#if you decide that a piece of art is worthless or stands for something completely opposite to what the artist intended then THAT is wrong

[toastybugguy]

It’s interesting to me how a lot of people immediately started thinking about this in terms of fandom discourse, because I really was just thinking about art in the contemporary era (drawings, paintings, movies, tv, music, poetry, dance etc etc).

Then I remembered that this post is about misinterpretations so actually that is HILARIOUS

Curious how most people feel about this.

[academic-vampire]

(This is a speech I gave to my class in Korea about the importance of adequately directing and interpreting literature. J. R. R. Tolkien has the perfect allegory on this topic. Literature majors, and the common reader, can learn a lot from Tolkien’s advice. I hope you enjoy it. Have you experienced this reckless dissection before?)

The Tower and the Sea Allegory

(Jack C. December, 2023)

What does it mean to interpret a piece of literature? J. R. R. Tolkien was firmly against the reckless academic scrutiny of literary works. Yet, it is not uncommon in today’s academic realm to peel apart literature in hopes of uncovering a deeper meaning. The act of attempting to find flaws and hidden context in literature leads to careless academia. Oftentimes, this can be seen most clearly when it comes to allegory. Instead of appreciating the story for what it is, readers are often pushed to dig too deep into the material of the story, which leaves the story itself set apart from the interpretation, now insignificant and forgotten.

J. R. R. Tolkien turns this idea of overly dissected literature into an allegory to make it easier to understand. Tolkien begins by telling of a man who inherits a field that has an assortment of stones. Upon inspecting the stones, the man decides to build a tower with the materials. Once the tower is complete, the man’s friends visit the structure, and before they have even attempted to climb to the top, they push the tower over. The friends begin to inspect the stones and ground where the tower used to be in search of hidden carvings and inscriptions. Some of the friends even suggest that there is something hidden in the dirt where the tower once stood and begin to dig, forgetting about the mass of stone entirely.

The friends speculate on the tower’s origins, existence, and use, to which they deem to find none. Once they have come to their conclusion of the tower’s uselessness, they turn to the man and tell him how the rubble of stones is a worthless mess. The friends begin to think the man is an odd fellow and a crazed fool for building such a nonsensical tower instead of using the stone for something “useful.”

Through his allergy, Tolkien encourages readers to appreciate the story first instead of carelessly hunting for inaccuracies or hidden truths in an attempt to undermine the work as a whole. The significance Tolkien stresses with his “tower” allegory is that readers need to stand back and look at the big picture before attempting to push it over to search for hidden meaning. By looking at the entire creation, one might realize that there is, in fact, a staircase in the tower that leads to a spectacular view.

This approach of “discovering the big picture” should be practiced throughout all of literature. When encountering literature of any kind, it is best to take in the work for what it is first and foremost: a work of art created to be enjoyed and reflected upon. Writers and poets create their art for a purpose other than to be merely ruthlessly dissected.

Literature of today, when studied too closely, quickly falls subject to this harmful analysis. In studying academia today, it is not uncommon to be pushed to dig deeper into the material one studies. In all fairness, this is not a fault in itself. The scrutiny becomes a harmful practice when the core of the material is forgotten in the search. In digging so deeply into the dirt where the tower once stood—looking for allegory, metaphor, and ridiculous interpretations—the tower itself is deemed unworthy of attention and appreciation.

Only once the document has been appreciated for what it is may it be dissected—to some extent. Instead of completely ripping the tower apart in search of one’s own interpretations, such as the friends did, it is best to keep the tower standing. Maybe then it will be realized that the tower itself is not the end goal. It does not matter what is underneath the stone or what the structure is made of. Frankly, the tower is one of the least important aspects at all. Instead, the significance lies in what the friends ignored in their hasty search for deeper meaning, but what the man knew to be the purpose of his creation all along. Little did the friends know that from the top of the tower, the man could look out upon the sea. This “sea” that Tolkien mentions represents the beautiful work the writer or poet has created. The tower-turned-rubble, on the other hand, is a depiction of literary dissection gone wrong. There is a way to dig deeper into literature to find clarity and truth, but it must be remembered that the work itself is not a document to be torn to shreds but, instead, a work of art to be enjoyed.

Works Cited

Tolkien, J R. R. Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics. London: Oxford University Press, 1963. Print.

[dragondemoness]

Ultimate Cuteness Series - Ultra Despair Girls Edition (Story Mode) Part Three

After the battle with Masaru, you, Komaru and Toko left the subway.

You returned to the surface, and you took a moment to breathe.

Komaru was relieved to be alive, but Toko was angry at herself for not getting any information from Masaru. Then she ended up having a fantasy about Byakuya.

Seeing her like that was rather disturbing, you had to admit.

Komaru noticed another subway entrance, which had been previously covered in rubble. Toko had a feeling it was a trap, but seeing no other options, you decided to go for it.

You entered the subway, and unlike last time, the area was completely empty. The trains weren’t moving, but at least you hadn’t wandered into a death match.

Not immediately, at least.

You started walking along the railway, when suddenly, a couple of Guard Monokumas were standing in your way. Thanks to their large shields, it was difficult to use grenades or Komaru’s hacking gun.

With that, you quickly turned and ran into the train, exiting on the other side. Unfortunately, the rest of the way out was blocked by rubble.

Suddenly, Komaru felt something hit her head, and the ceiling started caving in. The three of you started panicking, and a large piece of rubble bonked Toko right on the head, knocking her out. 

Genocide Jill returned, and she rushed out of the train and sliced up the Monokumas.

She sped off ahead of you, forcing you and Komaru to try and catch up with her. 

Genocide Jill explained that going unconscious or sneezing also causes her to switch personalities. With that, she sneezed, and Toko came back.

You listened to Komaru and Toko as they bickered, then you noticed two Monokuma Kids approaching you, holding a large monitor. 

They stopped in front of you, and on the monitor, another child appeared. His face was completely covered, besides his mouth and eyes.

He introduced himself as Jataro Kemuri.

You noticed a gleam in his eyes as he looked at you through the monitor, but it disappeared quickly. 

Toko demanded that he take his mask off, but he insisted that her “eyeballs would explode,” confusing her. This pointless conversation continued, until Toko gave up and started to leave. Jataro then explained that the ones wearing the wristbands can’t leave the city. They were targets in the Warriors of Hopes’ game, and the game needed rules to be fair.

Soon after, he said he wanted to show you something.

It appeared to be a playroom of some sort. It was bright and colorful, and a Monokuma was watching over people as they held hands and danced together. Then the image changed. Monokuma was now puppeteering the people, and their heads were hanging lifelessly. The music was distorted, and the image became more clear; the people were dead, and they had bolts jammed into their limbs so the Monokuma could control them. Jataro had arranged the demons he hunted into a diorama of shorts, a twisted piece of art.

Komaru stood in horror and shock while Toko tried to look away.

Jataro started bragging about the demons he hunted, like a child rambling about the prizes they found during an Easter egg hunt. 

“And did you know that my frog helped me hunt most of them? He’s more useful than me, and he’s just a stuffed animal. Kinda ironic, isn’t it? I must be reeeeal dumb and incompetent for a plushie to do a better job than me. Did you know that to capture them, the frog swallowed the demons and held them in his stomach? You could hear the demons screaming and begging to be let out.”

Komaru gazed at the monitor in horror, and Toko just said nothing. Meanwhile, you appeared to be in shock, gazing at the monitor with wide eyes and your mouth hanging open.

Toko grew angry, and called him crazy. Jataro then started rambling about how he has more fun compared to before, and that he should thank “Mr. and Mrs. Demons” for teaching him that he was “nothing but ugly, nasty, worthless filfh.”

You assumed that he was referring to his parents, and you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

The monitor switched off, and Komaru fell to her knees in horror. 

She broke down once again, forcing Toko to give her another awkward pep talk.

“You better not forget... I’m with you too. And so are they.”

She said, gesturing to you. She gave you a look that said “help me fix this shit,” and you quickly saw your cue.

“Yeah! Toko-chan and I are both on your side, Maru-chan! If you can’t do it on your own, we’ll just have to help you! So just keep fighting, okay?”

“Y-Yeah, what they said,” Toko agreed. With that, Komaru found her motivation again, and the three of you exited the subway.

When you returned to the surface, you wandered in on an... interesting sight.

The Monokuma Kids seemed to be having a party, and they were dancing while the Monokumas were mirroring their movements. And alongside them, you saw some small stuffed teddy bears dancing with them.

Both Toko and Komaru were focused on the numbers while you found yourself unable to supress a giggle.

“Wh-What the hell are you laughing at?!” Toko demanded.

“Sorry, it’s just funny.”

“Yeah, it kind of is,” Komaru agreed with a light chuckle. “But there are way too many of them. Let’s go back.”

So you went back down to the subway and tried to find an alternative exit. You headed to the underground and, after listening to the two girls bicker once again, you continued exploring.

Suddenly, you came across four Monokumas kicking... something while two Monokuma kids goaded them on.

Komaru shot the Monokumas with the hacking gun, and pulled up the white tarp to reveal another Monokuma, except this one was all white and had bandages covering the jagged red eye.

Komaru prepared to shoot the bear, before he insisted that he was an ally, and introduced himself as “Shirokuma.”

“Y’know... it’s kinda cute. Don’t you think, (Name)?” Komaru asked.

“Huh? Oh yeah, it kind of is, isn’t it?”

After Toko went into a small rant about Shirokuma’s ability to detect one’s first kiss, as well as making a short jab at you after it took a direction towards virginity, the bear stated that he could take you to a “safe place.” Naturally, this earned suspicion from Toko, but Shirokuma eventually managed to persuade you. 

And with that, you followed the bear to the secret base, where the adults were supposedly hiding. You entered the sewer, where you stopped to take a break after finding a file. Shirokuma explained his backstory, the day he rose to consciousness, and how and why he put the secret base together. Toko didn’t buy the story, neither did you or Komaru, but you saw little choice than to believe him.

After some more walking, you climbed up a ladder and found a shuttered door. Shirokuma opened it, and surely enough, you entered a place where some adults were roaming around, perfectly alive.

The three of you went around talking to everyone, many of which seemed kind of shaken up. Which was understandable, given what they had gone through.

After a few minutes of conversation, you encountered a women with long, dull pink hair and a low-pitched voice. She was calm and cool, and you decided that you liked her already. 

Like you and Komaru, she had a wristband. A wristband that signaled you were a target stuck in the Warriors of Hopes’ game. 

She introduced herself as Hiroko Hagakure, once-divorced and currently single. Hearing her last name was quite a surprise to you and Toko. Even though you were in different classes, you remembered Hagakure as a stupid and kind of useless weirdo who had a weird distaste for the occult.

And here was his mother, so calm and cool. How were they even related?

She gave the three of you nicknames, further increasing your enlikening of her. She even commented on your cuteness, causing you to blush. 

After all was said and done, you reported back to Shirokuma. He led you to the conference room, and asked that you wait until the “leader” showed up.

You found a list of dead and missing people in a locker. It was disturbing how long the lists were. 

At this point, it was no longer murder. It was war. The Warriors of Hopes’ revolution.

You investigated the notes found in the lockers before the leader finally came.

A tall man with long hair and a broken arm. He introduced himself as Haiji Towa, the leader of the resistance.

Komaru and Toko started fighting again, and when Haiji learned Toko was from Future Foundation, he ordered them to leave before storming out.

Despite this, Shirokuma insisted you stay the night. He led the three of you to a private room, with a strong resemblance to a prison cell. Then he gave you a wireless device Togami Group developed, and it could send audio and video.

Thanks to radio interference, it wouldn’t work immediately, but if you went up to Towa Tower, you might be able to contact Future Foundation.

And just like that, a new hope was found.

Komaru hugged Shirokuma as a thank you, and the three of you went to sleep. Komaru turned out to be a blanket thief, but she also clung onto you throughout the night, so it helped. 

And the next morning, it was go time.

[guste-disgusted]

that is a good painting for a woman

I could write a never-ending poem or five or 8 for each year I spent in art school in Lithuania and still have things to say about it. There is a lot that could be said about long hours at school drawing a lousy made replica of Ancient Greek sculpture or people who hanged themselves high as Christmas decorations in the building, “psychologists” who tell you to clap your hands instead of helping to cope with an enormous amount of stress and anxiety. And that is not even a fraction of stories that happened there. But everyone in my country knows this - the school is notorious for manufacturing one note “artists” (future teachers and people who create a “meaning”, even though that meaning is as boring as a grilled cheese sandwich) and people who have mental health problems. What the public eye doesn’t see, is the treatment of women artists. I would like to say “treatment behind the closed doors”, but that would be a complete lie, since the execution of sensitive souls is carried out in the broad daylight. This happens mainly because teachers and artists don’t know any better and their behaviour is not only praised by their colleagues, but by young artists (including women) themselves. 

I was always known for my “bravery”. Even though I couldn't even hop through the gymnastics goat, I was always afraid to carry my cigarettes with me and be caught by the police (it happened to someone else once, so my fear wasn’t an irrational one. Well, maybe it was), but I always had strength to stand up for myself. In kindergarten, we were required to learn Lithuanian folk art - my country attempts to make us patriotic from a very young age, and if you look at my artwork from the first year, you can see that they succeeded in making us patriotic. We had to sing a very old song that was meantfor workers in a windmill. We had to be put in different groups and I didn’t hear which group I am in, so I just sat on the bench and waited for an opportunity to ask again where should I go. The teacher was absolutely furious that I was left there sitting and started to shout at me (that is a late-motif for a Lithuanian - any emotion should and can be expressed through anger). I looked at her - 6 year-old with poor kid’s outfit that some time ago belonged to another poor kid and asked the teacher: “do you need a calming tea or something?”. No one in my family asked this question, but for some reason I knew that it is exactly I should say. And this sentiment that no matter what happens, no matter what kind of teachers starts to express their disappointment, I should always stand up for myself.

Even though my art school was so horrible in so many aspects, there were some positive things. For example, I had art history lessons, so I know who Magritte is, and that German expressionists liked Nida. We used to skip my lovely teacher's lessons whenever we wanted to smoke illegal cigarettes from Belarus or to finish another worthless piece of "art" before the deadline. She knew that a 17-year-old would skip classes on a whim either way, so she decided to make a deal - to make up for the lost time, we had to write some small tests. So, after we collectively skipped the class,  we had to pick a random card with Lithuanian painting on it and write a comment. Everyone considered this task an easy one andcompleted in a matter of minutes, me and my friend, on the other hand, took this seriously and sat there for quite a while. I completed my task before her and decided to wait for my friend - she was the last left. I laid my head on a backpack and naively thought I could get some rest, at least for a minute. Art history teacher was surprised by how long my friend took,so she decided to look through what she wrote and maybe help her. So, she looked at the card that my friend picked and loudly, without any hesitation said “Oh, you got this painting… That is a good painting for a woman!”. 

All of my sensors were wakened up from the dead. I lifted my head that felt so heavy from the lack of rest and sleep, looked at my teacher and loudly asked “good painting… for a woman?”. She was surprised by my question more than I was surprised by her remark. We got into an argument - not because we were angry by each other, but because we couldn't understand why we couldn't agree on this matter. My friend didn’t get me either - apparently, in the room of 3 women, who have their own in the art world, I was the one who saw a problem here. The next day, my friend brought up this situation in our small drawing group - just to make fun of me. There were two more young women, and still no one really understood why I wasn’t pleasantly surprised by that "fabulous" comment. 

However, the next week during my art history class, my teacher stepped out of her way and prepared slides on "FeministArt”. I don’t know if she did it because my comment was thought-provoking, or out of malice, but either way, we spent 2 hours that week talking about Tracey Emin and Cindy Sherman, and every time she said the word “feminism”, she gazed at me with a little smile - just like little kids do when they find a secret stash of candies.

[kissme-hs]

Tainted love: 3

Here it is!! I’m so sorry it took me so long to update it but let me know what you think! Hope you enjoy it.

~Ria

Pairing: Fem! Reader x Chris Evans

Warnings: None.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Hatred is far from the feeling you felt. You were disgusted. Utterly disgusted with the man you put your trust and faith and your heart into who did nothing but took it for granted and it all into little crumbs of pain. All this time you blamed yourself for HIS actions that he not only did while being in his complete sense but knowing how wrong it is-continued doing it. The image you had of Chris in your mind now vanished, the man you once thought deserved to be prayed now made your stomach churn because of how shameful he turned out to be.

After sending him the text you thought, oh you thought that he would realize what he lost, that he would feel a little bit at least of regret in the back of his head but you were so wrong. It not only made you feel worthless but made you realize instead how your love meant nothing to him, how all those years you spent in each other’s arm vowing to each other to be in love until the end of time was nothing but a lie to him. Where to you it meant your entire life.

One doesn’t stay with a person for three years not to just fuck and say I love you’s for fun. With the years the feelings grow strong and at some point, you start fantasizing marrying that person, having kids with the person, grow old with the person. But when one decides to go and cheat, putting all the years of love in ignorance and throwing it all in the pit of darkness not only everything changes but the dreams once knitted by the eyes of the one who remained faithful in love, who was the true lover gets struck by the lightening of reality. And once the dreams crashes, it becomes nearly impossible to dream again because the dreamer starts seeing the real world.

Fuck dreams.

Became your to go motto ever since you knocked on his door.

The heavy teal door opened after a few knocks as you held your breath getting yourself ready to face the man who ripped your heart apart. But instead you were met by a pair of green eyes, gorgeous eyes. She stood there in his hoodie and a pair of short showing her perfect toned legs. Her dirty blonde hair and fuller plumps would made any man lose his girl and go crawling to her. She was an absolute piece of art.

“Chris we have someone here for you” She yelled leaning back a bit so the man could hear her. She gave you a side smile as a gesture of kindness. She was aware she was a homewrecker, she knew how much Chris loved you and she also knew being a good friend she should’ve stopped him when things became a routine between them two but she couldn’t say no to him. Chris would make any women go crawling to him too. She was equally shameful for what she has done not as close to how Chris was feeling but still. So when Chris asked her to come over explaining her what happen which she knew would some day she didn’t hesitate coming over comforting him.

“i-im Samantha” she replied stepping aside letting you step inside of your his house. The smell of familiar cologne and candles hit your nostrils making you tear up from the past good memories. Gi ving her a tiniest sad smile and a nod, you stepped inside of the house. Turning your gaze up to the sound of approaching footsteps you saw the man, and oh sweet jesus you thought you’d hate him but how could you when the feeling of love was always greater than hatred. But the pain crept up when you saw Samantha walking to him and rubbing his side comforting him, though she was guilty, she still at some point enjoyed the attention Chris gave her.

Though she might have a portion of kindness in her heart she was known for breaking homes. She was used to getting in pants of men who were committed. It made her feel special; it made her feel like gold that everyone loved chasing. Especially in this case, knowing what a prize Chris’s girlfriend, you were she was over the moon. She loved how Chris was willing to give up a beautiful woman with a proper job and who had her life sorted for someone who was nothing compared to you.

“Y/n” he breathed out ignoring the woman rubbing his arm. His eyes getting wet seeing your face after days. Jeez only if he could kiss you and tell you how much he missed you and loved you.

“I-im sorry, I’m so sorry” He said walking to you as you raised your hand telling him to stop, which he understood nodding his head and taking a step back. He felt the ache in his heart.

“He really is sorry, he told me everything after you texted him so I came running” Samantha uttered rubbing Chris’s back. It did nothing to you but made your blood boil as you closed your eyes and took a deep breath not wanting to say something which could hurt her feelings. Opening your mouth telling her to leave you heard Chris say that instead.

“Can I ask you to leave please?” He asked her taking a deep breath trying not to yell either.

“I-“

“Get out, get off my property” you spat. You and Chris jointly brought this house so you wouldn’t feel a burden on him being the independent woman you were. Feeling like she was shamed in front of two successful people, Samantha gathered her stuff and left within the next coming minute. Though you were a softie, there was no doubt you has a powerful side too.

“I’m sorry baby, I am so sorry. Please give me a second chance.”

“Why Chris? Why did you cheat on me? Was my love was not enough for you to sleeping with her. Tell me Chris did you not feel a little bit of shame fucking on OUR bed? Tell me why did you have to go and do that making me look like a fool? Why did you waste my time? WHY DID YOU FAKED THE LOVE if you wanted to cheat?” You finally let it out. You were crying at this not giving a fuck. He deserved to see how broken he left you. You were not going to act like everything was fine, like you didn’t care when you felt dead inside.

“No. No baby. Never for once I ever faked my love for you.” He cried cupping your cheeks-you finally let him touch you because you wanted to feel his warmth on your cold skin. His own eyes crying as you sobbed yourself.

“I-I don’t know why I did that. I don’t know why I decided to chase a rock when I had the most precious diamond. She is nothing compared to you. Nothing. I love you so much” He whispered resting his forehead against yours. You knew deep down he meant what he said. You felt the words hitting your body making your knees go week but it was for the best. The separation. So pushing him back slightly you gathered your broken pieces up.

“I just came to tell you that I am moving to California. I will always cherish the good memories you gave me” you gave him a broken smile wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

“No please give me one more chance” Chris pleaded grabbing your hands. His defeated eyes begged yours to give in, to see that he wasn’t lying anymore. That he was truly sorry for what he has done but being the strong headed woman you are, you shook your head and wiped his tears with your hand before cupping his cheek.

“It’s for the best. I still love you, but it’s not the same Chris. Let me let you go”

That was an year ago. An year ago you left the man standing on his porch as you turned your back on his forever, making your way to the new life that waited ahead of you in Los Angeles. The city of angels. The city that gave you a chance to put your words into songs, let your shattered voice sing it in a melody helping you reach out to him without reaching out to him.

And today you stood in front of over 100 amazing successful celebrities who warmly welcomed you in the family of Hollywood and decided to join you for your album launch party. You didn’t hesitate writing down your deepest condolences you had for yourself and singing it out. Every word people heard in the songs came from the bottom of your heart. Came within the true feeling of getting lost and found again.

Getting into the industry wasn’t hard for you. You were already a known person working for Hollywood and it not only being the reason how you met Chris it also gave you an opportunity  to let your talent out. All those months you spent working hard to get acceptance by one of the music producers was the time when Chris was fucking Samantha. Only if he stayed the night you begged him to, he would’ve known it all.

Your album was dedicated to Chris. No one knew expect you. No one could know anyways.

Stepping down the mini platform where you expressed you gratitude to the audience you made your way to where the bar was set up to drink in the emotions that were bubbling up your throat from all the love you received to the pain that still ached in every nerve in your body. It was impossible to erase the memory of him fucking Samantha from your head. You were proud to you say you tried. Tried every way of escaping his face haunting your dreams every night. The feelings choking you down. The pain eating you alive. But you couldn’t.

“What you said there was beautiful.” You heard the deep voice of the man who you left standing on the door of Boston an year ago. Turning your body around, mentally preparing yourself for the wave of mixed emotions to hit you like a truck you faced his adorningly beautiful face. His beard looked fuller and his hair fluffier. He looked the same but his eyes looked dead, just like they were when you left.

“Thank you.” You gave him a broken smile.

“Can we talk? Please?” He asked you with eyes full of hope and you nodded letting him guide you out to the balcony that had the perfect view of the city. He deserved some time with you after an year of you completely blocking him out. He deserved to know that the words coming out of your mouth in the song were written about him.

“It about you, you know. The album” You said walking over to the railing looking at the illuminous city.

“I figured, I never knew you were working on something so big.” He stood beside you.

“You would have if you stayed”

“Listen, I’m not going to waste any more time. Im here to beg you back in life, I am sorry for what I have done but please give me a chance. That one year spent without you was my living hell. Everyday I prayed for you to come back but you never did and there’s no question why. I am a horrible man but I promise if you let me prove it that I am so much better than I was I wont let you down. I will love you even more than I ever have” he said with a soft voice guilt dripping with every word he spoke making you turn around to face him. His eyes glistening with tears and his hands holding each other in front of his chest.

Man was literally begging you.

“Hey you are not a horrible man.” You whispered walking to him as you put his hands down and held his one cheek in your hand. He instantly nuzzled his nose feeling your skin after days of being away from you. His knees were giving away and so was his heart.

“We all make mistakes but learning from them and moving on is important. I forgave you the minute I stepped away from our relationship. You’re nothing but still the most precious man I ever had” you said. Your own eyes picking the tears.

“then give me a chance” he spoke kissing your palm staring down In your eyes making your belly turn in knots.

“I cant. I have moved on Chris” You said breaking his heart. He breathed out biting his lower lip as he looked on. He never felt so defeated and helpless. But this is what he deserved for throwing away the best he ever had. For not respecting the beautiful relationship and woman he was meant to guard. He opened his mouth but the lump in his throat got in the way. He could just break down.

“Then let me be your friend. I just want to be in your life. Make up for what I’ve missed. Please don’t say no.” He trembled in fear you would reject him but instead you nod your head and pull him in a hug knowing he would break if you didn’t. Still knowing him like the back of your head you gave in his request hoping you could contain the emotions.

It is said, two who once fell in love can never be friends. Once in love, always in love.

So you stood there holding him, closed your eyes letting the man calm his cries. Falling back in the chakra of tainted love.

-

Tags

@captainchrisstan

@evansphnx12

@adriannajackson

[tchxispiills]

𝐵𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑇𝑜 𝐷𝑖𝑒. ❤︎

Runaways.

It was September 1st, 1991.

The day I decided to run away from home. All the family drama was just to much for me to handle. I was done with it. So- I decided to leave. At the time I was living in New York, the city full of Music and Fashion and I loved it. I wanted to be a musician and at the time- I was getting myself for out there. People loved me.. but then my family got involved and since I was underage I couldn’t do anything about it. But don’t just think it was my whole family.. My father passed and I had no siblings. It was just my sorry excuse of a mother. At first it wasn’t so bad- She only managed my schedule but then.. it got worse. She started to control the way I ate, who I could hung out with, my style- My whole life. But that’s not the reason I wanted to run away. It was over one fight that would change my life forever.

Flashback.

“Amelia!-“ I flinched a bit when I heard my name but it probably just was my mother wanting something stupid again. I quickly got up out of bed and hurried down stairs trying not to make her wait since whenever I did.. she get a bit violent. As I went downstairs I slowly peaked my head from the corner of the wall to see a bunch of people standing outside the door- They looked like cops. They Were Cops. “Crap..” I mumbled to myself knowing I was already in trouble. “What the hell did you do!-“ My mother yelled, her face looked a bit annoyed but I didn’t care. This wasn’t the first time I got in trouble but it was the first time the cops actually showed up. “Nothing-“ I said responding a bit quickly but before I could finish my sentence the cops began talking. “Well.. I know you guys are quite popular here but that doesn’t mean your daughter can not get in trouble.” They explained. While they were explaining the situation I was in my mother glared at me. “Your daughter and a couple of her friends went partying last night through the city and caused quite a lot of trouble. Spray painting walls, Shop lifting and even pulling a prank on a bunch of old people but lucky for you ma’am we just came to warn her about her actions. Next time this happens. She will be put in jail.” They said. My mother looked at me shaking her head in disappointment and then turned to the cops saying. “I completely understand. Thank you for coming.” She smiled and waved as the went on their way.. But Man, Once that door closed Hell started. She then began yelling at me, she even put her hands on me. “HOW DARE YOU DO THIS- DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD WE WORKED FOR YOU TO GET THIS POPULAR AND NOW YOU’RE TRYING TO RUIN IT.” She said yanking me but my hair. My mother was taller than me- and pretty strong but I’m glad I took classes for self defense because as soon as she yanked my hair I grabbed her by her hand and slammed her to the ground. “I NEVER ASKED YOU TO BE INVOLVED.” I yelled at her. “You have been ruining my life ever since you stared to take over my whole music career! You don’t own me, mom!-“ I continued but before I could finish she got up and punched me across my face causing me to fall on the ground. My face started to swell a bit. It hurts. “Until you’re 18- I do own you!- I’ll control you for as long as I live on this pathetic earth. I brought you into this world and I can take you out.. And sometimes I regret even creating you. You’re a worthless piece of shit that ruined my life!-“ She said causing me to tear up. I felt heart being torn apart.. I didn’t even know to react. So all I did was run back into my room, locking the door behind me and started to cry for hours.

It was 11 am I haven’t eaten for almost 8.

I stared up at my ceiling thinking about how I was over living in this hell hole. So I decided to call my close friends. Lilith, Eliza, and Naomi. We were all pretty girls but the kind you don’t want to fuck with. I had black dark curly hair it was not short but not long (I preferred having them in braids) and dark brown eyes. I normally liked dressing all aesthetically- pink, black..Brown, DOESNT really matter to me as long as I look good. I was pretty short compared to my friends. I’m more defensive and outgoing.. The person who’s normally pretty mean, type of girl. Lilith on the other hand was bold, confident, beautiful- Not your average type of girl. She was way taller than me. 5’8, I assume. Her aesthetic was pretty- The French girl type. Her hair was curly like mine and wore really cute glasses. She was a singer like me and we loved singing together but we prefer the whole solo thing. Eliza was the type of girl who didn’t care about how she looked. She normally wore artsy dresses and leather jackets- She was the coolest girl I knew. She was an artist.. she was pretty well known too. Her hair was dyed at the ends and it really suits her. Last but not least was Naomi basically the mother of our group. She’s an actor and she’s pretty damn good, if you don’t mind me saying. She had dark brownish hair- two parts dyed in the front. Her hair was once long but we convinced her to cut it to her shoulders. (It looked so awesome, by the way.) She normally wore casual/comfortable clothes joggers, hoodies, crop tops. All that good stuff. I love all my friends and I’m glad they’re here for me. Once I called them I explained to them everything that happened. “Oh hell no!-“ Lilith yelled through the phone. She was upset. They all were. “Guys..” I sighed to myself before finally saying. “I’ve decided I wanted to run away- I’ve had my bags packed for a while and I have a bunch of money anyway. I’m just tired of living like this. Constantly being afraid. I want to be my own person.” I explained. Eliza the chimed in and said- “I WANNA GO. I’ve been meaning to travel somewhere else. I need new inspiration for my art.” She smiled. Naomi then agreed. “I’ve been wanting to move out so long my stupid brother is going to make me kill him. I’m to pretty to kill myself.” She says laughing. “I’m going because I always wanted to move in with you guys plus.. The guys might be pretty hot.” She laughed. I stared at my phone tearing up from happiness. Knowing I wasn’t going to be alone was the happiest day of my life.“Thank you guys.. I love you guys so much.” I chuckled and started explaining the plan. Once everything was explained there was only one question to be answered. ‘Where are we going?’ We all recommended things and even looked some stuff on our computers until we agreed on one thing. And that was.. New Jersey, Gotham City.

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

I don’t trust Kat to give you context, so I’ll do it this time.

I decided to write something based on some stuff we were talking about. I don’t have the most confidence and this is more related to her stuff anyways, so while convincing me to post it, she offered to host it here. This has the added bonus of it being HER that hits post, limiting my chance to chicken out.

So enjoy this out of context thing I wrote because Kat is a bad influence.

-grungekitty-77

Eleanor knew she was an artist from a young age. From the moment she took he first picture she knew she’d found her calling. Other girls played dolls, she focused on posing them. She took photos of everything, always looking for something she hadn’t seen before. She got bored often and nothing frustrated her more than having nothing interesting to photograph.

From a young age she was hailed as a prodigy. Her eye was so unique, and she had a knack for finding things and making them interesting, things nobody realized could be that interesting. So, she had no trouble getting a start at a studio.

She hated family portraits. She hated them with a passion. They always wanted the same straight on angle and it was so painfully boring. They were frustrating to work with, they were all the same stiff smiles, one shot no different than the next. No talent or expression. She’d outright refuse them if they weren’t keeping the lights on.

She was ready for another grueling photoshoot that brought no fulfillment and wasted her talents. This family had an unruly kid.

Eleanor never really go the appeal of kids. They were loud and needy and usually a mess. They did provide more interest than their parents though. The boy screamed randomly at one point, much to his parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents’ dismay.

He laughed at their frowns and Eleanor captured it. The emotions and dynamics were the most interesting thing she’d gotten so far.

The boy got lectured by his mom and pouted. The adults were back to their static smiles, but he displayed his emotions, not looking at the camera or standing straight. Eleanor captured that too, focusing on the boy’s emotional journey.

The adults got frustrated with him as he fidgeted, and their smiles dropped. His mother pulled him aside and screamed at him. He shrunk down and started to cry. She captured it.

Then she hugged him, telling him that she loved him and just needed him to behave. Eleanor captured her favorite shot of the shoot. It was a photo she’d have framed and hung in her house for years to come and would be her favorite for a long time.

This child, crying and filled with shame, clinging to his mother, comforted by the very cause of his tears. The vulnerability, the emotions, the submission, it was all something Eleanor hadn’t seen before.

The rest of the shoot went normally, the kid even having some real fun by the end, but Eleanor never forgot how that mother had the power to control her child’s emotions like that.

Family portraits stopped being so boring after that day. Eleanor stopped focusing on trying to make something worthwhile within the stifling constraints, and instead focused on how much power mothers had over the children. How if Eleanor needed something from them, the mother would provide it. Telling the child directly rarely worked but asking the mother to tell the child always did. It was like they weren’t interacting with the world as their own beings, they could only understand what was filtered through their mothers. Eleanor became obsessed with that power. The power to control another’s reality like that. A mother was her child’s whole world, and she could shape that world as she pleased.

Eventually her artistic work gained enough of a following that she never had to do a family portrait again, much to her relief. She hated working through the mothers. She may’ve been fascinating with their power over their children, but she wanted to have her own and constantly borrowing theirs was getting irksome. She wanted to shape her own worlds, and not have to work around the worlds these women had already shaped.

She still didn’t want a baby though. She wanted the control of her subject being a mother brought, not a child to raise.

Her dilemma sent her on a path to find others like her, a path that led to a private online forum. It was full of people like her, people that were obsessed with controlling, with shaping a world and having total power over it. She finally had people that understood what was going on in her head. Not all of them approached it from the same angle as her, but they all wanted to control a subject. She made good friends.

Itssnowing: have you thought about a pet?

SkullsandRibbons: maybe….

Itssnowing: Get a pretty little thing and train it. I know where you can get a lovely little purebred. It might fill the hole.

Eleanor took her friend up on his suggestion and got Lucy.

At first Eleanor was happy to have a new subject, but quickly she got frustrated. Lucy didn’t listen. She couldn’t get Lucy to do what she wanted, and all of her shots were off center or blurry because Lucy refused to hold a position.

Itssnowing suggested she send her off to get trained and Eleanor again, took his advice.

It worked. Lucy came back ready to obey orders. Eleanor was delighted for about a month and a half.

Then Lucy got boring. She looked the same as any other pure breed. She had the same few emotions and responses; the interest ran out. Eleanor ran out of new things to capture. She hated taking repeats of shots she already had.

Lucy was sold.

Itssnowing: Why? I would love having something so pretty in my house. A living, breathing piece of art that’s just for you.

SkullsandRibbons: Why would I want something I can see anywhere? There’s nothing new about it. Nothing unique. Nothing raw! Nothing new to see. It’s boring!

Itssnowing: I guess I’m just boring then. I’d much rather a quiet afternoon at home with a pretty little thing snuggled on my lap.

SkullsandRibbons: Well you’re an office worker, I’m an artist! I need something fulfilling!

Itssnowing: Suit yourself then.

SkullsandRibbons: I’m gonna go to the shelter tomorrow, see if they had anything interesting.

Itssnowing: You want a MUTT!?

SkullsandRibbons: Absolutely! No two are identical. I might actually capture something unique!

Itssnowing: I don’t understand you… but I suppose I don’t have to understand your tastes.

Eleanor laughed at her friend. She shared almost everything with Snowing. He got all the shots she took of her new rescue. He even admitted that the pictures were marvelous, though he still had his own tastes.

Eleanor got bored too easily. She decided to foster, so that she’d get a different subject every once and a while. She definitely preferred the rescues over Lucy. They all had stories and intrigue and were far more dependent on her attention. She could brighten them right up with a little affection, and then destroy them by ignoring them for a minute. Best was that she could do it all over again and it still worked.

But dogs got boring. She needed something fresh, something entirely unique, something that screamed at her to be captured and focused on.

She was browsing the internet one day and a headline caught her interest. She’d vaguely heard about the ninja, but she hadn’t actually seen any real pictures yet, so she clicked the article just to see what kind of pictures it had.

The green ninja made her eyes roll. Scared boy trying too hard to look strong and important and nothing else. A few candid shots had potential, but he seemed to only be himself when he didn’t know he was being seen, which would be pointless to explore with a camera.

The white ninja made her cringe. He had nothing to give. Well, the interesting anatomy could be worked with, but the ninja himself was a stiff subject that had nothing to see.

The blue ninja was all energy, no form. She could probably get some good shots, but it would get very one note after a short while.

The black ninja at least seemed to know how to hold himself, though he didn’t seem to have any interest in being a good subject. He’d make a decent model for brand work, but he’d be worthless in any artistic projects.

The girl was a brat. She refused to be a subject. It was a non-starter.

It was the red ninja that made her stop breathing. Then she boiled over in rage.

He was…He was perfect. He was gorgeous. He had an effortless look with just enough edge to make you want to know more. He was stunning, and the framing was the worst she’d ever seen!

They focused on the complete wrong place, and the lighting was just….oh it burned her. Here was this boy being the perfect subject, all the stars aligned, and the photographer ruined it!

She searched him up, she had to know what he looked like when he was given the attention he deserved.

Kai Smith.

She found his social media and started to scroll through. He posted his own pictures and he had no training in photography, but at least he wasn’t ruining anything. She poured over each selfie. His eyes burned with mischief and passion, his face had beautiful angles no matter which way he turned, and he seemed to love being observed. He was preforming. Giving pieces of himself for others to see. Eleanor continues to scroll and fantasized about capturing those pieces and propping them up correctly. She could make something magical out of him. His expressions told stories, he wore his emotions like jewels and Eleanor had to know more.

She spent the next week obsessing over everything she could learn about Kai Smith, her new muse. And she found something she hated even more than boring subjects, seeing someone mishandle a beautiful subject like Kai.

They all were too focused on Lloyd, who looked uncomfortable half the time he was on camera.

Nya wasn’t always an awful subject; she seemed a lot more willing to be captured if her brother was there with her.

She was right about Cole. He had the training, but no passion for it.

Jay was an attention hog and she found herself annoyed with him. Too overpowering, he didn’t leave the artist any room to work.

Zane was everything she thought he was. No surprises there.

But Kai…

The pictures where he was angry were the best. He had such a raw emotion. He let everyone see how he felt and let the image have the power of what he felt. He let his soul be seen.

She learned all she could about him.

He had a tragic backstory. Something with teeth, no wonder he had a touch of a wounded look. He had no mother to shape the world for him. This interested Eleanor even more. Kai seemed to have filtered the world for his little sister, and seemingly Lloyd too, but he seemed to lack anyone that could reshape his world as they saw fit.

He was wayward child.

The thought made Eleanor smile. Kai had no mother to compete with. There was no woman she’d have to fight with to take control of his world. He was what she had wanted so desperately. A beautiful and interesting subject she could control.

Oh, how she’d love to have him.

[justanotherdeadgirlwalking]

That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part Five. 

Art doesn’t just happen. It’s a process. You need a muse, an inspiration, something that lights a spark in your brain. Inspiration is everywhere. I’m surrounded constantly by beautiful bodies, beautiful faces. Sometimes you walk down the street and see how perfectly someone’s shoulders meet their slender neck, and the image burns into your mind. You want to see it in front of you again, but you can’t because that would require stalking the person to find them, and that’s super fucking creepy. So, you settle for the next best thing, you draw it. You sketch it over and over again until you get it right, and suddenly that woman is in front of you again. I prefer to draw people, because then you never run out of ideas. Faces are so unique; each body is different. There’s billions of people in the world, each one just waiting to be captured; I never run out of ideas. Eyes are like two little galaxies right in the center of the asteroid that is your face.

Putting together a portfolio has been a lot harder than I’d expected. I thought I’d just through my favorite drawings in a folder and call it a day. The only problem is, I hate literally everything I have ever drawn. Mom has always told me that my drawing look like photographs. That’s complete bullshit because you can see fingerprint smudges, and you can tell that one eye is significantly better than the other, and the noses look like shit. I literally want to redo every piece.

I’m not being one of those people that says their work is shit because they’re fishing for compliments, I know they’re good. I’ve been featured in district art shows, and I’ve won awards. And I’m not trying to sound like a cocky asshole either. Art is just the one thing in my life I have complete and total control over, and trust me, I took control. I can choose how it looks, I can make it as perfect, or imperfect as I want it. I had to beg my parents for the best pencils and canvas to use. I figured, I didn’t take music lessons or dance lessons like Zoe did, you guys can buy me some quality supplies. They didn’t want to waste money on the stuff if I wasn’t going to use it. As a child I tried a lot of sports and hated them. When I was ten, I joined the swim team. I practiced every day, for hours. I even talked Zoe into training with me, I made her time me, and yell at me in an angry German accent when I wasn’t making time. Then, after probably hundreds of hours of training, I decided that I didn’t like swimming before I even had the chance to compete. I guess they didn’t want me to do the same thing with art. Mom finally took me to an art store, like a real art store, when I proved to her I was serious about it. It was like going to Disney world. Everything I’ve ever dreamed of was right there in front of me. There was a wall of colored pencils. There were pencils in every color I could think of, and then some, colors I never even seen before. I stood there in awe. It was a game changer to use real colored pencils, not Crayola’s. Larry was so mad, he didn’t understand how art supplies could be so expensive. Well, I don’t understand why someone would spend $100 on a dozen golf balls either, so I guess we’re even.

Since I couldn’t realistically redo every piece of art I’ve ever made, I decided I would just use every piece that my art teacher loved and draw one new piece. It seemed like a good compromise. Miss Schmitt was the only person I really trust with anything. She’s always pushed me to keep going, not to give up on a piece and see it through. She didn’t teach me how to draw, you can’t teach talent, but she always motivated me.

I really needed her motivation now. There was one person I really wanted to draw, but I seemed to have a mental block on what they looked like. Miss Schmitt told me to use a reference picture, but I didn’t want anyone to know who I was drawing. It would make me look psycho, and people finally stopped thinking I was a freak.  I couldn’t bring myself to draw his face, so I drew his body. I drew his New Balance sneakers and his mal fitting khakis. I spent hours trying to replicate the crease down the front of his pants just right. I even made a special trip to the art store to make sure I found the right shades of blue for his stupid stripped shirt. I got an off-white colored pencil so I could shade his cast just right. Evan’s arm may not be broken anymore, but when I think of him, I think of him in his cast, just after I signed it. When everything was still really real and made sense.

I’ve become obsessed with him. How could I not be, he was my one and only friend. Except, that wasn’t true, and he used me for a better life. I really wanted nothing to do with him, but at the same time I wanted to know everything about him. It didn’t help that he was always around.

There was a knock on my door. “Come in” I called, snapping my sketchbook shut. I looked up to see Evan in my room, behind him, Zoe was peering in, almost hiding. “What’s up” I asked them, annoyed. Evan stands there for a second, looking down and playing with his fingers. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

“Um, me and Zoe want to talk to you” he spits out in a nervous stutter. I motion for them to come in. Zoe comes in and sits on my bed, not looking at me. Evan stands still for another moment before pulling the door shut and sitting on the ground where he stood. Everyone is silent for a moment, avoiding eye contact. I cough loudly to end the awkwardness.

“What did you guys want to talk about?” I ask.

Its Zoe that answers, softly, her voice breaking, “I want answers,” she says. Well kid, that makes two of us. “Why did you try to kill yourself.”

I feel like I was kicked in the chest. I don’t really have an explanation as to why. I just did. It was impulsive, seemed like the right thing to do in the moment. I wasn’t suicidal, and I wasn’t depressed beyond my normal gloom and doom. I just did it because I felt like it. I wasn’t feeling helpless or worthless, just bored. Except, I can’t tell her that. “Connor?” she asks. I just stare at her, hoping she will drop it. She meets my gaze and raises an eyebrow. She looks so sad, so broken. I must have really hurt her.

“I don’t want to talk about it” I say.

She sighs and balls her fists and taps them against her legs. She didn’t like that answer. I get it. I’d want to know too, I guess. Except, there’s nothing to know. Except, I wasn’t as important to her as she is to me.

“In the emails you wrote to Evan,” she starts. Oh, great the fake emails, “you were doing so well. Please you don’t need to tell me everything, but I just want to know what happened”

“I said I don’t want to fucking talk about it.” I snap.

Evan coughs, bringing attention to himself. I forgot he was here for a second. He looks nervous, really nervous. I don’t blame him, I could blow up his whole life right now with the truth. “Maybe he needs more time Zoe” he says. I give him a dirty look.

Zoe slams her hand against the bed, “You’ve had months,” she yells, “How much more time do you need. How do you go from climbing trees with Evan to killing yourself in a park?”

“Zoe,” Evan says, “you remember what you read, you don’t want to trigger him.” Trigger me? Okay Evan, you just don’t want me to tell the truth. Evan stands and opens the door, motioning for Zoe to leave. She looks at me again, pleading me with her eyes, then gets up and leaves. Evan lingers for a moment, watching her walk down the hall to her room. He steps back in and slams the door.

“We need to talk f-for real,” He says.

“Oh, for sure” I say, standing up and covering the distance between us until I’m towering over him, “Let’s talk about how you’re taking advantage of my entire fucking family.”

He’s beet red. “I’m not” he says, looking at the floor.

“Hey buddy, we’re not friends, we never were friends, and we’re probably never going to be friends.” I say

“Wh-why not?” he whispers.

“News flash,” I yell, “the first and only time I ever talked to you was when I signed your cast remember? You lied to everyone, and you’re a shitty liar.”

Evan is silent, he’s staring at the ground and pulling at his fingers. I watch him as he scratches his neck, pulls his ear, shifts his weight. I’ve thought Evan and I were the same; neither of us had friends because we were outcasts so to speak. He was just socially awkward, whereas I was the school freak. But I could tell he felt the same stuff I felt. The same wish that someone would notice us, that we were both on the outside, always looking in. Maybe if things were different we would be friends. I tried reaching out to him, but he was too self-absorbed with his own issues to notice me. And now, I am somehow engulfed in his issues. He took my suicide and made it about him. He lied to my parents and Zoe and the whole world. Evan Hansen was a nobody, a barely in the background kind of guy, and now his basically an internet celebrity. And me? People still don’t care about me, but at least they’re nice to me now.

I think that’s why I’m so angry about the whole situation. He got what he always wanted, he got his dreams come true. He got a taste of a perfect life, so he did what he had to do. But it ends now. I hope it was fun and he had a blast while he dragged me along.

“Did you read the emails?” Evan finally asks. I read them. He wrote a story of a perfect friendship. Friends that quote their favorite bands and tells jokes nobody understands except us two, and there’s nothing that we can’t discus, like girls we wish would notice us but never do. He even included me encouraging him to go after my sister. The fucking creep.

“Dear Evan Hansen,” I say, “You either tell Zoe and my parents the truth, or I will.” I open my door and shove him out of my room, “Sincerely, me.

[louisweasleyy]

[ & ; * - matt daddario / homosexual / he/him ] isn’t it weird how close { sebastian 'bash' monroe } resembles { matt daddario }? damn, i heard they are a { twenty three } year old { undergraduate } and a member of { delta sigma chi } studying { music composition }. outside of class { bash } participates in { art } and their party anthem is { colors } by { halsey }.

hi guys! i’m madison and sorry for posting this so late. i have family visiting so my activity is gonna be a little spotty until after this weekend. i’m also playing rory (the kristine froseth fc!) anyways like this if you’d like to plot with bash and i’ll message you!

tw: child abuse, death

There he is, the Dean’s son and a Yale Legacy!

For as long as he could remember, it’s unfortunately always been him and his father. His mom died while giving birth to Bash and his Dad has never ever forgiven him for it.

Their grandparents are never really around except for when they need Bash and his father for publicity but mainly they benefit off of the school’s wages and go on extravagant vacations and want nothing to do with the Monroe boys.

His father is abusive though he hides it well because…he’s the Dean of the school. Both physically, emotionally and verbally. Since he’s been dealing with it his entire life, he’s sort of accepted it as something that he deserves so he doesn’t really fight it. After all, if it weren’t for him his mother would still be alive. And his father isn’t hurting anyone other than him so Bash has never…really seen the problem. A complete victim’s mindset.

So due to this he thinks he’s a worthless piece of shit that won’t amount to anything and who doesn’t deserve love or happiness. As his father constantly reminds him, he’s just a burden on the world and all around him, feeding to the country’s overpopulation. He was the biggest mistake of his Dad’s life.

Even though Sebastian is a MAN now, a whole 23 years, he hasn’t gravitated away from his Dad. Again, he thinks he deserves it and he believes he needs his father. Dean Monroe has convinced him that he wouldn’t survive a minute in the world without him. Bash is just…delusional and as much as he hates his Dad, he grossly respects and values his opinion. After all he doesn’t know better and doesn’t know anything more.

On the frequent occasions where his father beats him to where it’s visible, Bash will usually go to a bar and elicit a fight to get more flesh wounds apparent so that he has an alibi. So basically everyone at Yale just thinks he’s a drunken troublemaker who gets into a shit ton of fights. Which like…isn’t wrong. He is drunk or high 99% of the time and he’s getting into fights.

At least when he gets hit, he feels something. Whereas he’s gotten so good at numbing and shoving down any sort of feelings. Shout out to liquor!

He’s always loved music, it’s his sole happy place and when his fingers are gracing that of a piano it’s like…he’s transported away from the bullshit. As lame as it sounds, he feels like his piano is his only and last connection to his Mom. She used to play and when he plays, he feels like he’s playing for her and to her like…spiritually. He can feel her when he’s writing, composing and playing. She gives him the music and he puts it to paper.

Also gay af.

ALSO DO NOT CALL HIM SEBASTIAN. it’s a massive fucking trigger for him! it’s what his dad always calls him before he’s about to beat the shit out of him. i mean you can but he won’t react great.

His ex-boyfriend is Grayson and his father forced him to break up with him

Also Bash got into Julliard with a full ride scholarship but his dad is...possessive so he fucked with his admissions and made it so Bash could not get accepted into any other school.

PERSONALITY WISE:

He’s a sarcastic asshole who tries to act all tough but who is severely craving human intimacy and companionship. When people start to get close and he starts to trust them, he panics, literal panic attacks that cause him to just snap and do everything he can to push that person FAR away and out of his life. He’s really smart but he doesn’t think so which means he doesn’t apply himself. Doesn’t really trust anyone. Will party and sometimes when he’s really high he’ll like…relax and cut loose and be real with people but then the next day he’ll deny it ever happened.

PLOTS:

In simple terms: FWB, Exes that he probably cheated on or pushed away, Hook ups, Friends, Study buddies, party buddies, smoking buddies, reckless shithead buddies etc.

MORE DETAILED PLOTS:

ROMANTIC/PHYSICAL:

[ current | fwb ] muse a and muse b met through mutual friends and quickly hit it off as friends. offhandedly one day, muse a mentioned something one day that muse b quickly turned sexual. they locked eyes and the next minute they were in a room, locked away, undressing each other. after exiting the room, the two agreed that it would never happen again…until a few days later, when it did. they keep saying they won’t come back for more.

[ current | just do it already ] muse a and muse b have been in love with each other for like, ever. neither of them are willing to admit it though, even to themselves. their friends are constantly joking about it and they both wave it off – but when one isn’t looking, anyone could see the adoration in the other’s face with ease.

[ past | dating ] muse a and muse b were the kind of people that immediately rejected each other, going to other people instead. then muse a found themselves in a room with their ex and pulled muse b aside to ask them to fake being their significant other for the night. over the next few hours, their fake date became a real one and soon things progressed into a relationship.

[ previous | friends…i guess? ] muse a and muse b were friends prior to their spontaneous hook-up and their world turned upside down. dazed, they decided to start dating that moment and to their credit, tried to make it work for a few weeks. muse a finally ( and nervously ) let out that they weren’t feeling it. to their relief, muse b admitted they were feeling the same. they decided to stay friends, but now have the added “i’ve seen you naked” awkwardness.

[ previous/current | on again, off again ] muse a and muse b love each other, but their relationship is toxic so they are constantly on and off. they always get along as friends, but the second they became lovers something always changes. they care a lot about each other, but something always goes awry.

[ your choice | hook up ] muse a recently broke up with their significant other, and in their post-breakup state got some revenge by hooking up with their ex’s best friend, muse b. neither expected the night to be so…memorable. your choice on what they do about it.

PLATONIC:

[ positive | two way street ] muse a and muse b frequent the same coffee shop and often made casual hellos to each other until the coffee shop raised their prices. muse a went to order their usual drink and lifted their eyes in surprise at the new price, hand helplessly prepared to hand over exact change. muse b quickly swooped in and saved the day, buying both of their coffees. next time they were both in the shop, muse a paid for muse b’s drink. they flip who pays each time as some sort of game now, but they’ve only had minor conversation as one or the other always seems to be in a rush.

[ positive | friends ] when muse a moved in, they didn’t expect to see muse b climbing up/standing on the fire escape right outside their living room window. they went to confront muse b and scared them, making both fear for the life of muse b for a moment. apologetic, muse a invited muse b in and the two connected almost immediately. ( muse b may or may not have explained their presence on the fire escape during this conversation // reason could have been that they knew who lived in muse a’s apartment before but didn’t know that they moved )

[ current | platonic or romantic ] *tw: alcohol. muse a and muse b met at a bar. throughout the night, muse b got more and more inebriated. being the good ( or bad ) samaritan they are, muse a decides to take muse b back to their house before they end up on the floor. when they arrive at muse a’s building/house, muse b ( loudly ) asks muse a how the heck ! muse a knew where they lived. turns out – they live a mere few floors/doors/houses away from each other.

[ current | platonic ] muse a is an extrovert – so much so that when muse b started moving in, they didn’t even wait for the moving truck to pull away before introducing themselves. in fact, muse a even started helping unload the truck without being asked. ( BONUS: muse b was super grateful for the help and their relationship is great // muse b is Grumpy™ and was annoyed that muse a started helping without asking and their relationship is tense. )

[miximax-hell]

I always tell my friends that they’re capable of anything they put their mind into. But, personally, I should know my limits and act accordingly. And considering how INCREDIBLY long it took me to finish this piece for such a poor result (despite the fact that I was just trying to replicate official art, so I had all the help in the world), well, I would say this was my limit. But, hey, you’ll never know until you try, and all practice is good practice.

That aside, hello! For today’s post, I decided to revisit the concept I started this blog with and work on a bigger illustration. It’s probably my least popular kind of post, but trying to mimic KH’s artstyle is kind of a blast regardless of the result or the struggle.

With Max’s and Kageno’s out of the way, it was about time I worked on Handa’s, since, you know, he’s my favourite character and all. I can be biased here, right?

So, it might be a good time to talk about HanRoku’s reasons to be.

Well, well, well. This is coming at the beginning of April when my last post was on January, and even that was just to celebrate the fact that, somehow, over a hundred people have decided to follow this blog. I’m not even going to pretend I’m way too busy to work on stuff--it’s just been a fantastic combination of things that made me want to... stop. I hit a big wall where the ideas I had were being a tad too difficult to pull off in a satisfying way (I swear to God, Kidou, your hair is impossible to work with), and I was either not in the mood to do anything or more focused on other and, at the time, more fun endeavours. I was super passionate about my graduation thesis, for example--and that went rather well, thankfully.

But, boy, I loved Kingdom Hearts 3. No bad mood or task was going to keep me from sinking hours into that game somewhat regularly. Playing it filled me with immense joy, and seeing Roxas again after so long brought me to tears. It made me think a lot about finally finishing (or trying to finish) this big piece... and it caught me very rusty, which led to hours, hours, hours, HOURS of work for what I have already described as a disappointing result. I mean, it’s not the worst I have ever drawn, but... well. It could definitely be much better, and I’m rather tempted to rework it in the future. I hadn’t touched my tablet in ages and it shows. Nor my pencils. Just my brushes, but that was just to paint doggos and Life Is Strange-inspired landscapes.

And the best part is that the illustration ISN’T EVEN COMPLETE because the rest would actually be a spoiler for a fic of mine called Zero. If you check the official art I linked above, you’ll see that what my illustration shows as a black area is actually filled by a completely separate illustration. I know what I want there, but, as I said, it’d spoil the story, so, yeah. Talk about a work in progress. I hope I can finish it all one day...

Anyway, enough pointless ranting! Thanks for putting up with me. To reward someone who has made it this far without getting tired of me, I’m giving away a Steam copy of Batman: Arkham Origins, along with all of its DLC. If you want it, please shoot me a non-anonymous message~ There is absolutely no need to follow me nor reblog/like this post, although it’d obviously be greatly appreciated. The first to ask for it will get it. And, please, don’t follow me for future giveaways--I doubt there will be any. Now, let’s talk about HanRoku. That’s what you clicked on that "read more" button for.

The beginnings of HanRoku are ancient at this point. We’re talking 2012 or 2013, and that’s INSANE. For how long have I been struggling with this project?! Goodness gracious. Anyway, at the time, Chrono Stone was hitting all of the right notes for me. Time travel? Check. People that transform to become more powerful? Check. Fusions, because I've watched too much DBZ for me to not love that? Check. And one day, for reasons that have been lost to time, but probably have a lot to do with the aforementioned fic, I realised something. Zero was supposed to be a story about how Roxas mingles with Someoka, Handa, Aki and mostly Endou, but then it hit me: Roxas and Handa are actually... extremely similar.

To those who have never played Kingdom Hearts, PLEASE GO PLAY KINGDOM HEARTS. And to those who couldn’t care less about what I recommend them to do, KH is a story that, under a deceiving cover full of Disney characters and confusing plot points, makes a deep and rather interesting point about what the true nature of the soul is--even if they insist on calling it “heart” instead. What is a soul? What is it for? Who, or what, has a soul--and why? Is the soul linked to the mind or to the body? Is it even possible to have a body and not have a soul? Is the soul something you’re born with or something you can/must acquire over time? What makes it grow, and what is true strength of soul? You know, for a game where you hit cute Hot Topic monsters with an oversized key, that’s pretty darn cool.

I talked more about this way back when, but I’ll give you a brief summary of the main reason why Handa and Roxas are such a perfect match: they are both people looking for their place in a world that actively acts against their very existence. They have no purpose and are simply tools for other people to shine and/or achieve their goals. That is obviously not a good, fulfilling life.

But, well, after all these years of ruminating and thinking (and crying) about HanRoku, there has to be a bit more to it than just that, right?

Obviously (and even more obviously after Kingdom Hearts 3), Roxas is very strong. Very strong. What he lacks in existence, he makes up for in raw power. For someone like Handa, who is so overlooked due to being okay at everything but not great at anything, this is massive. Even if Roxas doesn’t make him stellar at everything, he doesn’t need to. He still gives Handa enough power to become an extremely invaluable asset in the field and a force to be reckoned with--especially early on, since Handa is the first original Raimon player to get a miximax and all. I’ll talk more about HanRoku’s powers in the future.

But the usefulness in the field is only the first part, and even that is debatable due to the post I linked to earlier and the fact that, well, he sure will be special and super strong when no one else can mixitrans, but he won’t be once the whole team can do so. I mean, let’s count: Endou, Gouenji, Someoka, Max, Kageno, Megane, Tamano... That’s 7 people, when there are only 11 players on the field at a time. Handa would only be at an advantage over 3 people. (And if you’re going to tell me that he’s still the only midfielder with a miximax, thus making him special on his own, that’s a perfectly valid point and you should congratulate yourself for having such a keen eye.)

What really shines about HanRoku, though, is how mutually symbiotic their relationship is. Even if their struggles are so similar at heart, the reasons why those struggles exist are not.

Handa’s problems come from not being good enough at anything to be really... indispensable. Sure, he can do pretty much any job at any given point and be adequate enough at it, but he’s never the first option. He has no place of his own in the team; not one thing only he is capable of doing. And that leads to all kinds of problems of self-worth and trying to find a purpose. He will leave Raimon and no one will remember he was even there.

Roxas is completely essential to Organization XIII, but he’s been reduced to a killing machine that they are trying to replace with a better and more obedient one, thus taking away from him the only reason to be he ever knew and making him question his very existence. Once Org XIII disposes of him, no one will miss him--and that’s made even worse by a certain plot point: Nobodies disappear from the memory of everyone who ever met them once they are defeated/killed.

Of course, Roxas would help Handa immensely, as stated earlier. That’s kind of the point of this whole ordeal. But here’s the catch: Handa would help Roxas too. By leaving a part of himself inside Handa (that sounds extremely wrong, but please bear with me), he knows he will never be truly forgotten no matter what happens to him, and his life will ultimately have a purpose: to help a friend in need find his own worth. But let’s not forget that Roxas has only been alive for less than a year, while Handa has been struggling with his demons for over a decade without ever giving up. Despite having the world against him (or, at the very least, definitely not on his side), Handa is still going at it, trying his best, fighting for what he believes in, dealing courageously with the fact that he’s just an ordinary boy in a world of amazing people in order to help them achieve their ultimate goals. At a time when Roxas felt like his existence was worthless, meeting Handa, a boy who challenges his own self to find an identity that may not even exist, is truly inspiring. His selflessness, his love towards his friends and his neverending efforts to be better give Roxas a reason to stand up to the norm and fight for what he believes is right: in this case, to save his few and treasured friends.

Handa and Roxas find in each other a mirror that, for the first time in their lives, shows them in a new light that gives them hope for the future. They learn from each other, complement each other, improve each other, inspire each other, share a deep bond of friendship and trust, feel stronger and braver when they are together, and make a fantastic team. A team of throwaways, a team of tools, a team made of convenient replacements that will one day become obsolete. But a team that, however, is much greater than the sum of its overlooked parts, and will achieve incredible things when they eventually figure out just how unique and special they both are.

Talking about HanRoku makes me very emotional and it’s difficult to convey my feelings about them when I’m choking on my own tears, but I hope you can all understand why I love these two so very much. And if you can’t... well, feel free to ask me any questions you may have! I’d love to find new ways to describe why these two are so precious to me.

[gangofoutlaws]

CHAPTER FOUR: Hunted or being hunted.

image by https://arthurs-boadicea.tumblr.com/

Previous chapter(s) : One  Two  Three  Also @ wattpad

Warnings: Explicit | Characters: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader  Sean MacGuire Dutch van der Linde   Words: 1,9K

AN// I’m taking the time to write and I am learning so much on the way. Reading helps me to get the hang of it, so if you have any recommendations for me, please let me know. What started as a blurb, now becomes something so much bigger then I intended. If you like the story so far, please give it some love. P.S changing the story to first person.

A crack from a broken twig under my booth makes the ears of the deer flinch. For a moment in silence, I pray she did not think of the sound for something threatening but her hooves make their way through the wild with a fast sprint.  

Damnit. After so many experiences, and then this! It happens, but that does not excuse me for feeling bad for a moment.

The area I am in now has become worthless for hunting now the animal had scared the whole field with my presence. I get out from my crouching position and look over my shoulder where Banshee fasts at a tree a few feet away. She is ready to take me anywhere I want and without any plan of direction, we make way towards a new part of the scarlet meadows.

I let my eyes search for clues of nearby animals through the trees and bushes. Earlier I caught some eastern turkeys, nothing special but I promised to bring in a big piece of meat; Pearson wanted to make something different tonight and asked for my expertise.

Maybe a buck or a wild boar?

They are heavily populated in this area. And ever since the night in the Rhodes Saloon, I got the urge to do my extra best and be an addition to the group.

The way they work as a family, I don’t’ know what it is but it makes me intrigued. Of course, I like to keep my option open if I ever want to travel alone again when it doesn’t work out. But for now, it is nice to know I can tag along.

 The trees are beginning to get tighter and it is time to scout the area more detailed on foot. Pulling back on the reins to make Banshee stop from walking any further and fasting her on a dead tree log.

Charles offered to teach me how to work with a bow and arrow, which I can, but he convinced me to master the art and be more sufficient in the wild. I always choose a gun over a bow and that is pure because I want fast results in the field.  But, I will definitely take in on his offer. For now, I equip myself with a rifle gun stocked on split point bullets and make my way into the darker parts of the forest.

 Not long after, I discover a small hoof print in the wet mutt and take this as my guide towards my new prey. Could be a deer again, but the possibility that it could be a buck is presence. Time would only tell when I find the creature.

This time I pay more attention to every step, avoid unnecessary noise as much as possible and not make the same mistake again.

A thick bush is blocking the trail and after a short investigation, I decided to go through the bush and follow the animal that way. Soon I see light coming through and before stepping out, I push a few branches aside to see what’s on the other side.

The level of grounds goes up to where the height is topped with big stones and boulders. On the top, I spot a big whitetail deer… Sadly she is lying of her side; head hangs from the edge and a group of coyotes is lashed over tearing the flesh apart.  This is not my day…

 A loud bang. The sound startled me and survival instinct kicks in as I drop towards the ground.  The coyotes are spooked by the loud noise and it made them flee from their carcass in seconds.

That was a gunshot, no doubt about it, and a very close one. If there were hunters in the range I would have picked up on them and but I can’t recall anybody. Another shot.

 No, those were no hunters… when low voices of men come from behind the boulder it becomes clear. The debate of leaving the hiding spot and get the hell out of there is a struggle. My horse is standing a few feet away and could easily blow my cover but before I could make a decision the shadows of the strangers come closer, best to stay put for now.

 “Christ! That was a waste of bullets” the man curst when he steps closer to the animal. He looks intently at the blood and intestines where he deliberated chased away the coyotes with his fire shots. In total there are three men that appear and are walking around the area the coyotes were feeding themselves. They are wearing long coats, packed with various weapons and overall looking dirty. Could be regular folks from around here but something about the way they moved, scanned the grounds, I am convinced they are part of some gang.

 “I’m sick of walking around in these goddamn forests” the man complained and he slings his gun back on his shoulder.

“You want to go back to camp empty handed! “The other one snapped back at him from under his beard, stepping closer to his companion. “Dutch has to be somewhere in the area”

The third man is rather quiet in comparison to his buddy’s and since the moment of arrival taking in every movement around him. Like he is waiting for a suspicious shift… he is standing only a few feet away from my hiding spot and it felt like he could hear my heart beat faster. Hearing them use Dutch’s name and that they are looking for him made my shoulders tensed… Who are they? Definitely not friends by the looks of it.

 "Come on, let's go," the third man growls as he gives up his search and starts walking away. “Wait. I see something” the one at the top of the boulder is pointing out his finger in my direction. “Is that a horse?” Damnit! Banshee is being spotted. They would never think she is a wild horse as she is packed by all my stuff. In that moment the only thing I could think of was saving my horse and me. Pushing the ground away with my feet I sprint out as fast as I could and the moment I reach her it felt like I flew upon her back. The voices screaming behind me are blurred out by the intense adrenaline in my blood as I rode away like lightning. Their shadows become smaller and eventually disappear from your sight.

--- Back at camp

Not wasting any time by releasing Banshee with the load on her back, I storm myself through camp and within seconds I reach Dutch’s tent. He is sitting on his cot, a book in hands having a peaceful moment. Unannounced I walk up and are more than aware that this is a pet peeve of Dutch. His annoying glance looking from under his eyebrows disappear when he meets my distressed eyes.

 “There are people…” still out of breath from riding back to camp I gasp for air “looking for you”

Without hesitation, he stands up from his position “What do you mean child?”

The faces of the men are still fresh in my mind, along with their voices.

“I was out hunting, and then they came and said your name”

Realizing my words and mind are all over the place I take a moment to catch my breath. From the corner of the tent, Arthur appears after he saw me walk in with hasty steps.

“What’s going on?”  Arthur is looking with wide eyes as if he already felt there is something wrong.

Dutch is waiting for more explanation and is making a hand gesture to get more information from me.

“I was out in scarlet meadow when I came across three men. At first, they had no idea I was listening to their conversation and then they said something in the line of looking for Dutch, for you”

“Pinkertons?”  Dutch is talking to himself.

I know damn well who the Pinkertons are, as they have crossed my path many times back in the day. They were looking for a certain someone and regularly stepped on my grass for information.  No, these three were no Pinkertons.

“They were from a gang, I’m sure” I interrupt Dutch to save him from any wrong thoughts.

 “Might be O'Driscolls” Arthur addressed “Found a few hiding up near emerald ranch not too long ago”

Dutch’s eyes are thinking by the words his friend shared him. “Could be…were you followed? Did they see you?”

  I nod my head. I’ve been watching my back the whole road back like a hawk and saw nobody following me. “They did see me though… I had to run out when they spotted Banshee not too far from where I was hiding.”

Aware of the stress leaving Dutch’s eyes from before and are now completely calm.

“No need to worry… we know who they are” Dutch takes his seat back on the cot and crosses his legs getting the book back that he placed next to him.

“Should I go out and check the area?” Arthur asks his leader

“Just stay in camp tonight, especially you …” he looks at me with piercing eyes and then waves you two away from his tent and continues reading where he previously stopped.

 Even though my breathing slowed down, there is still some stress left in my veins when walking out back to Banshee. She stands patiently waiting for my return and unloads her from the gear on her saddle. I find it rather odd Dutch turned calm when he learned the knowledge of the strangers I’ve met in the forest. Maybe he deliberately didn’t want to involve me in the conversation as this matters the “gang” more than just the ‘help’ around camp.

 “Are you okay?” the voice comes from behind me and when I turn around faced with Arthur. He followed me out of the tent and is now looking concerned when he sees me still shaking.

“uhu… just a bit confused… Dutch is so calm… I feel a bit overreacted” I frown and continue unloading my horse.

“Dutch… we… know who they are. Like I said I’ve crossed them…” he looks away throwing the rock into the nearby bush that he had been holding in his hand “big mouths…”

“And what did you do?”  Curiously I ask

Arthur takes a moment before answering and a short silence follows “I shot them...” he smirks from under his hat as if he is proud of what he did. I remind myself that living with outlaws, this is normal.  

“What… are you rivalries or something?”  I guess a bit for more information out of him.

“Something like that” another short answer from him, giving me the feeling he isn’t going to tell the whole story, just like Dutch, a calm silence about the topic. I’m not in the mood to dig deeper anyway and are almost done unpacking.

“Okay, thanks, then I’ll know what to do next time” a sarcastic answer from me.

Arthur doesn’t read across the lines and laughs at the thought of me shooting somebody. “Until then, keep calm alright?” a teasing smile from Arthur.

[inimene-skates]

Kodu [DenEst fanfiction]

Summary:  Tallinn, the 1990s. The first foreigners come to Estonia that has recently freed itself from the Soviet terrors. Mathias Kohler becomes one of those daring people while seeking inspiration for his book. Thrilled to find out more about Estonian punk culture, he stumbles upon one of its particularly interesting subjects named Eduard. What follows next is a story about trust and freedom, revolution and philosophy, love and culture. A story about the land where they found kodu – a home.

Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094802

Notes: After my rather prolonged hiatus I finally came up with something decent. I believe this world needs more DenEst since this rarepair is absolutely stunning. All the events in the fic are a mere fruit of my imagination; however, it is based on the events that really took place in the 1990s: the times when the USSR dissolved and Estonia regained its independence. At the time, the punk culture in Estonia was particularly popular.

I have previously posted this fic in its original language (Russian) here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6731059

The main inspiration of the work comes from a song of the famous Estonian singer Ott Lepland "Kodu", you can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbyOx-1AGNg

There’s a lot of Estonian slang used in this story so please refer to the notes for translations. ___________________ Ma ei oska vene keelt — I don't speak Russian Tõmba nahhui, idikas! — fuck off you idiot Ime lahti! — same as previous Oota — wait Putsi — Estonians would use this word to curse if/when something goes wrong Vend — dude Lilla (also: pede) — fag Keppi mind — fuck me Mida sa tegid? — what have you done? Mul on nii kahju — I am very sorry 

Also, I tried to illustrate punk Eduard for you so take a look for a better reading experience! Enjoy!

_____________________________________

Mathias first saw him by Kadriorg. He was the one who the Dane caught his sight of from all six members of that frenziedly formed circle. Mathias could not be sure exactly why: perhaps, it was his hair with its part being tousled up and dyed unbelievably intense, almost acidic, pink, and making him look head up taller than the rest of the gang, even though, in reality, he appeared a rather short person. Perhaps, it was all a cocky look he gave the Dane with his mesmerizing eyes of cornflower color boldly fetched out by what seemed to be poorly blended blackish eye pencil. Or, perhaps, the reason could be the way he stood up front deeply inhaling the smoke of his self-made joint as Mathias approached him.

One way or another, Mathias knew for sure it is this fascinating man who would become the main focus of his next improvised interview.

“Tõmba nahhui, idikas!” One of the fellows standing straight behind the subject of Mathias’ attention and whose forehead was crossed over by an apparently fresh wound decided to move forward with an uncovered attack on a stranger. Mathias could not blame him. In Estonia, the land that tried to make it through the quite tough times, people like him, that is to say, people devoted to the punk culture could only hope for a better perception of their selves. That involved, for a kickoff, a better understanding of the origins and existence of their culture and, ideally, less or no condemnation of the bad habits that most of the punks had, according to the public.

In any case, Mathias knew he did not make any mistake by having chosen him. It seemed to him that the young Estonian himself was the leader of that offhand punk gang judging by how daringly he rebuffed his fellow gang mate with a clear and abrupt ‘oota!’. His frown vanished freeing space for a spark of interest. Hoary smoke disappeared into the soft blow of the April wind, not freezing yet not too warm. He was looking at Mathias and his astonishingly vibrant eyes revealed emotions rather opposite to the light dimming inside his body. To Mathias, it seemed like the tragic but, nevertheless, stunning fate of the Estonian folk itself was reflecting in the eyes of this young man.

“Ma ei oska vene keelt,” The Estonian breathed into the air thickened by the cigarette smoke and locked his eyes with the stranger. Mathias gave him a smile getting his message. In the scope of the latest events, he could not even ask for the opposite.

“Ma ei oska ka vene keelt.” The Dane felt that his Estonian language skills had just reached their limit. “English?”

Someone in this incredible company seemed to have started to be running out of patience. Someone else pocked the leader in his shoulder but he shrugged it off making it clear that the next poke would cost his fellow not a mere shrug but a punch. With the back of the hand. There was someone who smirked and spit on the gravel-inlaid road.

“No English, vend.” Here is where Mathias started losing his hope in the abyss of the language barrier. Up to the point when the Estonian himself restored it by giving it a chance to exist with a soft but clear, “Aber ich kann Deutsch sprechen.”

Mathias’ lips stretched in a wide smile of relief. He knew they would make it work from that time on.

***

Only two things in this world could Mathias not stand – being bound to one place and the lack of inspiration. The prior was pretty hard to live with yet easy to handle. At least, for the man that made a living from writing articles for an independent publisher, finding himself in different points in the world to seek unconditional and outstanding events was quite a regular thing – later on, Mathias used them as sources for the new pieces of word art. He could not say that such activity earned him a fortune though; it happened to be just enough to make ends meet. Not that Mathias longed for more. Most of his time he spent outside the walls of his tiny apartment in Aarhus and in times of inspiration did not care much for a place to sleep or the food offered to him but was thrilled by a single fact of being somewhere new and uncharted. In the end, his every little adventure ended up with a new article sent to the publisher for editing – and off he went again as he found himself at the starting point of a circle of his life.

The inspiration was a completely opposite problem. Especially in the recent times. Although the nineties, the times of drastic changes in the unstable world, gave practically endless room for seeking inspiration, Mathias could not find a single place to plant his seed of creation. Everyone around him was making too much noise about the fall of the iron curtain and the collapse of the entire (post) Soviet bloc. But the Dane found it absolutely boring.

This was how Mathias ended up in Estonia. While the rest of the First World was enjoying the comfort and coziness of their apartments reaping the benefits of the post-industrial society and shaking their heads in disapproval of what was going on beyond the borders of the former Land of the Soviets, Mathias had got enough of this worthless pleasure. The decision was made out of the blue. The Dane visited his office the same day letting the boss know with undoubted valor that he was going to chase an ultimate breakthrough in the art of periodical writing in liberated Estonia.

So here he was, standing in the middle of a paved street road having his light scarf wrapped around his neck and put on the variety of decent tourist equipment: a backpack full of snacks and items he did not even recall, a fresh t-shirt, a new coat and a map with a proud ‘Tallinn’ printed at its top. However, this is where the tourist image of the young Dane came to its limits. Tourism as such was the last thing he sought in this cold land not yet recovered from the terrors of the last fifty years.

Mathias knew exactly what he sought. He sought people that were deemed yet not threatening but rather isolated. The young men wearing high boots and creating colorful masterpieces, that could easily beat up the most professional barbers in the art of hair styling, out of their hair. The young ladies changing the ‘right’ and ‘socially acceptable’ garments for the ultra-short skirts and combing their hair up in the chaotic shape to the point when even the strongest storm could not bother their cocky looks. People that could spit on the ground with no back thinking and drink themselves until they dropped in public, not really caring for anything anyone could say and leaving their feelings and thoughts live within the community of their own where no outsider was ever welcome.

Mathias sought them, the people with no right to be spoken of. The free folk of free Estonia, the folk that the rest of the society called punk, somewhat with disgust, somewhat with generalization. Mathias could not find peace unless he told their story to the world, the story shaped by historical, social and political events that had no equivalent anywhere else on Earth.

And so he went along the streets of Tallinn gathering the tiny pieces of the Estonian punk culture found in the words and faces of those who cherished it and allowed the Dane to take a grasp of it as of their souls and cores. Just when Mathias thought his journey was complete, he met Eduard. And oh, he proved the Dane wrong.

***

“Over here, vend!” A loud voice made Mathias almost let go of his camera, not because of the shock, though. It was more because of how familiar the voice seemed to him, that mellow, somewhat leisurely but also daring voice speaking German with a particular Estonian accent. “Out there, you hear me, vend? Putsi...” said the voice once again and the Dane looked back facing its source. Literally.

It was not the first time he and Eduard met by the Viru Gates. At first, he did not even hope for The Estonian’s consent to come and keep his promise to Mathias. However, here he was. He came to the spot every single day, first bringing some of his fellow friends along who had absolutely no command of German and therefore could not grasp the idea of the talks Eduard and Mathias shared. Soon enough Eduard found the presence of the gang members rather useless and started coming to their ‘usual spot’ by himself. Frankly speaking, Mathias was thankful for the opportunity to have conversations without the presence of any third parties around.

The reason for such an attitude was not really the fact Eduard’s pals did not give Mathias the same inspiration as Eduard himself.

Eduard was not tall. In fact, his height made the Dane look down at him every time they spoke. He was shameless, too. Although his voice revealed no impudence, it did not take the credit off his shamelessness. He was cold as the ice on the Tallinn roads when winter decided to remind the country of its long presence with the snowfall: it did not last long having melted in the early spring sun but as the twilight fell the puddles got deeply frozen causing Eduard to swear in his own language, totally incomprehensive for the Dane yet warm and sweet as latte in the cafe next to the Freedom Square. He was as plain as the rest of one million people forming the population of Estonia. Being one of them but also incredibly different from them, he left no room for comparison, the reason being hidden somewhere in the depth of his cornflower eyes dimmed with black makeup. He was conditional like apartment blocks of Tallinn’s Uus Linn, the New Town, reflecting in the lenses of his glasses yet careless and vibrant like the medieval houses of Vanalinn, the Old Town. Eduard smelled of salt of the Gulf of Finland that washed Tallinn’s shores and sweetness of infamous ginger caramel walnuts spreading the sugary smell all over the Old Town.

Someone might say he was perfect. Flawless. At a time, he was a mere Estonian guy, though, piercing Mathias with his cocky Estonian look and dictating him the rules of this cold land. Mathias did not mind. That was the reason he came here, after all.

This time the way led them to the park bench next to the Orthodox church at Toompea hills where the Dane, slightly amused, was observing Eduard drink out of the beer bottle and catching glimpses of every single passerby. At a certain point, Mathias even thought that he himself became a target for a part of those glances. However, The Estonian could not care less.

“How come you speak such perfect German?” Mathias broke the silence but Eduard did not seem to mind at all.

“My full name is Eduard von Bock,” he said watching his favorite beverage splash behind the dark green glass.

“Does not sound Estonian at all.”

“I come from the Baltic Germans folk. Well, half of me does. Not many of ‘em decided to stay after the occupation. The major part was returned to Germany by the Nazis. Back to the land of fathers where they were said they belonged.” Eduard slipped the glasses back onto the nose bridge where they also belonged. “But not my- what’s the word?” he cut the phrase short trying to remember the correct German word, “Ancestors. We all speak German. To not, like, forget our family roots or something. I don’t give a fuck about the roots, frankly. At least I can speak to you now. More or less a reason to have learned it.”

All this time the Dane was silently scrubbing the pages of his rather old but nevertheless priceless notebook with the tip of the pen. This is how the notes taken in this book usually turned into profound articles. His job was not to judge – he was there to listen, to comprehend, to write things down, to live them though and then to share them with the world. Judgment, in its purest form, was the readers’ job.

“Dare to tell me what you’re writing there all the time?” wondered the Estonian.

“Your story,” the Dane smiled. He could not ignore the change of emotions from amusement to understanding in Eduard’s eyes that followed after Mathias’ line and the way his lips stretched in a smile.

“’Course. You told me before,” smirked the Estonian and decided to finish his drink off. “I’m gonna be popular, ha. Life well spent.”

“Well, for purposes of confidentiality and protection of your personality I’ll have to change your name. For your own good.”

Eduard slipped off the bench carefully looking around to make sure no regular folk or law enforcement officer was watching and threw the empty bottle into the nearest wall observing it break into hundreds of sparkling pieces. Once again, Mathias did not say a word. Eduard put his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket and, instead of taking back the seat next to the Dane, sat down straight at the cold sidewalk watching Mathias carefully. A sudden breakout of wind tousled his pink hair strands calming down as unexpectedly as it started blowing.

“You’re nice, vend,” he said.

“How so?”

“Well... you’re not from our folk but I guess you have our spirit.” Eduard started rummaging through the pockets of his clipped leather jacket apparently looking for a pack of cigarettes. “You don’t judge. You’re trying to understand us. Usually, all we’ve got is people spitting in our faces.”

“You spit back at them, though,” said the Dane pursuing no purpose of insulting him with those words or point at his imperfections.

“People are weird creatures,” Eduard replied finally feeling a thin body of a cigarette between his fingers and impatiently lighting it on. “They are living in this crap for decades and putting up with shit those idiots are doing to Estonia but can’t stand a view of someone who simply does not look like them. This is why I spit in their faces. Not because they wanna piss off my pink hair or something. I don’t give a fuck. I spit back because they don’t care about the freedom we gave them. Where have they been when we were trying to reach out for the world by transmitting signals via Finland? When we were crafting the self-made transmitters of mercury thermometers in order to receive the broadcasts from Helsinki and spread the freedom of speech? When we were breaking off the Curtain? Where have they all been? Ha, they simply tightened their grip on us as their own opportunity. They saw hope in us. The revolution. We are the cause of the first Song Festival of the Free Land. But now they seem to have forgotten this. Now they are all not worth an old song. This is why I spit in their faces.”

His words forever imprinted in the broad handwriting of the Dane on the pages of his slightly worn out notebook got carried away by the rising wind. Mathias could see with the corner of his eye that Eduard frowned attempting to keep the cigarette lit.

“Jeez, I’m starving. You, vend?” The Dane sarcastically mimicked Eduard with his own nickname watching the Estonian sit on the freezing cold stones of the paved road and have absolutely no worries for the fate of his balls. Mathias genuinely thought that today’s meeting with this shameless young Estonian had come to its end and Eduard would refer to other plans to justify the unwillingness to follow the Dane. However, he did not expect a smile that appeared on the Estonian’s face at that moment.

“Is it on you, then?” he breathed raising up from the sidewalk and Mathias watched his German words disappear into the thin air.

“If you promise to meet me tomorrow at the same spot.”

There was a moment of silence, and Eduard allowed himself to finish his cigarette and give Mathias his verdict.

“Where are you staying?” asked Eduard suddenly giving Mathias an impression that he tried to escape giving promises.

“Anywhere,” he said shrugging. “I don’t need much.”

“That’s dope,” followed the reply and Eduard put the cigarette up by stepping on it. “From now on you’re staying at our condo. I’ve got a room all by myself. If you promise to buy food for everyone, I’m not gonna charge you a kroon for rent.”

Mathias beamed.

***

“Aight vend, here are my boys. Guys,” this time Eduard spoke Estonian addressing his young fellows, “This is Mathias. He’s with me.”

“Here guys, I brought a new dick to stick in my asshole tonight.” Someone in the corner of a great living room made himself heard and the room burst with laughter. Eduard rolled his eyes letting the confused Dane know with the gesture that there was nothing to pay attention to.

“Anyway, from right to left. This is Taavi, he’s joined us recently. We sorta keep an eye on him.” The Estonian pointed at the youngest, to Mathias’ thought, dweller of this spacious flat, and he welcomed the guest with his middle finger. “This,” Eduard stepped over what seemed to be a lifeless body whose soul had definitely departed this cruel world, “Is Erkki. Don’t bother him, he’s a busy man.”

The Dane gave the body whose name had just been identified as Erkki a suspicious look.

“And... what’s so important that he’s doing?”

“He’s thinking of the fate of the Estonian folk,” Eduard concluded seriously shrugging his jacket off and moving on to the next members of his gang. “This is Aare. He got us this condo so his rent share is less than the others’. Here we have Jürgen. He’s got a brain bro, nice working brain. It only works when he’s sober, though. And finally, this is Urmas. Urmas lives for the sake of two things – songs and girls.”

Mathias really had to take his time to get used to the new environment as well as the new housemates who he intended to spend quite some time living with. In reality, there was something more to this excitement he felt in his chest. He was thrilled to realize that the inspiration he was longing for had finally found him here, in the very heart of the punk community that resembled a family more than any other company he had ever seen.

Mathias simply could not believe his own happiness. One shall not lose himself in a dream. One cannot come to the new county, meet such a precious person there in a few days of time and, to sum everything up, blindly trust this person with his own life by accepting the very first offer to come and stay with him and the entire gang of people with the indefinite background. As much as he wanted to, Mathias knew nothing about them. He did not know their reasons to live for, the air they breathed, the sources of their inspiration and ideas or the things that made their lives worth living. Here was where experience came to place. The experience that had the power to distinguish dreams from reality.

Mathias spent the entire night writing. He wrote about the flags decorating the walls, the posters revealing the lines that were banned from use not that long ago. He wrote about the music he could not perceive by himself and sought his new neighbors’ help in order to understand the solid meaning of the lyrics. Mathias wrote about him, about this Estonian sitting on the floor with a recently lit cigarette and his eyes closed in tiredness and a simple wish to face his thoughts. He wrote about Eduard who reached out for the Dane trusting him back, just like Mathias trusted him once, letting him into his little personal world as well as the enormous world beyond the boundaries of his soul. He wrote about his cornflower eyes, his unbelievably calm yet highly inflammable spirit that made Mathias’ heart skip a beat from time to time.

“What are you writing about now?” Eduard spoke and his dense voice reminded the Dane of the cigarette smoke he let through his fingers.

“Urmas lives for the sake of two things – songs and girls,” smiled Mathias and the Estonian gave him a skeptical look.

“Oh yeah, that’s super important. Almost everyone in this room likes girls, you know.”

“Almost?” the Dane asked him back noticing the unease that went through the Estonian’s body as he inhaled the bitter smoke in his lungs particularly deeply.

“You know what they call me? Lilla,” said Eduard avoiding the eye contact. “It actually means ‘violet’, like, a color, you got me? But that’s not really the point here, vend. They use it to insult someone who doesn’t like girls. It means ‘a fag’.”

There was a certain degree of tension settling down in the air after he became silent. At that very moment, Mathias did not feel like joking anymore. Instead, this feeling was replaced by chilling shiver going down his spine, the feeling that usually possessed his body in times of anticipation or shock. The Dane could not say for sure which one of the two feelings prevailed. However, he immediately drew a picture of what could happen in the streets of post-Soviet Tallinn to someone who Estonians called lilla. Someone who could be prosecuted for being lilla not that long ago, if not worse.

“Listen, I can omit this if it makes things better–”

Eduard immediately frowned his blonde eyebrows letting the smoke out of his chest.

“Yea, sure, go ahead if you wanna rid me of my dignity! Not for toffee. I let you in my life, I let you tell my story so do me a favor and tell it right!”There was a sort of anger in his voice but Mathias had no doubt it had nothing to do with the Dane himself but rather with the experience Eduard had faced in a lifetime. “I am not ashamed of who I am. I don’t give a fuck about what those assholes say and what meaning they give to this lilla word. I don’t give a fuck if they’re gonna find me, stab me in the chest or break my ribs. I won’t run. Because you cannot escape from someone who is everywhere. You cannot escape from yourself. It makes no sense! I am not afraid. I am who I am and I’m not alone. Right now we have to hide from the idiots in the streets but I swear to you, the day will come and we will let ourselves be heard. The revolution is not over yet, vend. We are still fighting and we will not stop until we get what we want or die trying.”

Eduard put up his unfinished cigarette leaving it in the common ashtray and stood up to start walking towards his room. He did not even give a chance for the Dane’s disarray to settle by giving him a brief line: “Are you coming or what?” Mathias followed him right away grabbing his stuff from the floor and vanishing behind the door to Eduard’s room until next morning.

***

In the next few days, Mathias’ good old notebook got filled in with notes to the cover. He even managed to find the ways to communicate with the rest of Eduard’s second family (not without his help, of course) whose thoughts and memories he also imprinted in the paper. Mathias tried to grasp every single little moment, every detail of their lives as well as Eduard’s brave and somewhat wise thoughts that came out of nowhere from time to time. Once it happened to him after the Estonian offer him a self-made joint.

“Do you want to die healthy or happy?” asked Eduard raising his eyebrows at Mathias’ refusal to his offer and explanation that smoking does no good.

“You think that dying both happy and healthy is not an option?” he parried. Eduard rolled his eyes inhaling the smoke and letting it out of his deeply smoked lungs.

“How do you even see this, ha? I know no one who would die because he had too much health. We all die. Someone dies from aging, others from injuries or accidents but anyway, everyone dies from an inability to handle certain effects. Everybody is given a particular amount of energy upon birth. Since that moment, we die every day because our bodies slowly give up the energy we were given. And then it gets replaced by exhaustion and tiredness. You simply haven’t felt it yet. But go out there and find, let’s say, a fifty-year-old dude. Ask him a question. Ask him out for a drink tonight and he will refuse. Because it is you who can drink all night long and then wake up at seven in the morning and go waste your life in the office or whatever like nothing happened the night before. He can’t do the same anymore because his body has let go of too much energy in all the years. One day we all come to this thought and then there’s nothing we can do. And so we let go. And as you see it has nothing to do with smoking.”

Mathias gave him a sly smirk but in his mind, he could not help but agree with the fact Eduard’s words did not lack reasoning.

“You’re way too smart for your 22, aren’t you?”

“It’s as easy as pie, vend,” the Estonian shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about that. There’s nothing too smart about it. It’s just who we are.”

Sometimes Eduard got lost somewhere in town having left Mathias his set of keys to not let the Dane find himself trapped in the apartment (and to allow him to get outside and do some grocery shopping just as agreed). The other day the Estonian would develop certain melancholy which only he could perceive and express by the unwillingness to leave the bed listening to J.M.K.E. and lighting up self-made joints one by one all day long. Mathias just let it be. Very soon both of them started to realize that their lives would have never taken any other direction. The nights they spent being half the time among the other gang members, half the time with each other made their souls collide to the point when they no longer felt that the usual night routine satisfied them both.

That night Eduard made sure the door to his room was locked. He simply did not want a single soul to distract him from the lips that tasted too sweet to Eduard’s thinking. He was the one to take this first step towards being even closer than before and, having made sure the Dane was eagerly reciprocating his insistent, almost demanding kiss, allowed the impossible to happen. The Estonian let him come too close, break through the layers of smeared makeup, pink hair and cocky words to reveal a vulnerable soul in his core. He let the Dane know him as deeply as no one had ever dared to even try to get to know him before.

After all, there was no difference between their bodies rushing together, willing to feel each other’s skin. Eduard lay open and naked in front of Mathias and the Dane contemplated his chest surge heavily, fingers stroking down the ribs, his skin covering some decent muscles underneath, his bluish veins revealing themselves as the Estonian tightened his grip on the Dane’s shoulders, their hips tenderly colliding and making their desires look so obvious. Mathias reached out for his neck caressing it with endless kisses and let Eduard’s hands touch the Dane’s body wherever he wanted. And oh he did just that. He was barely breathing, brushing his fingers against Mathias’ back in slow, soothing movements that trailed down to his hips, found the way to his chest and finally rested on his warm neck. All the differences between them did not matter anymore. There were no boundaries, no history, no culture or politics – anything that would draw a fine line between people in the outside world. In Eduard’s world behind the locked door there was nothing that would remind either of them of the different lives they used to live, though.

So Eduard allowed Mathias to get even deeper under his skin. He allowed the Dane to lock his arms around his body causing Eduard to let out a choked gasp and words whose meaning remained a mystery for Mathias. He allowed him to watch the Estonian arch his spine, to tangle his fingers in Eduard’s hair, to gently put their arousals together shifting the fingers in a soft yet intense touch. A whispering ‘keppi mind’ escaped into the distance between their lips filled with the thick, moist, almost burning hot air and Eduard squeezed Mathias’ waist with his legs letting him in, letting him come closer, letting him thrust into his body, making his insides burn. As they were melting together, the Estonian forgot his own name; he was calling Mathias by his instead for the first time since the very moment they saw each other by Kadriorg. That moment was enough for him to realize that perhaps they would not be a one night stand – and so he got lost in a long, open-mouthed, moist kiss as his body trembled in sweet relief...

As soon as the morning came, Mathias made himself clear about their fate. For the reasons that left the Estonian completely flabbergasted and set him off track, the Dane announced his departure later this evening. His job in Estonia was done and he did not see any other reasons to stay there any longer. At least, this was what Mathias said. He did not even give a single chance to either of them to let things sink in leaving Eduard alone with his bare soul hanging out of his body, shattered and broken into million pieces.

Of course, that was enough for Eduard to throw Mathias out of the condo together with all the stuff he brought in. He did not really incline to any mercy, say any last words or threat him with serious consequences should Mathias ever decide to come back. The Estonian simply did not see any merit in this. Was there any merit in this situation at all?

“Mida sa tegid?” was the only thought that rushed through his mind as Eduard was falling into an unconscious sleep. The regret filled his heart – the regret of having approached the Dane in the first place. If only he had known.

***

“East or West, home is best,” said the infamous expression. Some people praise it as the absolute truth. Others are always ready to challenge its meaning. One way or another, everyone perceives it in their own unique way.

For some of us, home is a place where we first saw the light of day. Indeed, those of us who find such place home contribute to its everyday life in order to make it at least slightly better for themselves as well as the others. For some of us, though, place of birth has nothing to do with home. It is a place that sets such people at a starting line of a lifetime creating numerous challenges and obstacles that make them wonder whether they are actually calling a right place a home. At that point, they wander along in their thoughts seeking a home where their hearts would settle.

Mathias had been running away his entire life. He fled each and every place that bore a threat to him – a threat of becoming attached to somewhere or losing himself. That night, while walking down the streets of the Estonian capital the Dane raised his head to look up at the roofs of two towers forming Viru Gates. Their usual spot. The spot where he and Eduard used to meet. The place that divided the present and the past, split the buildings of the New and the Old Towns as well as two young souls.

“What am I really doing here?” he was thinking. Lonely, lost, having his heart left somewhere in Kadriorg on a cloudy day in April. Standing in the country that used to be foreign to him but seemed to have become something so much more in the end.

Mathias could not tear his glance off the place where the Estonian, whose essence itself smelled of smoke and sweet caramel, waited for him every day the same hour. The paved road broadened in front of him in its medieval glory. The rows of colorful, almost toy-like houses framed the road leading to the place where the Town Hall Square tower proudly winded to the sky. Tiredness and weird thoughts occupied the Dane’s mind and he went through the Viru Gates once again, facing the void of a very familiar spot.

That night he seemed to have lost his ferry ticket to Helsinki, deliberately or accidentally, for he urged to reunite with the light of the cornflower eyes dimmed with the shadows of black makeup, the scent of the hair freshly dyed acidic pink and warmth of the spirit Mathias would never trade for anything in the world.

“Mul on nii kahju,” he whispered as Eduard surrounded him by tightening embrace of his shivering arms.

“Lilla.” That single word was everything the Estonian could say in return, too happy for the sentimental greeting. Mathias did not mind. After all, it was the Eduard he met by Kadriorg. Eduard he never wanted to lose anymore.

***

“Everyone, listen up! I’ve got my contact with the publishing! It means that my book will be translated and printed!” The Dane came back to the apartment on the seventh heaven. The loud cheers followed the announcement, someone in the familiar corner even left out a cheeky comment about all the work Mathias had to do to earn some decent sex that night. That, in return, was followed by a sound ‘ime lahti’ coming from one of the bedrooms revealing Eduard leaning on the door frame and smiling widely.

Surely, Eduard had other ways to express his happiness with the news: that is to give Mathias a particularly deep kiss – behind the closed doors of his room, of course.

“So, does it mean you came up with a final title after all?” Eduard asked exhaling some bitter smoke from a cigarette he reached out for after their lips parted.

“Guess so.”

“Dare to tell me what it is then?”

“Kodu. Home,” replied Mathias. “’Cause this story is about you, about me, about every one of us. About people of this small imperfect land where revolution is still raging. But we’re gonna fight through it, for our home, for our happiness... don’t you think so?”

Eduard just smiled.

[shofie-ffxiv]

My anger is mine, I will feel it as deeply and expressly as violently as I please. 

I have struggled all my life with anger issues. While it’s gotten a little easier in later years, for a very long time, anger consumed me. I was very quick to anger, it was very easy for me to feel a lot of rage.

My anger is something I always feel burning in the back of my mind. It’s never really gone completely.  This stems from my childhood. My mother was a narcissist, and my father her enabler. I was always rigidly kept in line, tightly controlled at all times. I had no control over anything.  Not where I went, not what I wore, or how I cut my hair, what I ate, etc.  My mother was furious if I did anything without her consent. The way of a narcissistic parent, particularly a narcissistic mother, is that their children are, by extension, them. They are them. My mother did not view me as a person. She viewed me as a piece of her. 

So anything I did was a reflection of her. My straight A’s? “Ah yes, she’s so smart, I’m so proud!” It was just as if she had gotten the straight A’s. “Oh...she talked too much in class? I didn’t raise her to be that way.” I’d get punished. “Go pick a switch,” was an awfully common saying in our house until I was a teenager, at which point, it just became a belt instead. I was cowed, and terrified my entire childhood and a good portion of my young adult life like this. I am sadly, all too aware of what it’s like being under the thumb of a narcissist. I have spent my entire life trying to heal from the actions and abuse of one.

There are huge swaths of blackness where there should be happy childhood memories like playing with friends or swimming at the lake, or barbecues, but I have an empty void there. To this day, I have serious memory issues because of the shit I endured growing up. My mind just doesn’t function well in this area; and I constantly take notes and save things to remind myself of them. 

When I started taking up art, it became a shield that protected me. My mother wanted that talent to grow, because people liked it. Of course, it was hers. So proud.

I was angry. My anger burned at me constantly, about how unfair this was. For a very, very long time, my emotions waged a war between incredible fury, and some of the darkest fear I’ve ever known in my life. Anytime I felt angry, I immediately felt fear. These emotions were so intrinsically connected for me. Anger was bad, anger might get me thrown out. Might get me beaten. Maybe worse.

I couldn’t live without my parents, they’d made sure to teach me helplessness. They made it sound like I’d never survive without them. The world would eat me alive, because I was really quite stupid, and had nothing of value to offer anyone. My only purpose in life was that I could be my mother’s pride and joy, crafted just the way she liked. 

I rejected all her attempts at making me a girly girl, and my father was upset he never had a son, so I have some delightful gender identity issues to this day in large part because of all of that. My rejection of femininity is in large part because it was something my mother wanted. 

I always felt more comfortable being masculine, but that was never “right” either, and I was made to feel ashamed of that. I was “wrong”. Everything I did was always wrong, even simply existing was wrong.

This is why I prefer “they/them”, but also why other pronouns don’t really bother me either. Most people just use feminine ones, as I’m DFAB and I’m generally just non-binary. 

One day, when I was in my early 20′s, I left home. 

I “ran away”, according to them.

I was more afraid in my life than I had ever been, and that’s a huge oversimplification of it all. I had lived my entire life in fear. One wrong word, one wrong look, resulted in a beating, or hours and hours of lecturing about how worthless and useless and stupid I was. I had to repeat a litany back to them about how useless and stupid and worthless I was. I was made to tell them this every day of my life. Every day. Every single day.

My father confronted me angrily about how I ran away (which I think is impossible for a person in their 20′s to do, but I digress). I was afraid. Then something strange happened, and I got angry.

I got really angry.

And for the first time in my life, my father was afraid of me.

All I did was raise my voice, but he had never seen me so angry before. 

At that point, I realized anger was not always bad. You have to be careful not to let it consume you, but anger is not always bad. Anger is a feeling, like any other, and it can control you or consume you, or protect you. It’s all in how you use it. Feelings are feelings, it’s how you express them that matter. 

This whole thing lately...I have a lot of emotions I’m still trying to process. There are hints of the narcissism I dealt with from my mother, and my anger is back because I feel I was treated unfairly. My conflict is back, that my “training” taught me that anger is bad, but man, am I angry.

I was pushed to be made to feel afraid, had threats made against me (that my abuser is now denying they made, in spite of literal evidence of those threats). 

I thought maybe it would be appropriate for me to talk about myself a little bit here, to show why it hurt so much to have someone accuse me of being a transphobe, or why someone telling me that my fear of them got their dick hard was one of the worst things I’ve heard someone say lately. 

Why them calling me stupid, and all those other things was just a little too close to home. Oz didn’t know any of this about me. I don’t really tell it to a lot of people unless they’re close to me. I feel like it’s my burden, it’s my problem, and most people rightly don’t want to know this, or hear about it. But it was awful what was done to me, and Oz didn’t even know just how awful the things were they did to me. All I want, all I ever wanted, was to go my own way and leave them be. They were awful to me, they were awful to my friend, but all I wanted was to just not deal with them. I cautioned the people I considered my friends, but that was it. Instead they attacked me, harassed me, harassed my friend in the game, made some of the most vile threats toward me I’ve heard in awhile, and spread lies about us. A lot of them people blindly believed, because they felt that was the right thing to do.

Oz unwittingly acted so familiar to me, and seeing that pattern again from someone...Well, the problem is, when you try to make people afraid, eventually you can only push them so far before you stand up to them. I don’t fault the people who wanted to believe them. They framed themselves as a sort of community protector, a gatekeeper, self-styled as a “paladin”. They often referred to it as “my community”, but I don’t think they understand what sharing is. The problem is when that happens, and people give them power, it can be misused. When personal grudges got in the mix, they decided to use that status and power to their advantage. 

I am hurt. I am angry. It will take awhile to heal. My only advice to anyone who reads this is, if you hear some shit about people? Take it with a grain of salt. Do your own research. Don’t automatically assume the worst of people. Talk to people. Or don’t.  But don’t make up shit about them to hurt them. Just move on. 

[yourhealthmattersblog]

You might quickly pick up

So I just review this welcome to japan elfsan manga after completed watching the anime. After seeing ten Episode of this anime, I got captivated and also decided to see the manga. And let me inform you, that's been among the few ideal choices I've made in my whole life. After catching up to the here and now manga chapter, it Instantly turned into one of my preferred manga.

Tale: 9/10

The start is very dull. Fairly normal 2007 manga bland. Man MC meets a female soul as well as begins to create his harem.

Quantity 9, allow us simply claim that quantity 9 is something else entirely. As a backstory quantity, it's great deals of revelations and also explanations. starts. This volume will undoubtedly obtain any person hooked to the story.

Have plenty of restriction to pause analysis as well as do another thing( like resting). Phase 65 of quantity 13 is the largest surprise I have. Be careful, there will certainly be some spoiler.

Art 9/10

And also both are masterfully done. outlined.

The fights are very well-directed and so disgustingly epic that adrenaline is guaranteed to fill out your whole body.

welcome to japan elfsan manga comprises a whole lot of ecchi. The ecchi Isn't foolish( I'm looking at The ecchi Aren't made use of for fan solution but instead for funny. fight. Why? Additionally, He wishes to draw her naked whenever feasible.

Personality 8/10

You might quickly pick up that this is a manga from the 20's just from the first couple of chapters. But don't obtain me incorrect, the characters have actually improved Quite a good deal through the years. Most of the worthless personalities from the beginning were practically thrown away eventually.

Do not also attempt think that the male primary character is a pointless character whose only objective is to whine. Our primary char is a lot of a badass also from his birth. In urban best medic, the MC is educating to fight the toughest human to have ever before strolled the Earth. While He's dense Romantically and also not the most intelligent individual in the world, the various other pieces of his mind are definitely working. Being able to stand up to even the Strongest lures in an instant, even Speedwagon is afraid! His principles in life are quite relatable as well as he takes them seriously. He does not reveal any kind of kind of reluctance to combat anybody that assumes welcome to japan elfsan manga are only devices which should not be treated as companions.

Pleasure 10/10

Precisely exactly how pleasurable is this? After catching up to the most recent volume, I really felt the emptiness in my heart. This is a sensation that I've never ever experienced before. As well as I'm not the only one. Somebody I understand stated, "I seemed like I was a drug user undergoing withdrawal."

welcome to japan elfsan manga offered me goosebumps several times. Rather a feat like I hardly Feel a chill down my spinal column also if seeing some respectable battling scenes in anime.

My preferred part is possibly the hefty drama at the end of volume 14. I Could not believe what I simply reviewed that night. I was hardly able to sleep. I actually can not wait to see the most recent phase. If you people are searching for some ideal manga then this is definitely one of them in the sea. Please head over to https://findmangaonlinenow.wixsite.com/themangablog/post/gnyuhxwyn20qwh7blpk5wc1618692096 for other relevant information

[gunterfan1992]

Episode Review: ‘Always BMO Closing’ (S10E02)

Airdate: September 17, 2017

Story by: Kent Osborne, Adam Muto, Jack Pendarvis, Julia Pott

Storyboarded by: Graham Falk & Kent Osborne

Directed by: Diana Lafyatis (supervising), Sandra Lee (art)

Door-to-door salesmen are often the worst, but I’m not going to lie: I’d probably buy something if BMO showed up at my door. And in “Always BMO Closing,” this is exactly what many of Ooo’s residents decide to do when our favorite robot (and the Ice King, of course) shows up at their doorsteps with a bag full of goodies.

The episode begins with BMO (standing on the shoulders of Ice King and wearing a trenchcoat) revealing to Finn and Jake its dream of becoming a door-to-door salesman. Finn and Jake are supportive, and Jake even agrees to buy one of BMO’s many wares: a ball of lint (although Jake asks if he can pay for the item later, to which BMO agrees, because, after all, the customer is always right).

It is really quite sweet how Finn & Jake both humor BMO in the robot’s fantasies, as well as nonchalantly shrug off the fact BMO is playing make-believe with Ice King. Just the sight of their (formerly) icy foe would have sent season one Finn & Jake into a rage. Time mellows all issues, it seems, and now that our heroes have known Ice King for so many years, they have finally accepted who he is—a pitiful, crazy, but relatively harmless old man. In other words, a perfect match for BMO’s wacky and reality-bending fantasies.

BMO and Ice King soon hit the road, and within no time, they have found their first customer, Tree Trunks; after showing her their (worthless) items, they somehow manage to talk her into buying a stick. I do not know which is funnier: the fact that BMO and Ice King pawned off a piece of a tree—which, it should be noted, surround Tree Trunks’s house by the hundreds—or that Tree Trunks has a formidable wad of money (stored in a flour jar in her kitchen, naturally) that she is more than happy to see walk out the door with the salesmen. Either way, after the two leave, it is revealed that Tree Trunks bought the stick to scratch Mr. Pig’s back—hey, at least he got the good end of the deal here.

After getting lost in the forest (in a remarkably well-storyboarded scene reminiscent of old-school top-down video games... or new-fangled video games made to look like an old-school ones, like Secret of the Nameless Kingdom), BMO and Ice King find themselves at the door of none other than Uncle Gumbald’s house. The malicious uncle initially plans to kill the duo until he hears that they have some of Finn’s baby teeth for sale. Realizing that by purchasing the teeth, he would have access to the DNA of Ooo’s greatest hero, he happily agrees to do business with them, exchanging the goods for an old silver cup.

From here, things take an odd turn: BMO and Ice King return to the Tree Fort, only for Uncle Gumbald to unleash an army of baby-tooth-Finns. The little enamel golems have been programmed by Gumbald to kill Finn and Jake, and they dutifully attack. Thinking fast—and using the business savvy that they learned while on the road—BMO and Ice King sell our heroes two “baby smashing hammers” (great name, by the way), which they use to neutralize the threat posed by Gumbald’s diminutive but durable army. After the babies have been destroyed, Gumbald (who has been hiding outside the fort in a tree) contemplates why his plan was a failure and suggests that he’ll try something even more diabolical next time.

“Always BMO Closing” is an interesting episode, partially because it is really two different stories smashed into one: on one hand, we have an episode about BMO and Ice King teaming up and doing something wacky together. On the other hand, we have an episode showcasing Uncle Gumbald’s villainy and also setting up his next move. While in the past I’ve been critical of episodes that combine two seemingly unrelated plots into one final entry (e.g. “Daddy/Daughter Card Wars”), this one works quite well because the two stories transition into each other in a clean and believable way. In other words, it does not come off as if the two plot threads were jammed together simply to get everything into the episode.

 In terms of production, Emmy award winners Kent Osborne and Graham Falk handled the storyboarding on this episode. While it’s nowhere near either of their bests (that accolade belongs to “Cloudy”), it is a solid entry with many funny parts. This episode also features newcomer Diana Lafyatis handling supervising director. Since this was her first episode, it is hard to get a sense of what her sensibilities are like. I'll hold off further judgement until additional episodes air (although I will say it seems like she knows what she’s doing)!

Of note, this episode is the first since season two to feature a title transition (you know, that troupe that the show used to indulge in during the first few seasons wherein the Adventure Time title—or a parody of it—would fly onto the screen and be intersected by a sword). This time, the transition reads “Potential Customer Time.” Ah, what a throw back! That was a nice little touch.

Mushroom War Evidence: There a bits and pieces of debris in the forest.

Final Grade:

In regards to the season number: some of you will notice that on CN’s website and app, this is listed as season 10, episodes 2. While it’s true that this was intended to be the second episode in the show’s ninth season, I have no reason why CN would go back on its completely wacky reordering of the show. We all thought that they had reshuffled the season 7-9 divisions to more equally balance the number of episodes per each, but this new move throws that idea out of the window. I’m going to continue referring to this as part of season nine until the “complete” ninth season is released to streaming services (next month). Then we’ll know where CN officially considers season nine to end.

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking With the Schuylers (47)

I’m alive! I worked one million hours and got through Open House and met my new teacher’s assistant and it’s all good. 

So now, children, buckle up for more storytime.

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   1112   I  13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I  19   20   21   22   23   24   25  26   27  28   29   I  30  31  32 33 34  35  36  37  38  39 40  41  42 I 43  44  B  45  46

Tagging: @linsnavi  @workworkbae​ @adothoe @oosnavi​

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy on mentions of both physical and emotional abuse.

Pudgy hands smooth themselves over a fresh expanse of white-the only piece of the surrounding area that has gone unscathed. They spread out layers of fresh paint from a large plastic pallet, where a copious amount of each color had been deposited and messed into spots of brown from mixing colors. A tongue pokes out from the corner of a little toddler mouth, pouty lips drawn into a fantastically concentrated smile. The toddler bops along to the upbeat music his mother sings as she moves about the kitchen. He works quietly on his art. There is a deep, caffeinated scent of chocolate that floats through the air as the mother opens the oven, and in a way that all baked goods do it snaps the toddler’s head up, drawing him away from his work with a mischievous smile.   He raises his hands, both smeared with a rainbow of color, and wiggles his fingers at his mother with wide and pleading eyes.

               “No, no, James. Not yet. We have to wait for daddy to get home.” This makes the toddler, who had turned in his chair completely, jut out his lower lip in a theatrical sense of sadness. His mother merely laughs.

               “Please, mommy?”

               “No, sweetheart. Wouldn’t daddy be sad if he came home and there wasn’t any cake for him? And besides, what is this cake missing?” She brings the confection closer to her son, fingers tracing the outline of bare brown. Although it is magnificently spongey, and the smell tempts the toddler to draw his face to the cake right then and there, he knows immediately what is missing.

               “Frosting! We need frosting!”

               “That’s right, we do. Would you like to help me make some?”

               The little boy is so excited that he nearly tips over in his chair, paint-stained hands leaving their mark as he catches himself on its back. He covers his mouth with his hands in shock, leaving a beard of primary colors over his face. Feeling the difference in textures-the rapidly drying paint that has stained the chair and his face-James glances upon the mess he has made in the kitchen with his pouty lips turned into an ‘o.’

               “Sorry, mama.” Julie shakes her head and her eyes, a grassy sort of brown, warm at her son’s messy complexion and apologetic stance. The kitchen is a mess, paint splattered seemingly everywhere but the canvas she had given him. Flour and sugar and cake crumbs dust the counter and the floor, and she feels immediately blessed that the ingredients are dry and will not stain the dark hardwood they had just installed.

               On the wall by the refrigerator, Julie Reynolds keeps a row of cleaning supplies at proper level for her son to reach. She’d purchased the miniature broom, dustpan, and cleaner on a late-night catalog skim, and had implemented it into a chore chart and reward system. Her husband hadn’t been too thrilled; the responsibility factor had been something he’d shrugged at, seemingly an unimportant way to teach such a high value. ‘He’ll learn to be responsible by watching,’ Scott had said. But his wife had been upset, and James so busied by the chores, that he chose to let the beautiful hanging display stay.  This is a savior to Julie, who has begun doing the pile of dishes that have accumulated in the kitchen. James knows exactly what to do; the almost three year-old scurries to his little blue broom and haphazardly brushes his mess away. It isn’t perfect by any means-the debris is difficult for tiny hands and a broom made more for imaginary play than actual cleaning. He’s proud, though; his glassy, green-blue eyes are wide and shining as he looks down at his handiwork, which includes multiple minuscule piles of flour and dirt.

Right as he is about to show his mother the slightly cleaned floor, the sound of heavy footsteps makes its way into the kitchen. James turns around immediately, bouncing up and down on his toes before jumping up into his father’s arms. His toddler chatter is incessant and loud, focusing on not one thing but all of them as he points frantically to various points of the kitchen.  His father’s face brightens, if only just by a small candles worth of light. But at his young age James is unable to recognize the lack of sincerity in his father’s voice as he praises him for his hard work. His father is home from a long day at the ‘big building,’ and James is ecstatic.

There is a period of silence as Scott Reynolds holds his son, looking upon the kitchen with the forced smile painted upon his face. Then, he puts his son on the floor.

“Go play, buddy,” he prods. “I’ll come and play with you in a minute.”

James runs off happily, glowing in his father’s well placed praise as he runs off to the playroom. He doesn’t make it far-just around the corner, in fact-before the cacophony of voices hits his ears. The shouting is sharp, unfamiliar and frightening, and his mess-caked hands fly over his ears.  He is struck with a sense of curiosity, heart beating rapidly in his chest as he attempts to discern what might be going on. His father’s voice mixes with his mother’s, loud and booming over her gentle tones.

There are key words he understands; stop and no and Scott, but there’s a wider range to his father’s vocabulary that he has never heard before. Worthless, stupid, bitch…they hit young ears with the sharpness of a knife, meaning translating only through his father’s harsh tone.

James watches from the hallway as his father walks by him, sparing not even a glance before going into his office and slamming the door. The three year old stands still in shock for a moment, confused and slightly frightened by all of the noise. Then, he makes his way back into the kitchen.

Julie Reynolds has the pristine cake in her hands, looking down upon the intricate frosting letters with dismay. Her eyes are red and glassy, and she draws in half of a shaking breath in rapid pace, as if somebody is going to steal away the oxygen from the room. She tosses the cake in the trash-hours of work depleted and degraded in only three minutes time. She doesn’t notice her son’s presence until she puts the trash away, in the pantry by the doorway where he’s standing with his hands folded neatly in front of him.

“Mama,” James picks his broom off of the floor and begins to brush. The uneven sound of thick bristles against hardwood, the innocence of toddler humming, slightly out of tune…they fill the empty spaces in the atmosphere. Where there had once been dissonance and fear there is now a swell of love, one which sweeps Julie across the kitchen to wrap James in a warm, engulfing hug.

“Love you, mama.” Her son buries his head in the crook of her neck, and she cries.

…

His mother cries a lot. She looks at him with wet eyes. She tells him she loves him a lot. He stays at daycare a little bit longer.

…

His mother is quiet. She doesn’t let him help in the kitchen much anymore. She likes to tuck him in by herself. Daddy comes home late.

…

His footsteps are loud and foreboding. At six years old, James knows that his mother is bound to quiet her singing once she takes notice of them. She has dinner on the table when he comes sauntering in to the kitchen, kissing his head and his mother’s cheek before digging into his plate. James fills the room with chatter; he had just started private school at this point, in his khakis and button up shirt, and he wears them with immense pride. His head of thick black curls had been buzzed to peach fuzz for the occasion, a cut that makes him look significantly older than his Power Rangers lunchbox would suggest. He recounts the walk to school with his mother, meeting his teacher, and getting to play kickball with a group of boys from his class. He’d enjoyed the day so much that he begs to go back the next day-back to the place where his name is on a desk and he has to wear fancy clothes like his father. Scott sends a smile across the table that makes James’s heart swell with love. He straightens the buttons on his tiny blue shirt, puffing his chest out with pride. Even his mother, who had been so quiet when his father had come home, laughs and jokes with them. James can barely stop from bouncing in his seat. He is happy.

…

He’s seven year old the day that it happens-the shift. Life had been filled with excitement and love at this point, with his parents taking him to soccer games across the city since the first leaf had turned yellow-since his mother began to drink coffee that smelt like pie. They trekked all over, following teams dressed in blue and red and yellow, cheering on whoever seemed to be winning at the time. James didn’t care. His father would lean over and point out the rules, explaining things with careful patience and answering all of his questions. They’d get giant pretzels and dip them in dripping cheese that he’d lick from his fingers.  And at the end of the day, his mother would carry him the whole way home while his father spoke in soft tones to her. This fall is the best piece of his life, his seven year-old mind decides half asleep in his mother’s arms after their team wins. The air is growing colder, but he is bundled in their arms. He loves going places with his family.

Julie Reynolds decides to spend this particular brisk Sunday morning taking James museum hopping, amplifying his interest in dinosaurs and ancient Egypt. She’s a fan of keeping his intellect sharp and his education extended, creating activities throughout the city to keep him occupied. It’s been working; his teachers compliment her on his curiosity and drive, and he hasn’t had a problem since the hitting incident last year. She’s thankful. He asks her one million questions with his hand tugging her along, poking at the glass and hanging with bits of his weight from the velvet dividing rope. They stop to stare at the colossal t-rex skeleton, where he makes her read each bit of information she can find. He listens with intense concentration. She has to break him away so they have time to see the rest of the museum.

They return from their excursion with handfuls of souvenirs; t-shirts and toy dinosaurs and astronaut food he pretends to enjoy through pursed lips. James hoists his treasures in the air, explaining in minute and well-remembered detail what each of the dinosaurs used to be like. This time, his father doesn’t seem to be listening. He picks up on Scott’s crossed arms; his nods and short answers. After dinner, he’s sent straight to his room to play.

The shouting starts again, just as he’s half way up the stairs. James stops with a shock, his feet planted on the stairs in fright. He’s not sure what is happening, but with age comes a better understanding of the words his father throws at his mother. He knows that they aren’t good; his teacher had once sent one of his friends to the headmaster for saying bitch. But he’s not sure what it all means, this sudden explosion of sound. His father’s volume is unfamiliar, his tone a foreign language to James’s ears.  He sits on the stairs, on the step just above the space where the banister meets the wall, and watches. Their shadows dance across the wall at the landing, a show his eyes never leave with a racing heart. There is a noise that sends James flying from his seat, an echoing bang as one of the shadows drops out of view. Then, there are murmured apologies, his father’s loud footsteps moving about again. His mother’s voice is too quiet to make out.

They have steak for dinner that night. James asks his mother to cut it for him. Her rich, deep-toned skin, from elbow to hand, is covered in an elongated shadow of water-colored black and blue. He runs his little fingers along the marking, looking up at her with concern.

“What happened, mama?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart.” Her voice cracks slightly. She doesn’t look at him when she speaks. “Mama just tripped in the living room. I’m alright.”

She pushes his plate back toward him, and he doesn’t ask any more questions.

…

               He isn’t sure why he hit his friend at school. His mother’s eyes are red and glassy when she picks him up from the headmaster’s office.

…

               There is one day, when he is ten years old, that he later forces his mind to erase from all forms of recollection.

               His father shows brute strength and bared teeth; hisses through them the harshest words James has ever heard. He knows that the lacy underwear his mother had been holding up are not hers. His thoughts cross paths with the words that come from his mother’s mouth, bold as a mouse picking a fight with a lion. This isn’t the first time this has happened, that much is clear by the tears from one side and the tensed muscles from the other. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. But something is different about this night, with his mother standing in front of his father, saying the words she never wanted to admit to herself.

               It’s those words that ignite the flame.

               There’s a ringing in James’ ear, rapid and intense, that sets a temporary block to the rest of his senses. His feet are magnetized to the ground, heavy and hard as he watches his mother’s body hit the side of the kitchen counter. The terrible ringing covers his ability to hear, but he is grateful for that as his mother’s lips spread and contort in a twisting sort of agony. She stumbles away, pushes herself off of the cabinet before she’s slammed right back into it. It’s a temporary break in the sensory barrier when he hears the sound of cracking bones, but it’s enough to propel his body forward. He screams-he’s not sure what words are coming out of his mouth or what effect they’ll have, but he stands between his father and his mother with his pouty lips quivering, eyes hard and intimidating although they still bare the glassy tears of a child whose innocence was not meant for moments like this. His father scoffs and asks him to step away. The memory breaks. The last piece of the night he can see is the way his mother cried in his arms, the press of her lips against the thick curls he’d just begun to grow out again.

…

               They don’t talk about that night. His mother folds into herself. His father acts as if nothing happened. In time, he begins to believe it.

…

His father works long hours. Sometimes, James is even allowed to spend some time with him at the office. He explains the basics of what he does, in terms an eleven year old child would understand. He loves going to the office; there is a large row of windows that overlook the city, and from high up in the skyscraper he can see each little yellow taxi as an ant in a colony, shifting and moving and doing their busywork as he stretches out on the floor above them. He feels like a king in his father’s big office, with all of the people that come in and out during the day. They get lunch delivered to them by a nice girl who smiles kindly at him and makes sure he has extra pickles on his hamburger. His father takes breaks to play soccer with him on the small stretch of floor in front of his desk.

He is still full of questions; at eleven years old, curiosity spins itself into well-calculated questions, ones that open conversation because he is afraid he might run out of time.

“I take all the stupid people,” he says as James spins in his big black office chair. ”and I prove them wrong. You can do anything you want if you have a brain in your head and an argument to give.”

…

Things are different on his first day of middle school. He doesn’t want his mother to walk with him anymore. He tags along with the same four faces he’s been friends with since that first day in uniform. He’s kept his hair buzzed-it keeps the sweat from his neck and his sea glass eyes bright against tawny, lightly freckled skin. He carries cleats and Gatorade everywhere he goes. Despite being a sixth grader, James is no benchwarmer. He’s already been assigned starting position for the first soccer game of the season. Middle school is amazing.

He likes to keep one button on his uniform undone; it makes him feel cooler. He makes new friends. Around him, there is a gradual change in the air. He keeps his head up even higher than before. His tongue grows sharp as he begins fighting back; for bad grades, or heinous calls by the ref in his soccer games. It seems to work. The world begins to clear its path for James Reynolds-for the son of a high-profile lawyer. He’s proud of where he’s come from. He carries an argument in his pocket wherever he goes.

…

               “Hey dad,” James stands in the doorway of his father’s office, shuffling from one foot to the other as his eyes scan the room. It’s quiet, the time of evening where each member of the house usually retires to their own activities. His mother is in the living room with a gigantic jigsaw puzzle and a glass of wine, his father in the sprawling, modernly decorated and slightly cluttered office space. James would typically be in his room, watching tv or on the phone with his friends. Tonight, he can’t seem to wind down.

               The air in the room is glazed with a layer of sharp, woodsy cologne and an undertone of the amber-colored whiskey that touches Scott’s lips as he looks up from his work. He nods, an unspoken invitation to enter the room, but James hesitates. He folds his hands in front of him, laces his fingers together. One thumb pushes on the other, curls the skin at his knuckle. When the lack of speech becomes palpable, awkward and thinning the oxygen from the room, Scott looks up at his son. He raises his eyebrow and leans back in his chair, resting his arms behind his neck.

               “What is it, James?”

               “Well…” His voice comes out small at first, muted and gentle and rehearsed. He’d been waiting for the right moment to have this conversation, and now the preteen feels as if his tongue had swelled in size, or the oxygen has stopped flowing to his brain. His body continues its slow rocking, back and forth.

               “Why is mom so different lately?” It isn’t the most tactful way to bring the subject up, nor is it the way he wants to address the situation. But his father’s interest is piqued; he takes another sip of the whiskey in his ornate little glass, the ice cube clinking against its sides. The sound ricochets off of the walls, the mahogany built-ins holding stacks of books about law and argument and ways to fight back.  

               “Your mother is just miserable.” There’s a moment-a twitch at the corner of Scott’s mouth. It snaps back into a frown almost as instantly as his awkward facial change had happened. His swiveling chair squeaks as he stands. James draws in a subconscious breath of air. He watches as his father ambles about the room, running his hand along stacks of paperwork as he cradles his whiskey in the other. In one sip, Scott drains the glass of the rest of its contents and sets it down on a coaster. He crosses the room after some contemplation, leaning back against his desk. His palms are spread over the ledge, one leg crossed over the other.

               “I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with all of this, James.” James frowns, eyes narrowed slightly in question. “Your mother hasn’t really been here for you lately. She hasn’t been doing her job. You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

               He’s not sure what to say; the love he has for his mother has always swelled in his heart, encompassed him in warmth and security. These new words, these opinions…he doesn’t want to feel the agreement that settles into his mind. His mother has been distant. It isn’t fair.

…

               He spends more time out of the house than in it. When he is there-for bed and on nights he’s not occupied by sports or friends-the air feels thick and hard to take in. His father smiles and chats and keeps things going by himself. His mother is quiet, but she keeps up.

               James does not recognize the chemical change in his brain as it is happening; it isn’t for some time until he realizes that the opinions he had held through childhood-all of the truths he’d have defended to the ends of the earth-feel wrong and even embarrassing to think of. His mother becomes a distant figure with drooping posture and solemn, silent voice, unwilling to find compromise. His father eclipses the bright light she’d once held in his mind. Now he is even more of a brilliant man, proud and strong, taking charge of his own life. Any cloud that may have been over him from the past has been blown away, cleared by autumn after autumn of floor seating at soccer games or private parties for him and his friends. He spends more time with his father than with his mother. They just don’t have anything in common anymore. Besides, she’s sad all the time now. Her skin, once ebony smooth, grows thin little crop lines when she frowns. She’s always frowning.

               “Your connections are more important than anything else in this world,” It’s a bit he gets from his father as they stand side-by-side in his office. He’s just closed an important case, one that had him as the victim rather than the worker trying to save them. James hadn’t expected his nanny, his dear and wonderful Lani, to go after their money. But his father had won, and now they were celebrating.

…

               “She’s a whore.”

               It’s a sound between a chuckle and a scoff that comes out of Scott Reynolds at the country club’s Christmas party. He’s pointing to his wife. The group of men they’re standing with-executives and CEOs-laugh too.

               James feels the bounce of his stomach-the snicker-as he fits himself into their circle.

…

               “She’s kind of delusional…you’d have to see it to believe it.”

James rolls his eyes. In one hand he nurses a glass of whiskey. The other is in his pocket, with his thumb on the outside. The men in his circle throw their gazes toward the girl in question, who’s entertaining an enraptured crowd with animated features. Her face is the shape of the moon, rounded and illuminating as such. When she smiles, and the peal of harmonious bell-laughter escapes her, her cheer fills the room with a shower of optimism. Her hair falls in smooth, loose curls down her shoulders, covers the opened back of her dress. She turns after some time of their eyes on her; flashes James a smile with just the turn of her lips. A redness creeps across her lifted cheeks, and she turns before they can see it expand.

“Eliza Schuyler? Delusional?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love her. I’m telling you though, there are days…she gets stuck on the littlest arguments. It’s like, jesus, find me some relief, you know?”

“At least she’s hot.” The other men laugh and James turns his body to directly face the one who’s made this comment. He’s a bit smaller than James in height, his stouter body fit in a badly tailored suit. He looks the man up and down-he’s a financial advisor for some tech company. He’s ridiculous. He’s not worth anything. While his smile brings about a sense of comradery and agreement, the storm of James’s dazzling eyes, with which he’s sure to  make contact with the man’s, read as a threat.

“Don’t get too excited about it, man. She’s mine.”

His voice is smooth as glass, carrying his lifted posture and warning glances as charming, jesting. The stout man lets out a half-hearted, nervous sort of chuckle, and when Eliza makes her way over to them he won’t even spare a glance her way.

“And here she is now, my beautiful girl.” James has a way of making Eliza blush. He wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her into his side. The other men look on in envy. He flashes his immaculately white teeth in a Cheshire cat smile. “I was just telling the guys how wonderful you are.”

…

               “Elizabeth, you’re being crazy again.” She draws herself back at these words, aimed at her with a shaded sort of venom he doesn’t try to hide. His arm is still around her shoulder. She shrinks.

               “I just asked you a question, James.”

               “And I gave you an answer!”

               They’re sitting on the bed, Eliza with a book in her lap and James scrolling through his phone. It had been a normal night-he’d stopped over after work. She cooked, they ate, and then they’d had sex.  And now, sitting up side by side in her queen sized bed, things had grown awkward.

               He hadn’t been doing anything out of the ordinary-nothing to make Eliza speak to him the way that she had. She’d been furious, in his mind. She’d been out of hand; making assumptions out of thin air and creating a problem where there isn’t one. That’s been her deal lately, her hobby. Eliza would find a moment and turn it into a battle of wits. She’d set him up, find the cracks in his foundation, and then leave him looking like a bad person when she cried. He’d only yell because she set him off. He’d only yell when she wouldn’t listen to him. But there was always another fight to be picked.

               He refuses to put his phone down. Eliza sits further up in bed; props her body on the headboard and presses her fingers to her closed eyelids. She lets out a sigh, just audible enough for James to hear. His gut stirs with boiling, irritated heat.

               “What now?”

               “Nothing.”

               “No, now you’ve opened the door so I’ll let you say what’s on your mind. Go ahead, tell me.”

               “I don’t think you’re being one-hundred percent truthful about this.”

               “Why, because you read one thing? One little thing you took out of context, from a conversation you read over my shoulder?”

               “James,”

               “-You’re looking for problems now! You’re looking for problems, and you can’t deal with the fact that this new job has me working more hours than you’d like.

“-That’s not”

“Well, it’s happening. If I could switch my hours I would but this job is so important to me. You wouldn’t make me choose, would you?” She shakes her head, the beginnings of tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She blinks them away, only lets her eye contact linger for a few seconds at a time. His features soften into a well-calculated turn of lips that makes her mirror him.

“It’s nothing, babe. She’s a girl I work with, it’s an inside joke. I don’t know why you’re always making me out to be the bad guy. I’m not a bad guy.”

“I know.” She closes her book then, rests it on the bedside table before curling into his side. He brushes her hair away from her face-it’s always there, wild and unarranged, and brushing against his bare skin. It makes his nose wrinkle, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are closed. She is smiling. “I’m sorry.”

…

               Her name is Hannah, and it’s only casual. There is nothing to tell Eliza. He’s not obligated to tell her anything.

…

               He thinks it’s a good idea, moving in together. It’s the next step, the only way to solidify their relationship the way it is. And she has been so testy lately, so willing to argue every little thing, that it’s necessary. She doesn’t seem to be too thrilled-of course. She’s young, she doesn’t know what she needs or even what she wants. James is here to guide her. She needs to be steered in the right direction.

               Angelica slams boxes onto their floor. She scoffs at him and hugs Eliza with tight arms and a prolonged hold. She’s never respected their relationship, not in the months that it has been going on. Elizabeth has been ricocheting between sides, unable to decipher her own opinions while they’re being debated back and forth so vehemently. They don’t argue in front of her, even though Angelica needs to take a lesson from Peggy; shut her mouth and just unpack boxes.

               She keeps getting in the way of their relationship. She’s brainwashing Eliza. Maybe that’s why she’s been so distant lately. Maybe she needs to spend more time with him instead.

…

               She’s his girlfriend. And as his girlfriend, she should want to have sex with him. There isn’t anything wrong with a little instigation. She always likes it, in the end.

…

               Eliza has no right to leave. She’s being delusional again. He hasn’t done anything to her. She’s blowing things out of proportion. And of course, she’s going to call her fucking sister again. Angelica is always getting in the middle of their business. Both of her sisters are. It’s not fair, not right that she loves them more than she loves him. They have an apartment. They have history. She has no right to leave.

               Someone he doesn’t know comes to collect her things, someone she’s hired. They won’t say a word about where she is, or who she’s with. He watches them come and go with his arms crossed over his chest. His shoulders lock in place, fingers curling and uncurling with tension. She has no right to leave him.

…

               She’s using this guy, the one with the ponytail and the bad taste in clothing. He looks like he’s fourty and four simultaneously. And she’s in all of his pictures, with long-winded captions this guy has written. Alex has thousands of comments on every single one of them. Alex doesn’t know her the way James does. He hasn’t seen her at her worst.  And when he does, she’ll come back to James. He’s sure of it.

               But the pictures keep coming; one after the other, in tabloids and on social media. Everywhere he turns, he’s subjected to their pressed-together faces in a selfie, or a candid of them walking arm-in-arm. Alex is walking with his Elizabeth. She’s taking him to brunch, she took him to the Christmas party. At each turn, with each photograph or article passed his way, James feels the slingshot coil inside of his stomach pull back another inch. It’s igniting a small grouping of embers. There’s gasoline waiting.

               She’s throwing him in James’s face. She’s using Alex to get him back. This unkempt, slightly crazed, wannabe poet of a man isn’t the kind of guy Elizabeth needs. He’s no man. There isn’t an inheritance, or a place in society…there isn’t a redeeming quality within the guy, and yet it’s been months of pictures and feigned happiness. He wonders when she’ll pick up on his cues. It shouldn’t take long. She should be back soon.

…

               He’s in the car on his way from the office when he first sees the picture. The slingshot is pulled a little tighter. She uses little hearts in her caption, words it with such delicacy that he nearly believes that she actually loves the man in each little piece of her collage. He restrains the flame-ridden noise that rises in his chest. He reads the comments when he gets home, flips through them before taking off his jacket. There are already over two thousand of them. There are more little hearts. There is hardly any disappointment. She doesn’t belong with this man. Why can’t anybody see that?

               This is just another projectile, another match thrown into his flame. She’s trying to win him back, that much is clear. She hasn’t posted much about Alex until this point, her social media filled with photos of falling snow and cups at cafes and pairs of boots against white powdered sidewalks. Since he had anonymously mentioned getting back together-he knows she’s read the article, of course she has-she’s posted more and more about this man. More than she had before.

               She’s always been a tease. Refusing him has been her game, this picture her next move. Eliza isn’t really happy, she hadn’t been happy without James and she won’t be happy until she has him again. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. The slingshot pulls itself tighter; she’s just spilled gasoline on his fire. He’s ready to accept her cries for help. He’s ready to win her back.

“Happy birthday to my man

Thank you for being my rock, my best friend, my favorite. Thank you for the late night Snapchats, putting on suits for me, and making me laugh.

I love you more  than an Instagram post could convey, and 23 has never looked so good.”