#ignore me I’m processing externally into the void

[septembersung]

We’ve been Going Through It for weeks and weeks now and some things may be clarifying. We’ll see.

In a fit of Mood last night over (detailed context redacted) I decided we’re just going to become that family that speaks conversational Latin. So I’ve been throwing out what small vocabulary I have that’s relevant to a household (and not Mass) at every opportunity.

I am richly rewarded because almost-2yo is at that stage where she will joyfully repeat anything.

[a-wolf-at-the-door]

I've been thinking about the No-Thing. Obviously, in the process of unbecoming a No-Thing, it stopped being. Despite no longer being, it does still exist, otherwise it wouldn't be able to know that it is a No-Thing.

In that case, if one would be able to step into the Void and survive, how would they perceive the No-Thing? Would it be a visible No-Thing? Would it be a feeling? A sound? In what perceivable way does the No-Thing exist? Not necessarily for the human perception systems. We are quite limited in those.

OR is the No-Thing's perception of itself so skewed with suffering and change that it no longer perceives itself as a thing that IS? Could it be that the No-Thing still is, but can't conceive the notion of its being?

I miss Rose :( she was in far less pain than the No-Thing.

Hope your week is going well, and that your weekend gets you very well-rested.

First off thanks for your well wishes and I hope your week is going well too!

I’m so glad you’re thinking about this, I have spent many hours wondering about exactly this question. I have four answers for your one question. They take the form of bad news, good news, a twist, and a promise. The twist is an essay tbh, get ready for a long read!

The bad news: I don’t have a satisfying answer to what the No-Thing is and how the No-Thing would hypothetically be perceived. This is partly because it’s a counterfactual hypothetical: the No-Thing isn’t. Is. There isn’t anyone else doing the perceiving, and if anyone else were to enter the Void they’d be either killed or No-Thing-ified too, excepting those with a Void ship, but my understanding was that part of the way the Void ship worked was by preventing external perception anyway… The other reasons I don’t have a satisfying answer: answering might involve a little bit of spoiler-ing that I don’t want to do, and also, though I pretend otherwise, I can’t entirely wrap my head around the concept of unbeing either! I’m trying to convey not only that which cannot be conveyed but also that which cannot be comprehended, and to get across the truly incomprehensible I can’t cheat and comprehend it!

The good news: You get to decide how to imagine it! Each reader probably has a different understanding of what it must be like for the No-Thing in the Void. Our imagination of unbeing is informed by our individual experiences of being, of embodiment, of identity. I know I move through the world of being very differently than many in my circles, partly due to big Identity Labels™ (cis woman, queer, short, thin, young, white, Latina, neurodivergent, etc. and oops! Now you know a lot more about me!) and partly due to non-Identity Label™ experiences, traumatic and restorative and neutral alike.

The twist: I lied a little, or told a half-truth. Definitely true thing: I believe that stories are always collaborations between writer and reader. Writers provide the scaffolding and readers fill it in and make it particular. We can try all we like to evoke a certain experience, but everyone brings their own background and experiences and lens to the story, so no two people ever really read the same story. And so with that, I think it’s the author’s responsibility to let go. The words on the page are published and the rest of the work is up to the reader to determine and decipher however they may.

But.

I am feeling a little irresponsible.

So I’m gonna tell you more about what inspired the way I write the Void. This isn’t technically a direct answer, nor is it meant to be the sole interpretation of the Void. If you don’t like it, you can always ignore it! Anything I say about these fics is pretty much “fan interpretation” unless it’s in the body of the fic. Here, I’m not really the all-knowing author, I’m just someone who gets to read ahead before everyone else. (because I wrote it lol)

So. How and why do I write the Void (and the No-Thing) the way I do?

The easy answer would be to point to some literary influences. I drew on some elements from DW canon. I love The Magnus Archives podcast and The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater (who is just generally a huge influence on my writing style, I adore her and her work). I consume a lot of speculative fiction and poetry and interesting science writing.

But the real deep-rooted influence of my imagining of the Void is rooted in my mental health challenges. I want to first couch this by saying I’m in a really good place right now and have been for a while. I’ve done a LOT of therapy and I’m on the right medications and I’m making a ton of progress taking care of myself, but I have at points in my life suffered from intense depression, anxiety, and complex trauma. I also have ADHD (but I don’t like saying I “suffer from” that one because it’s so intrinsic to who I am). I’m about to talk about these mental health things in a bit more depth so if you’re not comfy reading about them skip ahead to the promise!

Ok.

I have always struggled with embodiment. Not so much with my specific body—I have a lot of privilege as a thin cis woman and I want to acknowledge that—but with the idea of being in a body to begin with. I blame some of that on the Catholic Church teaching me that the body and all its earthly desires are bad things, and some of it on growing up surrounded by people with a lot of internalized fatphobia, and some of it on growing up intellectually gifted in a society that has a bedrock belief in Cartesian dualism (mind and body are separate, mind is superior to body, mind is pure and godly and must be cultivated, body is impure and animalistic and must be controlled/repressed). My thoughts have always been so fast (thanks ADHD) that I often felt like my body was a limitation.

I have long been very antagonistic towards embodiment and am only recently (past few years) beginning to truly unpack and heal from that. For a very long time the narrative in my head was like this: I am a mind and my mind is clever and creative and quick and capable of so much. My body is an inconvenience. Taking care of it takes time away from the extraordinary things my mind can do. Why does my body betray me by needing sleep, needing food and water, needing bathroom breaks and tooth-brushing and medicine and moisturizer? Why can’t I write as fast as I think? Why can’t I just be a cloud of disembodied thought?

A lot of egotism, a lot of shame. The two often go hand in hand.

These thoughts go back as far as I can remember. I learned to type really fast because I have memories of being a toddler watching my mom typing away and being jealous because handwriting was too slow for me to get my stories out.

I was also a pretty morbid kid. Like seriously, I would read the obituaries in the newspaper and search specifically for young deaths. I don’t know where this came from—I have been very lucky and have still not lost many people close to me, and at that time I hadn’t really lost anyone close to me at all. But I thought a lot about death.

I wasn’t a very good Catholic. I scored highly in religion class because I scored highly in almost every class, and I could believe that Jesus had really existed and done all that stuff the Bible said, but my faith broke down when I thought about death. Hell was terrifying. Purgatory was still beyond my comprehension. My real issue was with Heaven. It sounded interminably boring.

Before anything else, I am and have always been a writer. And as a writer I know that plot relies on conflict. So a reality where everything is perfect all the time and everyone is happy and nothing bad ever happens? Couldn’t get behind it.

As I started losing my faith, my thoughts turned more towards oblivion. (Cue early-2010s TFiOS-era poetic depression). The idea of winking out into nothing terrified me, consumed my thoughts, kept me up at night. What would death be like? Nothing. And what would Nothing be like?

So you see, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about unbeing. And I’ve spent an awful lot of time ignoring the realities of my being, dissociating from my body because I felt limited by it, ashamed of it, detached from it, betrayed by it. (In reality, I was the one doing the betraying.)

Writing Rose/the No-Thing in the Void has been an exercise in paying attention to my being. Trying to capture absence means I have to better understand presence. And it’s made me a hell of a lot more aware of reality.

Because depression lies to you and tells you that you are nothing, that you know nothing, that you feel nothing. Anxiety lies to you and tells you that you are everything everywhere all at once, that you know and can predict every possible outcome, that you are hyperaware of all that’s happening. The No-Thing is both of these and more and less. Like depression, the Void robs Rose of identity, memory, connection, but also like depression, it does so imperfectly. She is not unsalvageable because no one is ever unsalvageable. Like anxiety, the Void gives her a hyperawareness and detachment, a series of images she can’t quite connect and comprehend, an inner monologue she cannot silence. But also like anxiety, it doesn’t actually bring anything into clear focus or control.

Rose’s journey back towards embodiment is coming, and I’m really excited to write it. Partly for her, and a lot for me. It’s going to mirror some of the lessons I’ve learned as I get more comfortable with the fact that being human means being embodied, that I am on the same team as my body, that it sends messages to me and I choose to listen or ignore them, that it never betrays me but that I can choose whether or not to betray it. Her return will also show more of Bad Wolf as a disability. (Disclaimer: I don’t generally disclose the specifics but I have a few conditions that can be classed as disabilities, though they are the sort that can be managed thanks to modern medicine, my parents’ health insurance [thanks Obama!], and a lot of luck and privilege, so with the exception of rogue flare-ups, they don’t usually have disabling effects on my day-to-day life.)

The promise: Rose will return. Can I promise she’ll be in less pain? No. But can I promise she’ll come back and grapple with her new challenges and do it all with characteristic aplomb? Yes.

Ok that’s all! Hope you enjoyed the essay that didn’t really answer your question lol, now go forth and imagine!

[talkingtomycomputer]

Intrinsic Value

Feeling good about ourselves is one of the hardest, loneliest, most human experiences I can think of. It is an aspect of life we often neglect or ignore and many of us do not prioritize this until later in life. It is a different process for everyone who attempts it. Many of us never fully do experience it, but that is okay, but I highly encourage everyone to try. Whether you need the assistance of therapy, or medications, or if you do it completely by yourself, you deserve to feel good about yourself at least some of the time. Let me say that again, you deserve to feel good.

  I would like to think I am pretty decent at giving advice, but there’s one area I cannot quite express fully enough to be able to help someone through it. I wish I had the words to help those of my friends who struggle with finding their own inner worth. We derive our value from a lot of different things in life, whether that be friends, family, work, or in our romantic relationships, but we often forget about our self-worth. Aside from all these areas of our life, we possess value. Even when we disappoint our friends and family, even when we underperform at work, even when we break up with our partners, we are worth something. It can be easy to get caught up with external validation, because when life is good, we receive it regularly. Unfortunately, life is not always so good. 

Sometimes we make mistakes and sometimes we find moments in our lives where external validation is few and far between. These are moments to remind yourself that even if no one is telling you this, you are important, and wanted, and loved. The human experience is a funny one to me. For most, when we are young, we are surrounded by people all the time whether it be in school, camp, church, sports, or clubs. This continues all the way into young adulthood for those of us who decide to attend college, but dramatically declines when we leave school. We go from constant communication from our peers to seeing them a couple times a month, or even only a few times a year. This causes many of us to go through the extreme discomfort of having to become our own best friend. We are now the person we spend the most time with. This means in order to fill that void of immersive socialization, we either need to seek it out or we need to grow used to feeding that part of ourselves through personal hobbies and interests. Oftentimes, this process occurs by ourselves.

I have personally always enjoyed my alone time. I am the type of person who, much of the time, chooses to stay home with a good book instead of going out to socialize. I have always been this type of person. My parents needed a quiet afternoon? No worries, I’ll hang out in my room. I spent a lot of time by myself as a kid. I have an older sister who was much the opposite, she went to school before I did, and spent most of her time at sports, in theatre productions, or with friends. I had a small handful of friends I would hang out with outside of school, but I was a little shy and didn’t really enjoy sports or extracurriculars until I was older. I did a lot of independent playing and it taught me how to craft intricate worlds full of imaginative characters, and magic. This was a reality I lived in by myself until I was around high school age. This reality is where I have found myself returning to in my newfound adulthood. It is a place within me that I can find comfort in my own words and praises and delights. I spend time in this place reminding myself that I am creative and wonderful because my imagination is creative and wonderful. This place within me that I have concocted is full of love and therefore I am full of love. In the metaphysical sense, I am amazing because I think amazing thoughts. I think therefore I am. If I spend all my time telling myself that I am worthless then I become worthless. If I think I need the praises of others to feel good, then I need the praises of others to feel good. 

Do you see what I’m getting at here? You have to invest time into being kind to yourself in order to feel good about yourself. You must think to become. You decide you matter. I treat myself kindly by spending time doing things that I want to do. I book trips with my friends, and I go hiking and camping, and I visit my family, and I spend time reading at coffee shops alone. I do these things for no reason other than because I want to. I do not do them because someone expects me to or because I have obligations to do so. I do them because they make me feel good, and it is how I wish to spend my time. I still have all the other obligatory duties, like going to work so I can pay my bills, and grocery shopping so that I have food at home to cook. I feel comfortable in my ability to say no to absolutely anything. 

Establishing a routine that includes these acts of “self-care” is a vitally important thing to do for the health of your relationships, as well as for the health of your mind. We must spend time investing into ourselves in order to grow comfortable and content with ourselves. Taking the time to remind ourselves of our own value enables us to deal with adversity and hardships more effortlessly. When we experience something negative in our lives, sometimes we turn the blame on ourselves. Feelings of guilt and worthlessness can usually follow these negative events, and the only way to overcome these moments is by giving ourselves the grace, kindness, and forgiveness we would grant to others experiencing these feelings. Life is full of these difficult moments, so providing yourself with the skill-set to deal with them is an investment into your long-term happiness.

So do the work. Have conversations with yourself about your values and live by those basic truths. Be authentic to yourself and do not compromise your beliefs and give yourself the freedom to feel confident about your decisions and actions. Remind yourself that you are kind, honest, intelligent, loved, and anything else that you need to hear. I am loved, I am valuable, I am a wonderful addition to the world. You are loved, you are valuable, and you are a wonderful addition to the world. Be proud of yourself for making it this far, and good luck with your journey.

[tsvaling]

Announcement? Update? Screaming at the void? I don’t know what to call this right now, so if anyone is curious about what the hell I’ve been doing all this time read on...

So, I’ve been getting a few asks about my ongoing fics and whether I’m going to continue them because I haven’t posted a new chapter in 2+ years. Well, as everyone knows, Covid fucked everything up, and 2020 was just a horrendously shitty year on the whole to start with. I have been insanely lucky to avoid getting sick (helps I do not socialize outside of work whatsoever, but considering I work in dental and am literally in people’s mouths all day - yeah, really fucking lucky to have avoid illness). But, the external stress and anxiety the ongoing plague has caused in me has really messed with my ability to write or do anything.

But, as I announced at the end of last year, I’m back in school. I took two classes in the spring and got A’s in both, with such amazingly consistent feedback on my writing that it began to inspire me again.... Except right as I was regaining my confidence, more shit started happening in my personal life to blow a hole in my intentions.

I’ll put the details to that under a cut at the end so if people don’t want to read the shit that’s led to endless existential dread and a burdensome mid-life crisis, you can ignore that part. I’ll just get to the point here.

Despite all the shit that’s been weighing on me the last few months... years, really... I do know I absolutely cannot continue to work where I’m at. I need to get out of the medical field for the sake of my mental health, as well as physical health. But, I can’t just quit because I have bills to pay and I don’t have anything lined up to move on to. I genuinely want to work from home, focusing on what I love and would like to do for a living - writing. My whole plan of getting a Master’s in Library Science after completing my B.A. is still kind of there, but all the feedback I got and the excitement I’m feeling for my writing courses has really told me that writing is something I need to be doing, but I can’t make money off fanfic (copyright law’s a lot stricter with writing versus art).

I’m almost afraid to announce this because it’s probably way too early, but I am working on an original high fantasy romance story that I intend to publish. I’m only in the early planning/ outlining/ worldbuilding stage, but it’s something I really want to write. It’s a smaller scale than a high fantasy saga I’ve had rattling around in my head for years, but it came to me and seems more manageable as a first foray into self-publishing that might give me a base to then spring into the larger saga that’s gotten more solid in shape over the years.

My plan for this is to make a Patreon once I have a solid draft of the story written, then post two chapters a week as I go through my early editing process, and then publish it as an ebook once I’m satisfied - likely using whatever funds I manage to get from Patreon to pay for an outside editor to finalize the book.

But, as I said, this is all in the early planning and hopeful yearning stage of my idea to make a career out of writing. I am absolutely terrified that even speaking about it may jinx me just because of how this year has gone, but I am excited to see if I can do it (all while also taking three classes this fall, ahahahaha).

As to what this means for my fanfic - I don’t know. I still really want to finish Amber Curse, but it’s become so difficult for me to concentrate on my fics that I might not be able to go back to it. Or, I might use it as a way to take a break from my own original work, especially since I can get away with sporadic posting and still get really great and inspiring feedback from people. We’ll see. I know I hate the idea of disappointing anyone with an incomplete story, especially one that is so BIG. So, while that’s sort of in limbo right now, I haven’t forgotten about it.

I’ll try to be more active on here, too - give updates about my process when I can.

But, for those curious as to what I’ve been dealing with this year that’s really fucked with my head, the details are under the cut. Fair warning for those who don’t want to be dragged down, there are mentions of illness and sudden death in the family.

Edit: Realized the post is on the long side, so the cut isn’t working on the mobile platform - so everything after this is just depressing shit you don’t have to read if you don’t want to.

At the beginning of the year my aunt died. She was my dad’s little sister and while we hadn’t been in regular contact with that side of the family, it still took a huge hit on my mental health. To add to it, at that same time, my dad discovered he had a lesion in his throat that came back as lymphoma. Fortunately it was caught early enough and is a form of lymphoma that responds incredibly well to chemo, so after three bouts of chemo and a few weeks of radiation, there is no sign of lymphoma in his system. But my dad is the type to panic over everything (I get it from him), and believe he’s going to die when he only has a common cold, so hearing he has cancer literally a few weeks after his sister died... yeah, not great news.

I am an only child, and I live with my parents, so I had to go with my dad to as many appointments as my schedule would allow so that I could help him understand the prognosis, treatment outcomes, and side effects. My mom’s also been having trouble driving, so anything he needed a driver for fell on me. To add to it, I had to basically act as his therapist and constantly reassure him that he is not going to die. My father and I had a very tense relationship when I was younger, and while we are on better terms now, spending any time with him is stressful because I’m innately terrified of him, but to add to it, I have to remain calm and be the voice of reason and reassurance throughout all this. Even when in the middle of a panic attack, I have to do everything in my power to mask it to make sure I don’t add to whatever the fuck my dad is freaking out about. Add to this extreme burnout from a job that requires me to show compassion and empathy to complete strangers on a regular basis that I no longer really have because it’s all used up - yeah, this whole thing has beaten down my already poor mental health.

And then, right as we were nearing the end of my dad’s treatment - literally he had one more radiation treatment the next day - my mom had a stroke. Again, we were insanely fortunate we caught it as early as we did. She had no signs of paralysis or facial drooping, but was extremely confused with verbal aphasia (word salad) worsening by the minute. My dad and I rushed her to the ER, they got a clot-busting medication into her within two hours of symptoms appearing, and she was pretty much back to normal and transferred to an ICU bed by the next morning. But, again, I had to act as medical advisor from the moment my dad noticed my mom’s changed mental state - assessing her symptoms as a nurse would and making the split second decision to go to the ER, and then literally assisted the nurse in the ER who was assigned to watch over her while the medication did its thing. I am not a nurse for a reason, and being my mother’s caretaker reaffirmed that reason, but my dad was relegated to a corner to do his best to hide his compulsion to freak the fuck out while I just took over all the hands-on work to keep my mom calm and give the nurse an extra pair of hands when my mom needed moving.

All of this has just reaffirmed that life is too short and I am too young to be facing my parents’ inevitable mortality. Chances are they will live for at least another 10 years, but they will need me to take care of them more and more over that time. While I am very fortunate that they are both still mobile and independent, these last few months have kept me on edge waiting for the next emergency to crop up.

Writing is therapeutic for me, so being stuck in a cycle of not being able to write but wanting to write has only made all this worse. But, I am forcing myself to break that cycle. Even if all I’m writing are little blurbs of poetry for myself, it is still something to maintain a fraction of my sanity. Hopefully things will calm down now that my parents have gotten over these hurdles and I can have some time to focus on my work, but if I suddenly go MIA again, chances are something major happened with piss poor timing again.

[whentherewerebicycles]

I had a do-the-chores phone date with liz this morning, during which I made myself unpack, do laundry, change sheets and duvet, repot a couple plants, and clean most of the apartment. it still feels kinda cluttered in here but it’s cleanish and that’ll do for now. then I ignored the hockey game (wise choice) and spent 11-3:30ish brainstorming for this fic fest. I’m going back and forth on the size & scale of the project I want to attempt but am forbidden to speak even of the word count online lol so I cannot do my usual processing into the void. very difficult for me!! how can I have a thought if I haven’t externalized in some form! but after hours of experimenting with different ideas I find myself circling around one that I think could work. I like the initial feelings it’s stirring up in me so I’m gonna spend time mulling it over and doing some slightly more involved brainstorming with notecards or on my laptop. I’m trying to remind myself that not every writing project has to be My Very Best Work Ever or A High Stakes Creation. it’s okay to write a decently good story! putting too much pressure on an idea is the best way to ensure nothing ever gets written.

[borkthemork]

Color Symbolism - How Steven’s Shirts Portray Different Portions of His Life

A quiet musing from last night had me thinking about this and I knew I had to do a bit more in explaining. But basically, throughout the three main SU mediums — the main SU show, the SU movie, and SU Future — we all know the main color schemes Steven adorns himself regarding his star shirts. We have salmon pink, bright blue, and the heavy black he likes to tow around, but looking into the way these colors were implemented is what we will dive into.

Color themes and symbolism are very potent with Steven Universe. From the use of pinks, yellows, whites, blues, and the menagerie of other colors we could think of, Rebecca Sugar and the crew put a lot of deliberate thought into the design, especially on a thematic level.

For Steven, not only do his shirts represent a very iconic symbol towards the show as a whole, but it represents the main arcs and emotional statuses of our main character throughout the show’s running.

Edit (11/30/19): For sourcing, I’ll be putting the links to stuff I’m referring to in my reblogs. However, my post already got hit off the radar because of Tumblr’s broken algorithm, so if you liked this post then I would be grateful if you could help reblog and spread the word as well!

And with that, let’s begin.

Pink - The Arc of Innocence and Nurture

Pink harbors a lot of connotations regarding femininity in Western culture (and even a good load of masculine connotations in Eastern tradition) but it has a lot more than that under its belt.

It represents tenderness, cultivation, gentle love, nurture, safety, optimism, strength, but most importantly the color itself is seen as non-threatening, calming to one’s eyes, inviting to people.

But with this optimism comes the consequences of lack of awareness or vision. How do you think the concept of rose-colored glasses ever came about? It’s always the idealism or ignorance of the person that allows them to not see red flags or the reality of it all.

And with that, we could start connecting this to Steven Universe.

Throughout the five seasons, this boy always had this priority of being involved with the people and figures in his life as a therapeutic role model. He wants to heal the corrupted gems; he sees empathy and nuance in people’s struggles, and this mindset definitely kept going up to the point of CYM and onwards.

He sees the best in people and wants to encourage them to get onto the path of improvement and healing. There’s definitely innocence at the start, even if his life and the show’s antagonists challenged him to the brink.

However, the lack of vision could be found way back to the start of episode one. Season one was a slow burn of information since the POV showed that his family dynamic was never challenged to him because y’know, it’s his family, they’re gems, and they fight monsters. It portrays his mother as an amazing person to his parental figures, a martyr who loved everything and everyone. There doesn’t seem much for him to challenge at the start because that’s what his reality is, his status quo. He never questioned it. Why would he challenge something that he believes is the norm?

Of course, this illusion of a perfect family does get chipped away. With each episode that showed his family as flawed — with the world around him starting to expand more with information, his understanding towards the severity of the situation and what his status is gets questioned.

Steven will continue to keep his cheerful paradigm, but weariness has implanted a seed into him (among many other emotional issues from upbringing, but we’ll talk about that farther along).

Blue - Stability and Tranquility

The contexts for blue could vary a lot. Very polarizing definitions such as the relation to inebriation, water, and everything in between could dampen the straight-forward process on how to analyze the color associations further; it makes sense for this polarization since the use of it in the ancient and contemporary world isn’t rare, particularly in its application towards clothing, art, and other forms of creation.

But what we’re going to focus on is the sky (or light) blue, the one that Steven tows around before and amid the SU movie. It’s a color that’s mainly associated with the sky, hence the listed qualities found.

”Light (sky) blue: peace, serenity, ethereal, spiritual, infinity (The origin of these meanings is the intangible aspects of the sky.)” -Color Matters

Jill Morton, a color psychologist, also states that the color has a connection to conservatism, passivity, security, and introversion (which are important for later).

For now, let’s talk about Steven and his main goals.

Steven, throughout his two years of intergalactic diplomacy, became focused on bringing about a new form of Homeworld, cited in the game as him deteriorating the former authority doctrine and allowing people to do activities that aren’t limited by their former caste system. And with this, he brings forth the aim of peace and tranquility.

Cue the events of SU the Movie. Now at 16, Steven has been hinted to have never had full-on rest for the past two years he’s been doing his duties to the Era 3 reformed Homeworld. In his announcement, he declares that he wants to finally go back now that everything with the former empire is stable enough for them to function without him.

His main goal now is to relax, have time for himself, and gain his “happily ever after”. And we all know that this attachment to this idea will be played out for much of the storyline, to where it becomes one factor for him in a whole slew of others that prevents him from channeling his gem capabilities.

The catalyst towards him returning is through the concept of change, the ability for him to grow and adapt even throughout the trauma and pressure; Steven, in this movie, however, didn’t realize this because he was already at a state of his life where he just wanted a break from the morphing status quo. He wants a moment to himself, away from the anxiety of responsibilities placed on his shoulders at the age of bloody 14, and overall, just allowing himself to be a kid again.

Yet, even with him helping Spinel and returning life back to the Earth’s poisoned areas, Steven admits to the prospect of never having a happily ever after, and that he’ll “always have more work to do”.

This is where the color of his shirt changes, and with it, the break of Steven’s ideal stability.

Black - Aggression, Power, and Death

But with the expectation of stability for Steven’s life crushed after the events of the movie, I found it very interesting that his blue shirt wasn’t seen or even used anywhere from the stills and trailer shots we’ve seen.

This could be a deliberate usage on Rebecca’s part to discern SU Steven, SU Movie Steven, and SU Future Steven, but I’d like to believe that in-universe, Steven’s wanting to change into black-colored apparel is a mental choice on his part. For black, in color psychology, is a color that protects...and conceals.

“In color psychology this color gives protection from external emotional stress. It creates a barrier between itself and the outside world, providing comfort while protecting its emotions and feelings, and hiding its vulnerabilities, insecurities and lack of self confidence.” -Empoweredbycolor

A great deal of SU content creators have pointed out that Steven, for the entirety of his own life, has been brought up with the idea that emotional vulnerability, no matter how potent or minuscule, can become a weapon or a pain for not only their own being but for the people around them.

I can’t delve too much into it, sadly, but I will link to posts that commentate more on this in my reblogs.

His upbringing has brought him to the paradigm of repression, where his own priorities and needs are swept to the side for other people — even extending to the whole body of Homeworld because of the way he handled his diplomacy. He had to solve other peoples’ problems; he placed himself rock bottom in importance, and now he’s suffering the consequences for it.

Out of all the pieces of symbolism here, black is the most void and mysterious because of its absence of color. It’s used a good amount of the time as a motif of authority, power, and fear, but the ones I’d like to hone in on are death and the concept of being overwhelmed.

Now, we have no clear indication over how the series will go but hear me out. I don’t think a physical death would apply in this situation but more of a metaphysical death — a death of one’s current self.

We find Steven at a crossroads: it will bring his personal imbalance out in the worst ways, and through the fact that the sypnosis foretells of him handling powers uncontrollable by his cognition, then we know that this is a force that’ll bring him into strife over who he is and what he wants.

What does he truly want for his future and how will he come about it?

In Joseph Campbell’s template called The Hero’s Journey, a hero’s death has to come about by a new revelation, a new form of meaning and objective than what they originally intended. The death of one idea will then lead to the true answer, something new the character hasn’t explored but wants to explore since the concept’s been there from the beginning, yet needed a push for it to be unveiled.

”Black is the end, but the end always implies a new beginning. When the light appears, black becomes white, the color of new beginnings.” -Empoweredbycolor

If Steven has been chasing for a happily ever after for most of his life, then a paradigm shift will have to occur.

He must face the brunt of his problems, and in this, he’ll find the answer.

[lostzombiewandering]

There’s nothing appealing about recovery

I’ve been sick for most of my life and honestly can’t really recall a time I didn’t feel this way even as a small child; but since I never had any particularly traumatic experience I always felt ungrateful for these feelings and buried them next to all my hopes and dreams.

Of course it doesn’t help that I’ve been told my entire life that showing symptoms of mental illness is a privilege and if you are desperate you have to put your big boy pants and put your emotions aside and do what you have to do.

So I did what I had to do; I hide all the sick away. Nobody has ever known about the extent of my SH or that I even have an ED or then 7 attempts. I’ve always done this alone bc I know they don’t want to see it; this isn’t just speculation I know I don’t have anyone I can confide in bc nobody wants to see the sick. Ppl support mental illness up until the moment it can’t be romanticized anymore; up until it’s blood and vomit.

Having said that I’ve always been aware how insane what I do to myself is and the statistics. I’ve always been aware of all of this even when I started doing these things to myself.

The thought of recovering has obviously crossed my mind more than once bc In the few moments of sanity and clarity Ive had I wanted to escape this hell once and for all.

But GOD it’s impossible to relate to anyone that has recovered or is even in the process of it.

SH

They way we are talked about is almost infantilizing to the point of nausea and I can’t stand any talk about it anymore. I keep hearing therapist explain to me what I’m doing to myself instead of listening to ppl that SH and their reasons. The way we are talked over is just terrible. Also the way only cutting is ever even mentioned as SH when so many methods far more dangerous with long term consequences exists and yet cutting is portrayed almost as a crime. “Harm reduction” but forget that anything in the hands of someone that SH is a weapon PLUS a permanent scar is a far less severe consequences that fucked up kidneys but hey let’s ignore all other forms of SH and demonize the one with the least possible long term consequences.

ED

This is just funny bc they way they only focus ON ONE is just insulting. There are several EDs and not all of them look remotely the same plus the lack of understanding that it’s genuinely not about the food but about control in restrictive EDs is ridiculous. Ppl only care about EDs when you look on death door and even then it goes only one way. If you eat “normally” everyone just takes it as a win bc nobody cares about EDs as long as you don’t look like you are dying. Nobody wants to tell you that you’ll never fully be cured from your ED but that you’ll have to learn to live with the thoughts and fight them every single day for the rest of your life. Nobody says how ppl will see you DYING, show symptoms of your ED and make it about themselves but sure you should reach out. The way ortho is just glorified and so is bed lately. Nobody really has a healthy relationship with food but claim constant indulgence.

Depression

I’ve heard one too many therapists basically reduce overcoming depression to becoming productive and “doing” shit. Not everybody with depression mops around all day doing nothing lamenting the world is a shithole. The problem is that as long as a lot of external problems are not fixed you can’t expect ppl to feel truly better about anything. Sure you don’t need a reason to be depressed but looking at the world around us everything looks bleak; but we are expected to not feel like we are being consuming by a growing void? The world does not give a fuck if I live or die, the stars and the sun don’t give a flying fuck. Sure a couple of ppl will be a little bit sad but the world will keep on going even when all of humanity ends; that is not my depression talking, that is a fact. I can’t parrot the idea that life has any intrinsic value bc I don’t believe in that; our flesh mechas are weak and dwindle under the most of the climates that are natural in the world we live in. It’s so easy for us to just die of a variety of reasons and nothing really happens when we die; it’s just game over. Value to our lives is something we assigned ourselves but it’s not intrinsic.

The big S bc I doubt tumbler will let me write the world

I’ve heard way too many therapists talk about S as a guilt trip to others; that has made me never in my life consider therapy bc god let’s make your suffering about someone else WOW. I’ve seen it also seen be referred too as a threat and I have no words. We are not talking about ppl that use it as a threat to manipulate others into doing what they want but ppl that successes and no longer live. But of course they turn around and guilt YOU about all the ppl that you are going to leave behind all sad as if they wouldn’t eventually get over your death. Sure I’m going to remain alive and miserable so just that ya’ll don’t deal with grief for half the time I’ve felt this way!!! I’m going to be very honest with you but once I die I won’t have the ability to care about ppl being sad BC ILL BE DEAD. “S is not the solution 🥺🥺🥺🥺” I mean, it is??? Once I die I’m dead forever and there’s nothing else???? We all die eventually so what’s so wrong about me wanting to rush it a little bit? That you’ll be sad? Doesn’t sound like my problem to be fair. What if I just don’t see the point in living past a certain point? I never found life entertaining and sure doesn’t get any better later in life, plus it is my life and I am free to do what ever I want with it. Sure there are fun activities to do in life but can’t say I find life itself even remotely interesting. The only comfort I’ve found in my life was the fact that eventually one day I would die and I wouldn’t have to exist anymore. One day it would all fade to black and just be over; that is the only thing that has kept me from trying more fool proof method for my early demise.

I’m not anti recovery bc why the hell would I want ppl to feel the way that I do? I just want it to be less insulting and infantalizing in general. I don’t want the patronizing ideas telling me that I am wrong and here is the correct way bc the moment I poke holes into the logic I’m too sick to know better.

Just bc I’m sick doesn’t mean I don’t have any logic left in me; yes my ED rules can be illogical and not based on science but welcome to: knowing that you are sick doesn’t mean you can stop.

I want ppl to really support mental illness even when it shows it’s ugly side.

I want to be heard and not be told “what you actually mean/feel”

I want transparency and when it comes to recovery few ppl talk about how arduous and never ending it will be, how it will never really end and just become a battle you deal with everyday.

If I’m being honest I just want to die and be done with this already; but this is the rambling is a tired man that likes fancy words bc they are nice to write.

There isn’t right or wrong it’s just an experience and opinion

[hvilested]

Yes, you can cure Maladaptive Daydreaming

Two years ago when I joined this community, I think I was more dead than alive. I've been waging quite a brutal war with maladaptive dreaming and the array of issues that underlie it ever since then and I'm on my way out of this prison. I wanted to do something for you guys so here is a little essay with insights on MD and what you can do to understand better and finally tame this beast. Hopefully, someone will find it useful.

The split and the life between two worlds

Do you think the vague feeling of being split in two and existing between two worlds but belonging to none is exclusive to maladaptive daydreamers?

“If you try to have a conversation with me, I can’t bring myself to listen to you. I pretend to listen and you really think I do but my mind is somewhere else, thinking about it. Every time I try to stop doing it, I genuinely feel as if a part of me has been torn off and a deep sense of personal loss ensues. I feel as if I’m not here but I’m not there either and I can’t shake off this feeling of being split in two.”

This is what a recovering heroin addict once told me. Heroin addict. But it’s also what a regular maladaptive daydreamer could have told you, isn’t it?

Maladaptive daydreaming is, among other things, a typical psychological addiction. Most of the negative issues associated with maladaptive daydreaming come from the fact that it is an addictive coping mechanism and not some unique disorder with specific symptoms just recently discovered. You have heard million times that addictions are encoded in the primitive part of the brain associated with survival – which means that if you don’t get your fix right now, you feel more dead than alive and you need your drug of choice to bring you back to life. Your brain is sending a false message to you – it is issuing an urge that is blown out of proportion, compelling you to constantly indulge in daydreams and making you think that if you don’t, the world will end and you will lose a part of yourself. Drugs usually invade your sense of self – they fuse with it and by giving up the drug, you feel as though you are giving up a dear part of yourself.

Addiction is addiction but different types of drugs and addictive behaviors tell you different things about their users. So what does fantasy reveal about you? MD is like a guardian angel that tries to protect you too much and eventually causes more harm than good. But it’s still your guardian angel that tried lifting a burden off your brittle shoulders. It’s destructive in its own way but it was originally born to protect you from something. To realize and accept what you are trying to run away from is your first step towards recovery. Maybe it’s depression, maybe it’s low self-esteem and loneliness or it’s anxiety or PTSD.

Fall of the self

Maladaptive daydreaming isn’t the act of random mind-wandering – it’s a highly immersive mental activity, where all attention is gathered and directed towards happenings of the fantasy. This would be parallel to a so-called flow state, which is characterized by immersing intensely in an activity to the point of losing the sense of self. Which means, whatever happens in fantasy, happens, but not to you. It is a selfless experience, never integrated into what you call yourself, into sense of identity, into what makes you you. It exists as a detached, ecstatic, fleeting moment that slips through the fingers the moment you try to make sense out of it and process it as your own experience. You witness traces of happiness but the happiness is never yours.

Fantasy is an egoless state of mind where we are not ourselves. And by temporarily cutting ties from your own ego, the conscious identity, you’re also cutting ties from all insecurities you have ever had, from all the problems that are currently bothering you and this is why daydreams feel so damn good. Everything bad is just cut off from your perception. The part of your brain that defines your sense of self, along with all the negative things and mental illnesses attached to it, is turned off.

As you venture into this egoless place that is MD, you make up imaginary people you sometimes end up loving dearly or even fall in love with or you conjure imaginary places you’re desperately drawn to, and then suddenly – you wake up from your dream and you’re violently pulled back to reality and to being yourself. And this is where the problem arises: all those things you’ve done in your dreamworld and all those made up people you’ve come to love have nothing – absolutely nothing – to do with real YOU. They are not attached to your conscious sense of self. All those dreams and false memories you made – you made them in an egoless state of mind. And it’s this that makes you feel split. It’s not the fact that you’re physically apart from the content of your fantasies. It is the fact that your subconscious feelings, fantasies and desires do not connect to your sense of self. Even if everything you’ve been daydreaming about came true, you’d still feel like garbage, empty and miserable. If your imaginary friend came to life to make you less lonely, you’d still be lonely – because MD isn’t about made up friends or lovers or getting a new life. It’s about you not wanting to be you. Everything else is irrelevant.

In other words, you’re not addicted to your fictional characters or your imaginary love or to a fantasy about being a famous singer or writer. You’re addicted to not being you. You’re addicted to this erratic state of consciousness that is MD – regardless of its content – that provides a temporal relief.

I’m not saying that you don’t genuinely care about the content of your daydreams (quite the opposite, more on that soon) – what I am saying is that it’s not your love towards whatever is the content of your fantasies that creates this ugly feeling of being split between two worlds. One thing I can assure you (and this comes from my own experience) is that the moment you feel comfortable being you, those two worlds will reconcile, they will merge into one, and you’ll finally feel at peace with yourself.

Will a part of you be taken away as you give up your daydreams?

Maybe the saddest question I have ever asked myself was ‘how much of myself will I lose when I give up the only thing that makes me happy?’ Here’s a glimmer of hope: you’re not supposed to give them up. To give up the feelings you experience in your daydreams is self-mutilation. As strange or silly as they are, they still represent a censored part of your subconscious; maybe they are an epitome of your loneliness or your sadness. They are a testament to how hard you’re struggling and how hard you’re trying not to be dead – and to give this up is a crime towards yourself. Maladaptive Daydreaming isn’t just about wishful thinking and getting your wounds licked. It is that one place where your life flame stillburns while you may be dead in all other planes of existence. That’s enough to know that this MD thing isn’t all that entirely wrong. Maybe your real life is all emptiness and void but what you do in your daydreams – you do it with passion. And that’s enough to know that you are still capable of loving and caring about something just like other people. So passion exists and don’t you dare ever doubt that. It exists in a wrong place but it exists nonetheless. What you have to do is find a way to redirect those emotions from daydreams to reality and, as stated before, this causally happens once you’re finally you. All the positive emotions from your daydreams will flow back into you and you’ll feel as though these two worlds between which you have lived for so long have at last coalesced into one.

So what you want to do is focus on healing the self. It’s a tough one but there’s no quick fix here. Now comes the irony which you’ve been waiting for: in order to heal yourself, you need to let go of your daydreams. But didn’t I just say that you aren’t supposed to give them up, you ask? Don’t give up the passion, don’t give up the love you have for the content of your daydreaming, don’t give up the feelings – because they are all, real or not, a reminder that you’re alive. What you do have to give up is the false sense of comfort your daydreams give you. Try giving up all those countless hours you spend stuck in your own head pacing back and forth because you’d rather be there than here. Try giving up the temporal fix when you feel miserable. If someone angers you, don’t impulsively lock yourself in your room and act out a revenge in your head; go kick a sofa or something, lash out at something external.

You have to wean yourself off of this strange dissociative painkiller that’s fantasy, then let yourself feel all the pain with every ounce of your being, let all the negative emotions resurface, let them swallow you alive, don’t resist, don’t run away, accept them, let them ravage you, and somewhere along this process, a part of the you will be reborn. Something will awake. Not all of you, maybe just a small part but that’s enough to gather what’s left of your strength and continue the struggle. If you feel the urge to daydream, this is okay – as long as it doesn’t censor the pain which you shouldn’t run away from anymore, it’s fine to give in and indulge for a while if you feel like you have to. Don’t ignore temptations, this sparks the fire of addiction even more. It’s a well known pattern: if you fight the urge to engage in an addictive behavior, it makes it stronger. If you acknowledge it, analyze it, this is what breaks the cycle of addiction. In other words, the imperative is not to block the pain and negative feelings. If a sudden sense of self-disgust or low self-esteem suddenly hits you, welcome it. Welcome it, analyze it, let it consume you, and you will realize it is just a false message your brain is sending to you because that’s what brains of depressed people do, after all. The more you let yourself feel and process the negative feelings without censorship, the more will the urge to daydream weaken and the less you will run away.

Who are you really?

Depression usually enters people’s lives like a tempest – yesterday you were an optimistic person enjoying simple pleasures of life and today you feel like a suicidal or apathetic piece of shit, and this is how it is for most people. Depression that underlies MD, however, takes a different route. It enters your life stealthily, slowly, so slowly you don’t even notice it, then it gradually robs you of emotions, ambitions, memories, motivation, identity, empathy, and you end up thinking: “I don’t remember a time when I wasn’tmiserable,” or “these bad feelings must be a part of my personality, they have always been here“. Because of this, most of us fail to realize where depression (or anxiety or any other kind of chronic mental illness) ends and where we begin. So if this illness isn’t you, then who are you?

Let me make a digression here. MD is usually born when you can’t express yourself properly because you’re anxious, depressed or sometimes simply shy or lonely. Mental illnesses are like lenses which distort your perception. Everything you see appears more tragic, senseless or uglier than it really is. And your both eyes are infected with these lenses. But here your subconscious decides to play a trick on your mental illness and tells you: ‘well, if your both eyes are infected and make things appear worse than they really are, then why don’t you just close them?’ You do and this is the beginning of the addiction to fantasy. You stop paying attention to the outside world and you turn it inwards and use your mind’s eye to create things inside you: your daydreams. This mind’s eye, which is fantasy, cannot get infected with depression and this is why MD is a safe haven. Depression doesn’t reach there. What your subconscious forgets to tell you before it’s too late is that if you close those two eyes used for perceiving outer world, for things outside of yourself, you’ll be completely cut off from reality. But none of this is your fault – this is a war between mental illness, the attacker, and your subconscious, which is your protector, and you are their battlefield. You don’t have a single choice, they are the ones who decide – you only observe. So if you ever blamed yourself for being too weak to make a decision to cease this addiction, stop it. It’s wasn’t your fault.

Back to my question, who are you then?

The daydream version of you isn’t the true you but it’s not a fake one either. It’s a highly filtered product of your subconscious that tried to protect you. Then we have this other real-life you imbued with low self-esteem and negative thoughts that seem to go on a loop forever. Well, that’s certainly not your true self either. Heck, if it’s any comfort for you, the daydream you is far closer to the true you than this real-life depressed version of yourself will ever be.

Can you remember the time when you didn’t have MD? Can you remember your sense of identity when you were a child free of MD? Try conjuring up all those times when you knew how to live in the present. It doesn’t matter if you were 6 years old the last time you were here. Just try to pinpoint all those moments and try to remember the feeling of being in the now. Here’s one pretty handy trick you can use. I always joke that music is a drug that takes you on a trip down a memory lane. It’s like an emotional psychedelic. It transports you emotionally back in time, to another place, another reality, to wherever you wish. It helps people with Alzheimer’s remember who they are and regain a sense of identity for a short while. Maladaptive daydreamers often use music to help them imagine an alternate setting – but what if you used music to transport yourself to the past when you had neither depression nor anxiety or MD or whatever is bothering you? If you can remember a forgotten song which you used to listen as a child who at the time hadn’t had MD yet, listen to it again, try to remember who you were, and if the song is meaningful to you, the old you and your sense of self, which you used to have back then, will come back to you for those few minutes while the song plays. You’ll feel the warmth of finally being you. You won’t quite be in the present – you’ll be in the past, but it’s your real past, it’s your true self. Try to capture this feeling and then try to reenact it. It’ll strengthen your identity in the long run.

I’ll give another example on what set me free from my own MD for a short while. You all know what fight or flight mode is. What you also probably know is that most people with PTSD or chronic anxiety are stuck in a constant state of fight or flight. Spending too much time in this state eventually leads to a burnout and is a sure ticket to depression since you go from fight and flight into freeze mode where all your functions are off and you feel like an emotionless zombie. You don’t care, you don’t live, you don’t get angry or sad or happy, you only exist on autopilot. In order to feel normal and alive again, you usually need a fix so strong which will set your body back on fire. Someone or something has to attack you so fiercely in order for you to rethink your existence and regain your instincts and the will to fight back. This is what happened to me. When one of my daydreams violently crumbled some time ago, I got so ridiculously pissed off that for the first time after several years spent in freeze mode, I felt genuinely alive. I was me. The anger acted like a stimulant and the state lasted for 15 minutes until the anger wore off. But hell, during those 15 minutes, I was me. I was so mad but I was also indescribably happy. I could feel. I could let go. I was defeated but I also won. The thirst, the cravings, the split, this strange nostalgia for my daydreams all dissolved. But instead of just disappearing, every positive feeling that was limited to the daydream world only, such as sense of purpose, motivation and normal self-esteem, flew back into me. I didn’t lose a single part of me – quite the opposite – I regained back that detached part of my soul that existed only in daydreams. What took for me to awake was extreme anger, being defeated, my world crumbing to pieces. The moment I genuinely accepted that my dream world crushed, the moment I let go of all attachments holding me back for years, I was reborn. The anger, which is a natural stimulant, made something in me click. But note: this feeling of finally being alive and the desire to fight back woke up in me once my daydreams were in danger, not me. It’s because we’re so displaced, because fantasy is where we had hidden the core of our souls.

In the long run, you’re destroying neither the daydream you nor the positive feelings that come with it, you’re not giving anything up – you’re just transferring it to reality, to where it should be. But for this change to occur, before you can be reborn and whole again, you have to self-destruct, you have to let go.

[akimmito]

Heroes are made by the path they choose

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Master List

Chapter 11

It's not the MT

Silent Hill: Nightwing and Robin have gone to Paris.

It’s a Nara: Do you know their motives? We are not aware of any crime or related crime network between Gotham and Paris

Silent Hill: Red Hood told them about the MT

Almost pretty: Corvus should pay him a visit and shoot him in the knee

Three balls: with real bullets

Plasticine: or a rocket launcher

Wild goat: Can I go? So I can test my confetti grenades

Silent Hill: I think that sense of humor fits in well with Gotham

Needle: With the rogues

Olive: I totally approve of any kind of aggression against the nosy man

Great mother: If you do something illegal, make sure no one knows it was you

Almost pretty: the boss has spoken

Divine gift: It’s my duty to remind you that you must be investigating, if the foreign watchers have affairs with us, we will know in due course. Let's not do anything rash.

It’s a Nara: He’s right. I'm going to check the security cameras for any sign of them… Is Nightwing wearing his own outfit or did he come as Batman?

Silent Hill: Batman can't leave Gotham

The Antibiotic: Do you think if I get on a roof I can get a Nightwing autograph?

Wild goat: If you get on it, maybe Byakko accidentally shoves you into the void

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

Marinette sighs as she watches the group chat, foreign vigilantes while she and Felix have plans to get out of Paris, just wonderful, but she can't stop to think about it. She must first speak to Damian and then prepare for her travel.

She's heading towards her son's room, she can hear the little barking of the puppies as she gets closer. Adult dogs are used to sleeping in a room set up for them, except for Ícaro, the Australian Shepherd, who likes to sleep with Damian when he visits (which means that there will now be five dogs in that room, alongside Picatso, Dafne prefers to sleep with she). She knocks on the door and before long, he opens it, wearing only his pajama bottoms because his shirt is being used as a bed by Ringo.

"Is something wrong, mother?" Damian opens the door completely for her to enter, ignoring, for the moment, his previous fight against the cubs for his kidnapped shirt.

"Yeah... Tomorrow I will go on a trip with Felix, we will go to Turkey."

"Why?"

"Oh well, it's... there's a prodigy in Turkey and it seems like a demon wants it, so we'll find it before it becomes a problem." She explains, she was about to tell him about John, but with her out of the country, there was nothing to prevent him from discovering his identity and she doesn't know what could happen for his small Machiavellian head.

Marinette loves her child, but she can't quite predict it right now. Luka, a divine gift for her, explained that Damian doesn't want to be taken away from her and that he fears that someone external can achieve it, that he desperately clings to the only person who loves him for what he is and that if they take him away from him add more weight, separate he from his new family; that she represents his whole world. He also explained that it will take a while for him to get used to receiving people outside the MT, especially if they seem to show interest in she and that after Michel Laforet, well, the boy doesn't have a good impression of men. Although he showed bewilderment about his reaction for his two new clients, since he was openly hostile and he could not give him a definitive answer, but that he would analyze his behavior to help him go through the process he's living.

"I see... why don't you take me, mother? Am I not good enough to accompany you on your missions?" She sighs to see his hurt look and sits on the sofa in the room, inviting him to sit next to her, he immediately obeys and sits down, allowing himself to be embraced by his mother.

"It has nothing to do with anyone's abilities, if it did, it will lead other team members not only to Felix." She explains, beginning to pat her son's head, looking up at the ceiling as she decides to explain herself better and be totally honest with Damian. "When I founded the MT, I had been working alone with Felix for a while we were looking for evidence to convict Gabriel Agreste once and for all, we found so many charges that the prosecution would have a field day in the case... so that our victory was bitter because someone stole the butterfly brooch..."

"Mother, why are you telling me that? I know the story. ”He interrupts, not understanding Marinette's intentions.

"I know, you know the origin, but not the process." She responds with a nostalgic smile. "We spent half a year locked up cursing the person who dared to steal the Miraculous and realized that, as heroes, we could not hunt it without attracting attention... Hence the first idea of the MT arose and we founded it officially a week after the last Gabriel's trial, along with Kagami and Tomoe, who joined Luka soon after. Adrien decided not to be an active part of everything, but he became an unofficial member a year later because of his desire to find Nathalie's murderer, becoming an informant and investigator, everything that we could not take, he did it by getting a job modeling in the city where I was supposed to go. "

Damian did not know that, he believed that Agreste was affiliated with the MT just because he was previously one of the heroes, but, considering that not all the old Miraculous wearers are related, he should have considered another possibility (especially since the old wearers still wield a prodigy and he doesn't). He credits him for his commitment and intelligence to have a reason to go to those places, that also explains why he has been modeling for so many brands (some very strange ones like a brand of sardines with yellow peppers, he still remembers the jokes in the chat about his sardine costume).

"After we had an initial team in place, we started building our local network and expanding it using my grandmother Gina's connections, before long we were up and running and took Tomoe's recommendation to build a stronger team, in part for our work and so that the prodigies would have more places to be transferred… Each person who associates with the MT and proves to be loyal, receives the tattoo of the guardians. "Damian goes away to see his mother, that is something that he didn't know,  why? "That is why everyone knows magic, although not everyone is compatible..."

"Why don't I have it?"

"Because I wanted you to have options, not because you are my son and part of the MT means that you must bear that responsibility. I took you out of an organization where you were against your will… I wasn't going to put you in another, that's why we didn't introduce you to training until you asked for it. "Damian doesn't know what to say, is she taking his decisions into consideration? Does he want to be part of it in the same way as the others? He doesn't know, because he doesn't know what it means to be a guardian, but if he ask, his mother is sure to explain and give him all the time he need to make a decision.

"Why are you telling me now?" It's the only thing he can ask, he doesn't understand how conversation came to that.

"Because it's one of the reasons I am not taking you to Turkey." He understands, that is a job for them as guardians and he's not one, it should be obvious, but he still feels displaced. "The other is directly related to the history of the MT... I learned to work with Felix, we both know what to do and we don't stop, we create our own system over the years. We have had our difficulties, like four years ago in Liverpool, but here we are... And we just need to learn to coordinate us, for you. "

Marinette draws him back into her hug, this time placing a kiss on his head.

"What is the reason for the nicknames in the chat?"The question surprises Marinette, he was complaining about it, especially since his is Olive.

"Protect the identities of informants affiliated with the MT, that is, those who received a tattoo, but who are not part of the official registry."

"Is your lover one of those?"

Marinette smiles in amusement, of course her child would start tying up dots. Taking into account that they are traveling almost unexpectedly (he knows when it's so and it not a planned one, because she would have warned him in time) and for that to happen he must have found out very recently, that is, the day before and that day was see to John.

"Yup... And I won't tell you what his code name is." He just clicks his tongue, there are four users whose identity he doesn't know: God Shit, Not in Hell, Guardian Angel and Silent Hill. It could be any one of them, but he's noticed that Silent Hill maybe a girl, so he dismisses it. Returning to the users, only one is active, the others have not spoken to date, despite the fact that they are registered and that makes it more difficult... especially since man is related to magic, the occult and those things, hardly he can dismiss one and only because he's sure Guardian Angel is too bright for someone he know deals with demons, leaving him with the last two.

"I'll find out eventually. "He declares and Marinette knows it's true, one way or another he will. She hoped that didn't imply any international problem, considering that John lives in England.

"I know." She hugs him tighter before releasing him. "I wish it lasted longer, but I have to finish packing... Rest, Damian. I will come in the morning to say goodbye, I love you. "

Marinette gets up, but not before leaving another kiss on her son's head and then leaving the room.

Damian watches her go and his head begins to form a plan to take advantage of his mother's departure.

He will find the lover and question him (he will also threaten him a lot).

----------

Marie L. @MarieLenoir

It's always a pleasure to contribute to a good cause. Istanbul wait for us.

Chloe B. @BourgeoisQueen

I also want to travel, how unfair it's to be trapped in Paris

Dick Grayson @TheFlyingGrayson

The vigilantes of this city feel very happy or maybe Batman is too gloomy

Roy @RoyHarperQ

@TheFlyingGrayson Probably, although Green Arrow can be very gloomy when he wants

Jason @IAmYisus_XD

@TheFylingGrayson yes, well, it's that Batman is the living reflection of Gotham... gloomy and a piece of shit

-------

Damian gets up early and rushes into his mother's room to get Plagg out and talk to him, the night before he placed an order for various types of gourmet cheeses and his beloved Camembert cheese (specifically Camembert from Normandy), to please the more exotic tastes of the little god (especially since he has money that he doesn't use and has been accumulating for too long and this was a strategic move for information).

He takes him to his room, Longg is already awake and looks at him without much surprise, deciding to ignore the situation, knowing that he's a boy on a mission, the best thing to do is wait and advise him in a timely manner.

"Plagg, I need you to tell me the name of my mother's lover."

"Boy, as much as you want to say it, I won't betray... What's that?" The little cat asks noticing that the computer screen is on a website that he knows well, that's where Marinette asks for some cheese on occasion.

"That is the cheese order I made for you, if you tell me the name, of course, otherwise, I will cancel... All those cheeses that mother only allows you to eat once every three months, lost by a man." Damian smiles when he sees the excitement shining in Plagg's green eyes, he is sure he will say him.

"Did you ask for Camembert?"

"The original, Camembert of Normandy. "

Plagg is in conflict, so many delicious cheeses at his fingertips.

"When you get back from Turkey, they'll be here waiting for you." Damian keeps pushing for the name, he needs to know it, and besides Felix, Plagg is the only one who knows him and the little god is easier to convince. "You just have to give me a name. "

"FINE! Don't torture me, boy. "

"So?"

"John Constantine, blond, out of the same hell. You will recognize him immediately, he never quits the damn cigarette. I don't know how Marinette enjoys being with him, it's all the unpleasantness of humans combined in the same man. ”Plagg says wearily. "I better see those cheeses when I get back or I'll cry with Marinette about how cruel you were to me. "

"I think we all know that's impossible." Longg intervenes from his location, away from both of them. He watches with a little amusement the interaction of both, he knows that to obtain that Plagg decides to cooperate normally requires less moral methods. "It would be more credible that you were cruel to my dragon. "

"I can use blackmail, however, you're warned, boy. I can also cause nightmares. ”Plagg leaves the room to give his warning, returning to Marinette.

Damian smiles and goes back to bed satisfied, waiting for his mother to say goodbye and to plan how he will get to that man to talk. He pulls out his phone and starts checking group chats, Not the MT is always one of the most active, although Let's save Adrien is also usually enough active when they plan crazy and ridiculous ways to get rid of Lila Rossi, Adrien's wife.  Among the most extreme forms is sending her to hell or offering her as a sacrifice to some ancient god in America, although he knows that they will not do that, because only his mother can and she doesn't approve (she also scared them telling her about how everything can go wrong and condemn them all to hell, no one ever mentioned it again later.)

After a while finishing reviewing all the conversation that followed about the vigilantes and as the other heroes they know or admire got sidetracked, he leaves his phone aside and lets Picatso jump on him purring happy to be petted, the puppies seem they share the idea and they also get into bed... the best they can, although their jumping skills leave a lot to be desired, at least they are creative dogs.

Several minutes later, after feeling sorry for Ringo and putting him to bed, Marinette, completely groomed, gives him a funny but affectionate look before fully entering and sitting on the bed.

"Felix will be here soon, do you want to have breakfast with me before I leave?"

"Of course, mother."

She smiles and takes Titus in her arms to carry him with her, Damian takes Ringo when he gets up and Milo jumps out of bed to go after them, with Picatso following close behind. Ícaro continues sleeping.

-----

Bruce Wayne is Batman

I can jump from eighth floor and survive: Who changed the name of the chat?

I'll rest when I die: The same one that changed our names ... at least it's right

Hell rejected me : I think it gives us more personality than our names

I can jump from eighth floor and survive: Ok?

I can jump from eighth floor and survive: So! Since we will spend several days in Paris, I thought it would be good to wait a little to see the routes without them knowing about our presence

Hell rejected me: So yeah you are going to show up

I’ll rest when I die: It seems so, although from what I discovered patrols take turns in pairs or trios, last night only the sighting of Byakko and Genbu was recorded.

I’ll rest when I die: And last night it was Pyxis and Caelum

Nothing escapes me: They must have a very well protected base of operations, perhaps magic, I identified a network that connects all of Paris, but not the source

Nothing escapes me: I deciphered the accessible code, but it's incomplete. I don't think I can go any further

I can jump from eighth floor and survive: That only tells us how competent they are, I think we can get to know them and not meddle more in their affairs

Hell rejected me: Considering that all your interest is sexual, yep it's posible

I'm not Batman: What are you talking about?

--------

Max is not usually frustrated much, he has had to develop his patience and mental strength to solve the problems he encounters, but among the attempt to find the source of the MT by an unknown hacker (although if he must guess it must be related to the bats) and appreciates the magical defenses that only allow just a bit to crack all the code, just the general parts that don't show anything from the entire system. Of course, he could hack back and issue fixed, preventing him from trying again, but his priority is developing a new algorithm for butterfly detection, the old one was unfortunate when tested with one of Duusu's feathers (being that they share the same characteristics).

He has not slept the last twenty-four hours and is beginning to resent, but he must wait for Marc's arrival to be able to drop into one of the beds at the base for a little nap, if someone else comes with him, much better, so they can check all manual while he rests.

With Marinette and Felix going on a trip, it's inevitable that the leadership will fall into the hands of Chloe, who seems ready to go to war at the first hint of the butterfly (also Kagami, but she's leaving more ready to go on a murder mission).

This is not how he thought everything would go, they had seven years of preparation and at the moment of truth, none of them really knows which direction to take. Marinette and Felix are very determined to analyze the whole situation from a general perspective, looking at each variable and, while he agree, most of the team seems to want to just go after the thief and take away the jewel, without fully considering that this new villain's way of acting is much more lethal, his Akuma are well thought out to generate problems for them if they make any mistakes, as happened with the last attack if it wasn't for the second chance they would have lost (Luka explained what happened).

"Good morning..." Marc comes in yawning, his hair totally disheveled and still wearing his pajama bottoms, but with a dark blue sweatshirt on. He decided to sleep at the headquarters the night before to facilitate his arrival, in the same way Luka and Alix, because their work schedules allow it (advantages of being their own boss).

"Good morning, today you can dedicate yourself to review the surveillance cameras... although so far none have caught the butterfly."

"Okay, I'll check."

"I'll leave you then, I'll go to sleep... will you wake me up when breakfast is served?" Max gets up from his chair and feels his bones creak with movement, resentful at his disuse.

"Sure." He smiles sleepily and adjusts himself to the vacant post, ready to manually check each camera, starting with the ones closest to the last Akuma and starting to rewind to, perhaps, identify something.

He spends about three hours like this, watching the video tapes of at least four cameras from where the Akuma originated, noting that the butterfly is arriving and then the giant rhomb is present, but when he looks for the route... he only loses it, as if it had just appeared near the victim's residence.

There are multiple cameras in that area, but there are still blind points, if someone knows the exact location, they should be able to position themselves in those places. Could it be that the new villain was close to his future victim? Will he live there or did he decide to run to the place? If it's the latter, it makes him bolder than Gabriel, that's for sure, but it should make him more sloppy and still they are unable to find a clue.

According to Max, who was reviewing footage, the first Akuma came out of nowhere. No camera records the butterfly that should have come from somewhere.

So for him there are only two viable alternatives and neither is positive for his research.

Still, the possibilities are various and he can only guess the villain's line of thought.

[apathetically-hopeful]

5/18/21 Emotions

Emotional vulnerability has never been a suit I’ve been able to wear comfortably. My mind has waited for this moment for a long time, so long that it now feels like I’m reconnecting with a distant relative. It’s awkward, and at most times, unpleasant. When you’ve spent so long suppressing the parts of yourself that are rebelling against everything you’re trying to ignore; life gets messy quick. And it holds true, because my life is very plain and simply a mess right now.

I had another panic attack today. I’ve never really had these before; except on very rare occasions. Now I have them once or twice a week; and they are on a whole other level from the ones I’ve experienced in the past. I was finally committing to completing a task I’ve been putting off for some time. The simple process of unpacking and starting to organize my new space sent me spiraling. I’m not actually sure where it came from; if it was the unpacking or just some kind of mental dam breaking. Out of nowhere though, I began crying and felt like I was unable to catch my breath. It was a completely crippling moment for me; because I am not a person that handles feeling powerless very well.

Fair to say; I’ve never really had a handle on my emotions in any capacity. In fact the only control I did have over them was my ability to bury them deep inside myself; never to see the light of day again. But instead of letting my emotions define me and make me who I am, something much worse happened. I developed into a person that was so afraid of vulnerability and their own feelings that I turned into a manipulative and self absorbed monster. My need to live each day without feeling the weight or internal cost of my actions turned me into someone that could only pursue momentary happiness and fulfillment. When those moments had passed, however, I was left with a constant feeling of emptiness.

To fill the perceived void in myself, I did everything I could, except for everything I should. I would have nights on end of partying and indulgence, or make impulse buys, or just surround myself with distractions that would only leave me feeling whole for fleeting instants. When I wasn’t able to comfort myself with superficial bullshit; I’d become emotionally destitute and drag myself and those that loved me down into the bowels of my self loathing. Having next to no healthy coping mechanisms meant I was just destined to keep following a path that would lead to an assured destruction of self. As with all things that are inevitable; the inevitable happened. 

I was going through life with an attitude that had zero sustainability. How can a person perpetually lack self worth and emotional cognizance, and somehow expect any sort of fulfillment from life. It was a never ending cycle of finding something to pin my happiness on and then having to eventually come to terms with my own lack of internal equilibrium. Now that I have hit rock bottom; I’m left with no choice but to face myself. Because I’ve finally started this journey, I find that I’m now forced to deal with everything all at once. The lock has been smashed off the cage where I kept all the monsters of my own creation locked away.

Staring all my trauma down every day has been the most exhausting thing I’ve ever attempted. Exacerbated by the fact that I am facing new and fresh trauma; I find that it’s all I can do to hold myself together from one minute to the next. My fears have shifted now though. What I find myself most afraid of is regressing to old habits of dealing with things both internally and externally. Unfortunately I’m not perfect and there is no clearly defined path to succeeding in my efforts.

See, I fucked things up again for myself just a few days ago. I got so focused in, on an external situation, that I allowed myself to slip into familiar habits for a brief moment. Luckily I was able to pull myself back from the edge in a relatively timely manner; but not before I had caused some damage to everything I’ve been trying to accomplish. Now I find that I’m paralyzed by fear of the consequences of my actions. I don’t know if what I did has irreparably changed the course of what I’m seeking. All that’s left for me is to hope that myself and those I affected can forgive me for my moment of weakness. If they could see the damage my screwup did to myself as well as them, then I hope they can understand that it is everything I’m trying to move away from.

Trying to balance on this tightrope is something that will take me a lot of practice. Falling means landing back into everything that made me so insufferable to myself and others. Fortunately, so far I have only slipped and been able to find the strength to pull myself back up. The canyon below is deep and perilous; something I’m not sure I could survive the depths of. That makes my only choice to move forward; to reach the other side of this great chasm spanning my psyche. 

When you’ve spent so long avoiding anything that wasn’t immediately satisfying, it is easy to not understand your emotions. Navigating through an ocean of feelings that you don’t even properly know how to feel. I find that I am often confused, or even upset, that I can’t decipher what is going on in my head. My traumas, both past and present, are all laid bare in front of me now. Learning the way to proceed against them is challenging. But I feel that somewhere under all this madness and uncertainty is a part of me that is relieved; dare I say, maybe even happy.

I kept so much of myself locked away for so long that I think the part of myself that allowed me to have hope, to feel, and to understand had been imprisoned as well. Turning inward and dealing with one’s own shortcomings in life is a painful but necessary journey. I used to regret and blame everything in my life for making me into this person that I’m trying so hard to leave behind. But now I find that my only regret is that I never started traveling into myself sooner. 

Letting go of these regrets has been like an anchor removed from the shackles of my soul. I’m only in the most infantile steps of the process, but I know that each day I find myself feeling a little more at peace in my own mind. I have many more difficulties on the road before me, and I am sure I will stumble again; but I’m learning the depths of my own strength and will. I am now taking a level of comfort in being able to allow myself to truly experience my feelings and what they are trying to tell me. I find that after a break down, before the tears have even dried, that the sun seems to be a little brighter and the air just ever slightly easier to breathe. Maybe this is what true hope feels like. Maybe I’m truly starting to believe in my own power over my emotions, without feeling the need to lock them up.

To those that I’ve affected: please know that I am facing all of this with nothing but sincerity and love. I’m sorry if you’ve been hurt by me along the way. My only hope is that you keep your faith in me, because I will not stop until it is rewarded. And I will press on past that point, because the journey of self is one that never ends. I just need to believe that somewhere along the way, I will not only gain everything that I want, but that I will be truly deserving of it.

Seize control of your mind and emotions. Find yourself on the other side of the pain. Love always,

Trevor.

[xerospaced]

Hypersensitive. So, yes, I can be easily overwhelmed. Yes, it’s unpredictable. And, no, I don’t always see the warning signs.  This, I have to accept. I have accepted. I need not fight.

Sometimes sadness is just sadness. Sometimes it’s not sadness at all. It all feels the same in the beginning. Shutdowns come on real gentle. Solitude so I don’t notice the mutism - one cue lost. And all I feel is sadness. And I can handle sadness. Until hours have passed and I realise it’s not just that I’m not moving - I can’t. It’s not just that I’m still scrolling - I can’t stop. Too late to notice by the time it’s taken me. 

And it’s unpleasant. but - manageable. for the most part.

Until the circumstances change and I no longer exist in a void but in the presence of another.  Suddenly the flatness is so damn loud. My jaw locked like tough toffee. My expression sallow and...  I’m a black hole. The steady acceptance of my inactivity blasted into distress because I am not suitable to be known by another. 

My brain processes things differently. And that’s ok. I like my brain. There are a lot of strengths to it. I can ride a shutdown. When others are ignorant to it.  Speak up and it all falls apart.

What am I working on accepting here? I’m not a piece of shit. In fact, quite the fucking opposite. And my heart is filled with nought but good intent. Must seclusion be a negative in this respect? If I am aware of my volatility, surely it is the responsible thing, to remain in privacy ‘til the state passes.

Restriction breeds further negativity and... neglects need. But solitude familiar and more gentle than... Risk.

Sorry for all the sorry’s and the tension grows. Apologies justified but What I’m apologising for is Self. Like I’m sorry I’m like this.  And the pain grows.  Sorry for misery caused. Sorry for being the source. Another sorry for my brain function and this unending facet of my entity. Sorry for the person I am today, and who I might be tomorrow. Sorry for the next episode - the one I’ll likely fail to predict. Sorry for the reality of that which I cannot control. Sorry I can’t tell you it will be different one day. Sorry for the fact of my frustrating features.

You see I’m apologising for my existence.

Always approach with love and care but I misread the signals. Amplify the symptoms. 

This is supposed to be an instance of radical acceptance. 

I am what I am. I will not fight it.  The punishment I provide must subside. I do not wish to be sorry for being.  My being need not be sorry when independent. 

These are the facts of my condition.

I alone must bear this predicament. I will not set upon loved ones my affliction. I need not admonish my own experience. But my experience shall be mine and mine alone.

The external turmoil - unprecedented. The damage acquired internal - significant. To my own devices - indifferent.

[moiraineswife]

Ep 55 Caleb Meta

Warning: This post will contain a)- Spoilers for episode 55. If you haven’t seen it yet BEGONE. b)- Angst. Bc. Caleb. c)- yelling. if u haven’t worked out already: these posts are not planned. these posts are not thought-through. these posts are not edited. these posts are a stream of consciousness shrieking at the void that is u lot. Enjoy. 

So. Uh. That episode was like..................A lot. Lots to unpack. LOTS. So I’m just going to touch on Caleb and the very specific niche deliciousness of him being completely and utterly retraumatised in that episode and how it may or may not pan out in future. 

Meta under the cut bc it got Long. 

So, DIVING IN: the nature of trauma in itself is repetition. Nightmares, flashbacks (of all their various forms) are ways in which the trauma itself repeats. Basically your brain Cannot Cope with what’s happened so it tries to just put you through the same thing over and over again like process this please. 

Caleb has been dealing with that for at least a decade since the original trauma took place. Then we pile on the (highly symbolic and super-interesting in a really fucked up way bit of magic that is Modify Memory (i assume) which I have to meta on more in future) which is effectively a false memory that was removed (that his parents were guilty/in his twisted-logic mind deserved what they got) which makes a very interesting mirror for suppressed memories (again: big trauma thing. In which your brain Cannot Cope so hard it just blots the bad memory out of existence entirely) so he’s a whole mess of being trapped in an endless cycle of his horrible past (PTSD is a Trip, y’all). 

This is...An echo of that but it’s something new. It’s very much the same KIND of thing, so it plays in to the trauma-repetition, but it’s a new incarnation of it. History repeating itself, etc, etc, delicious irony, all that great stuff fiction-creators live for.  

It’s going to be deeply upsetting for Caleb. (No shit, Taryn). But it so beautifully, and terribly, feeds in to his deep-rooted fears that he is a toxic person, and that those around him are destined to get hurt (by him, not by him, it doesn’t really matter to the guilt brain, it’s all just fuel for that fire). 

For example: Liam spoke on Talks about how, regarding Molly’s death, Caleb almost expected it because yup, that seems about right, par for the course. It’s one of the big reasons he’s been extremely reluctant to let the Mighty Nein get close to him (he’s directly said this in canon at this point, in his conversation with Beau). 

He feels dangerous. He sees himself as dangerous. Partly because he sees himself as being constantly in danger, and by extension, those around him are also in danger. That’s external. 

The internal part of him has been screaming ‘you killed the two people who loved you the most in the world in an unprovoked attack because you’re a monster’ for over a decade at this point. Not only does he not deserve any of these people, he feels like he’s destined to hurt them, no matter what he does, or how hard he tries. 

This, uh, reinforces that in a very deep, obvious, and painful way. Not to mention the fact that, not only did he hurt them he hurt them with fire. Again. So it’s almost exactly the same pattern of shit coming back to haunt him for a second time: 

Trent: Mental manipulation magic - fire - dead loved ones  Demon: mental manipulation magic - fire - nearly dead loved ones. 

It’s Bad. It’s Real Bad. That boy is going to have the panic attack of his life when he recovers from the immediate adrenaline rush of the fight. It’s not going to be pretty. 

It’s going to drive home everything that little voice inside his head that sounds like Trent has been telling him since he joined these people. It’s going to undo all the struggle it’s taken to ignore that voice up to this point because don’t you see what happens when you get close to people? They can be used against you. You can be used against them. They become your weakness and you become weak because you care. Because this hurts. And if you were stronger, and smarter, then it wouldn’t... etc etc etc. *insert emotionally manipulative bullshit here* 

BUT! 

I actually think this could actually be good for him in a really weird way? 

Hear me out: 

Caleb has been living in a trauma loop for over ten years at this point. He’s been going over the same memories again and again and again, but he hasn’t done anything with them. He hasn’t actually fully processed what happened to him. And, and this is the biggest part: he hasn’t had anyone to push against. 

It takes a lot to recognise abuse. It takes a lot in the modern world when there are phones, helplines, the internet and, let’s be honest: awareness. There are words for these experiences and there’s more chance of, accidentally or deliberately, stumbling across help out there that can look at a situation from an outside perspective and go: this is fucked up. 

This is what Caleb needs. 

On his own it’s almost impossible for him to recognise what was done to him and fully process it and begin to heal from it in a healthy way. Caleb has not actually started the process of recovery for anything that happened to him yet because Caleb does not yet recognise/understand what there is to process/recover from. 

In Caleb’s mind, he is a monster. He did an unforgivable thing because he believed his parents deserved it as they were traitors. He broke because he was not strong enough to handle what he’d done. He was sent to an asylum and since escaping he’s just been afraid. That’s the only emotion he’s got towards Trent right now: fear. And it’s suppressing all logic, self-awareness, and the ability to think rationally about what went on. 

Caleb was abused. Caleb was manipulated, mentally, emotionally, and magically. Caleb was a vulnerable kid who was deliberately chosen, carefully groomed, and then skilfully brainwashed by a figure with an enormous amount of literal and emotional power over him. Caleb was abused. 

Caleb does not see this. 

Caleb does not recognise that he was abused. 

And I think this is where a lot of issues with Caleb kinda stem from in fandom? Because people look at him and just...How can he NOT understand that he was manipulated. Huh. Maybe he wasn’t. Because it’s just that damned obvious how could he not understand this? 

Abusers rely on that. Abusers rely on their victims not understanding what they’re doing to them. Particularly when their victims are young, with relatively little real-world experience, and absolutely no grounding/preparation to recognise or combat any of this, in a society that is more accepting of the kind of teaching that radicalised Caleb than most are. 

Caleb needs an outside perspective to look at what he went through and go ‘you know that’s fucked up, right?’ He’s kind of had that from Beau and Nott but not enough. Someone has to sit him down and go through every piece of what happened and be like ‘this is not okay’ ‘what he did to you was not okay’ ‘this is called abuse’ and then consistently validate those experiences until he understands. 

Caleb has over ten years of trauma to process and unlearn. That...That does not happen overnight. That does not happen because your new friend looks at you and goes ‘yeah that was fucked up, dude’ and suddenly it all crystallises in your mind and becomes clear. That takes work. And effort. And a willingness to feel something beyond fear for your abuser and Caleb is Not There yet. 

What this last fight does, though, is open up the possibility of Caleb starting to accept this a little bit. 

Jester: “What the fuck, Caleb?” 

Caleb: “I am sorry...They got inside my head.” 

This is actually....Kinda huge for Caleb? Actually it’s kinda massive. This is Caleb experiencing a trauma incredibly similar to what he went through when he was younger (but on a much smaller scale, with far less dire outcomes) and being able to look at it and, still apologise, but explain that he was not in control of himself, and that ‘they got inside his head’. 

This is the step he needs to take with Trent, too, this is the same admission that he needs to make to himself, and this is the first step that has to happen before he can even begin to start processing and healing his trauma. And he needs help with that. 

This is not the part where I say I expect the mighty nein to become Caleb’s therapists. But they can be friends, they can be a support network, but most importantly: they can be an outside perspective. 

They can’t process his trauma for him. They can’t work through his issues for him. They can’t take away any of his grief, or his guilt, or his pain, or his PTSD. They can’t make what Trent did go away. But they can point it out. 

They can raise a red flag. They can point it out and say ‘this is not okay’. They can put a name to it. They can validate it. They can do the things that Caleb cannot do himself, which is look at what happened and be able to acknowledge, without the burden of guilt, and the fact that it’s so much easier to blame, and hurt, and punish himself than a figure he’s terrified of, and say that it was not okay, and explain to him what happened. 

They can help him acknowledge his abuse and then he can start to help himself heal from it. 

But this fight is, essentially, a microcosm of Caleb’s past. And I hope that if (when, please god when) the mighty nein, who were all either a)- directly charmed themselves, or b)- resisted the effect but were aware of its intentions and capabilities, do not react the way Caleb expects them to react (ie: the way he reacted to himself) with anger, and hatred, and blame, that’s going to start unlocking things. 

I don’t expect a massive breakthrough next episode, don’t get me wrong, this is going to be a long, careful, painful process. But I think even the acknowledgement that someone affected that way by magic, or by emotional abuse, is not themselves, and is not, ultimately, to blame for what they may have done (or weak/somehow complicit in ‘allowing’ themselves to be targeted/victimised) is going to prove a really big thing for Caleb in the future. 

Just that acknowledgement that they don’t blame him for what happened, that they understand he wasn’t himself, and that it wasn’t within his control to stop what was happening could, I think, prove huge in terms of his recovery further down the line... 

TL;DR: Caleb experienced his past again on a much smaller scale with this fight, but having the party around him to react to him/it and reach out to him, and tell him it’s okay and that they don’t blame him will do A Lot for unlocking his potential recognition of abuse and recovery down the line. 

[pangeas-garden-life]

#Repost @thesoulfulveganista ・・・ ✨Vulnerable Post/Black Moon Confession✨ I noticed nobody has mentioned it but I know y’all are feeling it: this current algorithm (even though there’s a new change like every year) almost got me fucked up! 🤣 It has made my reach decline significantly and I almost took it personally until I remembered something. My worth is NOT tied up in how many “likes” or comments I get, how much attention I can garner, or even people acknowledging that they fucks with what I do. —— Naw, I’m worthy all on my own💫 Nothing external can or will change that. It’s so easy to forget this when navigating the world of social media trying to build your brand, but the challenges we face within it just forces us to be more creative and figure out what best works for us and others. Sometimes it feels like I don’t even know what my next step is, but I know where my biz is headed and this is only just the beginning🤘🏾 —— Regardless of how discouraging this algorithm can be or how much it feels like you’re screaming into the void, just remind yourself who the fuck you are. You are whole with or without the “likes” and enjoying the process rather than anticipating the end goal will make this phase go by much smoother🙏🏾 Whatever you do, don’t give up, ignore the haters, and make the hard times work in your favor🔮🌚🕷🥀🕯⚡️ #iamworthy #transmutation #vulnerability #thesoulfulveganista https://www.instagram.com/p/B00jJ_BAlkh/?igshid=1v6fgpwzolpjz

[theindecisiveone]

So I finally have a phone that has the gig space to download Tumblr and now I’m probably just gonna end up dedicating this blog to pictures and captions and processes of me and my ex because I don’t have a therapist or feel much recourse in other friendships right now. I don’t mean to make my shit like a diary but not posting “us” for the four years we were together on any social media platform makes the past maybe physically easier to ignore but makes me wonder why I feel empty, like I forgot where this tremendous sense of loss that follows me around—not to be confused with my “regular” mental bullshit. I want the external validation from the web, to fill the void we’re all hoping to fill when we scroll to the bottom of our feeds... (it’s supposed to be a joke bc there is no end). He was the external validation, of course, I was deeply codependent at the time. But now, without, I seek any comfort I can find. His love kind of sealed up this gaping deformed hole that I would never willingly explore or work on healing on my own. I know that I might live my whole life consumed by my own bullshit, but I think part of why the clouds loom so low and so dark and fog my vision is because I’m pain avoidant to the point where I will ignore my feelings entirely in favor of finding an amusing distraction. Whether it’s my phone use, smoking, or general and vague or acute male attention—

I miss him, a fuck ton. First thing I think about every morning, which is weird to not get sucked into him at night but it’s the clarity of the morning that I try so hard to avoid.

In any case, the journey isn’t (entirely) about him, I hope. But I think this outlet might be useful and now that I’ve made the decision to “take action,” I’m going to blab to the internet to process someone magical that moved me and that I love.

[keeroo92]

Savior, Bloodstain, Hellfire, Shadow Ch27 (V x Reader)

Chapter 27 - Agony and Ecstasy

________________________________________________

June 15th, 11:14 am

V’s emerald eyes are shadowed, downcast in defeat as he watches tiny fragments of his body float away in the wind, signifying his mortality in an impossible to ignore fashion. For a moment, you can’t comprehend what you’re seeing. The cracks in his skin were one thing, but this? You don’t have a medical term to describe what’s happening to the man you love. He sighs heavily, his shoulders sagging as he reverts to his previous cold acceptance of his fate.

“No, no no don’t you do that! Don’t you give up on me!” you cry out, only to see his lips twist into a sad, accepting smile. You pull him into your arms, stroking his back and his hair.

 No, no, no this can’t be happening!

An icy chain wraps itself around your heart, squeezing it harshly in your rib cage as you feel it crack under the pressure. The unfairness of life has been a constant theme for you, yet this is the cruelest stroke of all. V trembles weakly in your arms as your tears stream down your cheeks, your hiccupping breath stuttering in your pained chest as you replay the moment endlessly. The image of his beautiful fingertips, tiny flakes of his body carried away in the heartless breeze as if he were so much dust.

 Maybe I can fix it? Maybe I can heal him?

You pull his lips to yours for a desperate kiss, tasting the salt of your own tears as you attempt to convey how much you love this man through the motion of your lips alone.

 Please, God, in whatever form you actually are, please save him! I’ll do anything, give anything you ask! I’ll pay any toll for his life!

The void doesn’t answer. It never will.

Your lips tremble against his, your jaw vibrating from the strength of your stifled sobs. His arms wrap around you in a delicate embrace, his tattooed hands stroking your spine warmly. His mouth on yours is a chorus of movement both achingly wonderful and maddeningly terrible because you know you may have very few chances to kiss him remaining.

 Don’t think like that, Y/N! He’s going to be fine; he has to!

He sighs softly into your lips, his shaking hands coming up to stroke your face tenderly, as if he’s trying to memorize the sensation. You pull back at the thought to stare into his emerald eyes, seeing the pain and fear he’s feeling in the dark shadows within. The utter despair in his expressive eyes breaks you even further, the crack in your heart widening into a chasm. You pull him closer, laying your head in the crux of his shoulder and letting his familiar scent comfort you.

 Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me…

“I’ll try,” he whispers hoarsely, and you realize you must have vocalized the thought without meaning to. You lean away to look at his hand again – there aren’t any more specks floating away but it obviously hadn’t recovered, small cracks running through his previously smooth skin amongst the dark lines of ink. You caress the crevasses, feeling for yourself how deep they run, and your heart splits in half.

“It doesn’t hurt,” V tells you in surprise. You hadn’t even considered that, too focused on the ramifications of the decay of his flesh to imagine how it might feel from his perspective.

 What would it feel like to know your body is fading away?

 I hope I never find out for myself.

“I think… I think I can continue,” V informs you hesitantly. “We should try to catch up to Dante.”

“But… V, you should try to rest first,” you begin.

“You know why I cannot, why I must keep going, no matter the state my body is in,” he replies with a morose shake of his head, his obsidian hair shining in the light.

 Yes, I know… that doesn’t mean I agree!

“We are running out of time. The Qlipoth is almost fully grown; the fruit will appear within the next day unless we can stop it before then,” he continues, panting slightly as he struggles to stand, using his cane for what seems like the first time in days. You sigh in surrender, quickly pulling a protein bar from your bag and handing it to him with a teary smile.

“At least eat while we go, my poet. For me?” you beg him quietly. He smirks and unwraps the bar, taking a small bite as he steps forward.

_____________________________________________

June 15th, 11:27 am

V

Following Dante isn’t difficult. The man leaves a trail of broken scenery behind like a tidal wave, fresh scratches on the ground testifying to his battles. V can still smell ash in the air occasionally, the last remnants of the demons defeated by his brother.

Catching up to him, however, proves a challenge. Since his hand began to crumble, V has felt a massive shift in his energy. He is forced to use his cane with nearly every step, a sign of his growing weakness that makes his jaw clench in frustration as he limps forward doggedly, your sorrowful gaze tracking him worriedly.

 I cannot stop now, not when so much is at stake.

His dreary thoughts are a plague he can’t escape, an itch that resists all attempts at scratching. His very bones are weary, so tired of this inexorable trudge toward death that despite your best efforts, he knows you cannot save him from.

 I’m sorry, little fox. I’m so sorry for what this will do to you. I can’t help but wish you had walked away that day, never decided to join us on this doomed quest.

A pulse of agony rips through him, searing his every nerve in excruciating pain. He falls to his knees, cane clattering as he drops it to grip his head in his hands, lightning bolts arching through his neurons within his aching skull. Shards of glass rip his throat to shreds, knives sinking into his kidneys and stomach and twisting cruelly. He can feel the flames that burned his mother’s corpse into ash licking his skin, the heat burning him alive as he finally hits the pebble strewn ground. His very blood burns like acid in his veins as he curls inward, instinctively moving to protect his core from the invisible foe that is the source of his tormented screaming.

 Make it stop! Make it stop, make it stop makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop….

He can no longer see the devastated cityscape surrounding you on all sides, can no longer smell the burning refuse or the rotting garbage. He can no longer hear the wind rushing by, or your voice desperately screaming his name in panic. His existence narrows to only pain, all of his senses completely overwhelmed in the horrors of its ferocity. He cannot even string together a coherent sentence in his mind, his mental processes shattered and mutilated beyond recognition.

Minutes that feel like centuries pass before he hears your voice from somewhere far too distant. He mentally latches on to it, clinging to the sound as if it were a parachute and he were falling from the sky. His pain fades incrementally, brutally slowly as he focuses on your voice and drags his consciousness back from where it had retreated from the agony.

Shame fills his incoherent mind as he regains awareness, finding himself cradled in your arms protectively. His convulsing body stills as your gentle hands stroke his hair, voice murmuring reassurances and comfort as he presses himself closer to you.

 So weak, so powerless. I would not have made it this far alone.

 Holy fuck, V! What the hell just happened?!

 …did you feel it too?

 An echo, not like you did… We all got a taste. You okay?

 …I don’t know. I think I’m dying.

 Shit.

“V? Can you hear me?” your anxious voice questions him. He licks his lips to speak, only to find the words catch in his aching throat, his vocal cords refusing to function in protest of their abuse. He nods instead.

“Can you speak?” you probe softly, and he shakes his head.

“Okay… I’m going to lie you flat and examine you,” you inform him, and he nods again as you scoot back from him, helping his limbs into a position of neutrality. By now his nerves have stopped their spasming and he can feel your touch, feel your careful hands slide up and down his body searching for injuries. After a moment, you lean back with a satisfied smile.

“Nothing external at least. Can you talk yet?”

“I… think so… hurts,” V gasps out through his overworked throat.

“Do you want to try standing or wait a little?” you ask him, brow furrowed slightly.

“Try,” he rasps out. You hand him his cane and crouch nearby, ready to catch him if he needs it. As much as he appreciates the support, he can’t help but also feel irritated by it and its necessity.

 If only I was stronger…

He gets to his hands and knees easily enough, then braces his weight on the cane and pushes, bringing himself into a low crouch. Its uncomfortable, but bearable. He rises further, coming to a full standing position carefully. He takes a few steps cautiously, your arms still awaiting his fall, but he manages to not even stumble. You drop your hands with an apologetic smile, and he forces himself to smile gratefully back, despite his frustrations.  At long last, the pair of you are able to resume your trek, albeit much slower for the time being.

Even with your slow speed, you manage to find Dante not too much farther ahead. There’s a blonde woman lying on the ground near him.

 Trish?

“Dante!” V calls out, breaking into a full run and desperately trying to get the man’s attention.

 There’s so much I must tell him…

But Dante turns away, mounting a motorcycle and barely bothering to send a few more words his way before dashing off. “Take care of Trish for me!”

“Dante, wait!” V exclaims uselessly, and he falls to the ground once more.

 Dammit… always so weak.

In an act of desperation, he commands Griffon to accompany the legendary devil hunter, the blue bird flapping mightily and easily catching up to the speeding motorcycle.

V tries to stand on his own but only falls again. It isn’t until you come to help him that he’s able to rise fully. He angrily chooses a chunk of rubble to sit on, easily able to keep an eye on Trish as she sleeps. He pulls out his book of poetry to try and calm his anxious mind, try to stop thinking about his own death, as you sit beside him with a small smile, taking his unoccupied hand and stroking his fingers gently.

_____________________________________________

June 15th 11:40am

You sit beside V, his hand in yours as he reads quietly. Your mind is racing, wondering if you missed something with your theory. Wondering what more can possibly be done to save V, or if your theory is even right.

 What if it’s wrong? What if he still dies?

You clench his hand in yours tightly, mentally swearing to not let that happen. No matter the cost, you will save V. You have to.

“When Trish wakes, I’m going to tell her everything. She may have better luck in telling Dante than I have thus far,” the lean poet comments suddenly. You hum in acknowledgment, glad that he’s becoming more and more willing to tell the truth of his origin. You hear a quiet sigh and look down to see Trish’s eyes have opened at last. She sits up carefully, holding the blanket covering her nude form in place as she looks around.

“Dante’s left,” she states, her voice unexpectedly soothing.

“Yes… and I don’t think he can win,” V comments back, turning the page in his book.

“What was that demon, V? Where did it come from? Urizen is not a demon. I know for a fact, because I'm from the Underworld,” the blonde woman adds. V doesn’t respond, instead turning the page again with a smirk.

“Oh my god... what are you then?” Trish asks V fearfully, and he closes his book at last to face her and address her directly. Her eyes shift to you curiously for an instant before V speaks and her attention is drawn back to the poet.

“It doesn't matter. I'm a shadow of my former self who lost everything. I will tell you... the story of my birth,” he murmurs softly. You squeeze his hand in a silent show of support as he once again tells his story, voice catching here and there as he describes the moments before his creation and the minutes afterward of sheer terror.

Trish takes it all in stride, her expression barely shifting throughout the telling. She’s an especially difficult person to read, a think outer shell of armor protecting her innermost thoughts from casual observation. You can respect that, even as you find it incessantly annoying.

“I've tried to hold together my crumbling flesh with whatever demonic power I have left, but... I'm approaching my limit. In separating and regaining my human soul, I've realized the gravity of the crime I've committed,” V concludes slowly, his emerald gaze glancing at you as he utters the next few words in a near whisper.  

“I've realized how important everything was... everything I've thrown away in my pursuit for power.”

Finally, the poet is silent, his tale told and his secrets bared. Trish simply gazes at the pair of you, an unreadable expression still holding court over her features.

“Is that why you went to find Dante?” she asks.

“Yes. Foolish. I thought maybe he could change... maybe fix... maybe right my wrong. Tell me... was this fool before you right?”

Trish stands, the blanket covering her naked body somehow morphing into a black leather ensemble that makes you blush with all it reveals. She turns and starts walking past you and V, heading toward the Qlipoth.

“I'm not your mommy, V. You're a big boy. And you need to see this through. Dante's war,” she tells him in a scolding tone, sounding very much like a mother reprimanding her child. V grimaces in pain as he rises to his feet and steps forward to follow her.

 Fuck that.

“V, either you sit back down on your own or I’ll force you. You’re going to rest for a few more minutes whether you like it or not,” you command the poet. He turns to face you, protests already forming on his lips, but you glare at him as threateningly as you can while you cross your arms until he swallows the words. He sighs but obediently sits back down beside you with a smirk.

“I suppose I’m not strong enough to stop you at the moment anyway,” he comments dryly. You take the chance to give him a bottle of water and another protein bar, watching him chew slowly beside you lost in thought. His lighter tattoos look strange to you, Griffon’s absence an empty void hanging in the air.

“Can you talk to Griffon right now?” you ask him curiously, wondering how strong the bond between them has become. He closes his eyes in concentration for a moment before clenching his jaw and shaking his head in frustration.

“I can tell he’s with Dante, see flashes of a house… but I can’t seem to communicate,” he murmurs between bites. Your mind continues its pondering, examining all you know about Urizen and V in an anxious search for answers.

 I don’t know what else to do…

You lean against the poet beside you, careful not to force him to support too much weight in his weakened state. You feel his hand rise to wrap around your shoulders and pull you closer and you succumb to his desires and lay your head in his lap. He strokes your hair, your cheek, your lips. Memorizing your face.

 Damnit, stop doing that!

You glare up at him, anger tinting your words. “V, we can’t give up yet. Please, keep fighting it, keep fighting for who you’ve become. Fight for our future together,” you urge him. He can barely meet your pleading eyes as he sighs heavily, his hand pausing its exploration at your jawline.

“It doesn’t seem to be working, little fox,” he reminds you softly, his eyes mournful as he meets yours.

You brush his hand away and sit up, reaching out to turn his face to yours once more as you sit beside him. Determination and stubbornness color your voice as you respond, your intense glare forcing him to accept what you say as truth.

“You don’t know that. There could be all sorts of reasons you’re still weakening. We’re closer to Urizen than we’ve been in weeks, you’re older now than you were last time you faced him, maybe Dante waking up did something… The point is, we can’t know if it’s failing. We won’t know until Urizen is dead. But as long as there’s even a shred of hope left, we have to keep trying. You have to keep trying. Because goddamnit V, I’ll go after Vergil myself if you merge. I’ll drag you back out kicking and screaming if I have to. I refuse to let you go,” you inform him passionately.

V smirks, looking down for a moment as he absorbs your monologue. After a beat, he carefully turns his body to face yours and pulls you against him, crushing your form against his. You can feel his racing heartbeat, feel the heat radiating off his skin as he embraces you.

“Thank you, little fox,” he whispers into your hair.

_____________________________________________

June 15th, 11:52 am

V

V limps quietly alongside you, your hand grasping his carefully. The Qlipoth ahead is taller than ever, reaching high above the clouds in its daunting height. The grey patchwork structure is impossible to ignore, a now constant backdrop to both his innermost thoughts and the landscape surrounding him. He reflects on your words as you slowly move forward, trying not to focus on how his failing body is preventing you from reaching the tree at a reasonable rate.

Your stubbornness and love, your passion and conviction… it had startled him. Even as the fear of death, of losing this chance at a future threatens to consume him entirely, your presence has helped keep him from tumbling over the abyss into hopelessness. Kept him from surrendering to his fate entirely.

There’s still doubt plaguing his mind, still anxiety tugging at his thoughts. Yet he now refuses to ignore the thin tendril of hope that’s grown miraculously within the garden of his terror. Grown only from your attention.

 Perhaps a little from my friends as well, but mainly Y/N. I wouldn’t even consider them friends if not for her.

 She has utterly changed the course of my life.

Sudden terror grips him as Griffon panics over something Dante is doing. He stops in his tracks, trying to focus on the hazy image he can barely see in his mind, too diluted by distance to have much meaning. You look at him quizzically, your steps halting to stand beside him.

“Griffon… Something’s happened with Dante,” he rumbles. Your eyes color with nervousness as he focuses as hard as he can on the image. Blurred shapes flash into a defined form for an instant before the haze obstructs them again, but he can see Dante standing before a portrait of the entire family, a blade embedded in his chest.

 Not again…

He waits for a moment, then focuses his energy again on the image. He watches in awe as Dante transforms, his body absorbing the blade within and using its power to fuel his new appearance. A stronger version of his devil form, power radiating off his crimson flesh in waves of heat.

The image dissolves as Griffon’s panic vanishes, and V can’t help the wry grin from crossing his face.

 Only Dante…

“What happened, V?” your shaky voice asks. He smirks at you as he answers.

“Dante has absorbed the Sparda. The reckless fool stabbed himself. He has grown stronger, perhaps strong enough to win,” he ruefully states. He chuckles, bitterly amused at his brother’s ability to gather strength and how it mirrors his own decline. Always opposites, the two of them.

“Really? So… you might not even need to fight Urizen?” you probe hopefully. He shakes his head, refusing to miss the final fight.

“I must be there, must witness Urizen’s destruction myself no matter who strikes the blow,” he answers determinedly.

“Would it be dangerous to do it? To kill Urizen?” you thoughtfully ask him. He pauses, not having fully considered it.

 I suppose it could be dangerous. I have no idea what will happen to his body.

“It may be. I cannot even begin to guess what will become of his remains. He may have even set a trap for anyone who dares to strike him,” V pronounces with a slight frown. He watches your face carefully, suspicion growing in his mind as your features shift from curiosity to resolve.

“Then I should be the one to do it,” you state boldly, and his heart skips a beat.

 No, no no little fox! You can’t be serious!

As if you had read his racing thoughts, you smile at him tenderly and elaborate.

“If it is dangerous, how much more hope and fear would fill you if I was the one taking the risk? If I was the one who could get hurt?”

He grimaces, already knowing the truth of your words yet refusing to accept the risks. You had to be safe, you had to survive. Even if he was doomed, he absolutely would not under any circumstances drag you down with him. Unthinkable.

“Irrelevant. It will not be you, I won’t allow it,” he forcefully pronounces. You only smile wider, reaching out to stroke his cheek tenderly.

“V… the whole idea about keeping you alive functions on you experiencing as much emotion as possible. As arrogant as it feels to say it, I’m the one you care about the most. Seeing me strike down Urizen… watching me walk up to him… you can’t deny how it would make you feel. It might be the final key, the last shred of humanity that saves you,” you explain carefully.

 I know she’s right, but I cannot allow this!

“The risk is too great. Let Nero do it, or Dante,” he miserably begs you.

You shake your head, your hair catching the light beautifully.

“You care about Nero, true, but he’s only a friend. And you hate Dante, you’d be happy to see him fall. It has to be me,” you declare. “V, at this point, how could you even stop me? This is my decision to make, so you can either help me save you or fight me and lose anyway.”

 Damn. She’s right, I couldn’t stop her even if I tried. I’m too weak, always too weak.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek. It goes against every fiber of his being, every single one of his protective instincts screaming in his mind to not even consider letting you do this.

But he has no choice.

He cannot fight you.

“I don’t like it, not one bit. But you have a point. Just… promise me you’ll be careful?” he begs you, surrendering to your will at last. You nod, your lovely eyes lighting up happily at his agreement.

“I promise. Thank you, my poet,” you murmur gratefully, and then you close the gap to kiss him lovingly. His tongue darts out to taste you, craving your unique flavor. A surge of lust overtakes him as you open to his attentions, his arms pulling you against him forcefully as his blood thunders in his ears. He wants you, all of you. He wants to consume you and never let you go. You are his, now and always, and he desperately craves the chance to claim you once again.

V doesn’t care that you’re in the middle of a street. Doesn’t care that there’s chunks of stonework and broken buildings surrounding you. Doesn’t care that the only remotely clean or flat surface is a small portion of sidewalk. He tugs you toward it, easily stripping off his vest as he goes. Your mouth pops open in surprise but you don’t fight him as he carefully lowers you onto the pavement, using his vest as a pillow so your head doesn’t lie on the cold ground.

“Really, V? Here?” you whisper. He grins ferally, his hands already working at your top as he growls his response.

“Yes.”

You blush deeply, eyes darting around the area to check for other witnesses to your carnal pleasures. You find not a single soul, as he knew you would, and seem to settle as he pulls your shirt over your head.

“You are mine, little fox,” he murmurs lustily, and his mouth descends to decorate your bare chest with kisses and bites. You wrap your arms around him, but he tuts. He pulls back and looks you in the eyes.

“If you want me to stop, say ‘juniper’, yes?” he instructs you and another powerful bolt of heat rips through him as he sees your swollen lips stretch into a hungry smile, your glazed eyes narrowing as you nod forcefully. He descends upon your form once more, his arms moving to pin yours at your sides so you’re helpless to his actions. He needs to feel powerful, feel in control even though he would never force you.

He grins darkly as your hands, pinned to your sides, drift to your waist to open your belt. You release him as well, clumsily baring you both to the chilly air. A wicked smile twists his lips as he has a sudden idea, and he rises, pulling his pants up enough so they don’t trip him as he pulls you up. He plants his lips on yours again instantly, his tongue ravaging your mouth passionately as he backs you against a small sedan nearby. You gasp as the back of your legs hit the metal, another exhalation escaping you as he grips your hips and flips you face down.

He drops his pants again, working himself out of his briefs as you extend your arms out on the hood of the brown car, the dust already showing where your body has touched it. The sight pleases him immensely.

“Good girl, always so obedient for me,” he rumbles, his long fingers parting your legs easily as you whimper in desire. He tears your panties away forcefully, a small ripping sound accompanying the motion as he flings them away dismissively.

“Yes, I’m a good girl for you V. Show me how good I’ve been,” you whine as he drags a single digit through your slick folds.

“Hmm. You’ve also been very naughty, my little fox. I ought to punish your misbehaving,” he growls in response, using the tone he knows you can’t resist. You moan, the sound starting a fire in his belly and making him bare his teeth in a wolfish smile.

He raises a hand and smacks your bare ass, leaving a delightful red mark behind in his wake as you squeal. He listens carefully for a moment, in case you need him to stop, but only hears your ragged breathing. He smacks your ass again, another red mark joining the first as you groan.

“Please, V... please… I need you,” you beg, and a heady rush of power fills him.

“Not yet, love. I’m not done punishing you yet,” he groans back with a smirk. He takes a moment to enjoy the view, your arms outstretched and trying to find purchase against the smooth metal of the brown vehicle beneath you, your legs parted and shaking slightly in your excitement. Two red marks on your round ass where he’s marked you as his. He adds one more mark with a final smack, making you gasp amidst your staccato breaths.

“Now, for your reward,” he whispers just loud enough for you to hear. He delights in the way you shift your hips, angling yourself for his ease.

 Not yet…

He strokes himself a few times, satiating his own needs just enough to focus his mind as he slides a finger inside you. A delicious moan reaches his ears from your parted lips and he curls his digit just the way he knows you like it. The way you breathe his name jolts him, the low fire in his belly becoming a raging inferno as he feels your wetness. He withdraws his finger and steps forward at long last, his hands gripping your hips in a bruising grip.

“Such a good little fox…”  he rumbles and slowly presses his hips forward. His eyes flutter closed as his head breaches you, the tight tunnel welcoming him home like a lost pet. His own moan joins in with yours as you clench around him, the slick fluids allowing him to inch his way further inside at a pace that would make a snail impatient.

His hips finally become flush with your ass as he sheathes himself fully. One of his hands moves from your quaking hip to fist in your hair, pulling your head up so he can see the blissful expression on your face. He holds your head there as he pulls away, your brows furrowing as you bite your lower lip. He bucks forward again, reveling in the sharp gasp that escapes your lips as you are suddenly filled again.

He releases your head, laying his hand on your spine and holding you against the cold metal as he thrusts voraciously, his panting breath echoing your own. You do your best to angle your hips to meet his, clearly desperate for friction on your tiny bundle of nerves.

“You’re being so good, you deserve a reward,” he gasps out and the hand still on your hip descends, finding its way between your thighs and stroking your clit the way he knows you like. Your cries elevate his feeling of dominance even further, still not uttering the word he’d told you before he began. He feels you approaching your peak, your body sending him all the signals he needs. He stills his fingers and his hips, leaving you panting and wriggling in frustration beneath him.

“Did I say you could come yet, love?” he rumbles, leaning closer to your ear to ensure you can hear him.

Your face says it all – he has total control over you as you willingly surrender to his will and still your hips.

“Good girl,” he growls, standing tall once more and resuming his ferocious pounding. The dust under your form mixes with your sweat, a watery mess coating your front as he molds you to his desires. He can’t help the long moan that sounds from him as you find your rhythm together, the wet slapping of flesh marking your union audibly.

He’s close now, he can feel it.

 I want to feel her come with me.

He resumes his little touches, bringing you just to the edge to join him. With a final shout, he rubs the spot that he knows will send you over, your clenching walls and signature orgasmic moan rewarding his intimate knowledge of your body as his stuttering hips clench, his own pleasure pulsing between his legs within you. His skin prickles, his vision flashing with color as the high of release fills his consciousness.

His blood pounds in his veins as he comes to a stop, spent. The two of you both pant heavily as you catch your breath, the exertion such a wonderful strain on your lungs. His hands leave your body as he stands and pulls away with a slight squelch, your mixed fluids spilling out of you as he joins you on the hood, laying down and meeting your half-lidded gaze.

A long moment passes of the two of you simply staring at each other, reveling in ecstasy.

“I love you,” V finally murmurs, and you smile that smile he so adores, lips twisting to perfectly display your teeth in an expression of utter joy.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back, and his own joyful smile matches yours.

[houseki-no-suffering]

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Human AU, 1960s AU Characters: Cinnabar/Phosphophyllite, Diamond, Euclase, Bort, Alex, Yellow

A/N: I just- i wanna take this moment to express my deep love and adoration for Antarc and for everything they did. You’ve always been too good for us. Also Alex, ty for being amazing. And thanks to @lapishead for betareding this. Enjoy!

Antarcticite’s silent presence had fit into the domestic monotony of the community with ease.

Like an unobtrusive new piece of the machinery, they would spend their days worrying about Sensei’s health with Rutile, assisting him, or helping Alexandrite with the children. Antarc didn’t make for a good teacher, but they possessed the strained willingness of someone who doesn’t know how to be indebted to people.

In the three weeks that they spent at the dormitories, they singlehandedly inspired Bort to pursue a military career, repaired the dorms’ electrical wiring and overthrew Cinnabar’s life without exchanging more than a couple of words with them.

It wasn’t like Antarcticite was especially charismatic, quite the opposite in fact: they did not like people. However, they acted out of a unique, humble brand of fairness that made their character stand out even when they tried to stay on the sidelines. It was a necessity to be of use. It had Phos literally hanging off Antarc’s every word by the end of the first week.

Maybe it started when Euclase asked Phos to give up their room for Antarc. Phosphophyllite was the youngest kid and the only one to sleep alone in what was the only spare room, it made sense for them to give it to their new guest. But Phosphophyllite complained and whined so much that a flushed Antarc asked Euclase if they could share the room with the kid.

Or maybe it started with Phos’ exuberant enthusiasm. Cinnabar was used to it but Antarcticite was embarrassed to no end by Phos’ antics and they would try anything to keep them busy or quiet. It was how Phos bribed Antarc into becoming their new school tutor and into telling Phos an elaborate recount of their life and of their job, of how they were working with the government and the aeronautics to prevent a new war.

When Alex scoffed, mumbling that it was just anti-soviet capitalist propaganda, Cinnabar silently agreed with them, more to disagree with Antarcticite than out of an interest in politics. Maybe that was how it started, like an ideological divide. Almost overnight, there was a rift between Phos and Cinnabar where there had never been one, and Cinnabar would ride to the lighthouse alone after school while Phos followed Antarc like an excited puppy.        

There was a part of Cinnabar that still wanted to reprimand themselves for doing nothing. They should have talked with Antarc, talked with Phos, confronted Phos, told them how they were feeling. Or maybe some part of them already knew that they would lose this battle and it was just shielding Cinnabar from more hurt. The more involved they would be, the harder to let go.

Cinnabar went through those three weeks like a diver jumping off a cliff: leaping into the void, holding their breath and hoping that the water below would be safe. They watched from the sidelines, telling themselves that it was okay and hoping to release a breath once this was over. And then, three days before Antarc was leaving, Phos asked Cinnabar to go for a ride again and broke it to Cinnabar that they would be leaving too.

Cinnabar woke up.

Phos’ ghost was still dancing before their eyes. The first rays of sun were filtering a silvery light through the wood shutters and Cinnabar scowled kicking the sheets away.

“Antarc’s gonna leave next week.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m going with them.”

Mature people were supposed to process and archive a lifetime of occurrences, from the smallest of happenings to significant turning points. It should mean something that Cinnabar wasn’t able to get over just one simple thing.

The process of understanding and accepting life events had always seemed somewhat mechanical in Cinnabar’s eyes and, as much as they enjoyed being analytical, it only came naturally when their logic was applied to external issues. And their mind just happened to be an internal one.

“I’m going with them.”

The main problem wasn’t even the way Phos had looked at Cinnabar yesterday or that they had disappeared off the face of earth for years. It was the cacophony of sounds and words that had decided to resurface in Cinnabar’s mind at the mere mention of Phos. Memories were sociable things, they came in groups and they were always looking for attention. Cinnabar knew they should have repressed them deeper. Like Bort had said once: “Never leave a job undone.”

Bort probably meant that you should get to the root of a problem instead of burying it away or build yourself a castle of illusions. But Bort was probably born a functioning adult while Cinnabar’s inner child still had too much fun ruining their life to give up the position of absolute power. The fact that Cinnabar turned on the radio at high volume to ignore Phos’ voice had everything to do with it.

“I’m going with them.”

In the end, they had to run to get to work in time. They rushed down the street still fastening their coat as if they had not spent thirty minutes of their life contemplating the endless vanity of the universe. And then they rushed back inside because of course they would forget the tests.

Why couldn’t things exist just as simple, uncomplicated concepts? No time, no space, no memories or people, just intangible ideas floating peacefully in the universe’s mind scape.

Dragging themselves into the library, Cinnabar pushed open the door, a tangle of red bed hair and mismatched clothes.

“Hi,” they mumbled.

It took Alexandrite one glance to sense that something was off.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” they walked towards them, taking the papers away from Cinnabar.

“Yeah,” Cinnabar nodded, unsure what to do with their hands now that they had nothing to hold.

Alex took off their glasses as if to better look at them, their eyes soft.

“I’m not going to ask but you can talk to me, okay? I’m aware of the… things currently going on. The town’s small and Euclase likes to talk.”

“Good for ‘em.”

Alex chuckled, ruffling Cinnabar’s hair before the latter had any time to protest.

“Guess so. But talking isn’t that bad from time to time, is it?”

It was way too early for this. So early that part of Cinnabar’s anxiety must still be asleep because for a second they were tempted to actually speak their mind. They crossed their arms over their chest, rocking back and forth on the balls of their feet.

“Got nothing to say. Idiot’s back. Not my problem.”

Cinnabar regretted those words because now Alex looked like they had something to say too and Cinnabar had no idea what to do with the attention. After all, Phos had left with Chryso’s cousin, it was expected that Alex would be concerned about it. It also felt stupid to complain about a dear one being back. Most people had never had that chance, Lexi included.

“Always the realist, I see,” Lexi smiled, burying their interest, “well, it’s not like we have nothing else to do ourselves. Remember the archive?”

“No-“ Cinnabar paled.

“Oh yes! There’s a whole new section waiting for your radiant presence. I totally forgot about the 1955’s kids last time, my bad. It’s not that many. Don’t look at me like that.”

One enthusiast apology after the other, Alexandrite more or less shoved Cinnabar in the archive aisle. Cinnabar was inclined to think that Lexi was doing this on purpose as their own unobtrusive way of helping. Nothing like boring paperwork to keep an overthinker’s mind distracted.

“Thank you for your hard work. I’ll be over there, children’s section,” Alex chirped.

“Thanks.”

“You can do this, Shinsha.”

It sounded purposely generic. Then Alex put their glasses on again and disappeared down the corridor.

Cinnabar walked toward the desk with a loud groan. A few books and papers were already scattered over the wood, a sign that Alex must have noticed their mistake that morning and had been trying to fix it as best as they could. Student cards were piled up next to the ledger of what Cinnabar assumed was the 1955-1956 school year. It was as thick as an encyclopedia.

They climbed on the table, bringing one of their knees to their chest. They could either sit in silent contemplation the whole day or start working. Cinnabar’s thoughts would find a way to reach them anyway so they might as well keep their hands busy. That was what a mature person would do. Probably. Mature Cinnabar seemed like such a foreign concept.

“I’m going with them.”

Where was Phos going now? Was this still home for them? Did they have any choice in coming back? The more Cinnabar reminded themselves they should not care, the more they found themselves thinking about it. What of Antarc?

Cinnabar shut one of the drawers of the archive with more force than usual. The sound reverberated around the library, dissolving in the soft chorus of voices of the building. Cinnabar did not dare find an answer to their questions; what would there be for Cinnabar? Even if they knew, there was no point, so they kept writing down students’ names and dates, imitating Euclase’s calligraphy for the sake of consistency.

Euc had been the first to do archive work, when the school opened. They had been the one to help Sensei build the dormitories, the one to shelter the kids during the war and the one to let the orphans in when it ended.

Euclase was a mature person and they wanted Cinnabar to play family again. Was that what a mature Cinnabar looked like? It just seemed fake and sick in Cinnabar’s eyes. And yet they were confronted with the choice just a few hours later.

They were on their way home, hands sore and stained with ink from writing the whole day. It was late in the afternoon and the sky was tinted a deeper blue, a few stars had begun to light up.

Phosphophyllite had not been following them. Cinnabar refused to be so paranoid as to believe it, but there Phos was, right in front of them. They were sitting on the sidewalk along the town’s main road, the one that Cinnabar would walk at least once a day to get to work.

Phos was looking at them, they had seen Cinnabar coming. They had been waiting for Cinnabar this time and when Cinnabar was at hearing distance, but still distant enough to walk away if they wanted to, Phos stood up with ridiculous solemnity and walked towards them.

Cinnabar didn’t know why they did not run away this time because, when Phos started talking, they felt the same sense of nausea building up in their stomach.

“Hi,” Phos mumbled.

What an elaborate choice of words. Cinnabar crossed their arms on their chest, pressing their lips together.

“I- uhm, I’m sorry. About yesterday. Sorry. Didn’t meant to- well, I mean, it wasn’t on purpose.”

Phos was tormenting the hem of their sleeves. Now that they had Cinnabar’s attention, they were stubbornly avoiding their eyes. Why were the two of them even having this conversation if Phos was the first not to want it?

“So, that was one thing,” Phos let out a breathless chuckle, straightening their back as if they had just taken a weight off their shoulders. They looked like they had grown taller.

“Actually, I need to talk to you. I know you don’t want to, I wouldn’t want to talk with me either, not after everything…” the way Phos’ lips would twist in a resigned smile gave their expression a grieved feeling. It made this conversation even more unbearable.

Phos’ half-sentence hung in the air. It remained dangling between the two of them as Phos kept fidgeting with their sleeves and Cinnabar dug their hands deeper beneath their arms. They were focusing on breathing, counting the seconds between inhaling and exhaling, slowly. They felt like they were suffocating, hazy, as if they weren’t really there.

The seconds kept stretching by in groups of eight and seven with each breath. They became minutes, long like the years that lay between Cinnabar and Phos. Phos who still would not meet Cinnabar’s gaze and who wanted to be there just as much as Cinnabar did.

The thought that they should give Phos a chance crossed Cinnabar’s mind for a brief second. They should hear out Phos’ story, their excuses, they should put aside their own hurt and listen as Phos talked about how happy they had been with Antarc and why they had decided to throw it away.

Then Phos’ lips parted. Their eyes shone with a new resolution and they finally lifted them to meet Cinnabar’s. They stepped forward, coming into the light of a nearby lamppost. They had grown taller. They were taller than Cinnabar.

“Do you want to talk? With me?”

Even if it’s me?

Some memories are delicate, fragile things. When you unveil them, the beauty or the pain they carry with them comes out in soft waves, making you dizzy as you run your eyes over them. There is familiarity in those feelings, like an echo, the smell of an old attic that has remained sealed for too long and where each flake of dust reminds you of a different time.

But it’s fragile. Just as you begin to remember, those memories shatter. Familiarity dissolves as old images crash with new ones, merging together, turning to smoke, being carried away by the present, dispersed forever.

Into the cold yellow of the lamppost’s light, Phos looked old. Older than their years. They looked tired, weary. It was in the way they carried themselves, in the way their smile did not reach their eyes, in the way their cheeks would dimple and in the way Phos would hide their eyes under their fringe. Just like Cinnabar.

In that moment, Cinnabar understood what a mature person would do. A friend, a true friend, would throw away their own feelings and ask Phos what was wrong. Because something was, something was terribly wrong.

“Please?” Phos added. It was like a mumbled stab to Cinnabar’s resolution.

They were aware of how much Phosphophyllite had meant to them and of how much they still wanted Phos to mean. Cinnabar would not hope for anything, but this was still Phos, they were in front of them, hidden beneath layers of memories and experiences that they had made without Cinnabar.

But it had been Phos’ choice. Cinnabar had let them go once, because they dared not wish for anything, and they would do it again because wishing was still scary.

They thought about their resentment, about departing coaches and about Antarcticite. They thought that Phos would be going home to Antarc eventually and that they would take better care of Phos than Cinnabar. They thought about Bort’s words.

You owe them nothing.

“No,” Cinnabar pushed the syllable past their lips. It was like remembering how to talk and they regretted it immediately after.

“Alright,” Phos said. The look that crossed their face sat uncomfortably in Cinnabar’s chest. Then Phos stepped aside to let Cinnabar pass, moving out of their way as if they would disappear if they only could.

Cinnabar walked past them as if through a haze, clinging to reasons and an anger they could already feel dissolving. The echo of Phos’ voice came to them as if through water.

“Goodnight,” it said.