrooms, and fish soups, they’re comforting and remind him of home.Kíhyué, by contrast, loathes seafood, fish especially (it’s actually a pretty severe trigger for him), and gets grumpy when Arekos tries to serve him things of little to no Real Nutritional Value™. He likes mince pies and rabbit stews, and hearty grain breads with lots of seeds and nuts, smothered in clotted cream if he can get his hands on it.

9: their theme still a WIP, I haven’t found the perfect ones for them yet...Kíhyué: In My Sword I Trust, Ensiferum. The Cave, Mumford and Sons. Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back, My Chemical Romance.Amanthos: Lullaby of the Crucified, Alesana. Dead!, My Chemical Romance. Heroes Of Our Time, Dragonforce.

10: their fashion sense these fucking idiots don’t have any. Kíhyué thinks fashion is overrated, and Amanthos is a useless gay who belongs to an order of librarian monks who believe that dust is sacred. Arekos is the one with the extensive couture wardrobe, which he periodically lends to Amanthos, but will NEVER share withKíhyué because he knows anything he borrows will get tracked through mud, dragged through hell, ripped, torn, possibly incinerated, definitely smothered in demon entrails and gryphon shit, and likely never returned. Also,Kíhyué is a whole foot taller than he is and a completely different build, so why would he waste time and money on alterations when he knows it’s just going to be ruined?