#it affects her profoundly and is very difficult for her to shake it when it when she gets it in her head that nobody cares

[the-haunted-office]

Doomsday has had enough. Just. Enough. Of everything. Of everybody. That's why she had to leave. What is there for her to stay? Nobody wants her around. She doesn't do any good. All she does is hurt people and annoy people and cause trouble.

Things are better off this way.

At least she has time to think.

Her home Office is just as ruined as it ever was. The way she left it, in shambles. The way she left so many other Offices. Everybody knows that now, since Oleander saw fit to tell everybody. It wasn't their place to tell her Story, but they did it anyway. Well. If everybody wants to hear and believe their version of her life, then so be it. If they'd rather believe a total stranger about her, then fuck them. Fuck them all. She doesn't need any of them.

Then why does it hurt so much...?

They don't understand. They don't need to understand. And neither does she. She'd rather be alone right now anyway.

Except she's not alone. There's somebody else here, and it isn't her Cyrus and Aurora either. They vacated again at some point, after she chased them off last time. Where they went is anybody's guess, but it's not for her to care right now, because the person she finds here with her now is-

"...Stanley?" she says, her voice suddenly sounding so small.

How is this possible? Her Stanley died. He died. Permanently. The mist got him. Killed him. Consumed and digested his soul, destroying it forever. Worse than what happened to her.

And yet here he is. Except... as he approaches, she also realizes that's not Stanley. Whatever this is used to be Stanley, but it isn't anymore. Not quite.

The towering specter looks like Stanley, except like hers his eyes are missing. Instead there are two holes in his face filled with an eerie yellow light. His skin looks like wet paper too, and looks like it could just be pulled right off his bones. And perhaps most concerning, his business attire is stained with what has to be blood. Doom has seen too much of it to believe otherwise.

"Stanley?" she says again. "That's you, isn't it? My Stanley?"

Fuck, he's huge. As tall as the ceiling. He stoops to examine her. Doom just stands there, awed by his presence. "Thursday," he says, his voice raspy and low, although still unmistakably Stanley. "But more than one. You are many."

"Er- Yeah. I take it you can see my other souls?" Doom says, trying not to feel utterly freaked out right now. This is Stanley. Her Stanley. Back from nothing. And he is seeing her souls. He must be a Reaper too. "But, Stanley, how did you-?"

"I don't know how this happened, my dear," he says, pulling back, and for a moment Doom relaxes. Dear. He called her dear. Just like old times. She almost starts to cry. "But I'm hungry. I need to eat. And you have many souls."

Doom is silent for several beats as it sinks in, both the realization and the horror. Stanley's a Reaper, all right. But not the good kind.

Shit.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

comforting jj after big john's death

Warnings: mention of death, grief

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

The death of Big John affected the whole lot of you.

Once again, John B. had lost his father — for good, this time. He was officially an orphan, just like Sarah. The latter didn’t get to know Big John much, but she still shed a few tears for him through her own heartbreak of losing her father.

Pope was crying in silence beside Kiara and Cleo, who were both saddened.

Beside you, JJ was holding back his emotions. To his eyes, Big John was a parental figure — a much better one than his father. He taught him and John B. how to fish and how to work a boat. He even called him son sometimes. Watching the life leave his eyes was tough for him.

It hurts like nothing has ever hurt before.

You put your arm around JJ’s shoulders, feeling his shuddered breaths as he struggled not to break down. Men don’t cry, Luke always told him. Crying is for the pussies. Although JJ tried to not let his father’s words get to him, they were engraved so deeply inside his mind that it was difficult to stop hearing his voice in the back of his head.

Bringing the body back to Kildare would’ve been too much of a hassle, so you buried Big John under a tree. JJ made him a personalized tombstone with Pope's help while you, Cleo and Kie looked for flowers. Words were exchanged in his name, a sort of improvised eulogy, as everyone was reunited, mourning the loss of Big John Routledge.

It wasn’t until you were back on the private jet and everyone was profoundly asleep from exhaustion that JJ finally slipped a tear.

You were a light sleeper, so you heard him and silently wrapped your arms around him. He went willingly into your embrace, content for the time being to fall apart into the chest of the person he loved the most.

You whispered sweet words as you tried to comfort his grief-soaked heart, running gentle fingers through his blond hair, a blend of ’I know it hurts’ and ’It’s okay to cry’. 

It was unknown how long he cried for. You didn't care. You would hold him for as long as he needed you to. 

‘’I feel so fucking selfish for crying,’’ JJ said after a long silence. His hands were clutching your shirt and soiled with blood — Big John’s blood. He had tried to wash it off in the water earlier, but wasn't very effective. ‘’He wasn't my dad.‘’

‘’It doesn't make your grief less valid, J. You're allowed to cry and be sad over his death.‘’

JJ sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. ‘’What am I gonna do when we get back? My house is getting taken by the bank, the chateau burned down; I have nothing.‘’ He laughed with a shake of his head. ‘’My life is a fucking disaster.‘’ 

—

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[stellaluna33]

Can we talk about how Jess's love language is most likely physical touch and how devastating it is that he probably wasn't raised receiving that from Liz and how as an adult he actively avoids her touch when he can cause he's so used to it not coming from a true place. Sorry for the random ask but in the gif set of Rory dragging Jess around he almost seems pleased by it or at least finds some humor and happiness from it.

Firstly, PLEASE don't apologize for the ask!  It's not random and I LOVE talking to people about the characters I love!

But yes, I think Jess was absolutely enjoying being pushed around by Rory.  Haha!  I mean, he has an enormous crush on her and it's a great excuse for her to touch him when she's not really allowed to touch him in any other way. What's not to like!

But to respond to the rest of your question, YES let's talk about this, because this is actually something I've thought about a LOT. Haha!  And I absolutely agree that one of Jess's primary love languages is physical touch.  Everybody knows that Jess spent a lot of time kissing Rory when they were dating, but it goes way beyond that.  He was also just physically affectionate with her in general, even in little ways.  Always wanting to be close, keeping his arm around her, keeping hold of her fingers, nuzzling into her hand when she touched his cheek.  He wanted to be CLOSE.  And while at least part of that was that physical intimacy was easier for him than emotional intimacy, I genuinely think that it's also simply how he expresses and also gives affection.  I do not think this is "shallow."  Physical touch is MY primary love language too, and it's a profoundly human need.  Babies will quite literally waste away and DIE without it, even if all their other physical needs are met.  Even after Jess is no longer dating Rory, he has a habit of briefly touching her elbow or nudging her knee... These little gestures are his way of expressing his care and attention.

I do think that was hard for Jess growing up as a very lonely and neglected kid.  Strangely enough, I get the impression that physical touch might have been one of the few ways Liz DID express affection for her son (it breaks my HEART to see him close his eyes and lean into her hand, even when he looked absolutely miserable about it), but it might have seemed bitter and empty and NOT ENOUGH if there wasn't genuine feeling and attention behind it.  And it would be even harder for him as a boy, since American culture discourages boys and men from expressing physical affection in any way except sexually.  That being the case, it's not really surprising that he latched onto Shane, because he was very very lonely, and really starving for anything that even felt approximately similar to affection, and that was one of the only ways he knew how to get it.

This is one reason why it was such a relief when Luke pulled him in for a hug at the end of Season 4.  Notice that Jess didn't ask for one. He put his hand out to shake- very safe and socially appropriate- because sometimes initiating touch is very difficult when it's very important to you. Because a rejection of a hug feels like a rejection of your SELF, and Jess won't risk that.  But when Luke initiates that hug, it's almost like a dam breaks or something.  Have you noticed that Jess either hugs or puts a hand on Luke's shoulder every single time they see each other after that?  Because I have, and... Yeah. Yeah.  Be right back, my, uh... allergies must be really bad today... *blows nose loudly*

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/8/2020: PELICAN BLOOD (2019)

If you are reading this and the present date is between October 8 and 11 of 2020, please consider buying a virtual ticket to see Katrin Gebbe’s PELICAN BLOOD, available on demand through the Nightstream festival:

https://watch.eventive.org/nightstream/play/5f6e7e78d6a9bf0036613fa3

I am about to discuss this movie and its conclusion in great detail, but it would be much better for a person to come to it in innocence--not because it’s so reliant on anything as gauche as surprise, but because it is so thoroughly excellent that wading through a movie review first would be like letting your dinner grow cold. And, it simply deserves our support.

When I saw PELICAN BLOOD last year at Fantastic Fest, it became one of my favorite movies before it was even over. I might admit that this was sort of a match made in heaven, as this movie checks almost every one of my personal boxes, but I don’t think my assessment of its value is a simple matter of personal prejudice. I’ve been haunted by it all these months, and deeply worried that somehow I might never see it again. When I discovered that it had landed on Nightstream, I was over the moon.

This is writer-director Katrin Gebbe's second feature, a fact that will astonish you when you see it. Last Blogtober, I wrote about her first feature TORE TANZT, which has the troubling english title NOTHING BAD CAN HAPPEN. That intense indie drama concerns a born-again christian punk who wishes for an opportunity to prove his devotion to god, and finds it in the form of a family that invites him in off the streets, and then proceeds to torture him. That's an oversimplification of what actually occurs, but it is a film that's hard to be brief about. It's cheap and a little rough around the edges, but it is deliberate, intense, and difficult to forget. (In fact it's supposed to be based on a true story, although I haven't managed to pick up that trail) When I first saw it, it certainly made me wonder what else that director might be up to, and I was astounded when I found out. 2019's PELICAN BLOOD emerged six years after TORE TANZT, with little in between besides a television episode and a segment in the anthology THE FIELD GUIDE TO EVIL, and yet Gebbe's artistic evolution is dumbfounding. Her themes are all unmistakably present--faith versus doubt, mystical versus metaphorical experience, and physical martyrdom--but exploded into a grand, elegant psychodrama that holds the viewer captive every minute of its two hours.

Celebrated german actress Nina Hoss plays Wiebke, a stable owner who trains police horses to tolerate the frightening conditions of a riot. She lives at the edge of her pasture, raising her tween daughter Nicolina (Adelia-Constance Giovanni Ocleppo) on her own. Wiebke has a talent for healing the wounded, or perhaps it's more of a calling; she raised Nicolina, a bulgarian orphan, into a bright, balanced, emotionally available tomboy, and the two of them joyfully anticipate the arrival of Nicolina's new adoptive sister. When little Raya arrives (Katerina Lipovska), she first presents as sweet, even solicitous, needing only a mother's love to fully bloom. However, as soon as she determines that she is welcome and wanted, she undergoes a disturbing transformation into a violent and unpredictable creature, possessed by an abject hatred. Wiebke recognizes that her new child is seriously traumatized, which activates her sense of purpose, and she pledges herself fully to the child's recovery--despite the admonishments of Raya's daycare, her doctors, and virtually everyone around them, that the little girl is beyond all but clinical help, and even that promises no guarantee of salvation. Refusing to give up, Wiebke makes a series of increasingly dangerous personal sacrifices in Raya's name, until finally she finds herself at the doorway to what some consider another world, but what is to others only madness.

Gebbe won Best Director in the main competition at Fantastic Fest, and it would have been a crime if this were otherwise. Her control over what are essentially forces of nature is humbling. Extracting a profoundly moving drama from a cast of adult actors is challenging enough on its own, but to get these terrifyingly convincing performances from children, evoking deep trauma and physical violence to self and others, is another level. As if this weren't enough, Gebbe adds animals into the mix, giving the story of Raya a parallel in the troubled career of a police horse who is considered a lost cause by all but Wiebke. The training scenes in which Wiebke guides the volatile animal through fire and smoke, while her own lifeforce is being progressively depleted by her new child, are as harrowing as anything having to do with parenthood, and Wiebke seems to take the horse just as seriously as her child. Friendly single dad Benedikt (Murathan Muslu) tries to flirt with the trainer by remarking on her unusual career, but she spits bitterly, "The horses are not the problem," giving us a glimpse of the philosophy that drives her.

Another of my favorite german films is Werner Herzog's 1976 short NO ONE WILL PLAY WITH ME. This funny and poignant story involves a bullied and neglected little boy, and it is preceded by a card displaying the adage "There are no bad children, only bad parents." This is the principle that drives Wiebke in work and life: Those who are seen as failures, have been failed by others. One has the sense that Wiebke sees herself in these wretches. She has no partner, and balks at questions about her relationship history, shying from physical affection even with people she knows and likes. A tell-tale scar graces one cheekbone; when she finally begins to welcome the benign Benedikt's advances, he strokes it instead of kissing her, acknowledging that he can see who she really is.

Wiebke tries to extend this same empathy toward Raya, refusing to let the child bait her into wrath and rejection. However, this show of pure faith and tolerance does not work, and the right approach becomes less clear as Raya begins to blame her mounting acts of vandalism, arson and assault on an evil entity that controls her will. A psychiatrist aprises Wiebke that this is the "magic period", in which the child uses magical thinking to divert feelings of guilt and responsibility. But, after a fashion, Wiebke begins to sense this malevolent presence as well. Is this etheric intrusion real? Or is she beginning to empathize with the child--with the experience of grappling with a damaged part of yourself--to the point of dissolving boundaries?

The title of the movie refers to a fable about a pelican whose chicks die, and she resurrects them by feeding them her own blood. This is a clear metaphor for Wiebke's trial with Raya, that becomes shockingly literal when, after endangering her home and relationships by prioritizing the new child, Wiebke places her own health on the line by taking an unregulated drug to give herself a bizarre advantage. When Wiebke discovers the shocking nature of Raya's original trauma, she experiments with the radical idea of treating the girl like a little baby, hoping to start from square one with her capacity to be mothered, and in the service of this dreadful proposition, Wiebke starts taking a lactation-inducing pill that proves to be an immediate risk to her health, and puts her in an even more perilous position with Raya.

Although it focuses on a preternaturally devoted mother, PELICAN BLOOD recalls what makes movies like HEREDITARY and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN so potent. We have the idea that in becoming parents, we are perpetuating our own essence, extending our history and celebrating the precious connection of blood, which is supposed to impart an automatic same-ness. Unfortunately, this only shakes out to arrogance for many, denying the quirks of psychology, chemistry, and the unique impact of trauma--even if minor, or explainable as something benign--on a mind too young to fully comprehend the nature of the experience. Even without abuse in the home, anyone can have a child less like themselves than they could have ever imagined, for reasons beyond their own control. In all this, the child is innocent, and it is the duty of the parent to prioritize the child's feelings, over the vanity of wanting an heir to your own best qualities. Wiebke sacrifices not only her vanity, but potentially her very life, to show Raya love. When this blood sacrifice does not work, Wiebke finds herself facing the realm of alternative belief as a last resort.

The introduction of PELICAN BLOOD's folk horror element can seem a little left field, if you haven't noted the clues scattered throughout the film. Before the revelation of Raya's boogeyman, Wiebke begins to discover evidence of an old pagan tradition still being practiced around her proverbial neck of the woods. Soon, she tentatively entrusts herself and her child to a local witch, who puts them through a harrowing exorcism. Though the process is uncertain at first, its impact forces Wiebke into a direct acknowledgment of the entity harassing her daughter. And ultimately, it awakens in Raya a capacity for love.

While the reality of the supernatural in PELICAN BLOOD remains in question, I think the effect of this ambiguity is specifically meaningful. I usually scoff at any type of "was it all a dream?" nonsense, as this is a tactic employed by directors who think their greatest accomplishment should be getting one over on the audience. I don't see any inherent value in simply reversing the apparent meaning of things, just to make people feel stupid--and worse, this has trained modern audiences to try to defensively predict the least likely ending to any story, instead of just engaging with it emotionally as it plays out. For this reality-bending trick to be worth anything, one must be able to answer questions like, IF this was all a dream, THEN what meaning is added to the story?

In PELICAN BLOOD, the unresolved question of whether magic is real is of great relevance to the whole concept of belief. Human beings crave extranormal experience; we're deeply attracted to tales of ghosts, UFOs, mythical creatures, and parapsychological abilities. Even the skeptics among us enjoy arguing about these things, and many regular folks without eccentric interests read their horoscope "just for fun". Most telling of all is the enduring popularity of stories about the strange and unusual, which require no particular belief system from the audience; the fantasy of this extra dimension to our mundane lives is just so satisfying. Despite all the pleasure we get from these ideas, though, we tend to cling first and foremost to objective truth; we tell ourselves that if there is no "proof", then an outrageous thing cannot exist. But, this is actually contrary to many of our lived experiences. On the basest level, we delight at videos of insane parkour stunts, at the same time that we say these guys are "like" superheroes, but are actually just guys. My question is, what's the difference? If a person can achieve physical feats that most of us can never imagine attempting, then what difference does it make that this person was not bitten by a radioactive spider? If a fortune teller in a carnival is so good at "cold reading" strangers that she gives the effect of being able to read minds, then what is the appreciable difference between a carny and a "real psychic"? If a faith healer "just convinces" someone to become free from a chronic ailment, and the patient goes on to live a happier life, who cares if no "real magic" was in evidence? What is the difference between exorcism and hypnosis, if the end result is the same for a seriously disturbed child and her mother? The only difference appears to be some material confirmation of specific mystical forces and substances--which, admittedly, would be exciting on its own--but this would still only be an alternative version of the events that led up to the same "miraculous" result. We only worry about the existence of God and magic because our definitions of these things tend to be limited to what we think of as literal and scientific. But, if the correct effects manifest themselves, then all that is purely cosmetic. Belief is real. Faith works.

[shitty-marvel-fan732]

Cuddles and Pick Up Lines

Hello all! I present to you an unedited one shot that is my first attempt at writing Peter Parker! If you like it, let me know with a like or reblog! 

“Hey Pete, are you made of copper and tellurium?”, I asked, fingers absentmindedly threading through his chocolate brown locks. Peter hummed lightly in response, eyes shut. 

“Cause you’re Cu-Te”, I grinned. His lips quirked upwards in a small smile briefly before it disappeared. He was still, eyes remaining closed, but he couldn’t fight the small amount of pink that was creeping its way up his neck. He was laying tangled with me as we cuddled on his bed. His head laid softly on my chest, arms wrapped tightly around my waist and legs intertwined with mine. His eyes were closed and his face was beginning to look peaceful.

“Funny”, he muttered sarcastically. My smile widened. 

“I’m serious babe. You must have 11 protons cause you are sodium fine”, I giggled. Peter chuckled lightly, the gentle vibrations across my body prompting me to continue. “I wish I were adenine; that way I could be paired with U”. 

Peter still didn’t open his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the sweet smile that overtook his soft features nor the raging blush covering his entire face. He snuggled his head even further into the crook of my neck in a vain effort to conceal his reaction. The move did little to convince me of his nonchalance-- as I could now feel the heat from his cheeks radiating to my own skin. I shivered unintentionally, and decided to momentarily give up on my playful assault and simply revel in our peaceful embrace.

 Moments like this weren’t uncommon by any means, practically a daily occurrence at this point, but that didn’t diminish my desire to live within this feeling forever. Though I rarely voiced it to Peter, I was perpetually worried that there would be a day he wouldn’t come back to me. A day when I was forced to contemplate life on my own, without these soft cuddles and gentle conversations. A life without Peter. Just the thought of it made my stomach turn and my hands begin to shake. 

At first when I’d found out about my boyfriend’s, shall we say, extracurricular nighttime activities I was a wreck; I was nervous all the time and I distanced myself from him in a pathetic attempt to save my sanity. Eventually I’d come to the realization that being away from Peter was just as bad (if not worse) for my anxiety; now I preferred to cope by throwing myself into my relationship with as much effort as I could. I savored every minute that I got with my sweet boy. Peter, thankfully, was more than relieved at my conclusion and too seemed to relish the time we shared. 

“I love you”, he murmured into the crook of my neck, voice so soft I barely caught it. My heart picked up speed instantly at his gentle admission and my stomach erupted into a flurry of butterflies. It amazed me that after all we've been through, first as friends and then as a couple-- all the sweet moments, each tender word and gentle caress still affected me as profoundly as the first. Instinctively, my arms tightened their grip around my sweet boyfriend and I felt the way Peter’s smile widened against my neck, smug at the reaction he caused. Damned spidey-senses. 

“And I love you bug”, I hummed lightly, fingers returning to their previous ministrations and threading across the wispy curls that littered his forehead. Peter sighed, practically purring at the soft touches. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”, I questioned gently, voice breaking the peaceful silence. It had been clear since the moment I’d met up with him after school that there was something off with Peter. His normally soft brown eyes had lost a little of their natural sparkle, and he was almost eerily quiet. Ordinarily after the last bell I was greeted with the welcome sights and sounds of my eager boyfriend already chattering away about whatever topic, but this afternoon he’d been practically silent. Today I’d had to reach out first to link our hands together, when usually I was barely out of my last class of the day before he was already latched to my side. The usual easy flow of conversation between us had been strained, the majority of speaking coming from me with only sparse hums of acknowledgement from Peter. Rather than pressure him for an explanation, I’d simply guided us toward his apartment and immediately pulled the troubled boy down onto his bed for cuddles once we'd arrived. We’d laid wrapped up together for a while, and now that I was more confident in his headspace I was hopeful for some answers for his very un-Peter-like behavior. He groaned. 

“You’re gonna think it’s stupid”, he muttered. My fingers abruptly stopped their gentle dance within his chocolate locks at his statement, brows furrowing. I softly pulled his face from its hiding spot in the crook of my neck and looked him directly in the eyes. 

“Peter, something that bothers you could never be stupid to me”, I scolded lightly. He sighed once more, eyes closing once more as he practically shoved his face back into my side. 

“I think it’s stupid”, he grumbled stubbornly. I remained silent, patiently waiting for him to continue. 

“It’s just...I overheard Flash and some of his friends talking last period about me- about Spiderman. Stuff like how he- how I’m just some loser in spandex trying to be the next Iron Man. How I didn’t even do anything important for anyone, and that I’d be forgotten by next year. Just got in my head I guess”, he mumbled, voice trailing off near the end. 

My heart practically tore in two at the defeat and hurt that laced Peter’s soft voice. No wonder he’d been so off. 

“Oh my sweet boy”, I sighed, tucking him tighter against my body protectively. “I’m so so sorry Pete. But you have to know that they're just jealous, teenage morons right?”. 

“I mean...yeah. I guess”, he whispered near inaudibly. 

“But?”, I probed gently, sensing that there was more. Peter sighed again, this time more aggressively than before as he abruptly sat up and rested his head against the wall behind us. 

“It’s just so freaking hard!”, he exclaimed, hands flying wildly to demonstrate his frustration. “I mean, I work so hard and I give up so much for this city and for what? Assholes like them? I sacrifice an honest relationship with May, time I could be spending with you, and just a normal freaking existence, all for people who don’t even care! For all the cops who try to arrest me whenever they see me, all the criminals that don't even take me seriously, and idiots like Flash and his friends who will never understand what I do for them. It sucks that to know I'm hurting people close to me over it too, like, I know May knows something is different and that it hurts her that I won't tell her, ya know? And you, you're anxious all the time because you're worried about me. I mean, you almost even left me because of Spiderman, and yet I still stick with it like the idiot I am hoping that I make a difference to this city. It just feels so pointless sometimes”.

By the end of his small rant his face was almost entirely covered in red and pink splotches and his eyes began to water with unshed tears. Typically I was the person who always seemed to know what to say; friends and family often came to me with their issues because I was admittedly pretty good at talking people off the ledge and comforting them. But in this moment I felt my brain nearly shut down at Peter's broken expression. What could I, or anyone for that matter, say? Peter was right, his life wasn't fair. It hurt me deeply to think about what went on in his head everyday, all the responsibilities and pressure that was thrust upon him. I'd always been amazed at Peter's ability to remain so sweet and kind despite the things he's seen and been through, and his outburst today only confirmed just how difficult it was for him to maintain his demeanor with his new obligations. I sucked in a breath through my teeth and opened my arms to him once more in invitation. Peter willingly allowed himself to lay across my chest once more, arms encircling me tightly and head resting under the tip of my chin. 

"I've been circling around in my head all afternoon, trying to figure out why I even care what they think. I mean, I didn't become Spiderman for people to like me. I started because I thought people in this neighborhood deserved to feel safe. I do it to protect you, and May, and Ned, and Mr. Delmar, and anyone else that calls this place home. But even so, to hear them say those things so casually and out loud just…", he sniffed, and I began to rub his back slowly as I felt his tears begin to soak through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. 

"Hurts", I supplied quietly. Peter nodded against my chest and sniffled. I pressed my cheek to the crown of his head, leaving a soft kiss in my wake. I breathed in the comforting scent of his shampoo deeply before pulling back from his embrace and taking his face in my hands. I bored my own gaze into his puffy, reddened eyes and rubbed small circles over his still tense jawline. 

"Bug, there is nothing that I can say or do that'll make that pain go away, not completely, and for that I'm so sorry. But what I can tell you is how incredibly proud I am of you. Not just as Spiderman, I'm proud of you: Peter Benjamin Parker, because you are the sweetest, kindest, smartest, and most selfless person I have or will ever have met. You take so much on your shoulders everyday that I can't even begin to imagine, and you're right. Sometimes it does suck, and there will always be people like those assholes that make you feel like it's all for nothing, but they're wrong”, I began, voice already shaking with emotion and eyes filling with tears. Peter’s eyes darted downward, expression doubtful. Frowning, I placed my fingers under his chin, yanking his face back level with mine. 

“I’m serious Peter. You do so much for so many people, and I'm honestly amazed by you every single day. You know as well as I do that those people you've helped will never forget you, and that you matter to them. You matter to me, and to May, and to Ned, and MJ, and your teachers, and to Tony, and to everyone you meet because as soon as you open that cute little mouth of yours people can't help but love you. The fact that you even care about what they think is just a testament to how kind-hearted and genuine you are as a person”, I continued. 

Peter’s tears were still falling steadily, but the way his eyes remained focused on me and hands had steadied in my own lead me to throw in one last plea. 

“And, just for the record, if you ever decide one day that you don't want to be Spiderman anymore, I'll still be here. Because Spiderman may be this city's superhero, but you're my hero. I love you Peter, never ever forget that". 

I choked a little on the final word, hot tears that had gathered in my eyes early on in my little speech finally beginning to fall. Peter's eyes never left mine as I spoke, and though he had stopped crying there were still tear tracks visible, marring the soft skin of his cheeks. He didn't hesitate long after I finished speaking, placing his hands roughly on my hips and closing the small gap between our bodies with the speed only a superhuman could. His lips attached immediately to mine, moving with an urgency that took me by surprise. 

Generally speaking, Peter was exactly how he seemed: sweet, gentle, and a little bit timid-- especially when it came to intimate moments. I found it adorable how he was typically so gentle and tender with me, but the way he was kissing me now made my entire body feel as though it had caught fire. His mouth was pressed against mine so hard that it was almost painful, and his normally gentle fingers were squeezing my hips roughly. Somewhere beneath the Peter-induced fog that had completely taken over my brain, I briefly considered the fact that there would more than likely be bruises there later. Somehow, the thought only made the fire in my body burn hotter. I reciprocated with fervor, trying desperately to convey my sincerity and adoration for Peter through my touch. I moaned unintentionally into his mouth as his tongue roamed freely in mine, causing his lips to quirk into a smug smirk against my own. 

Eventually I reluctantly pulled away from the frenzied embrace, breathing heavy and forehead resting on Peter’s. Peter, however, was having none of this; he pulled gently away from my leaning head and began placing sweet kisses to my cheeks. I sat and caught my breath,  reveling in the feeling of my boyfriend’s soft lips against my skin. After a while, Peter slowed his loving assault and leaned back against the wall, pulling my body into his chest. I sighed, snuggling deeper into his side in a mirrored image of the way we’d laid only minutes before.

“I love you”, Peter mumbled, lips leaving yet another kiss to the top of my head. “Thank you”. 

“Anytime Pete. Literally, anytime”, I replied softly before placing a soft kiss to his collarbone. Peter chuckled, the feeling reverberating through our linked bodies. I raised my head to look him in the eyes, and quirked my own brow in silent question. 

“Nothing, it’s just..”, Peter started, chuckling once more. I furrowed my brow even more. 

"Only you would not only know a whole bunch of nerdy pickup lines, but use that strange collection of knowledge to cheer me up”, he finished, grinning wildly down towards me. I felt my face flush. 

“Oh shut up, you know you love it”, I grumbled. 

I felt his chest shake with yet another bout of laughter, and I responded by childishly shoving my head deeper into his chest with a small huff of embarrassment. Eventually the shaking slowed and stopped. Peter’s strong fingers hooked under my chin, forcing my head up to face his own. I began to protest, but the words died out in my throat when I saw the way Peter was looking down at me. At first, I noted with a twinge of pride how his cheeks were still pink and flushed looking and his lips red and swollen from our previous antics-- his hair was beautifully mussed (thanks to me), but it was the look in his eyes that truly made my heart flutter. When I’d first met up with him this afternoon his eyes had lost the sparkle they held now, his coffee brown irises were as dull as I’d ever seen and exuded his discomfort and sadness. Now, he was smiling so widely that he had crinkles on the edges of his eyes and his eyes held nothing but love and mischief. It was the spark of love and sweetness that screamed of Peter. 

“I do”, he stated softly. “I love you y/n/n. So much”.

 My heart fluttered, and I was overwhelmed with affection for the loveable dork. I lunged forward and captured Peter’s lips with my own once more; this kiss was different than the previous. This kiss was sweet, loving, and packed with emotion. Eventually, I pulled slowly back from Peter and rested my head on his shoulder once more.

“I love you too Bug. More than you know”, I murmured. Peter hummed in response, arms wrapping tighter around my form. 

“I do have one question though”, he mentioned nonchalantly. 

“What’s that?”, I replied. 

“Are you into chemistry?”, he wondered thoughtfully. I raised an eyebrow, head moving slightly to look questioningly at Peter. 

“Uh, I’m more of a physics girl I guess?”, I answered, confusion lacing my tone. “Why do you ask?”. 

“Because I LAB you”, he stated proudly, face splitting into a wide grin.

[captainillogical]

Profoundly Yours Ch.2

Amity receives a love letter in her locker. Luz wants to help figure out who it is.

Cover art by my lovely wife @firstofficertightpants​

AO3 mirror

first chapter

Surprisingly enough, no one is paying attention to Amity when her locker spits the letter out at her, and she quickly stuffs the envelope into her pocket before anyone has the chance to see. It’s exactly the same as the other one, interestingly enough.

She rapidly gathers the things she needs for her next class, narrowly avoiding a few students in the halls as she makes her way to her next period. There are several students in the class chatting when she gets there, so she resides to looking at the letter later, regrettably. 

She sits down at one of the empty tables next to the window, staring outside as she listens to more students fill in the class. Two students are arguing about which one’s stronger, and Amity rolls her eyes to herself when she hears them start to challenge each other to a duel later. It’s raining outside today, the clouds are completely covering the sky in large sheets of grey, and she sighs as she watches the rain pour down. Sleep didn’t come to her easy last night, she kept waking up every half hour or so. She’ll have to push through her tiredness to even be able to get through school today.

Someone sits down next to her, and she tries to ignore the presence as she waits for the teacher to come in and start the class. They place their books down pretty loudly, and she hears a pretty familiar cough.

“Were you going to ignore my presence the entire class, Blight?” Luz jokes, voice light and airy.

Amity turns her face to look at the human in surprise - she forgot she had a lesson with Luz today. Luz is smiling at her the same way she smiles at the rest of her friends - and the way it has Amity’s heart beating fast is utterly embarrassing. 

“N-no,” She hears herself stutter a little, cursing herself internally for acting like some kind of fool around the human. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

Luz stares at Amity for several seconds longer than necessary, a worried expression taking up space on her face.

“You look a little tired, are you getting enough sleep?” She asks gently, and Amity thinks that Luz might be becoming a little too familiar with her. If she knows how to read her face like this, she’s going to figure out her feelings for the other girl, sooner or later. And that’s not good at all.

“I’ve been having some issues sleeping the last couple of days, it’s no big deal.” The green-haired girl answers truthfully - it’s not like she can lie about it, if Luz can see it on her face already. But she doesn’t want to talk about it, because then she’ll have to elaborate as to why, and she doesn’t want to go down that particular path. Just ‘hey Luz, can’t sleep because I think about kissing your stupidly cute face constantly, don’t worry about it!’ Yeah, that’s gonna be a no. “That’s not what's on my mind though. Here.”

Amity pulls the blank white envelope out of her pocket, and places it on the table on her books in a way that only Luz can see from this angle. Luz’s eyes go comically wide, and she shuts her mouth before she shouts in surprise at the object on the table.

“-is that another..?” She whispers to Amity, scooting her seat so close to her that she can feel her knee press against her thigh.

Amity tries so incredibly hard to not focus on the single warm point of contact she has with Luz. It might actually be the hardest thing she’s ever done in her life. She can feel her own palms getting sweaty.

“Yeah, I haven’t opened it yet though. Wanted to be discreet.” She answers, screaming at her own brain to calm the hell down. This is a lot harder than she had thought. “I wasn’t expecting another one of these at all, or so soon after the last one..” 

“You’re not flattered at their insistence?” She wonders out loud, reaching over for the envelope - Amity smacks her hand from grabbing it automatically, and Luz yelps - tearing her hand away. Realizing what she just did, Amity feels her face light up in embarrassment.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just didn’t want the other students to notice I had-”

Luz laughs, cutting her off. “Is Amity getting comfortable with me?” She says in jest, Amity wishing she could sink into her seat as she feels her face get redder.

“Don’t get used to it.” She retorts, and Luz knocks her knee against hers teasingly.

The professor walks into the room then, addressing everyone in his class, and Amity tucks the note into one of her books for safekeeping, pulling her potions book out to the front. The murmurs of the other students die down, and he starts off with some monologue about last week’s lesson theory, and Amity is already having a difficult time paying attention.

She places her chin in her hand, glancing out the window. Rain pelts against the glass, and within five minutes she’s starting to feel a bit sleepy again as the teacher’s droning voice goes on and on. Except for the fact that Luz starts to shake her leg out of misplaced, unbridled energy - the one that’s touching Amitys, and now it’s all she can pay attention to.

Is the girl not aware she’s touching the other’s leg? Or does it just not matter to her? Is it just Amity sitting here, silently freaking out about this?

Ugh, she feels so stupid.

The teacher calls on the student sitting in the front row, who gives a perfect answer - and they start heavily discussing that specific topic; Amity watches Luz pull a piece of paper out of her notebook, placing it in front of herself and shielding it from the teacher.

What the hell is she doing? Amity tries her best to not outright stare at her table partner. Luz is scribbling something onto the paper, tip of her tongue peeking out of her lips. A particularly strong gust of wind knocks a nearby tree branch at the classroom window, Luz looks up at the offending noise curiously - Amity has to tear her eyes away from the girl before she catches on.

She can’t even pretend to be a perfect, ‘straight A’ student when the object of her affections is sitting right next to her. How utterly embarrassing. Get it together. The face Luz is making reminds Amity of when she first met the human - and hoo boy has her impression of her flipped a complete 180. Not to mention how Amity herself acted around her. She tries to not think about that part too much, as she already has written extensively in her diary about all of her own regrets. 

Amity’s lost in thought before she realizes Luz is staring at her, and she feels the tips of her ears heat up in embarrassment. The human gives her a look - one Amity interprets as “you’re being weird again, Blight” and she slides the piece of paper over to her.

Amity looks down to peer at the note on the table, feeling the tips of her ears heat up even more.

Luz drew herself with a bunch of sparkles around her head, and inside the speech bubble next to her face it reads: “do you wanna spend the next free period together to look at that letter?”

Ah, yeah. Amity’s got it bad. How can one single girl affect her like this? She tries to visibly remain calm as she grabs her own pencil to write her answer, feeling her own fingers shake. Spend a free period - that she normally spends alone to study - with the human? Just the two of them?

Together? 

She feels her brain shut off after that specific thought, and hastily writes down “don’t you spend that with willow?” and slides it back over to Luz.

Luz reads it, scrunching her face and giving Amity a look. She writes something back, staring at Amity purposefully.

“do you not want my help?” Amity reads the paper, feeling her heart drop. She quickly tries to write out a “thats not what i meant”- but is interrupted by the professor coughing, and loudly.

“Miss Blight, are you passing notes in my class?” He asks, and Amity hastily sits up straight.

“N-No! Of course not! I was just teaching Luz here the proper way on how to write out the name of this particular fungus, sir.” She answers, heart caught in her throat. Do not come over here, do not come over here - is running in her mind on a loop.

He stares at her from the front of the classroom for a few moments, before shrugging and moving on with his lecture. Phew. 

Amity relaxes in her seat, feeling like she emotionally just ran a mile. After a few minutes while the teacher isn’t paying attention, she scribbles out what she was writing on the note earlier and writes down a “of course I do.” To slide over to the human.

Luz looks down at it briefly - to not seem as suspicious to the teacher - and Amity watches as a genuine smile breaks out on her face when she reads the words. It isn't good for her heart's health, being around Luz so much like this. 

The rest of the class goes by pretty quickly after that, and Amity finds herself both looking forward to, and dreading the next hour.

-

They were going to go to the library and sit at a secluded table together under the guise of studying, but it ended up much too crowded for Amity's taste. Even the three study classrooms that are usually empty were chock full of students today.

Eventually they end up on the third floor’s stairwell in the corner, next to all the giant windows. It’s very quiet over here, rarely do students come up or down this way since it’s much farther than any of the bathrooms or classrooms nearby. Luz takes a seat near the bottom of the steps, stretching her arms over her head and yawning.

Amity tries not to stare. She knows she’s been doing a lot of that lately. She instead looks out the large windows and the many trees beyond - the rain is coming down pretty heavy. There’s a flash of lightning out there in the far distance, and after several seconds she hears the thunder. It pours a little harder after that. 

She opens the envelope in her hand, unfolding the paper and sitting next to Luz on the third step.

Her hair was like trees 

Brown, green, and strong. 

Stronger and more powerful than any tree I’ve ever seen

People see her beauty, I saw her roots.

“I think this one is a little better than the other one, frankly,” Luz giggles, her shoulder pressed against Amity’s as she leans in close to read. She needs her brain to focus on literally anything else other than the constant physical contact the human keeps subjecting her to. 

“Should I be flattered or insulted?” Amity shakes the paper in disgust, giving Luz a look of judgement. “Mentioning my roots of all things..”

“I think it’s nice!” Luz locks eyes with the other girl, meeting her gaze. “They were definitely acknowledging your superior strength!” She pulls away to flex, and Amity almost snorts out a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“You’re supposed to be on my side, don’t defend them,” Amity tries her hardest to not let her flustered feelings show on her face as Luz leans right back into her personal space. 

“I’m just admiring their choice of words,” Luz replies with a grin, bumping her shoulder with Amity's slightly. “But you know what’s bothering me? They don’t leave a name, or any way for you to reply to these.”

“While that has been bothering me, honestly, it’s not like I’d contact them even if they did.” The green-haired girl says, watching the rain pelt against the glass on the opposite side of the stairwell. God, it’s dreadful out. 

Suddenly, she hears footsteps on the floor above her coming downwards, and she quickly grabs the potions book to her left, placing it on her lap and hiding the love poem between some of the pages. Luz turns to look behind them both.

“Amityyyyyyy~” The condescending voice of Boscha is heard from behind her, and Amity sighs to herself.

Of course Boscha would somehow find her. Of course.

“What are you doing with her?” The three eye-ed girl walks down the stairs next to the both of them, Skara in tow. She stops to give Amity a bewildered look, and Skara’s not even paying attention. She’s glued to her scroll, rapidly tapping the screen.

Amity doesn’t feel up for it today.

“We’re studying, if you don’t mind.” She answers, giving Boscha a defiant look, the other girl raising her eyebrows in return.

“With the human?” She says it like it’s the scum under her feet. Amity hates the tone she’s using, and is getting irritated very quickly. “Come hang out with us instead.”

“Did you not just hear her? I know you’re not deaf, sheesh,” Luz retorts, bristling next to Amity. 

“Excuse me?!” Boscha scoffs, fists tightening. Skara grabs her upper arm, still tapping on her scroll screen.

“Let them study. I don’t feel like getting into it today.” She says to her three-eyed friend, nudging her a bit.

“Uggghhhh, are you serious right n-”

“Boscha.” She interrupts her with a huff.

“Fine.” The other girl retorts, and stomps away like a petulant child after a couple of seconds.

Skara finishes what she’s typing, before looking up to smile at Amity and also Luz by extension.

“See ‘ya around.” Is all she says before walking away leisurely, eventually catching up to Boscha all the way at the end of the hall.

Several long seconds pass, and Luz lets out a long breath.

“She sure has issues.” She says, finally, and Amity laughs at that.

“Thanks for speaking up back there, she would’ve been a lot worse I think if you hadn’t, Luz.” Amity says, giving the other a small smile.

“What’re friends for?” The human replies cheerily, and Amity having to mask her emotions right now is one of the hardest things she’s ever done in her entire life.

Ah, yes.

Friends.

-

She slept terribly this night, again, for the fifth time this week.

[amirdawar]

In a sea of black, white and silver, she had stood out.

Perhaps a pitiful understatement…

Didn’t she always?

Their eyes met across the expanse of his bustling foyer before he’d even realised it, and he was sure his heart had stopped beating at the very sight. It was all magnetism—raw and innate. He could still sense her presence with no explanation as to why, but a very real frustration at the fact that he couldn’t help it. Brunette hair cascaded down her back, billowing behind with every purposeful stride; the usual beautiful smile, absent. Yet still, her expression silently beckoned him to follow as she weaved through the crowd.

Where was she going? Why the fuck was she here in the first place?

If he’d wanted to be angry about the sight of Lara Rutherford on a night like tonight, he was struggling. Miserably. Amir had no vested interest in seeing his ex-fiancée again—least of all marring these precious moments he wanted to be proud of with their history—yet he couldn’t help but feel as though he owed her. The pain in her eyes was of his doing, he was sure, and whether she was deserving of it or not, that had never, and would never, sit right with him.

The last he’d seen, Revati had been in the company of his parents. If Fatima could’ve had the woman at her side all night to dote over, Amir wouldn’t have got a word in.

He was sure it was the reason his smile refused to fade.

Until now.

Even if he could’ve warned her about Lara’s arrival, did he want to? Wasn’t one of their nights ruined by the unexpected already enough damage? Maybe it was all empty. Maybe he was just looking for excuses because he already knew that acknowledging her presence was wrong. That no matter which way he cut it, somebody was going to be disappointed in him; Revati, Lara, himself.

Aurélie didn’t say anything as he politely excused himself from their group’s conversation. Judging by the fire in her eyes, though, Amir was sure he wasn’t the only one who’d seen the Rutherford.

He followed her. Just like he always did.

Was that what she was thinking to herself as she made her way through the thinning crowds?

Eventually she rounded a corner, as confidently as if she’d been here a thousand times already, and there she waited; a quiet spot now that most of the guests were either making their way to the front of the hotel for the countdown less than half an hour away, or to the courtyard for a better view of the fireworks. They had some privacy. Too much, perhaps, for his liking.

It was a conversation he would’ve rather had in the company of others.

Amir had a habit of saying idiotic things when it came to her, but even he didn’t ask why.

“An Instagram reveal was a little bit harsh.”

It was a solid punch in the face before he’d even gained his footing.

In his excitement to finally be able to share news that he’d kept secret for months, he admittedly hadn’t considered how it might’ve affected anybody but the two of them. It hadn’t been until Ashraf had mentioned TWI picking up on the headline that he’d even considered Lara seeing the post at all, and just because he didn’t owe her a courtesy call beforehand, didn’t mean that he shouldn’t have. Didn’t mean that he had to sink to her level of callousness.

Now he was confronted by the guilt head-on; big brown eyes and the tell-tale signs of tears.

“Lara,” the man faltered. Let out a deflated sigh. “I’m sor—”

He didn’t expect her to bring a hand up to stop him.

“I deserved it. I don’t deserve your apologies.”

He didn’t expect that, either.

“It’s your mother’s ring, isn’t it?”

Amir was so sure he’d never heard her so defeated, he was struggling to stomach the notion that it was even partly his fault. That was the sound of a woman who had come to the painful realisation, valid or not, that she had never been deemed worthy of the same. It shouldn’t have torn at his chest, and yet he couldn’t help it. In every other aspect of his life—every relationship, every decision, every ambition—he had control of himself. But when it came to Lara?

“Yeah, it’s hers…”

The woman merely nodded in understanding, glancing down at their feet.

It fell silent for a moment. Amir wondered whether he would’ve been doing them both a favour if he ended the conversation there; saved her from the regret of this tomorrow morning, and himself from the understanding that he still wasn’t as detached as he liked to believe. Nothing changed the fact that he was in love with Revati—nothing ever could. It was different with her, and he knew even Lara saw it. But shutting out her wasn’t as simple as he’d convinced himself it would be, either. It wasn’t black and white. It wasn’t one or the other. It was cutting away years of unhealthy feelings and toxic habits and praying to God he was still worthy of the better person after it.

It’d taken him so long to remember how to be him without her.

Maybe with this, she was finally coming to terms with the same.

“I’ve been trying to make my peace with this for a long time, and even though I’m not quite there yet, I am trying.”

It sounded so brutal and sincere that Amir believed her. Knew her well enough to realise, as she looked back up at him, that she was still hurting profoundly behind a rapidly fading brave face.

“Are you happy?”

There was no hesitation on his part. Not a single fucking moment. The small smile that followed wasn’t meant to mock, it was merely an involuntary answer in itself.

“Yeah. I am. I’m happy.”

Amir watched as her face fought sadness, acceptance, and stubbornness; all as she nodded, forcing a smile that might’ve been sincere, but evidently still pained her.

“Good.” It came out after some strain, more of a sob than a response, and it cut like a knife. The brunette placed her hand over her mouth as the tears started to pool. “I do mean that. I’m glad.”

Tears were so rare for her—the kind of woman who saw emotion like this as a weakness to be exploited—that when she began to cry, it was more disarming than any of the times she’d screamed at him since the demise of their relationship.

He realised he didn’t know how to deal with it anymore.

“Fuck, Lara…”

When he finally pulled her into an embrace, it was as though she lost all ability to hold it in.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t me,” she muttered into his shoulder, pouring out a soul so many still questioned the existence of. Few realised it in the way he did, but Lara felt just as everybody else; she was just better at hiding it until she wasn’t. “I’ll be sorry about that always. I’ve been God awful, but I really do just want you to be happy.”

“It’s okay,” he muttered, sighing out through his nose as he wrapped his arms around her, chin resting against the top of her head. Was it? ”It’s all right. I wasn’t perfect either. I did some shitty things.”

It didn’t surprise him to feel her nod. Let out a sad chuckle.

“Like not coming home. You said you just needed space, not that you were staying in London…”

The hand that’d been gently rubbing the top of her back stilled.

What?

“You should have stayed, Amir. Even if it wasn’t for me, it would’ve been fine, but Damon. Was it really so bad you had to leave a whole lifetime behind and start over? You couldn’t have even kept The Kingdom instead of going in to business with her for another one?”

Each word that left her mouth was another twist of the knife in his gut, and she didn’t even realise it.

For a moment his head was swimming in confusion. It had to be another round of her usual games; more attempts and guilt, more attempts at manipulating him. But when he leaned back, just enough to look down at her, he realised that she was hiding behind nothing. Lara Rutherford believed the words leaving her mouth, and he was stunned.

All this time, and she’d had no idea?

“Your father told me you didn’t want me back in the city…”

What was happening?

In an instant, her expression shifted. As her eyebrows pulled together in confusion, she seemed to look a whole other type of hurt.

“He told me you didn’t want me back. He said you wanted my hotel, he threatened Rev—”

“What? I never said that,” she denied so immediately, with such offense. “How could I ever say that?” Her voice cracked, and for a moment, the sadness returned again. “I know how much you loved that place. How hard you worked on it. I would never have taken that away from you…”

Lara had no fucking idea?

“I had to go into business with Aurélie. I took a loan,” he clambered for words through his own pain now, shaking his head. He couldn’t fucking believe this. “He gave me nothing for The Kingdom. Nothing. I had no way to pay my investors. All I got for my shares in Empire was enough for the first class plane ticket back to London. I didn’t want to lose either, he gave me no choice. He said—”

“This isn’t happening,” she breathed, stepping back just enough to put her head in her hands. “Damon thinks you abandoned him out of choice.”

“I know.”

Now it was her turn to frown.

“What do you mean, you know?”

“I knew Damon assumed the worst. I was,” Amir paused, realising only now how fucking patronising it was. How high-and-mighty he sounded for ever thinking it was his choice to play saviour, “I was trying to protect him.” Amir pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “I thought it would be easier for him to believe I bailed than to explain what Andrew had done. What you had.”

Or hadn’t.

God, he’d been so fucking stupid.

“My father didn’t tell me any of this.” Suddenly her back straightened. The tears she’d been struggling to fight back didn’t seem like such a struggle anymore, because the flare of anger had more than subdued them. “He lied to me.”

“He lied to us both.”

How long had he spent hating her for taking The Kingdom away from him? Amir might well have been content to leave Porto Velho for London, but the threats about never being able to go back were a whole other ball game. One he’d blamed on her for years. The idea that none of it had been her doing after all was a monumentally difficult pill to swallow.

Apparently for her, too.

All this time spent in quiet resentment.

Could they have moved past things more easily without it?

“Amir, where are you? It’s almost midnight, man!” The sound of Ashraf’s voice rang out through the hall, and it grounded him in an instant. Where they were, what was happening; it couldn’t be here and it couldn’t be now. “You guys sure he came down this way?”

Lara seemed to realise the same, and pushed him gently back in the direction whence he came.

“Go. Before he sees me.”

“We need to talk about this—”

“Another time,” she finished his sentence, nodding her head. “Another time. It’s okay.”

“There are so many French here.”

If they saw her on the way out, with the way tensions had risen lately…

“I know. It’ll be okay. I’ll wait for the fireworks and leave whilst they’re all distracted, all right?”

Amir’s jaw tensed, begrudging as he took his steps backward.

He watched as Lara took a deep breath. Pressed her lips into a thin line.

Determined.

With her last words, he parted:

“Go. I’ll fix this. I promise.”

[vsag23]

Don’t Jump In! Moon conjunct Neptune.

Don’t Jump In! Moon conjunct Neptune.

Imagine this scenario: someone you know has come to see you and on their way over they have got stuck in traffic, had an argument with a co-worker on the phone and discovered that their husband spent the housekeeping on a hooker, then they call in at your house, and actually, they like you very much and just want to hang out for a while so they don’t mention any of that bad stuff, but inside they are angry, upset, hurt and frustrated, as would only be natural for anyone who had experienced such a frustrating and upsetting set of circumstances. For most, this visitor would appear agitated perhaps, maybe a little off and flat and for anyone without Moon conjunct Neptune it wouldn’t represent much of a blip on their personal radar, off their friend would toddle, and they might think to themselves “hmm, they seemed a little odd today, no matter”, and they would carry on about their business and probably forget all about it.

Not so for Moon conjunct Neptune. Not by a long chalk.

For anyone with Moon conjunct Neptune, they can feel the anger, resentment and frustration from their friend almost as a physical force in the room. The hostility would be profoundly uncomfortable, they feel so uncomfortable in fact that they may even begin to physically sweat, or shake, or feel a little wan and pale. And even before their friend was out the door they will already be running through the list of all possible misdemeanours they could possibly have committed to have caused such an upset, because it is entirely possible that their friend is angry because of something they have done, or said, or not said, or not done, or implied, or inferred or failed to anticipate.

Moon conjunct Neptune is sensitive.

So sensitive in fact that they can walk into a room and feel something in the walls. Moon conjunct Neptune doesn’t like hospitals, or asylums, or even places where somebody else has been in a bad mood in the last hour; and they really absorb the ambient and prevailing feel of people and places; they’re so sensitive in fact that you might even consider it a kind of social disability, because people who don’t have Moon conjunct Neptune simply have no clue how to behave around this person. Moon conjunct Neptune often wants to simply shut herself away if only to feel normal…

It’s not all bad though. There is no more refined possibility of feeling than that which exists as a potential within this aspect. It is entirely possible indeed to experience a sense of near-rapture when the conditions are just right. There is a deep well of feeling and compassion possible within this blend that probably exists nowhere else in the astrology, it creates many difficulties, peculiar ideas and strange notions, a feeling of being unsatisfied and misunderstood, a very difficult level of sensitivity to people and events, but by that same token it creates a sensitivity that when tweaked positively can open up a wide and verdant vista of communion with life that is truly rich and rewarding.

The most difficult consideration of Moon Neptune conjunctions however is found within this very deep pool of feeling that is created within the psyche, because all too often, and most especially in times of adversity, it is all to easy for them to simply “jump in”. It becomes something of a siren call for the native, not so much to wallow in their sense of being misunderstood, but actually to dive head-first into it and actually revel in it just a little. The most important advice I can possibly offer to anyone with Moon conjunct Neptune is to learn to recognise this tendency and when they hear that seductive song, to resist: “don’t jump in!” Skirt around the edge if you have to, paddle a little if you want, but keep your head above water: self awareness is the key, and the eternal refrain: “don’t jump in!” Make it your mantra.

The sense of Moon conjunct Neptune through the signs can be easily delineated by studying some examples.

Moon conjunct Neptune in Leo works rather well, because Leo is among the most naturally affectionate of the signs, so there is a route out of the adversity of this aspect through allowing that natural predilection to feeling human warmth shine through. At its worst Moon in Leo can tend to the vain and snobbish, but wherever Neptune is configured there is created a predilection to the immaterial. Those with this aspect who pursue the inclination to love of luxury found in the Moon placement will invariably experience disappointment as a result. Neptune in Leo though is profoundly melancholic too, so the tendency to jumping in to the lake of sorrow is decidedly exaggerated here. Jack Lemmon, Anne Frank and Peter Ustinov all demonstrate the gentle and kindly warmth of the conjunction in the eternal flame of the sign Leo: consider Nancy Reagan, Queen Elizabeth II and George C. Scott, all of whom evinced both Moon and Neptune in Leo, but without the conjunction, the quality of the blend when viewed in this context, is unmistakable.

In Virgo then, compare the three examples above: the Dalai Lama, Dustin Hoffman and Marvin gaye with any three other natives born with both Moon and Neptune in Virgo but out of the conjunction: so, for example, Sean Connery, Jack Nicholson and Lou Reed. Immediately you will get a sense of the conjunction, the blend, which sensitises, softens and creates an often difficult vulnerability in the manner. Moon in Virgo alone is not the greatest placement for Selene, since it creates an incompatible practicality where the head rules the heart, a love of tidiness, method and order but also, in its best manifestation a tendency to simplicity and frugal habits. At its worst, Neptune in Virgo is pedantic, fault-finding and difficult to work with (which is a criticism very much associated with Dustin Hoffman for example), but it also gives an intuitive understanding of others and a profound interest in natural health. When these influences are brought into the conjunctive blend then we have a potential for great sensitivity to environments, especially cluttered, chaotic spaces. It makes one hyper-sensitive to working relationships (which explains Dustin Hoffman’s reputation almost perfectly) and gives a profound interest in simple, healthy lifestyles and philosophies: which rather gels with the Dalai Lama’s admirable message of compassionate simplicity. Any Moon – Neptune contact speaks volumes about the relationship with the mother too, perhaps she was fault-finding and practical but in some other sense vague or hard to understand or especially sensitive herself. Maybe she was a clean and tidy drunk. Possibly she was profoundly spiritual and methodical in her habits too; the blend always plays out through the maternal experience in one way or other.

Libra creates a subtle leaning toward the Other, thus any configuration in the sign of the scales profoundly affects the entire process and approach to relating, and the Moon – Neptune blend is no exception. Neith put it this way, which speaks to this exact potential:

Having spent many years dealing with a Moon-Neptune conjunction in Libra making it very difficult for me to see the reality of what was going on in my relationships, I have some experience and a few thoughts on coping with Mr. Fogbank.

All of that innate sensitivity and confusion is experienced through close relationships, and nowhere more so than in the marriage, although it can potentially create a similar ambience in business or creative partnerships too. Moon in Libra alone creates a need for love and affection as well as a measure of dependence on the partner for security and comfort and when Neptune in Libra is configured there is a genuine requirement for friendship with the partner too, so all of that sensitivity that is implied by the conjunction must in some sense be played out through the partner, who must be a friend of the most supportive kind otherwise the native will tend to become melancholic and confused and – as ever with Libran concerns – slightly off-balance. Sting, David Essex and Benazir Bhutto all shared this conjunction.

Moon conjunct Neptune in Scorpio creates a very different ambience to Libra, although the vulnerability and sensitivity engendered by the aspect is still its standout feature. Consider the three examples of John Cusack, David Schwimmer and Greta Scaachi and contrast them with three natives having both Moon and Neptune in Scorpio but without the conjunction of the two in force: Will Smith, Liz Hurley and Jennifer Lopez. The softening and emotionally refining influence of the blend in these latter cases is absolutely conspicuous by its absence. Moon in Scorpio alone creates a tough, resilient, emotionally tenacious and frank impetus, while Neptune in this most emotionally intense of signs creates a very peculiar disposition, one that is rather difficult to fathom which simply increases the potential for being misunderstood that is already inherent in the aspect itself. Scorpio is of course deeply compassionate when evolved, and this aspect certainly encourages that outcome in those affected; this set of circumstances makes the Moon – Neptune in Scorpio native most likely to withdraw from the world – a fairly natural condition for the Scorpio in any case – since the sensitivity is increasingly tweaked by the experiential incomprehension which is the result of this blending. Neptune in Scorpio creates a tendency to soul-sickness and states of low level melancholy too and often this, when integrated into the emotionality of the Moon, creates a soft but world-weary ambience. When all is said and done however, Scorpio on the Moon is required to survive on meagre resources, they can nurture themselves on Spartan rations, emotionally as much as anywhere else, so there is at least an intimation of balance in the equation.

At its very best, in whatever sign it is found, the contact of Moon and Neptune of any type creates a great sympathetic ability in the astrology, a person who can understand and empathise with the difficulties of others, but the conjunction feels those self-same difficulties more directly and immediately than any other type of contact, and very often the sense is entirely involuntary. Vivid dreams are another factor in any of Moon’s applications to Neptune. At worst, the contact creates a tendency to fantasy, delusion and dishonesty, most especially with the square or the opposition, but even in such difficult cases, the overriding impression is one of profound sensitivity.

https://chirotic.com/2008/12/03/dont-jump-in-moon-conjunct-neptune/

[samingtonwilson]

Relationship Tutor: (12) Cooperative Napping

relationship tutor masterlist

Summary: College AU. Bucky, a relationship novice, asks for your help in dating your friend. Unable to say no to him, you agree despite everyone and everything telling you not to.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: language

A/N: FINALLY time for my absolute favorite part bih!

Bucky was nursing a mocha latte he suddenly no longer had an affinity for, the far too creamy, far too sweet beverage making his heart race and his teeth gritty. He scowled with every sip he took as if he didn’t already have a grimace in place.

He sat back against the cushioned booth bench, his head lolling against the wall behind him. He would’ve given anything to just shut his eyes and take a nap right there.

Natasha made that difficult, though. She was surveying the circumstance from every angle, devising plan after plan for Bucky to finally win the affections of the person he loved.

She brought up several cliché tactics— all of which seemed to center around jealousy.

“Give me a gross pet name. Like ‘Natty’ or ‘Tatty.’”

He made a face. “Absolutely not.”

“How about we start using terms of endearment? Like, I’ll call you ‘babe’ and you call me ‘sweetheart.’”

“Does that idea come with an airsick bag?”

“No, but you come with an attitude apparently.”

She continued after a few moments of silent contemplation. “Kiss me in front of her.”

He snorted. “Pass.”

“Fine, I’ll kiss you in front of her.”

“Oh,” he mused sarcastically with a nod. He dropped his indulgent smile and narrowed his eyes. “Pass.”

It made Bucky uneasy to even contemplate the idea. Jealousy was not only a childish technique but, in this case, it was a dishonest one— and, partially because of you, he knew he couldn’t be dishonest to someone he cared so deeply about.

“She’s in my head, Nat. I can’t lie to her.”

Natasha shook her head, smirking as she tucked a wavy lock of ginger hair behind her ear. She held a cardboard cup of herbal tea in her hands, long nails which were painted blood red scraping against the sleeve embellished with the café’s name. “This would be much easier if you weren’t such a saintly person.”

Even if only momentarily, he smiled at that. “Wanting to be honest doesn’t make me saintly. It should just be expected.”

“You’d be surprised by how few men feel that way. You’re in the minority, Barnes.”

He fiddled with his phone in his free hand, toying with the lock button and swirling his fingertip over the touchscreen. “I can’t just tell her you and I aren’t dating anymore?”

“If you want to tell her that, feel free to. I’m just asking that we have a little fun with this.”

“Fun?” he repeated with narrowed eyes. “In what way is any of this fun?”

“It is for me,” she shrugged as she took a long sip of her tea. A corner of her lips quirked up in a smirk when she noticed his incredulous expression. “What? You needed her guidance to even have a conversation with me, went on four dates with me, and kissed me twice only to need my guidance in getting her.”

“Getting her,” he repeated as if the two words left a bad taste in his mouth. “She once said something about that objectifying women as if they’re prizes to be won.”

“God, keep talking like that and I’ll sabotage this whole thing to keep you all to myself.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Do you have any other ideas or has the well run dry?”

She sat in silent contemplation for a few beats. “How about we just don’t tell her we’ve stopped dating?”

“What?”

“Just don’t tell her that whatever we were has ended.” Her smirk grew more pronounced when he tilted his head like a confused puppy hearing a wayward, unfamiliar noise. “We’re still friends, we can still hang out around her— we’ll just omit the fact that we’ve ended.”

“Isn’t omission just fancy lying?”

“Okay, Saint Barnes, you need to determine the degrees of all these evils and settle on the lesser one.”

Bucky mulled each idea over, wiggling his jaw back and forth and reading the ridiculous names of the drinks written on the chalkboards bolted to the wall behind Natasha. “I’ve been going to her every couple of days for the last few weeks asking questions. What if she wonders why I’m not doing that anymore?”

“Say you don’t need her help now— that you’ve got it handled. Which is true, you handled ending it very well.”

“You ended it.”

“Yeah, but you handled listening to me end it very well.” She narrowed her eyes after a brief pause. “Were you ever actually interested in me?”

“Of course I was. I don’t enlist help for building foundations with just anybody.”

“But you couldn’t get her out of your head, huh?”

“It’d be nice to get her out of anywhere,” he snorted. “I am sorry for all of this, though. You didn’t deserve to be caught in the middle.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “No harm, no foul. You never told me this was a relationship— you said you wanted to try dating and we tried dating. Not to sound like a broken record, but I appreciate the honesty.”

“I had a good teacher,” he replied fondly, his phone vibrating under his fingers with an incoming message. Your name brightly written across the screen, his smile grew but shook a bit with the feeling swarming his stomach.

“I, uh,” he began, still staring at your simple message. “I’m gonna leave.”

“Is that your girlfriend?” she asked in a juvenile tone, laughing when Bucky scowled. “Go. I’ve got work to do as it is— I don’t need you wasting my time like this.”

He rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh and gave a single wave in goodbye.

For only a moment, Bucky felt profoundly foolish. It only took a text message from you to send him to his feet, racing to his car and speeding to your apartment. A lot of his friends would call him pathetically whipped, completely helpless to your every whim— and, maybe during his teenage years, he would’ve found that to be mildly shameful. He would have thought it was like he had no backbone when it came to you, no freewill.

But now, when Bucky thought himself to be slightly more evolved, he wasn’t embarrassed by how quickly he succumbed to you. Especially not when the reward for it was so sweet.

Of course, it was never an objectively substantial reward— he didn’t think an objectively substantial reward was ever even merited. However, subjectively he was rewarded substantially each time. May that reward have been a genuine smile, a gleeful laugh, a sigh of relief, or just a chance to be around you longer, he always felt as if the universe was being undeservingly kind and gracious to him for every minuscule thing he did.

It wasn’t as if he needed the rewards to do anything he did. If you wanted him there, he would rush over without a second thought at even the concept of reciprocation. It was something he’d read somewhere that didn’t birth the lack of expectation but gave it a verbal reason— very roughly paraphrased, it was something about never looking for reciprocation in love.

And he was in love— so, so in love. He flirted with the idea that he’d been in love with you from the moment he met you as Steve continuously teased him for, but he remained committed to the notion that it was a love that bloomed from a simple infatuation.

Infatuation that took root the second you walked into the  party in the apartment he shared with Steve with an overly-tabbed Romantic period volume of The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Highlighter in hand, you nodded at Steve and went straight to his room to finish your reading assignment before letting yourself have even one hit of the joint waiting for you.

When you blew the smoke out in a perfect stream and let your chest collapse in relief, he elbowed Steve in the ribs to introduce him to you. You only smiled politely, gave him a playful two finger salute, and offered up the joint with a giggled, “Take a hit, pretty boy. Consider it a ‘Welcome to the world’s most boring university’ gift and a one-time offer.”

But that was all it took for Bucky to ask Steve about you— how he knew you, why he’d never mentioned you, and if you all hung out a lot. Steve replied with a suggestive eyebrow waggle and a cooed, “Sounds like Bucky’s got a li’l crush!”

A year of self-control later, Bucky would have applauded himself for his restraint had that restraint not been so imbued with fear. After all, it wasn’t noble fear. It wasn’t as if he was keeping himself away from you for fear of your heart breaking because of him like some terrible excuse for a martyr. He kept his overwhelming feelings to himself for selfish reasons— reasons ranging from not losing the warmth of your presence to not losing the rush of your gaze.

He only had to knock twice before you pulled the door of your apartment open, looking breathless and a little tired. “Bucky,” you sighed in relief and he could’ve sworn no one had ever said his name in such an addictive manner. “Thank God, please save me.”

He tilted his head questioningly as you let him in, watching as you pulled your jacket on and tucked your phone into your pocket. “Save you from—”

A loud, almost shrieked moan answered his question, his mouth falling open so a disbelieving laugh lifted your own lips despite your sourness. He pointed in the direction of the adjacent hall. “Is that—”

“Yes. I withstood it at first— figured it would stop soon enough. But Sam is so… The man has some steely control and quick recovery because this is, like, the third time I’ve heard a complete stranger climax.”

Bucky continued shaking in laughter. “Do you know who he’s with?”

You shook your head as you pulled your boots on. “I didn’t see.”

“Why didn’t you just leave?”

“It’s colder than the fucking tundra out there and my car’s getting serviced.”

He frowned in consideration, poised to reply until another moan cut through the room. He covered his ears with his hands, earning a laugh from you.

You started towards the door, gripping the lapel of his jacket to tug him behind you.

He let you guide him through the hall and to the stairs, his eyes tracing your form and the way even the minimal sunlight pouring from the dusty windows seemed to love you as much as he did.

“Where are we going?”

You shrugged and let go of his jacket, putting your hands in your pockets instead. “As long as it’s not the library or any other place Sam’s fucking the living daylights out of someone, I don’t care.”

“You need to give me more to work with, doll.”

“Doll?” you repeated, stopping in your tracks to look at him with raised eyebrows and amusement over your every feature. “S’been a while since you’ve called me that, Buck. You sure Natasha won’t have your balls for it?”

“My balls are secure, trust me.” He glanced at you when you shoved the lobby doors open, a smile over your lips despite the extreme coolness of the outside air. “You hungry at all?”

“Not really. I’m more tired than anything else.”

He hummed noncommittally and unlocked his car as the two of you approached it.

You sat back quietly and only opened your eyes after two minutes of driving, the heat from the vents comfortably caressing your cheeks as Bucky’s music played at a calm volume. You narrowed your eyes at the passing landmarks. “Are we going to your place?”

He nodded, keeping his gaze on the road. “You can take a nap there.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Watch you sleep like that creepy ass vampire in those books my sister reads.” His smile widened when he glanced at you rolling your eyes. “I’ve got a paper due in four days. Might as well start it.”

“Wow, you’re going to start an assignment four whole days before it’s due just so I can take a nap?”

He nodded once more. “Basically.”

You sighed dreamily, placing your hand on your chest. “My fuckin’ hero.”

He wore a self-satisfied smirk and pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex. “You’re lucky I just cleaned my room this morning.”

“So I won’t get to bury myself under your piles of clothes, you utter embodiment of indecisiveness? Color me disappointed.”

He put the car in park and popped his door open. “Color yourself grateful instead.”

“I already called you my hero. I don’t know why you think you can expect so much from me.”

You followed him up the stairs to his apartment and practically ran to his bedroom once the door was unlocked, kicking off your boots and tossing your jacket onto his desk chair as you fell onto the freshly washed comforter and sheets. You hugged one of the pillows to yourself and sighed as you heard his soft chuckle from the doorway as he entered. “Why does it smell so nice in here?”

He heard you despite your voice being muffled by the fabric you were snuggled into. “Steve bought this bullshit lavender powder you sprinkle onto the carpet before vacuuming. He forced me to use it.”

You set your chin onto your folded arms and narrowed your eyes at him as he tried miserably to stifle a yawn. “Are you sleepy, too?”

He half-nodded. “A little.”

While you knew it wasn’t your greatest idea, the selfish part of you won out and you shuffled to the rightmost side of the full size bed. You patted the side closest to him. “Come on.”

A single eyebrow of his rose. There was a dryness in his throat he needed to cough to speak over. “What?”

“Nap with me.” You pulled his dark green fleece blanket over yourself. “We’ve been married for fifty years and you still have to contemplate this? It won’t constitute cheating on your mistress and I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

He didn’t think on it for too long. He just did what he really wanted and climbed into bed, his shoes strewn beside yours, his jacket tossed alongside yours. He took half the blanket and risked a glance in your direction.

He smiled as he traced your shut eyes, your peacefully parted lips, and your messy hair with his gaze, snapping his eyes closed when you cracked yours open.

You noticed the slight redness dusted over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, smiling to yourself as you suppressed the urge to run your fingers over the dark, stubbly beard that contrasted with his skin almost starkly.

When he shivered a bit, you moved closer to him and he instinctively moved closer to you. There were still a few inches separating your bodies when unconsciousness took you both under heavily and relaxingly but in the middle of your slumber, you somehow ended up with his chin atop your head and your nose near his sternum, his arm thrown over your waist and your legs tangled with his.

Bucky made that discovery when the shutting of the front door woke him, sleepily delirious as he confusedly looked over the scene before him. He wished he could breathe deeply and slow his heart rate so as to not disturb you with his heightened nervousness, his body’s reaction to the sparking nerves everywhere your skin met his— but he knew the beating in his chest would take a few moments to calm.

There was a knock at his door much to his dismay and he held his breath as he pulled away from you at an almost snail speed. He climbed out of the bed onto tired legs and combed his fingers through his hair to pull on the ends.

He opened the door to Steve and his wind-bitten cheeks, blonde hair in disarray and coat still done up.

Bucky decided to step out and shut the door behind him, his voice gravelly as he asked, “What’s up, man?”

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to order a pizza for dinner,” he began, peering at the door with narrowed baby blue eyes. “Is Natasha here? I thought you two ended things, Bucky.”

“We did, we did. Nat’s not here.”

“Then who— You told Y/N you were turning a new leaf and you said you would finally tell her how you feel. You can’t fuck this up now, too—”

“Mother Rogers, if you could stop lecturing me for half a second,” Bucky started, glaring, “I could tell you that Y/N is the one in there—”

“What?”

“— and she’s taking a nap,” he continued. “Wilson’s got a girl at their place being loud as fuck. She just needed somewhere to go, I offered up our place.”

Steve smiled and playfully punched Bucky’s shoulder. “You gonna tell her when she wakes up? Maybe before the party tomorrow night?”

“I’ll tell her when I want to tell her, Steve. You can’t rush this shit.”

“S’been over a year, Buck. Glaciers move faster.”

PART 13: COMPETITIVE CONFRONTATION

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[itsmonika]

Aquarius Moon Compatibility

Moon in Aquarius Meaning

Moon in Aquarius means an autonomous individual who appreciates opportunity. They are regularly extremely idealistic and profoundly slanted individuals. They will in general think often profoundly about humankind.

Aquarius Moon with Aries Moon

Aquarius Moon with Aries Moon is a viable relationship between two individuals who share a ton for all intents and purpose. They bring out one of a kind highlights in one another, particularly peculiarity and development. They are both hopeful about their future, and when they meet up, are enthused about leaving their past behind them. They regularly acknowledge they can have all that they generally needed and they motivate each other to be all that they can be.

Aquarius Moon with Taurus Moon

Aquarius Moon with Taurus Moon can be the situation of two alternate extremes who probably won't have the option to sort out their relationship. Aquarius Moon appreciates change while Taurus Moon appreciates schedule. Aquarius Moon lives with their mind in another place and Taurus Moon once in a while lives with their head in the sand. Their feelings can regularly be in conflict and this couple could be continually pulled in various ways. Taurus Moon can be possessive in affection, while Aquarius Moon appreciates opportunity in their own connections. Best case scenario, Taurus Moon will assist Aquarius Moon with being grounded, and consequently, Aquarius Moon can assist Taurus Moon with being raised. This Moon blend will in general bolt head a ton, as their thoughts regarding the truth are totally different. Treachery can likewise be an issue.

Aquarius Moon with Gemini Moon

Aquarius Moon with Gemini Moon is an incredible match between two individuals who will rouse each other to develop and learn, just as pursuit thoughts and interests. They can make old buddies, and this is vital, as both need kinship to make the relationship work. Sentiment isn't sufficient. They need to have shared conviction, and they need to have comparative convictions and mental similarity. Invigorating discussions and mental affinity is vital to the two players. These two will in general be very much like individuals and their association has an extraordinary opportunity to last.

Aquarius Moon with Cancer Moon

Aquarius Moon with Cancer Moon is an association of two individuals with an alternate point of view and point of view, and they may convey in an unexpected way. Malignancy Moon is about family, while Aquarius Moon regularly focuses on friendly issues, partners, companions, and good cause before family, which can leave Cancer Moon understand left. Disease Moon is nostalgic and frequently extremely connected to the past, while Aquarius Moon is investigating the future, needing new encounters. Disease Moon longs for security while Aquarius Moon is wanting distinction and opportunity. On a good, Cancer Moon can assist Aquarius Moon with getting contact with his/hers sentiments, while Aquarius Moon can assist Cancer Moon with being insubordinate and acquire a more target viewpoint.

Aquarius Moon with Leo Moon

Aquarius Moon with Leo Moon is an entirely viable match, and can frequently prompt marriage and a major, durable responsibility. Leo Moon will stress on the off chance that they feel Aquarius Moon isn't giving them unique consideration, as Aquarius Moon can here and there act somewhat separated. Aquarius Moon may decide to disregard or oppose Leo Moon's need to lead and overwhelm, which can cause Leo Moon to feel overlooked. On the off chance that Leo Moon can put a touch of their self image to the side, and spotlight on the affection the offer and what they share practically speaking, this association can be an exceptionally effective match. Leo Moon is frequently extremely enchanted by Aquarius Moon, and Aquarius Moon realizes how to keep Leo Moon intrigued. Aquarius Moon is likewise extremely attracted to the glow and radiant mien of Leo Moon.

Aquarius Moon with Virgo Moon

Aquarius Moon with Virgo Moon is a match between two individuals who are altogether different. Virgo Moon appreciates routine while Aquarius Moon appreciates shaking things up, particularly a purge against show. Virgo Moon centers around personal growth while Aquarius Moon centers around friendly improvement. Virgo Moon loves the traditional, while Aquarius Moon is eccentric. Virgo Moon is likewise more thoughtful and viable than Aquarius Moon. Aquarius Moon will in general consider humankind as opposed to the person. To cover their disparities they can wind up attempting to satisfy each other to an extreme, which can make a depleting relationship. To make this relationship work, both should have the option to grow their viewpoints and see things from the other individual's perspective.

Aquarius Moon with Libra Moon

Aquarius Moon with Libra Moon is a heavenly blend of similar individuals who appreciate each other's conversation and who appear to see each other without saying a word. The test of this couple is to not stall out in their minds and not to disguise everything constantly. This can turn into a breezy relationship. It is quite often amicable and light, notwithstanding, it is likewise exceptionally cerebral. Ever sometimes, they should make sure to reach out to their sentiments and offer this with one another. Both Libra Moon and Aquarius Moon share convictions in how individuals ought to act and both consideration about friendly equity and human government assistance. Aquarius Moon is likewise more sincerely free than Libra Moon. Libra Moon frequently has a higher psychological condition that Aquarius Moon. Aquarius Moon is likewise more insubordinate while Libra Moon is extremely centered around great habits and social acknowledgment. With everything taken into account, however, this is a generally excellent match in affection.

Aquarius Moon with Scorpio Moon

Aquarius Moon with Scorpio Moon is two individuals with altogether different feelings. This can make a great deal of contention and distance between the couple. Scorpio Moon is extraordinary and turns out to be energetically connected when in affection, while Aquarius Moon opposes being moved by, is exceptionally autonomous. Aquarius Moon can turn out to be exceptionally withdrawn from their sentiments, which causes Scorpio Moon to feel disliked. At the point when Scorpio Moon feels disliked, they regularly make an enthusiastic tempest to attempt to discover what their accomplice is thinking and feeling. Now and again, Aquarius Moon will think that its difficult to comprehend Scorpio Moon's extreme feelings. Scorpio Moon is exceptionally private, while Aquarius Moon is social and appreciates taking part locally. Aquarius Moon is additionally receptive and appreciates taking part in different interests, and they likewise should be animated mentally by their accomplice. They appreciate sharing their thoughts, while Scorpio Moon is substantially more shut and private. This relationship can be hard to keep alive.

Aquarius Moon with Sagittarius Moon

Aquarius Moon with Sagittarius Moon is a generally excellent match as both will in general have a comparative point of view and their feelings will in general additionally be comparative. Both are extremely free, and they can be together without feeling restriction. All things considered, they will in general help each other by changing effectively and appreciating the change and new circumstances. Both Sagittarius Moon and Aquarius Moon are hopeful and cutting edge, and the two of them appreciate being all over town. None appreciate being too homebound, so this association could be inadequate in closeness and profundity except if they figure out how to zero in on their correspondence.

Aquarius Moon with Capricorn Moon

Aquarius Moon with Capricorn Moon is a match between two individuals who genuinely will in general be miles separated. Capricorn Moon values custom and they appreciate doing what they know, and they frequently adhere to their daily schedule. Aquarius Moon aches to break liberated from custom and they love change. Capricorn Moon is moderate while Aquarius Moon is capricious. Both will in general be ignorant of their own feelings, and they should be more in contact with their sentiments. Best case scenario, Aquarius Moon lights up the day of Capricorn Moon, and Capricorn Moon helps ground Aquarius Moon. Even from a pessimistic standpoint, they unobtrusively float separated, not in any event, realizing what's going on before they are the two miles separated.

Aquarius Moon with Aquarius Moon

Aquarius Moon with Aquarius Moon is a match between two individuals who should be essential for an option that could be greater than themselves. They see each other's requirement for optimism and insubordinate streak. Both oppose being stuck in a conventional job so this relationship will in general be capricious. At the point when it is acceptable, it is great, however similarly, when it is terrible, it tends to be awful. It very well may be hard for an Aquarius Moon to recognize their own psychological condition or battle, as they generally need to be thoughtful and honorable. In a relationship that is too intellectualize, Aquarius Moon can lose themselves and they can wind up giving excessively. Aquarius Moon can likewise be denying themselves getting from their accomplice trying to be the 'wonderful' accomplice.

Aquarius Moon with Pisces Moon

Aquarius Moon with Pisces Moon is a relationship between two individuals who are fairly unique. Pisces Moon is inactive, touchy, and timid, while Aquarius Moon appreciates being associated with the world for a bigger scope. Pisces Moon needs to pull out consistently, while Aquarius Moon needs to feel more included and in contact with what is happening on the planet. Pisces Moon is an extremely delicate individual with numerous imaginative and innovative thoughts. Aquarius Moon cooperates soundly as opposed to inwardly, and Pisces Moon can frequently discover Aquarius Moon to genuinely isolates. Pisces Moon is an exceptionally mystic vibration, while Aquarius Moon is extremely logical. Pisces Moon can assist Aquarius Moon with getting contact with their sentiments, and Aquarius Moon can assist Pisces Moon with having distance to their mystic impressions.

[beyondforks]

Book Review: The Alienist by Caleb Carr

The Alienist (Dr. Laszlo Kreizler #1) by Caleb Carr 

Genre: Adult Fiction (Historical Fiction/Mystery) Date Published: October 24, 2006 (first published December 15th 1994) Publisher: Random House

When The Alienist was first published in 1994, it was a major phenomenon, spending six months on the New York Times bestseller list, receiving critical acclaim, and selling millions of copies. This modern classic continues to be a touchstone of historical suspense fiction for readers everywhere.

The year is 1896. The city is New York. Newspaper reporter John Schuyler Moore is summoned by his friend Dr. Laszlo Kreizler—a psychologist, or “alienist”—to view the horribly mutilated body of an adolescent boy abandoned on the unfinished Williamsburg Bridge. From there the two embark on a revolutionary effort in criminology: creating a psychological profile of the perpetrator based on the details of his crimes. Their dangerous quest takes them into the tortured past and twisted mind of a murderer who will kill again before their hunt is over.

Fast-paced and riveting, infused with historical detail, The Alienist conjures up Gilded Age New York, with its tenements and mansions, corrupt cops and flamboyant gangsters, shining opera houses and seamy gin mills. It is an age in which questioning society’s belief that all killers are born, not made, could have unexpected and fatal consequences.

The Alienist is the first book in the Dr. Laszlo Kreizler series by Caleb Carr. I really wanted to read this book before the series started, but too many books, too little time. You now how it goes. Still, I've only seen the first episode, so it all worked out. The premise and the setting made the story very intriguing. Unfortunately, the rest fell pretty flat for me. I'd heard such good things, so I was disappointed when I didn't love it. 

It was devoid of emotion... almost like a textbook at times, but with conversations. I would expect that lack of emotion if it had been told from the point of view of the killer, but it wasn't. When it came to the murders, the writing was descriptive and clinical rather than graphic, again, like a textbook. Which is okay. We don't need graphic. And I get it. The story was geared toward the intellect, but the state of the bodies, plus the victims being children, and death is never pretty to begin with. All those things bring out emotions regardless, so the lack of emotion within the story made it all feel very detached and unnatural. 

I never felt like I got to know the characters either. I know the basics about them, but we never really get to know them. What I do know of them, wasn't always believable for their time period, and because of these things, I wasn't drawn in or invested in their story. Also, it was a bit predictable. I loved the setting though. It really felt like I'd imagine the late 1800's in New York City to feel like. Sometimes, it didn't feel too different than NYC today. 

You may like it though. What do I know? Most who've read it, loved it. So, give the book a try. It was certainly interesting at times!

Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 January 8th, 1919 Theodore is in the ground.  The words as I write them make as little sense as did the sight of his coffin descending into a patch of sandy soil near Sagamore Hill, the place he loved more than any other on earth. As I stood there this afternoon, in the cold January wind that blew off Long Island Sound, I thought to myself: Of course it’s a joke. Of course he’ll burst the lid open, blind us all with that ridiculous grin and split our ears with a high-pitched bark of laughter. Then he’ll exclaim that there’s work to do—“action to get!”—and we’ll all be martialed to the task of protecting some obscure species of newt from the ravages of a predatory industrial giant bent on planting a fetid factory on the little amphipian’s breeding ground. I was not alone in such fantasies; everyone at the funeral expected something of the kind, it was plain on their faces. All reports indicate that most of the country and much of the world feel the same way. The notion of Theodore Roosevelt being gone is that—unacceptable. In truth, he’d been fading for longer than anyone wanted to admit, really since his son Quentin was killed in the last days of the Great Butchery. Cecil Spring-Rice once droned, in his best British blend of affection and needling, that Roosevelt was throughout his life “about six”; and Herm Hagedorn noted that after Quentin was shot out of the sky in the summer of 1918 “the boy in Theodore died.” I dined with Laszlo Kreizler at Delmonico’s tonight, and mentioned Hagedorn’s comment to him. For the remaining two courses of my meal I was treated to a long, typically passionate explanation of why Quentin’s death was more than simply heartbreaking for Theodore: he had felt profound guilt, too, guilt at having so instilled his philosophy of “the strenuous life” in all his children that they often placed themselves deliberately in harm’s way, knowing it would delight their beloved father. Grief was almost unbearable to Theodore, I’d always known that; whenever he had to come to grips with the death of someone close, it seemed he might not survive the struggle. But it wasn’t until tonight, while listening to Kreizler, that I understood the extent to which moral uncertainty was also intolerable to the twenty-sixth president, who sometimes seemed to think himself Justice personified. Kreizler . . . He didn’t want to attend the funeral, though Edith Roosevelt would have liked him to. She has always been truly partial to the man she calls “the enigma,” the brilliant doctor whose studies of the human mind have disturbed so many people so profoundly over the last forty years. Kreizler wrote Edith a note explaining that he did not much like the idea of a world without Theodore, and, being as he’s now sixty-four and has spent his life staring ugly realities full in the face, he thinks he’ll just indulge himself and ignore the fact of his friend’s passing. Edith told me today that reading Kreizler’s note moved her to tears, because she realized that Theodore’s boundless affection and enthusiasm—which revolted so many cynics and was, I’m obliged to say in the interests of journalistic integrity, sometimes difficult even for friends to tolerate—had been strong enough to touch a man whose remove from most of human society seemed to almost everyone else unbridgeable. Some of the boys from the Times wanted me to come to a memorial dinner tonight, but a quiet evening with Kreizler seemed much the more appropriate thing. It wasn’t out of nostalgia for any shared boyhood in New York that we raised our glasses, because Laszlo and Theodore didn’t actually meet until Harvard. No, Kreizler and I were fixing our hearts on the spring of 1896—nearly a quarter-century ago!—and on a series of events that still seems too bizarre to have occurred even in this city. By the end of our dessert and Madeira (and how poignant to have a memorial meal in Delmonico’s, good old Del’s, now on its way out like the rest of us, but in those days the bustling scene of some of our most important encounters), the two of us were laughing and shaking our heads, amazed to this day that we were able to get through the ordeal with our skins; and still saddened, as I could see in Kreizler’s face and feel in my own chest, by the thought of those who didn’t. There’s no simple way to describe it. I could say that in retrospect it seems that all three of our lives, and those of many others, led inevitably and fatefully to that one experience; but then I’d be broaching the subject of psychological determinism and questioning man’s free will—reopening, in other words, the philosophical conundrum that wove irrepressibly in and out of the nightmarish proceedings, like the only hummable tune in a difficult opera. Or I could say that, during the course of those months, Roosevelt, Kreizler, and I, assisted by some of the best people I’ve ever known, set out on the trail of a murderous monster and ended up coming face-to-face with a frightened child; but that would be deliberately vague, too full of the “ambiguity” that seems to fascinate current novelists and which has kept me, lately, out of the bookstores and in the picture houses. No, there’s only one way to do it, and that’s to tell the whole thing, going back to that first grisly night and that first butchered body; back even further, in fact, to our days with Professor James at Harvard. Yes, to dredge it all up and put it finally before the public—that’s the way. The public may not like it; in fact, it’s been concern about public reaction that’s forced us to keep our secret for so many years. Even the majority of Theodore’s obituaries made no reference to the event. In listing his achievements as president of the Board of Commissioners of New York City’s Police Department from 1895 to 1897, only the Herald—which goes virtually unread these days—tacked on uncomfortably, “and of course, the solution to the ghastly murders of 1896, which so appalled the city.” Yet Theodore never claimed credit for that solution. True, he had been open-minded enough, despite his own qualms, to put the investigation in the hands of a man who could solve the puzzle. But privately he always acknowledged that man to be Kreizler. He could scarcely have done so publicly. Theodore knew that the American people were not ready to believe him, or even to hear the details of the assertion. I wonder if they are now. Kreizler doubts it. I told him I intended to write the story, and he gave me one of his sardonic chuckles and said that it would only frighten and repel people, nothing more. The country, he declared tonight, really hasn’t changed much since 1896, for all the work of people like Theodore, and Jake Riis and Lincoln Steffens, and the many other men and women of their ilk. We’re all still running, according to Kreizler—in our private moments we Americans are running just as fast and fearfully as we were then, running away from the darkness we know to lie behind so many apparently tranquil household doors, away from the nightmares that continue to be injected into children’s skulls by people whom Nature tells them they should love and trust, running ever faster and in ever greater numbers toward those potions, powders, priests, and philosophies that promise to obliterate such fears and nightmares, and ask in return only slavish devotion. Can he truly be right . . . ? But I wax ambiguous. To the beginning, then! CHAPTER 2  An ungodly pummeling on the door of my grandmother’s house at 19 Washington Square North brought first the maid and then my grandmother herself to the doorways of their bedrooms at two  o’clock on the morning of March 3, 1896. I lay in bed in that no-longer-drunk yet not-quite-sober state which is usually softened by sleep, knowing that whoever was at the door probably had business with me rather than my grandmother. I burrowed into my linen-cased pillows, hoping that he’d just give up and go away. “Mrs. Moore!” I heard the maid call. “It’s a fearful racket—shall I answer it, then?” “You shall not,” my grandmother replied, in her well-clipped, stern voice. “Wake my grandson, Harriet. Doubtless he’s forgotten a gambling debt!” I then heard footsteps heading toward my room and decided I’d better get ready. Since the demise of my engagement to Miss Julia Pratt of Washington some two years earlier, I’d been staying with my grandmother, and during that time the old girl had become steadily more skeptical about the ways in which I spent my off-hours. I had repeatedly explained that, as a police reporter for The New York Times, I was required to visit many of the city’s seamier districts and houses and consort with some less than savory characters; but she remembered my youth too well to accept that admittedly strained story. My homecoming deportment on the average evening generally reinforced her suspicion that it was state of mind, not professional obligation, that drew me to the dance halls and gaming tables of the Tenderloin every night; and I realized, having caught the gambling remark just made to Harriet, that it was now crucial to project the image of a sober man with serious concerns. I shot into a black Chinese robe, forced my short hair down on my head, and opened the door loftily just as Harriet reached it. “Ah, Harriet,” I said calmly, one hand inside the robe. “No need for alarm. I was just reviewing some notes for a story, and found I needed some materials from the office. Doubtless that’s the boy with them now.” “John!” my grandmother blared as Harriet nodded in confusion. “Is that you?” “No, Grandmother,” I said, trotting down the thick Persian carpet on the stairs. “It’s Dr. Holmes.” Dr. H. H. Holmes was an unspeakably sadistic murderer and confidence man who was at that moment waiting to be hanged in Philadelphia. The possibility that he might escape before his appointment with the executioner and then journey to New York to do my grandmother in was, for some inexplicable reason, her greatest nightmare. I arrived at the door of her room and gave her a kiss on the cheek, which she accepted without a smile, though it pleased her. “Don’t be insolent, John. It’s your least attractive quality. And don’t think your handsome charms will make me any less irritated.” The pounding on the door started again, followed by a boy’s voice calling my name. My grandmother’s frown deepened. “Who in blazes is that and what in blazes does he want?” “I believe it’s a boy from the office,” I said, maintaining the lie but myself perturbed about the identity of the young man who was taking the front door to such stern task. “The office?” my grandmother said, not believing a word of it. “All right, then, answer it.” I went quickly but cautiously to the bottom of the staircase, where I realized that in fact I knew the voice that was calling for me but couldn’t identify it precisely. Nor was I reassured by the fact that it was a young voice—some of the most vicious thieves and killers I’d encountered in the New York of 1896 were mere striplings. “Mr. Moore!” The young man pleaded again, adding a few healthy kicks to his knocks. “I must talk to Mr. John Schuyler Moore!” I stood on the black and white marble floor of the vestibule. “Who’s there?” I said, one hand on the lock of the door. “It’s me, sir! Stevie, sir!” I breathed a slight sigh of relief and unlocked the heavy wooden portal. Outside, standing in the dim light of an overhead gas lamp—the only one in the house that my grandmother had refused to have replaced with an electric bulb—was Stevie Taggert, “the Stevepipe,” as he was known. In his first eleven years Stevie had risen to become the bane of fifteen police precincts; but he’d then been reformed by, and was now a driver and general errand boy for, the eminent physician and alienist, my good friend Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. Stevie leaned against one of the white columns outside the door and tried to catch his breath—something had clearly terrified the lad. “Stevie!” I said, seeing that his long sheet of straight brown hair was matted with sweat. “What’s happened?” Looking beyond him I saw Kreizler’s small Canadian calash. The cover of the black carriage was folded down, and the rig was drawn by a matching gelding called Frederick. The animal was, like Stevie, bathed in sweat, which steamed in the early March air. “Is Dr. Kreizler with you?” “The doctor says you’re to come with me!” Stevie answered in a rush, his breath back. “Right away!” “But where? It’s two in the morning—” “Right away!” He was obviously in no condition to explain, so I told him to wait while I put on some clothes. As I did so, my grandmother shouted through my bedroom door that whatever “that peculiar Dr. Kreizler” and I were up to at two in the morning she was sure it was not respectable. Ignoring her as best I could, I got back outside, pulling my tweed coat close as I jumped into the carriage. I didn’t even have time to sit before Stevie lashed at Frederick with a long whip. Falling back into the dark maroon leather of the seat, I thought to upbraid the boy, but again the look of fear in his face struck me. I braced myself as the carriage careened at a somewhat alarming pace over the cobblestones of Washington Square. The shaking and jostling eased only marginally as we turned onto the long, wide slabs of Russ pavement on Broadway. We were heading downtown, downtown and east, into that quarter of Manhattan where Laszlo Kreizler plied his trade and where life became, the further one progressed into the area, ever cheaper and more sordid: the Lower East Side.

Caleb Carr is the critically acclaimed author of The Alienist, The Angel of Darkness, The Lessons of Terror, Killing Time, The Devil Soldier, The Italian Secretary, The Legend of Broken, and Surrender, New York. He has taught military history at Bard College, and worked extensively in film, television, and the theater. His military and political writings have appeared in numerous magazines and periodicals, among them The Washington Post, The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal. He lives in upstate New York. To learn more about Caleb Carr and his books, visit him on Goodreads and Random House.

[20smthngrp-blog]

                                        ( IM CHAEYEON, 24 )

Name: Im Chaeyeon Date of Birth: 1993/11/04 Occupation: Actress

SPARKNOTES:

i. Born in Seoul to a couple whose last reason to marry was most probably love. ii. Her mother signs her up to an acting agency when she is five, she participates in a few CFs before she has her first minor role in a drama. iii. She is studious and always knows her lines. A model child to all except her mother. There is no affection in her good night kisses. iv. One national hit after another. The prickly nights lost in her trailer as she drags herself through the endless pit that high school is at the age of seventeen. v. She doesn’t go to college. Instead, she packs her bags upon receiving a call from Hollywood. Maybe she just wanted to feel less homesick to a home she never really had. vi. People see a greatness in her and mistake it for some sort of goodness but all along Chaeyeon knows there is nothing there. vii. The message of her father’s death is a footnote in a letter her mother sent her. Somehow she is glad. Now she can form a romanticized version of him in her head, a version that actually cared. viii. A bottle on her lips and a line on the table make things easier and more difficult at the same time. ix. Los Angeles is a pit that had already swallowed and spat her out entirely by the time she realizes nothing holds her here. Not welcome, just another child actor who took a wrong turn, one out of many. x. The thought of Seoul turns her stomach, a world where everything has been left on fire. And yet, somehow that feeling is more inviting than more second under the Californian sun.

FREEFORM:

eight.

Mid July and her smile is wide and effortless. The dry heat of the summer lays heavy and she has been going at it for days - a weary traveler, a foolish and gentle spy. A young Chaeyeon lurks through life like it is an old house, teasing the wallpaper until it falls down. Layer by layer, story by story. Motions to people with the edge of her voice, with a change of her expression. They say her talents overflow, they stem from her never-ending curiosity. Outside the cityscape of Seoul, she is sitting on the curb, wearing dried up converse, a sweaty brow and the guilt of giftedness on her shoulders as she yet again slowly reads her lines in the loosely bound script. Sometimes reading the lines out loud drowns the noise of her parents’ heated arguments, sometimes it doesn’t. Her mother is there, the hummed tunes slowly fading in exchange for sobs. Her father is there and she is supposed to think that she is exceptional. It all comes natural to her, the eagerness she displays is extraordinary to others but a mere flow of nature to her, like she never did anything else than telling a story through the screen.

twelve.

Mid November and the sky is greying. She doesn’t say much behind the camera and by now people know better than to light all the dark rooms in her house. And she can feel it, the tide of the past July. It’s like this one morning she looks across the dinner table and everything that has ever been left unspoken was being said. No one ever had to tell Chaeyeon anything, she always managed to overhear snippets of her family’s arguments, the sight of her mother with a black eye grows too familiar. Chaeyeon can see it now, the way her mother speaks in dim lit words, the way her name escapes her parents’ mouths with little feeling and even more pity. There is no love in their good night kisses. Summer returns with a vengeance, to collect its debts. How often do we wear smiles that hurt, smiles that tell us we have burned too long? Chaeyeon feels heavy and the worst thing is, she knows the weather of leaving; the stale air, the dry summer heart.

When Chaeyeon grows old enough to understand the poisonous hatred carefully cultivated between her mother and father, her whole body tells a story of pain, like a sickness she refuses to treat. This is why she dislikes summer. The smell of warm summer rain hitting the dark pavement brings her back and it carries the memory of a Seoul she never wants to encounter again. Occasionally, every second in front of a camera feels like an eternity, every line a painful burden. But once in a while a director’s praise has the same soothing comfort her mother’s warm embrace used to give her. At times it is difficult to continue to be radically soft in a world that sometimes gives more vinegar than honey.

seventeen.

Lately she has been trying to dream of something more, but how could it be any different? She negotiates with her quiet, she wanders, she bleeds. But no matter where Chaeyeon goes, she returns to the Han river. And tries to dream again. Her mother once told her she is like a song played on loop. Enjoyable for a few listens until it bothers you and blends into the background. Funnily enough, she always seeks to be present. Like, really present. Feeling every chill crisp morning running through her spine and the sore movement of her legs carrying her forward after another long day of shooting. One national hit after another. The prickly nights lost in her trailer as she drags herself through the endless pit that school is at the age of seventeen. Cold fingers reaching for a scarf that smells like that place she used to call home. Maybe Chaeyeon just wanted to feel less homesick to a home she never had when she accepted a call from Hollywood and packed her bags. She knows she holds onto her misery like it’s her child, aware of its flaw but unwilling to let go. By now, she has convinced herself she was born with a leak and any goodness she ever contained just slowly spilled out of her and now it’s all gone. She holds onto acting like it serves some purpose, the only interest that flourishes under her fingertips. A strange creature who is folded twice over her own soul with layers and layers of a charcoal night.

twenty-one.

Los Angeles had folks speaking in idioms and empty platitudes. She felt far away, as if she could go on and plagiarize identities for a while and no one would notice - it was an odd pretending and profoundly unsettling. But at its core was the yearning to bring this chapter of history to an end; an azure haze of words and fragments. It was at that time she realized she was terrified of nothing. How people came up to her, wanting her autograph and pictures. How they thought they recognized something in her, saw themselves in someone she pretended to be by reading from a script and wanting to be the person they thought she was - but she wasn’t. People see a greatness in her and mistake it for some sort of goodness but all along Chaeyeon knows there is nothing there.

By now, she is a messy open book. She lets people probe her wounds, a few trickle deep within the tiny empire she had built within her chest, and somehow the foundation shakes very little and she gives them her country. And Chaeyeon knows she told herself one late evening in her kitchen that people are not homes, but god, she could build gardens in her loved ones’ smile, only to tear them down again. She heals with a terrible intensity. Nights ago, a numbness consumed her and she wished to be swallowed up by the dark earth. Too many vowels in her mouth, too many crumpled up receipts in her pockets. Her mouth twisted into rivers, pouring into too many oceans at once. At times, she says quite a lot and nothing at all. She always takes too much and gives too little. Reaches for people and finds salvation in the gaps of their words, only to wreak havoc again. Pushes and destructs, disappears like mist rising in the sky. It is always the same. They come for her storm and flee for calmer waters. No one writes a song about hurricanes.

twenty-four.

You hungry girl. Never saw a woman more in love with the humming of the fridge. Forever pacing the moonlight, loving in all directions. Reckless hand combing through one of her lover’s hair, frenzied eyes, kissing boys and girls half awake. Says ‘no’ to no one because she wants people to like her. No wonder the people come to her at 5 in the morning with a broken heart; heart like a cigarette that won’t stay lit and by next week, she will be in love with some other creature. Leaving her body at the altar of a church that doesn’t exist. She takes lovers like religions, converts at the first smile, gives them a litany of sighs. And by the end of it all, she has renounced her own name and become more of a sinner than a saint, the almond moon as witness.

Suddenly it is dark out, a mid-autumn evening where the horizon blurs into the velvet sky. The poison inside her - the one that makes her destroy everything she touches, the one that is her legacy - it seems to be cancelled out by other poisons. She is convinced one day pouring and shovelling other toxins into her body will counteract the ugliness inside her, the curse of being broken that seems to be her birthright. Only to find out there is no cure for that. Los Angeles is a pit that had already swallowed and spat her out entirely by the time she realizes nothing holds her here. Not welcome, just another child actor who took a wrong turn, one out of many. Things are hazy now; the misunderstood and the haphazard river. The thought of Seoul turns her stomach, a world where everything has been left on fire. And yet, it is better than the charred, grime, the smell of burnt plastic in Los Angeles. Seoul seems to be a land of constant spring time, reminding children to dream again. Here is the scent of jasmine and here are her poison hands, cutting into everything.

[thisishowyouletgoandfindyou-blog]

21 Life Changing Lessons to Learn from Brené Brown

Luminita D. Saviuc

0 Comments

29, August 2014

Life Lessons

Personal Growth

I have learned so many beautiful and life changing lessons from reading Brené Brown’s books and from watching many of her inspiring and empowering videos. And today I would like to share with you 21 of these life changing lessons trusting that they will benefit you as much as they benefited, and are still benefiting me.

Enjoy.

1. What other people think of you is none of your business.

“I carry a small sheet of paper in my wallet that has written on it the names of people whose opinions of me matter. To be on that list, you have to love me for my strengths and struggles.” ~ Brené Brown

“What’s the greater risk? Letting go of what people think – or letting go of how I feel, what I believe, and who I am?”

“Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.”

“Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.”

2. Open yourself up only to those people who have earned the right to hear your story.

“If we share our shame story with the wrong person, they can easily become one more piece of flying debris in an already dangerous storm.” ~ Brené Brown

3. If you trade your authenticity for safety, you will be very unhappy.

“Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It’s about the choice to show up and be real. The choice to be honest. The choice to let our true selves be seen.” ~ Brené Brown

“If you trade your authenticity for safety, you may experience the following: anxiety, depression, eating disorders, addiction, rage, blame, resentment, and inexplicable grief.”

4. You are worthy of love and belonging.

“Those who have a strong sense of love and belonging have the courage to be imperfect.” ~ Brené Brown

“When you get to a place where you understand that love and belonging, your worthiness, is a birthright and not something you have to earn, anything is possible.”

“You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.”

“Imperfections are not inadequacies; they are reminders that we’re all in this together.”

“Shame is the most powerful, master emotion. It’s the fear that we’re not good enough.”

5. We are all different yet we are all the same.

“As unique as we all are, an awful lot of us want the same things. We want to shake up our current less-than-fulfilling lives. We want to be happier, more loving, forgiving and connected with the people around us.”

6. Happiness is right in front of you.

“I don’t have to chase extraordinary moments to find happiness – it’s right in front of me if I’m paying attention and practicing gratitude.”

“Want to be happy? Stop trying to be perfect.”

7. Embracing your vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love, belonging and joy.

“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.” ~  Brené Brown

“We are sick and tired of being sick and tired.. Definition of courage: Tell your story with all your heart.”

“You either walk inside your story and own it or you stand outside your story & hustle for your worthiness.”

“Men walk this tightrope where any sign of weakness illicits shame, and so they’re afraid to make themselves vulnerable for fear of looking weak.”

“Vulnerability is not weakness. And that myth is profoundly dangerous.”

“Vulnerability is about showing up and being seen. It’s tough to do that when we’re terrified about what people might see or think.”

“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they’re never weakness.”

“Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity. If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path.”

“Through my research, I found that vulnerability is the glue that holds relationships together. It’s the magic sauce.”

“Waking up every day and loving someone who may or may not love us back, whose safety we can’t ensure, who may stay in our lives or may leave without a moment’s notice, who may be loyal to the day they die or betray us tomorrow – that’s vulnerability.”

8. Good marriages are when you can go home and know that your vulnerability will be honored as courage, not as weakness.

“The best marriages are the ones where we can go out in the world and really put ourselves out there. A lot of times we’ll fail, and sometimes we’ll pull it off. But good marriages are when you can go home and know that your vulnerability will be honored as courage, and that you’ll find support.” ~  Brené Brown

9. Be the adult  you want your children to be.

“First and foremost, we need to be the adults we want our children to be. We should watch our own gossiping and anger. We should model the kindness we want to see.”

“We have to be women we want our daughters to be.”

“We cannot give our children what we don’t have.”

10. The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it.

“The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it. It’s our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows.”

11. Perfectionism it’s often the path to depression, anxiety, addiction, and life paralysis.

“Understanding the difference between healthy striving and perfectionism is critical to laying down the shield and picking up your life. Research shows that perfectionism hampers success. In fact, it’s often the path to depression, anxiety, addiction, and life paralysis.” ~  Brené Brown

“Healthy striving is self-focused: “How can I improve?” Perfectionism is other-focused: “What will they think?”

“Why, when we know that there’s no such thing as perfect, do most of us spend an incredible amount of time and energy trying to be everything to everyone? Is it that we really admire perfection? No – the truth is that we are actually drawn to people who are real and down-to-earth. We love authenticity and we know that life is messy and imperfect.”

12. Our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.

“The truth is: Belonging starts with self-acceptance. Your level of belonging, in fact, can never be greater than your level of self-acceptance, because believing that you’re enough is what gives you the courage to be authentic, vulnerable and imperfect.” ~  Brené Brown

13. Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow.

“We cultivate love when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be deeply seen and known, and when we honor the spiritual connection that grows from that offering with trust, respect, kindness and affection. Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow, a connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them – we can only love others as much as we love ourselves. Shame, blame, disrespect, betrayal, and the withholding of affection damage the roots from which love grows. Love can only survive these injuries if they are acknowledged, healed and rare.”

14. When you numb the painful emotions, you numb the positive emotions as well.

“We cannot selectively numb emotions, when we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions.” ~  Brené Brown

15. Faith is a place of mystery.

“Faith is a place of mystery, where we find the courage to believe in what we cannot see and the strength to let go of our fear of uncertainty.”

16. Nostalgia is a dangerous form of comparison.

“Nostalgia is also a dangerous form of comparison. Think about how often we compare our lives to a memory that nostalgia has so completely edited that it never really existed.”

17. You might have 1 million friends on facebook but that doesn’t mean that those people are really your friend.

“Social media has given us this idea that we should all have a posse of friends when in reality, if we have one or two really good friends, we are lucky.” ~ Brené Brown

18. Practicing spirituality brings a sense of perspective, meaning and purpose to our lives.

“Spirituality is recognizing and celebrating that we are all inextricably connected to each other by a power greater than all of us, and that our connection to that power and to one another is grounded in love and compassion. Practicing spirituality brings a sense of perspective, meaning and purpose to our lives.” ~ Brené Brown

19. There is no innovation and creativity without failure.

“There is no innovation and creativity without failure. Period.” ~ Brené Brown

“Talk about your failures without apologizing.”

20. We judge others because we judge ourselves.

“We judge people in areas where we’re vulnerable to shame, especially picking folks who are doing worse than we’re doing.” ~ Brené Brown

21. The opposite of scarcity is not abundance. It’s enough. I’m enough.

“For me, the opposite of scarcity is not abundance. It’s enough. I’m enough. My kids are enough.”