#it haunts me to this day its the most evil thing i ever did in life i think

[im-poe-dameron]

─── BREATHE ME IN

a/n: so um...i have no idea what this is. i started this when the kenobi series was coming out and sort of dropped it after a month. but here i am, finally finishing it and making it longer than it was supposed to be. did we really expect me not to find darth vader hot? i think he's where my whole loving a masked character came from. honestly this is basically filth with me trying to shove plot in not so subtly. so i hope y'all enjoy!

summary: the jedi fell and darth vader rose to power, but there's a secret he hides even from his own master.

word count: 5.5k+ (because i'm insane)

pairing: darth vader x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, cussing, angst, tenderness which is shocking, thigh riding, choking (obviously), oral (male receiving), a tad bit of face fucking, dom/sub dynamics, rough p in v sex, overstimulation, more hints of anakin than vader.

You’ll never be able to forget the scent of him after that night one month ago. It was branded in your mind, forever a part of you as he bent you to his will—made you his without even saying a single word. You should have fought him on it; made him see that you weren’t ready to relinquish the power you once held, but you knew the man beneath the mask he wore. You had known Anakin before he became this, before he twisted himself up inside and gave into being Darth Vader.

Even now as you stood in your small home on a planet far away from the Empire’s touch, you could feel his control over you. Long before the order was given and Jedi were slaughtered, you had been one of them. A knight who fought alongside Anakin in the Clone Wars—a warrior who chose the side of good rather than evil.

Then things fell apart. You were told that the man you loved, the person you cherished the most, gave into the dark side.

He became a stranger once more.

But nobody runs from Anakin for long—especially when he’s become a force more powerful than any Jedi could ever hope to be. You were hiding out on Devaron when he found you, attempting first to turn you to the dark side with him. Only for you to see something break in his exterior, his walls dropping for a split second and you felt it like a punch to the chest. He needed you.

This absolute desire was not born out of lust but pure necessity, because even as Darth Vader…Anakin Skywalker still lived beneath the mask and he didn’t know how to live without you. You’d always been the person he turned to when Obi-Wan wouldn’t understand the nature of his feelings. When he could no longer control them himself.

So, he left you there—allowing you to remain a Jedi who chose the light side of the Force over him. But he would return again and again. Desperate for someone to put his strained mind at ease—the memories of his past haunting him with every waking day. Perhaps that's where the submission started. In helping him by allowing him into your bed, into your heart little by little each time until eventually…you yearned for him to.

Jedi weren’t allowed to have such strong attachments, but as a Sith…he could keep you as his for as long as possible. A deal you wholeheartedly agreed to with a single word.

The stars were starting to shine brightly in the night sky as you traversed the dense forest of Devaron, your lightsaber clipped to your side and hood drawn up over your head. You heard his ship land ten minutes ago; knew he now stood in the center of your home awaiting your arrival. So, you took your time. Anakin never liked to wait, Darth Vader was no different, and somehow that brought a smile to your face. So desperate to see you that he would battle his way through the forest alone to find you again.

He would come after you—you knew he would—and that brought back the pool of heat that always found its way to your body when he arrived.

There was something twisted about loving him even the way he was now. How could you, a Jedi Knight of your ability, love something so dark? How could you give into the sinister deliciousness of that side, yet still remain so true to the light side of the Force? The answer was simpler than you thought. In your mind he still remained as Anakin the man you loved and even though you knew what he did, what he now became, you couldn’t let go of your heart fully.

Even if the scars now showed as small canyons and ridges, each one holding a darkness that would ultimately cause your demise.

He knew this.

Nobody loved Darth Vader, nobody gave themselves to the most powerful Sith in the galaxy, without understanding they would die because of it one day. Perhaps that’s what caused the absolute ache in your bones at the mere sight of him. The thought of one day no longer being by his side. Some Jedi may claim you were betraying what you believed in—destroying yourself just for an inkling of mind numbing pleasure—but it was more than that. Pleasure ultimately gave way to the pain of loving someone beyond saving.

As expected you arrived at your small house to the sight of a black ship—big enough for one—in the clearing that was solely used by him. The darkness bled through the Force, encasing you in a biting cold as you walked towards the already open door. One might say the sight of him standing amidst your tiny living room was terrifying enough to run away. But you were never one to cower in fear from him and you refused to start now.

His head tilted, energy stretching out towards you through the old connection you used to have with him, and with a small smile you reached back. Twining your brilliant blue around his obsidian nature until you saw him shudder beneath his cloak.

“You’re late,” he said—his voice something you had to continue to get used to.

Humming, you dropped your robe onto the chair behind him, heading towards your small makeshift kitchen where you knew there’d be some bread from the day before. He turned, watching you move as you continued to press your Force signature against his own—reminding him of a time when he too held a blue lightsaber brighter than yours. This was a two way street. You savored the bitter sweetness of the dark side, relishing in the rush of power that flowed through your veins, and he once again fell back into what he used to know. The calming serenity of the light side.

“You’re early,” you teased, knowing his temper was far worse than before. However he always seemed to control it around you—the tight grip he had on his anger evident in the way his fist clenched.

“Where did you go?” He demanded more than asked nowadays and so you stayed silent, awaiting for the flare of anger to shove its way into your mind.

It never came though. The silence almost shocked you as you turned, eating the remainder of the bread. But that’s what he wanted out of you—a reaction that would show you actually acknowledge his presence. How could you not? When he stood there looking like the true embodiment of the dark side of the Force. Although there were times when you missed the sight of Anakin standing before you—a smile on his face that always reached his blue eyes.

“Exploring,” you said, eyes flickering down the length of him—taking in the sight of his rigid stance. “How long are you here for?”

“Tonight.”

His answers were blunt, to the point, because he didn’t have time to dawdle. You were his secret, you knew this. If anyone found out you’d be killed and knowing who Darth Vader answered to…he’d be forced to do it himself. So, you nodded and finished the remainder of your bread as you continued to watch him—prodding at the wall of his mind to hopefully see within. But they remained up, blocking you from anything other than his Force signature which remained tightly entwined with your own.

“How long will you be gone for?”

He paused, pressing against the walls of your mind to see what exactly you were thinking, but you knew he didn’t wish to forcefully tear them down. You were not a person he was interrogating—rather a lover who he may very well lose if he didn’t act accordingly. His fist clenched again, the struggle to remain in complete control now wavering as you stalled for time. He knew what you were doing and yet he still played along.

“I don’t know.”

You hummed, once more pressing against the wall in his mind. It was dangerous to be let inside—having seen what he harbored behind the thick barrier—but your curiosity always wished to drag you into trouble.

What was safety compared to intimately knowing the most lethal person in existence? To you there would be nothing more intriguing, nothing more worth the risk than this simple gesture.

“Don’t,” he spit out, stepping closer until your lower back was digging into the counter.

“You let me in once before—”

His gloved hand landed on your throat, silencing your words and causing a shudder to run down your spine. Though the position wasn’t unfamiliar, it still brought a small inkling of fear to peek its head out. He could kill you—without remorse. Yet he never did. He simply remained, holding your throat as tenderly as he possibly could—relearning what the meaning of gentle was. That thought alone brought a dazed smile to your face, your eyes nearly fluttering closed as his thumb ran along the column of your neck.

“That is no longer a luxury you are allowed to have.”

The words were sinister on his tongue, like a sharp knife to your heart, but you’d been scarred by him before. “Is it because I know what I’ll find? Or are you afraid?”

His control finally snapped, the pressure on your throat now crushing you until you struggled for air. But he didn’t squeeze harder, he didn’t make sure that you were unable to breathe completely, because he couldn’t cross that line. He refused to. You were the only light he let slip through the cracks of his helmet; the one thing keeping him stable on the ground and while it wasn’t very Darth Vader of him to keep you—it was the part of Anakin that still remained that held onto you tightly.

“You know nothing.”

Despite the lack of oxygen, you smiled. “I know you.”

The words came out choked and broken, but it was enough. He froze, his hand loosening around your throat as the final realization clicked into place just like it always did when he found his way back to you.

You knew him—knew Anakin that lay beneath the surface and Vader that rose to power crushing him in the end. You knew all the ugly bits that showed through the evident splinters of his being and in spite of all of that…you still loved him. Whenever he left you he seemed to forget that when he came here he didn’t have to wear a shroud of anger that resembled his cape. He didn’t have to wean himself from the light side with every bittersweet touch, because you held no expectations of him.

“Anakin,” you breathed, hand sliding along his leather covered limb. “Come home.”

Little by little you saw his walls come down, felt the darkness seep into his Force signature until you were surrounded by it. Until the only light left between the two of you was yours—guiding him back to you for a brief moment. He’d only be here tonight, so you’d have tonight.

You would take as much time as you were allowed if it meant seeing Anakin for a brief moment again.

“Anakin is dead,” he muttered, hand shifting until his thumb was pressing against your bottom lip. “I killed him.”

Parting your lips you allowed him to invade your senses even further—the taste of the leather permeated your mouth, driving a moan from your throat. Digging your nails into his arm, you felt him push against you—forcing his way into your mind and showing you images of a past that felt like yesterday. Anakin’s face flashed before you, the smile you ached to see again finally coming back to you, and it drew a whimper to the surface. A sound he liked if the pressure on your tongue was enough to go by.

The scene shifted and you felt the heat flare to life in your stomach as you saw yourself beneath him, sobbing his name as he practically shoved you into all encompassing bliss. Memories he still held onto—torturing himself because he could no longer have you in the way he wanted. But above all that, one stuck to the forefront of your mind. The taste of him as he kissed you; devoured everything you were and felt greedy enough to take even more.

The first hints of the dark side within him.

“Maker,” you gasped as he ripped his hand away, reaching for the ties of your robes. “I miss it too.”

Gathering enough of your energy you used the Force to shove him backwards until he stumbled into the wall behind him—his large frame taking up too much space. To anyone else it would have felt suffocating, but to you…this was as safe as you were ever going to get. He ached to have his old self back not to be a Jedi again. No, he thrived in the sinister ways of the Sith. He wanted to be Anakin, to have you again by his side—to kiss you like he used to on nights where things became too heavy a burden to carry alone.

Somehow in the midst of you pushing him back and him resisting you ended up pinned to the wall of your bedroom by him. He didn’t even have to touch you to make you beg for more; for you to do anything he wanted. This is what bending to his will became and he loved it.

He stood inches away, the tips of his boots touching yours and so like a fool you let your walls down without any warning. Shoving every memory and burning need his way until he was gasping through the modulator—his hand slamming against the wall beside your head. Each moment you were with him, each touch and night neither of you slept—too busy finding what made the other tick—it all poured into his mind. You made him see what you saw whenever you were near him even with the mask.

The cold feeling of his mask pressed against your cheek as he tried to push himself closer. This is all it would amount to. Nights spent in secret when really the both of you ached for one last thing. Something you never got.

A farewell kiss.

“Anakin,” you said softly, hand sliding to his shoulder. “Are you home?”

He let out a breath, the sound distorted through the modulator before finally breaking down the last of his walls. “Yes.”

You didn’t know how long tonight would truly last and so you began to clutch at his arm, feeling a hot press of his gloved hand dig into your thigh as he raised it to his hip. A natural movement he’d done a hundred times over. That was enough to make you smile, a small bit of laughter echoing off the walls of your tiny room. Although darkness still clung to him, still twisted tightly around your Force energy, he remained the man you loved.

Both Anakin Skywalker and Darth Vader alike.

“Tell me,” he groaned, shoving his knee up gently and fitting it right at the seam of your pants.

It almost didn’t feel fair how he knew your body so well—how he knew which way to move you to finally hear that familiar moan tumble past your lips.  Grinding your hips down, your head fell back against the wall when pressure was finally applied to your throbbing clit, sending sparks down your spine. You knew he watched every emotion, expression, and heard every sound behind that helmet and somehow…that made it even more electric.

“Tell me,” he demanded, hand going back to your throat and keeping you in place as his other one guided your hips along his thigh.

Fuck, you were still clothed and felt like you would fall apart at any moment.

“I—” Moaning, your hands scrambled for purchase along his chest. “I love you.”

Placing pressure on your throat he shoved pressed his thigh upwards, watching your eyes flutter shut, a high-pitched gasp escaping you as you finally broke. Light flooded his senses, nearly breaking his stance, but the sight of you writhing in his grasp—whimpers falling from your lips was too addicting for him to let go of. They say that the dark side made one greedy; desperate for whatever they wanted, and in this moment he was prepared to take and take until you had nothing left to give.

He knew you’d let him. You would give him whatever he asked for.

“Anaki—” He cut you off, dragging you along his thigh again and watching as your face twisted. Both pain and pleasure collided as you were shoved into overstimulation.

“Again,” he said, moving his hand from your hip to your pants—helping you yank them off until the leather of his glove slid through your hot slick. “I want to see you do it again.”

“Oh fuck.”

Gasping for air, you dug your teeth into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as he ruthlessly began to toy with your clit. He knew exactly what to do to shove you right on that edge again and perhaps that’s what flung you over it. Or maybe it was him shoving the same words back into your own mind until it echoed over and over again.

I love you.

Sith didn’t care about things like love, but Anakin Skywalker was never truly a Sith just as he was never truly a Jedi.

He was stuck in between—crossing the border of want and need.

“I can’t.” A cry ripped from you as his other hand moved down from your neck to your chest, rubbing a thumb over your nipple. “I—Anakin I can’t.”

He chuckled, the sound menacing even to you. “Yes you can.”

This wasn’t a question—it was a choice of when you’d finally give in. The pressure in your body built, the coil twisting as he continued to rub sharp circles on your clit. When your legs began to shake and your vision became blurry from tears, you knew you were right there on the very edge of shattering, but you couldn’t. Not until he joined you on that edge—relenting his power to give you some of your own.

“Say it,” you begged, eyes screwing shut as he sunk two fingers into you right to the knuckle—his thumb continuing. “Say it for me. Please I need—I need to—”

“I love you.”

The words sounded foreign coming from his modulator, but you knew this was Anakin speaking not the twisted side of him that fed off of pain. He’d finally ripped free from the cage he was put in, leeching off the light coming from you with glee. He may not have meant the words entirely, but they did what you both intended them to do.

Sobbing his name, you felt the pressure snap in two flooding your body with a white-hot pleasure. You could hear his fingers as they continued to pump into you, rubbing against the spot along your walls that made your legs shake and tears flow down your cheeks.

“That’s it,” he muttered, hand going around your neck to hold you in place as you practically grinded on his hand—the pleasure still coursing through your veins.

You were lost to it. Mind numb to everything else but him standing before you.

It took you a few minutes to catch your breath and gain feeling in your limbs again and he waited. Gave you a chance to breathe as he fought against the impatience that trickled into his veins—a quality that was unnatural to him. Once you were finally able to open your eyes, sighing in contentment, you focused on his mind—allowing yourself a chance to see inside of it. As always it was inner turmoil that had you flinching, but right now all you saw were memories of you and him. The same ones he played over and over again while he was away from you.

“And here I thought you never missed me while you were away,” you said, lips curving into a smile sweet enough to taste.

“I don’t miss you.” He leaned closer, hand reaching down to cup your swollen cunt. “I miss this.”

Words like that should have stung, but you knew him better than that. You knew why he said the things he said. So you smiled wider, dragging his arm up until his hand was in front of your face, the black leather shiny with your cum. Twining your Force signature around him until he couldn’t escape, you sucked his fingers into your mouth, moaning at the taste of yourself. He didn’t expect you to give in so easily—usually enjoying the fight you put him through. But tonight you’d settle for this so you could gain more.

“We’ll see about that,” you whispered, kissing his palm and dropping his arm.

You wanted him to give over the control he ached for; wanted to watch as the last of his residual armor came crashing down around you. Only one person would be able to say they brought Darth Vader down to their knees and it was you. His light, his moon, his lover.

Pushing his leg away, you pressed your hands on his chest, wishing you could once again feel the strong heartbeat beneath his skin. The steady thrum of it put you to sleep on long nights when you snuck away from the Jedi Temple, but for now you’d have to settle for the rhythmic timing of his breaths as they echoed around the room.

Without another thought, you dropped to your knees in front of him—his body keeping you caged in along the wall. You figured he already knew what you were going to do, if the way he widened his stance told you anything. His hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your gaze back towards him. It was the gentle nature of his touch that sent heat spilling into your heart. Anakin flared to life right before your eyes with every passing minute.

Undoing his belt, you allowed yourself a moment to admire what lay beneath the leather. What he always drew your attention away from. The skin was burnt, scarred beyond anything you’d ever seen before, but that never mattered to you. He stood stiff, his other hand pressed against the wall, helmet focused on you. Almost like he was unsure of what would happen.

Would you not care? Or would what remained not be what you wanted?

“Oh…” you gasped when he was finally free.

He was scarred there too, you’d felt it before. Except you weren’t shocked by that; no you were surprised by how worked up he was. The glossy sheen of precum building up at the tip practically dripped down your palm as you held him—begging for you to taste. Leaning forward, you took the head of his cock into your mouth, the guttural moan he let out sending a flare of heat through your body.

“Is this for me?” you asked sweetly, knowing it would only succeed in riling him up even more.

He grunted, his hand pushing you forward until his cock was once more back in your mouth. Although you didn’t mind in the slightest. Not when his addicting salty tang spread on your tongue the longer you sucked on the head. He was shameless with the sounds he made. Entirely focused on his pleasure, but you felt the way he softly rubbed his thumb along your neck, sending goosebumps down your skin.

“Take me deeper,” he said, already knowing you were heading that way anyways. “I know you can.”

You moaned when he hit the back of your throat, his hips thrusting forward slightly until you gagged. That alone only made him do it again. Pressing against the firm line that stood between the both of you. He wouldn’t make you do anything you didn’t want—as long as you gave him control. Something you were more than okay with handing over.

It’s not like you had any semblance of it before he became Darth Vader. Anakin had always been one to take what he deemed he deserved. Except when it came to you, he always gave you the choice. Even now as your nose brushed the base of his cock, your throat squeezing him so tight his whole body shuddered, you still held the choice.

You sucked in a breath when he pulled away, tears streaming down your cheeks and spit covering your chin. Part of you wanted to keep going—to feel him spill down your throat—but you knew that wasn’t what he was here for. Dragging you up, he pressed the cold shell of his helmet against your forehead, hands grasping your hips tightly.

“I need—” He cut himself off, a loud breath reverberating through his modulator. 

For the first time that night you felt it. The small flicker of blue in his otherwise black Force signature. Only in moments like this, when his desperation practically permeated the air, did you find your Anakin.

The only thing stronger than Palpatine’s hold over him had always been the love he felt for you—that was clear to you now.

“I know,” you murmured, leading him back and watching as he sat on your bed. His large frame practically took up the entire room. He spread his legs, allowing you to step between them, but you had a different plan altogether.

Clambering onto his lap, you held yourself up as you positioned his cock at your entrance. Your slick practically pooled over him, making it easier for you to take him in one thrust. But rather than rush this, you held yourself there. Hovering over his needy and wanting cock—making him wait for the one thing he so desperately needed. The blue flickered again, vibrating through you and forcing a gasp from your lungs.

You longed to pull it closer until it enveloped you entirely; til you suffocated from its light. But whatever remained was now small and fleeting, only seen in moments like this. His grasp turned harsh, impatient. Letting you know that he only had so much left in him before he took back the small sliver of control he allotted you.

Your whole body shook as you finally lowered yourself, feeling the stretch of his cock sliding into your cunt. A growl ripped from his chest, his hands pressing you down further and watching in delight as your head fell back, a garbled shout echoing off the walls. You went dizzy with the delicious mixture of pain and pleasure. It rushed through you, setting each nerve in your body alight with a burning fire.

Which only made everything shine brighter.

Light flooded his senses, your Force signature practically bleeding out into the room. And he took it. He swallowed it whole in his never ending darkness with the hope that you were never extinguished.

“More,” you gasped, fingers digging into the leather that covered his shoulder.

He shoved his hips upward, grinding against you and tearing a sound from your chest that seared into his mind instantly. You were a wanton mess. Barely hanging on to the person you were thirty minutes ago—before he came back into your life. Instead there you were. The lover who fed off of his darkness; who took what the Jedi Order claimed was forbidden and begged for more.

“Maker—fuck—I-I’m oh fuck—” You made no sense, but that’s the way he wanted you. An incoherent babbling mess that rode his cock to chase that feeling only he could bring you.

Lifting yourself up slightly, you dropped back down haphazardly, hating the emptiness that came with his cock slipping out of you. A sound tore through his modulator, his hands tightening on your hips as you set a brutal pace. He groaned when your walls tightened around him, the sound of your skin slapping against the leather of his pants echoing in the room. If you listened closely you could hear the wet squelch of your slick as he set his own pace, pounding into you without abandon.

“Please, Anakin please,” you cried, unsure of what you were begging for.

He seemed to know though.

Without a response, his hand wrapped around your throat, pressing down tightly as he thrusted upwards even harder. The lack of oxygen seemed to only heighten the sensation you chased—pleasure building up to an almost painful degree in your body.

He bent you to his will, guiding your body in a way that felt familiar. You didn’t have to think when he was here, didn't need to focus your energy on any of this, because he did it for you. His gloved thumb pressed against your lips until you opened up with ease, sucking his finger into your mouth with a moan. It gave you a chance to take in a deep breath before he clamped down tight around your throat again. Turning your vision hazy.

“Good,” he muttered, pulling the spit slicked finger from your mouth. Only to press it firmly against your clit.

Your body arched, a broken cry falling from your lips as tears streamed down your face. It was too much, yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to ask him to stop. You didn’t want him to. The pleasure nearly blinded you with each thrust of his cock into your dripping cunt. But what made you fall wasn’t the feeling of him finally striking against the spot that made your body curl in on itself.

No, it was the image he projected in your mind.

“That’s what you like huh,” Anakin’s voice grunted in your head, his blue eyes just as bright as before.

You sobbed out a garbled yes, eyes rolling back. The image continued. A bright blue light wrapped itself around you, nearly burning you from the inside out as he pinched your clit between his fingers. And you chased it; grabbed onto the sensation tightly and let it fill your chest until you swore your heart stopped beating.

“I want you to cum. Let me see my pussy drip for me,” he spit, dragging you closer until you were pressed so tight it nearly hurt.

“Don’t,” you gasped, shoving the image of Anakin away from your mind, eyes focusing on the empty soulless black mask he wore. His hand let up slightly, allowing you breath to speak. “I want to see you. Not him.”

Warmth spread through your chest when his hips stuttered, a groan reverberating against your breast. You wished you could kiss him. Feel the hot press of his lips on yours, but this—feeling him thrust into you quickly—was enough. His hand tightened again as his cock drove up into you harshly, hitting right where you needed to fly off the edge. Your mouth fell open, a broken sob making its way through as the all encompassing heat you so desired began to spill through your body.

A snarl ripped through your very being when he finally joined you, spurting into your swollen cunt and filling you until you leaked around the base of him. Except he didn’t stop. He pushed forward, thrusting into you until pain filtered through the pleasure. Once more you were shoved into that bliss, drowning in it with no way out.

Sobbing his name, you felt your body shake as he finally ceased his movements, allowing you to sag against him. The energy was completely depleted from you and he knew it. Which is why he didn’t move. Simply breathed deeply, his softening cock still deep in you, causing you to moan slightly at every soft twitch.

“How long until you have to go?” you sighed, your fingers tracing random shapes against his armor.

“Soon.”

“Will you come back?”

You knew you wouldn’t receive an answer. You never did, because even he didn’t know when Palpatine would finally release him again from his grasp. He let out a breath, his hands cupping your ass as he molded you to him. The blue light still flickered amidst the darkness, turning his once bleak Force signature a brilliant midnight color. And for a moment you saw the real him. The man who lay beyond the layers of his armor.

Laying a kiss against the cold shell of his mask, you allowed yourself a moment to be enveloped by him. The darkness would return eventually, wiping away the man who sat beneath you. But for now, he was here and he was yours.

Smiling, you pressed against it with your own, feeling him shudder beneath you. It was like looking at the night sky—a sight you wanted to keep until you were left alone once more. Curling around his body, you allowed sleep to finally overtake you, your mind soothed by the soft touch of the Force he pressed against you.

Only then did you realize.

In the small space of your home, beneath the strain of a galaxy under siege, your Anakin finally found his way home again.

[mairitess]

form ba-7180, notarized // to be known, ch. 1

summary: Nya realizes her and Jordana have more in common than one might think.

a/n: idk this is just how I imagine what their relationship could be like ;-; i wish it were longer and paced slower but i'm not good at that! + also on ao3 and no longer just a one-shot! ch. 2 here on ao3

words: 1.7k

tags: angst, jaya mentioned, jordana characterization if it were up to me, and now it is up to me, nya pov, dr s2 spoilers, no beta bc idc

warnings: n/a

preview:

Nya would give anything – and gave up everything – to have her name remembered. She imagined Jordana was willing to do the same, evidently far more, for the same respect.

She imagined her face plastered over billboards across all the realms, grinning over a world wholly enlightened by her genius. She’d construct a high-rise to arch above Imperium to collect her novel works. Jordana would work her way down the floors each day, greeting her associates and meeting tours of aspiring young minds. And she’d remember each of their names – she swore she would.

Jordana was called every name under the sun but her own. She was bright and capable, cruel and jealous. So in the spirit of destiny and changing your fate, Jordana took control. She was spiteful. Who could blame her? For each project Jordana developed, Sora did one better. Unforgettable, brilliant, perfect Sora. Jordana became another body in the room, rifling through papers and screwing nuts and bolts, a nameless worker bee when Sora was there.

When Sora left, Jordana practically threw a party. Even if all she was getting was everything Sora left, Jordana crossed her fingers despite being a girl of science and hoped it would all soon become her own. No more Sora. Just Jordana, finally left to her own devices. Yet Sora kept haunting her, easily destroying the one thing Jordana crafted with pride for Imperium.

As “evil” as Jordana had become, Nya couldn’t help but feel, frankly, bad for the girl, the more she learned about her. Nya loved Sora so much, seeing so much similarity between them. But where Nya saw Sora like a little sister outgunning what she did at her age, Nya saw Jordana like an inverted reflection of her younger self. All three of them were so ambitious, so smart, so resilient. But what Nya felt unfortunately was shared just between her and Jordana was in what stood in their way. Sora, in all her early skill, was embraced and centered in Imperium’s ever-advancing development, even if it was in ways she hated and left. Jordana, even if she could keep up with Sora, would never compare.

When Kai and his friends first became ninjas, Nya went to unabashed depths to prove she was just as good, if not better. Her first proof of her excellence, though, was not attributed to her name – she was Kai’s sister. Then she was Samurai X. Then Jay’s girlfriend.

What’s in a name? For Nya, everything. Everything that mattered. She could conquer the world, defeat every Ninjago villain singlehandedly, and still get underestimated and go largely uncredited if merely referred to as Kai’s sister, or Samurai X, or Jay’s girlfriend, or the Water Ninja. That’s not to say Nya wasn’t incredibly proud to be those things – though she was most proud to be Samurai X, as she’d built the mech and its reputation with her own blood and sweat. But when the Fire Ninja was seen running through the streets, little kids would wait for him to finish whatever he was doing, then pull him aside: “Kai! You’re my favorite ninja!” The Ice Ninja would be out getting groceries, and fans would high-five him with the same corny saying: “Zane, you’re the coolest!” Everyone easily called out to the other ninjas by name. Not Nya. Rarely Nya. Maybe never, Nya.

The closest she’d ever gotten to profuse and total recognition and gratitude, she had to entirely give up her body and form. Why did it take losing her for the world to realize how much she mattered?

But Jordana… Every time Nya watched back fight footage between Sora and Jordana, she’d hear Sora say, “Who are you again?” Jordana would scream in frustration, her fighting reinvigorated. Nya understood Sora wasn’t saying that to egg on her foe, that Sora truly could not remember. But that seemed far worse than if it were part of encounter banter.

Nya would give anything – and gave up everything – to have her name remembered. She imagined Jordana was willing to do the same, evidently far more, for the same respect. How much worse it seemed to be forgotten rather than dismissed, to be fighting your own erasure to the point where you realize no one would remember you for your good works. Of course Jordana saw it fit that, if you wanted to truly be known, the only option would be to turn sides.

So Nya made it a point not just to remember Jordana’s name, but to remind her teammates of Jordana’s name, too. She saw it as an act of respect, even if Jordana wouldn’t ever know. Besides, underestimating your opponent was practically a cardinal sin in Wu’s teachings. Part of ensuring her team, her mentees, wouldn’t underestimate Jordana counted on them remembering her, and respecting what she was capable of. Maybe if Nya had felt more outcast by her brother and his friends, she would have had a far more similar path to Jordana’s thus far.

------

The ninja had found their way to one of the islands between Imperium and the Wyldness, chasing a lead in their hunt for Lord Ras, Jordana, Nokt, and Cinder. Though their stealth mission didn’t go as quietly as Lloyd had hoped – Lord Ras and Cinder ran off in opposite directions, splitting the team apart. Lloyd and Arin sprinted after Lord Ras; while Wyldfyre, Zane, and Cole went after Cinder. They’d seen Nokt for a moment, but he’d quickly disappeared, leaving Sora and Nya with Jordana.

“This will be fun,” Jordana laughed, adjusting her grip on her sword, keeping a steady eye on Sora. “Let’s kill the powers, shall we? Make it fair. I don’t want to make it too easy.”

Sora glared. “Easy for whom?” She retorted, only for Jordana to roll her eyes. “You’ll find out,” Jordana said. With that, she lunged at Sora, the tip of her blade easily missing Sora’s cheek as she dodged. “Maybe,” Sora snorted. “Or maybe not.” Sora spun the katana in her hand for show before slicing towards Jordana, catching the other girl’s sleeve with the sword’s edge. Nya watched on carefully as she surveyed their immediate surrounding area, making sure Nokt wasn’t still hidden somewhere among the foliage.

“You might have beaten me in class combat before, Sora, but I won’t let you do it again,” Jordana snarled, blocking Sora’s blows. “Again?” Sora asked, confusion spreading across her face. Her guard weakened slightly.

Jordana’s eyes suddenly glowed a bright red, as she brought her dao down briefly. “You know my name,” she said, low. “You know.” Sora shrugged, concerned. “Sorry. Really, I don’t.”

“Just remember me!” Jordana shouted brazenly, angling the hilt of her blade down toward Sora as she leapt at her. For a moment, Sora stood frozen, caught off by Jordana’s choice of words in combat, and was struck painfully to the head with a dense clunk. Sora cried out and Nya ran for her, blocking Jordana’s second swing as Sora managed to twist away, holding her head in her hands.

Then it was the famed mentor and her mentee’s nemesis, and Nya felt the weight of her wisdom acquired with age. It was the first time the two had truly faced off, and as sour as Jordana’s expression was, Nya didn’t want to fight.

“Please, Jordana,” Nya tried, deflecting each of Jordana’s bladed attempts at her chest. As practiced as Jordana may have been, Nya was far stronger and more comfortable with her golden spear. “You won’t win this. You can’t.”

Jordana was quiet, focused on finding a weak spot in Nya’s guard she could catch. So Nya kept talking.

“I know what it’s like.” “No, you don’t–” “I do, I swear. You are strong in your own right, Jordana, whether Sora is next to you or not. You don’t have to prove anything.” “Yes, I do! Nobody cares if you can do the job. They only care if you can do the job well,” she spat out. “That’s not true!” Nya pleaded. “It’s not true because it’s not about the job.”

Jordana’s swings slowed, and Nya took the opportunity. “You’re not what you do, Jordana. Who you are isn’t based on what you do.”

Both their swords lowered. Sora had managed to crawl over to a nearby tree and lean against its trunk, catching her breath, but her eyes were closed.

“Then… Then who am I?” Jordana whispered, her voice breaking. “Who am I if I have nothing to give to Imperium?”

Nya reached for the girl, instinct to comfort. She didn’t know what to say. Whatever propaganda Imperium citizens were receiving, its messaging was more ingrained than perhaps fixable in a night. Nya’s gaze drifted over to Sora, and her extended hand to Jordana came to a slow stop.

Why… Why didn’t she hit you with her blade?

“Oh, Jordana,” a familiar voice echoed all around Nya, and she felt her chest clench. “It’s not that deep. Truly. Besides,” he laughed, “you’ve done more than enough.”

Nya’s back felt like it was on fire as she was shot along the spine with a stun gun. She fell to the ground, all her limbs locked in place. “You follow through, Jordana. That’s all the Administration could ask for.” Nya was scared to look as the figure hoisted her up from behind, pulling her hands into handcuffs. “I’ll take her from here.”

His hands were warm despite the metal clinking against her wrists. She wanted to hold his hand.

“Sorry. Administrator’s orders,” he huffed, coming to her side to walk her towards the portal he’d come through. In Nya’s periphery, Sora was still breathing, but looked like she was passed out against the tree. Nya nearly yelled at her when she finally got a good look at the man dragging her.

“… Jay? Jay, it’s me –” “I know who you are. Jordana, let’s go.”

His grip was rough as Nya was pulled away, so much about him familiar yet everything wrong.

Jay’s voice was growing distant and fuzzy, but she heard him say, “Nice control there, Jordana. I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to handle it, but you did well. Good job.” He sounded as kind and proud as ever. It was almost soothing.

Sora forced herself awake again for a brief moment and tried to scream as she watched Nya disappear, but nothing came out, and her head was too heavy, and she had just enough sense to hit the emergency signal on her suit.

[poetessgio]

I've never read anything quite like Fever Dream. I couldn't understand a lot of it as I read, although I do understand the characters and plot overall. In each moment, did you understand what was happening? What did you find profound? What did you like best artistically about it, and were there any big philosophical statements?

What a cool, exciting ask! I love this book, I wrote a 6-page essay about it for college at the time and I was never able to read it again because of how strong the experience was for me (I want to preserve the memory).

Latin America's magical realism is not about introducing some fantasy features into the ordinary, is more about the mystical experience of reality itself, the haunting mysteries or inexplicable events of life. They exaggerate the surreal, "magical" aspect to highlight the main issue. I will share more about that in the end.

What I like about Fever Dream the most is its originality. Once you start the book, you have to feel lost. That's the whole point. Schweblin is so bold, she actually doesn't want you to "understand what is going on", she invites you into the MC's feverish dream, and for that to happen you literally have to let go of any expectations and let the story unfold at its own pace. I honestly will recommend this book to any writer who is willing to take the (eco)horror path.

But it's not just about that. Personally, this book got to me because of the "rescue distance" concept — a better translation of the original title. As someone who lost a baby, the whole paranoia that comes from sensing danger, but being blind to it at the same time, drove me almost mad. I ate that book in one afternoon — and I'm a slow reader. Couldn't stop turning pages. It was too similar to my personal experience of foreseeing death, knowing that something was just about to happen, and not being able to avoid it at all. Very cathartic, per se.

But to talk more directly about the book, I will use my own words from a few years back, and if you don't want spoilers, don't read it:

"In the end, the loose thread remains. The feeling of loss is inevitable. All the danger and sense of paranoia culminated in a whirlwind of unstoppable events, engulfing the reader in a tachycardic, spiralling route; and he lands with the certainty that something very important was left behind: the essential and irreplaceable — perhaps, life itself. It's like returning from a trip without your luggage, empty-handed. Maybe this loose thread is the sensation of the entire humanity when confronted with its impotence in the face of a scenario of constant catastrophe, of destruction that disintegrates everything around: the web being woven as one lives, without being able to deviate from the tracks or turn back. The inevitability of evil — are we like Amanda, doing our best to protect those we love, and always losing what matters most? What similarity would we have with David, tying everything in his room (p.136), trying to connect the loose thread of this unreachable distance that can no longer be calculated? He may be trying to connect with what little remains, that which seems solid, in search of connecting then with something familiar; something that sustains a world that seems to be in free fall, heading nowhere. And this world — this same world of mutations, poisoned mist, dead ducks buried in the backyard, of silence that devoured all things, this world of Schweblin's magical realism — this is our own world."

I might upload my reviews and essays one day if I ever have enough energy and time to open a substack or something (they are too long). Latin American literature is fire! I'm glad you have this book a chance :) and thanks again for the ask!

[kadextra]

after my previous post, I decided to read ahead of the manhwa now bc I can’t wait!!! and I kinda feel like writing down some liveblog thoughts here while doing it :D

here we go, starting from chapter 184

[ MAJOR SPOILERS!!!!! DO NOT CLICK if you haven’t ever read before. I’m so serious its a lot of spoilers. pls just ignore this and scroll on ]

.

.

.

.

ummm dokja saying “oh this scenario will be fine! don’t worry i’m prepared this will be problem-free & so very easy haha :)” + getting all emotional about his friends is setting off my red flag senses so hard. dokja you still have the fate message praying on your downfall….

dokja I’m scared. Dokja I Don’t Like This

ah. hah. the demon king guy is literally dead on the floor 🧍awesome

damn I knew this couldn’t be trusted and some plot twist would happen it was never going to be that simple. someone has to take the position now. I hate you nebulaes how about you catch these hands

OH NO JOONGHYUK?? YOU STUPID IDIOT STOP

my boys are fighting o(-(

yo wait turns out the world won’t reset even if he regresses??? but still :( he won’t be able to see this to the end and will get stuck back in the loop :(( joonghyuk has changed so much from the start and I’ve grown to like him a lot he doesn’t deserve this I’ll cry

OF COURSE DOKJA GONNA SACRIFICE HIMSELF INSTEAD. ITS HIS FAVORITE HOBBY!

dokja’s self reflection of how the reason he survived all the tragedies in his life is bc of TWSA & watching how joonghyuk never gave up…. the whole “it’s because you saved me so now it’s my turn to save you” from a person directed to their favorite character and their favorite story which was their life companion…. honestly I don’t quite have words to describe the way these lines make me feel. it’s just profound and deeply relatable

gilyoung my poor son he doesn’t want his hyung to die 😭

sighs it’s too late. at least demon king dokja looks cool…. now the wings fanart I’ve seen in passing makes sense…..

he’s a goner

I am going to be completely honest. I genuinely expected to be reading more of an epic shounen-style final battle where he uses all the cool corrupted demon powers and maybe goes a little wacky because that’s usually what happens in stories when the protagonist unlocks an evil power and has to fight his friends. NOT THIS????????

the situation has zero hope and he is just standing there one sidedly taking hits from his friends who are forced to kill him. while guiding them on how to do it. smiling and offering them words of encouragement. this is so devastating I feel sick

URIEL MY BABY seeing her cry is the worst it’s torture

of course his stigma is called sacrificial will

STOP

THAT ARTWORK

THEY ARE HIS LOVED FAMILY…… HE LOVES THEM ALL N JOONGHYUK WAS YHR PERSON HE LOVED MOST I CALLED IT I want to hit something

im full on crying now

all the constellations messages of they don’t wish for his death I’m not strong enough

reading this feels like getting ripped apart limb by limb

NO WAY THE FVGTIFJFJCKN HELD BY THE NECK THING RETURNS A THIRD TIME LIKE THIS??? STOOOPPPPPPPP

uriel T-T

he died

demon king of salvation

need to just lay here for a bit

ok I’m back joonghyuk is disassociating from the grief. relatable

“What if Yoo Joonghyuk went back and there was no Kim Dokja? or what if Kim Dokja never acted like this again? Yoo Joonghyuk was afraid of something for the first time.”

“He met Kim Dokja in his third regression and they became companions. Then he lost Kim Dokja”

he cares for him so much

a scenario without dokja.

whag did I just read

-

UGH that was so good. emotional damage was an understatement now I get why ppl were warning me

why did I decide to do this in the middle of the night…. I need to stop now I’m tired but how am I going to sleep? im haunted with thoughts

it’ll take a bit longer for the manhwa to adapt this part but I’m honestly really glad I continued reading and got to imagine it all myself in detail first- it hit so hard. I’ll let it sit and take a few days break before I continue. excited to see how they adapt it into drawings and cry all over again cause this wound ain’t healing for a while

I have the need to recommend this story to all my friends and family

oh right!!!!

the other day I went through youtube animatics & saved some that I could watch when finishing certain chapters into a note (thank goodness most put a warning of when to watch in the first few seconds!)

since I finished 188, I get to watch this one :D

I just watched it

I cry myself to sleep

[hk33b]

headcanons of kuruk with his failed team avatar in the early years (no angst, no suffering, only peace and imagination …) (i forgot many canon wise things.. forgive and forget)

Jianzhu

• He’s Jianzhu’s first true friend, though he’d never admit that. Jianzhu understands Kuruk in a way others fail to. He sees the incredible things Kuruk does and the corrections he’s made upon teacher’s who are meant to be teaching him. It makes Jianzhu think that the Avatar’s greatness is inevitable. He wants to stay around and be a witness to it.

• One of the first things Kuruk came to learn about the young earthbender was that besides them being a year apart in age— he was very afraid of losing everything he worked for. In one of their many talks to pass the time after training, he admitted this. Kuruk tried to understand, using his status as the Avatar— ‘I’m scared to mess up. I don’t want to lose people’s faith in me,’ but Jianzhu shook his head, it wasn’t the same.

“You’re the Avatar. You have something to fall back on. The entire world opens their hand for you.”

And it’s such an intimate thing to learn about him. That he’s scared to lose who he is, what he owns, what his family built. [This ties into evil-old-man-Jianzhu who used his companionship with the late Avatar to his advantage. He’d do anything to maintain control and power; the fear of losing something that’s his stunts him]

• smart on their own, idiots when paired together.

•Kuruk was fired as a wingman for Jianzhu, he’d only been one once or twice, but both times were a shitshow. Jianzhu would try all the moves Kuruk taught him, even said a handful of cheesy lines that made his ears red to a person who caught his sights. And it was a bust, because they barely past a glance at him. No, because they were too busy staring at Kuruk.

“Maybe you aren’t doing it right, friend…”

“Oh, is that what it is.” Jianzhu barely hid the sarcasm dripping in his voice. Either Kuruk’s being polite, or he didn’t realize the problem in question was him! He’s handsome (DOWN).

• Jianzhu lost 10 times over while playing against Kuruk in Pai Sho. On the 11th rematch Kuruk pretends to make a faulty move for his friend’s sanity. Jianzhu knows its a pity win but takes it. He’s mostly amazed about the reckless moves Kuruk uses because it still aides him into victory!!?

“There’s just no way.” Jianzhu gasps, astonished. “Teach me how you did that,”

Kuruk laughs, “Ah. The student becomes the teacher.”

“On second thought...”

• They’re most likely to butt heads over trivial matters like similar folklores that their own nation has renditions of, but they think the other is ruining the story.

They’re all camped out, Kelsang fast asleep, and Jianzhu decides to tell Hei Ran a haunting tale she’s never heard of. Kuruk cuts him off once he’s halfway through the story.

Kuruk groans, “That is so not how it goes.”

Jianzhu snaps his head to the Avatar. “Yes it is?! She back talked to her mom six different times and turned into a lizard-snail for six weeks!”

“Uh. No! She didn’t accept her mother’s arranged marriage for her, so her mom cursed her into a lizard-snail until she did for six weeks! That’s why it’s called Mother’s Curse. Idiot.”

“That’s not—! What—! You…! Okay, let’s say that’s how it went. What would be the lesson? The whole point of Mother’s Curse is that the child shouldn’t have backed talk.”

“The whole point of Mother’s Curse is that the mother was evil, and didn’t care about what her daughter wanted?(???!) It’s to make kids appreciate how their parents wouldn’t do something sinister like that to them!”

“That… is the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“YOU’RE STUPID.”

Safe to say that Hei Ran doesn’t stick around and goes to her tent, away from the idiots who continue to argue about who is more stupider.

•oh and during Kuruk’s hoe era Jianzhu turned a blind eye and said ‘well shit, he gotta do whatever he can to go about his day. Not my business.’

•silly silly silllllllly vibes. Silly. Ridiculous. One piece level of comedy.

•In conclusion … Jianzhu feels a deep connection with Kuruk. He’s amazed with him!! He believes this guy is the real deal, and its a honor to see what Kuruk could do or will be in the near future. Kuruk isn’t nervous by the blind faith Jianzhu has in him, it actually keeps him going. Friendship Is Magic…….

Song that remind me of their dynamic: It Wasn’t Me

Kelsang

• started off at a rocky start since Kuruk did try to steal his sky bison, but being around someone as silly as Kuruk became contagious. I imagine Kelsang laughing before Kuruk even got to the punchline, and this kinda drew the two together. There’s so much seriousness and rules and customs, it becomes tedious after a point, yet Kuruk makes it all so laughable …? Unserious? A sort of ‘what was I so worried about’ feeling. Childlike almost. FREE.

• Kuruk instantly got air bending in his first lessons from the air nomads, which fits due to his laid back go with the flow personality. He tries showing Kelsang random moves and ideas that keep popping off in his mind like rapid fire. Kelsang thinks it's... pretty impressive.

“This feels so much more different than the other elements. Everything is so… weightless. Are there any personal moves of yours that you’ve created?” Kuruk asked while balancing himself on an airball.

Kelsang shook his head no, confused. At this, Kuruk immediately got up and starting flailing his hands around, creating motion. “Oo! I wanna show you this idea that I haven't shown anyone besides like-- Jianzhu. I think it could really be helpful!

As he demonstrates a peculiar airbending maneuver with ease, Kelsang stands up straight, in awe. Maybe he had judged him too quickly.

• because of his height and rather serious resting face, Kelsang can come across as intimidating, but that is all destroyed by seeing him with Kuruk, he looks his age and more approachable. Kuruk calls him baldy as a nickname, to tease. Kelsang occasionally answers back with ‘pretty boy’, because, *drops hands* well, that’s what #they keep telling us about him.

• It is my personal belief that out of all of them, Kelsang is who Kuruk would’ve confessed to about the spirits. Not that he would ask him for help or go into the exact details of what its doing to his body, but in a complete what-if scenario,,,, the air nomad would have the words that could reassure Kuruk of this enormous responsibility he feels on the daily. [Remember, Kuruk ran into Kelsang with his poem he had written for Hei Ran. It’s less humiliating and less shameful seeking the air nomad out for matters that he can’t hold inside anymore. There’s never judgement. Maybe a shared fear? A frantic voice that could tell Kuruk right from wrong, in his best way. Never judgement.]

• okay i lied a little angst just this once DAMN… So as we know. Everyone who mattered in Kuruk’s life felt this enormous guilt that they failed him somehow. I like to believe that finding Kuruk in his next life, being a parental figure for Kyoshi, loving her like a father would love their own— while believing Yun was the next Avatar. Not realizing until she read Kuruk's poem word for word. To learn that he had still managed to bridge this connection with his old friend again. Without even intentionally doing so? Without even KNOWING. I think the weight of his failures as a companion left right then. Because he made up for it. Whatever it is he believed he lacked in, he pulled through for his final moments with Kyoshi. Not that Kuruk's spirit ever held blame for Kelsang. It’s just so interesting because we know the whole: do you really think friendships could last more than one lifetime? but they usually know who their deceased friend is in their next life. (((Kelsang you reallll as hell. Idc about the typhoon shit, YOU ARE REALLLLLL.))))

song that reminds me of them : Lean On Me

Hei-Ran

• Kuruk doesn’t know when to shut up around Hei Ran, he’s kind of … obsessed. Loser-lover-boy.

• Hei Ran thought of him slightly childish, but overtime, similarly to Kelsang, the atmosphere around Kuruk was drawing her in. There was something contagious about the northern water tribe boy.

While teaching him how to firebend, she wasn’t really surprised that he’d have such difficulty with it. His personality didn’t really mesh with what it would take to punch and kick out bursts of flames. Kuruk’s kind of frustrated with himself because he was getting the hang of all the elements with little to no effort, and here he was in front of the beautiful Hei Ran of all people, huffing and puffing because small smoke was all that emits from his inner flame.

Hei Ran does one last command, tells him to let the fire in him erupt, to let the flame in him out, (don’t you want to go ape shit ? essentially) and finally something clicks within Kuruk and he’s firebending in front of the best firebender he knows.

“I did it! I really did it!”

“Good job, though there’s gonna be many more lessons for you to learn, so don’t get too ahead of— And he’s burning down a tree.”

“Hei Ran! Help!”

• Kuruk likes to stay behind during their group walks to other villages because Hei Ran is usually there walking gracefully behind Kelsang and Jianzhu. She eyes Kuruk suspiciously, wondering what he’s up to. Its a game they play, where he says something to see if he can get that overly serious no-funny-business wall of hers to crack, get her to smile or laugh or even tell him off. All three works most times, and for the other, she holds a set stare ahead and Kuruk grumbles, giving up his charade and walking besides her in silence. Missing the slight tilted ends of pink lips. She likes seeing him try so hard, the dude never knew what it was like to try to win someone over. Is this what Jianzhu feels?

• He’s a great listener. Hei Ran can talk and talk and talk, and he’d retain it all. It makes her feel good. That someone cares, that Kuruk is genuine and (corny alert) wears his heart on his sleeves. She wants to protect him. She wants to know everything about him, and so he tells her everything. There’s this earnest about Kuruk. He doesn’t hide from her. He doesn’t deceive her. She can read him so well, and in turn, so does he.

•Hei Ran never imagined she’d be friends with someone like Kuruk, recalling her bit harsh judgement, but now she can’t imagine knowing anyone else. A part of her yearns to stay by his side. And Kuruk feels like he’s on cloud nine whenever Hei Ran so much as scoffs at his lame mannerisms. His heart thuds, hands clammy, lips forever smiling.

•They’re laying down on a field of grass, watching the sky in an array of pretty colors as the sun sets over the horizon; Kuruk insisted they catch a break after all the firebending training.

“My folks really want to meet you.” Kuruk says.

“You talk about me to them?” Hei Ran tries to keep her tone leveled, but her heartbeat picks up, fiddling around a strand of Kuruk’s hair on her finger.

“Yeah. Maybe too much. Not enough if you ask me.”

“I’d love to meet them. When should we?”

“Hopefully soon, it’s not freezing cold around this time of year. Heh, I can’t imagine you near snow. You’d look so out of place,” he laughs, eyes crinkling. Hei Ran fought off laughing along for dignity sake.

“Please. You make it sound like I’m gonna freeze and die.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll hug you the entire way there. I won’t let you catch a cold or anything, just stick beside me and—” Kuruk reached for her, face ridiculously close, lips puckered up and leaning. Hei Ran rolled her eyes at this lame show, shoving him away. He burst into a fit of laughter.

Hei Ran turned her attention back to the endless sky while his laughter faded in the background. Going to the Northern Water Tribe. Meeting Kuruk’s family. It’ll be an honor to meet the people who shaped him and made him what he is.

song that reminds me of them : >\\\< You Don’t Know My Name

[greythroat]

May I ask you to share any Mephisto-related thoughts you have?

Bold of you to assume I have thoughts that aren’t related to him

I not only don’t care about his evil actions and vile personality, they are why I like him. I don’t care if people hate him, it pisses me off when people LIE about him. Now you all know my feelings about this already 💀 so I’ll stay quiet… mostly

So we all agree his voice actor did an amazing job right?? But I can’t find the CN voiced version of the anime so I can’t listen to that one 😔 I need a link

LOOK AT HIM‼️ I laugh at his face in every anime scene he’s in they are prime reaction image material

I didn’t put a cut on purpose so you have to see him and scroll through all this

Okay anime thoughts over the exclusion of him calling Talulah his sister in EN was a microaggression 💔 My feelings about this duo are also known so I’ll reveal that I am working on an analysis of their relationship covering the whole story

I am for hcing characters without shark teeth as having shark teeth (Mephisto and Furina). Not the little side fang the entire mouth

Another silly headcanon he would turn red so fast in hot sun and the Reunion randoms peanut gallery would laugh at him behind his back

His beta design clearly has some relationship to FrostNova’s design and I’ll die on this conspiracy theory

Random Mephisto moments not related to the story that haunt me: the UwU cat, this cat plushie photo, this AS moment, Liduke saying “gay is on my side” about him and Faust, Lowlight buying a print of that Liduke fanart

He’s fucking ugly 💀 Not a hc, just a fact and if you disagree you should be ashamed 💀

Fun fact: Mephisto and Faust’s birthdays are 2 days apart and their heights (at least the original ones, it might have changed) are 2 cm apart

And no for once I didn’t send this ask to myself 😌 all the ones where I don’t confess to it are organic asks

Obligatory fanfic plug:

^ I got fanart for this one 🥰

Future Mephisto fanfics:

Working on a fanfic that I consider the ultimate betrayal because Amiya and Mephisto aren’t completely awful to each other in it. If you don’t know, I derive great amusement from their dynamic as enemies. Normal people AU but I can’t ever stop myself from writing Mephisto as annoying and mean because he is too emotionally immature and lacking in morals to just play nice. At this point every character I write acting rude and self centered to each other just happens on its own.

As for fanfics where they are just awful to each other, I feel kinda bad for abandoning my long fic and I will come back to it after finishing the above one. It was made when I was starting to write fanfics and I didn’t know how to tell the story I envisioned. So it became impossible to continue as it was. I have most of a new chapter hidden away, but I honestly want to restructure the whole thing and tell a tighter story.

I have a WIP sequel for Halo Effect linked above that is even more angsty and tragic.

[freckolocation]

a post about signalis, a game i haven't finished, and how it feels to be haunted by a piece of art

(no spoilers save for a few quotes from the first hour or so)

the other day i asked a friend of mine if they'd ever felt like they'd been haunted by a piece of media. they told me about some experiences they had but nothing quite matched the way that signalis has affected me. this post is an expanded version of what i told them

i had heard whisperings about signalis around its release last year, and in march or so of this year, having recently finished the dead space and resident evil 4 remakes, i was itching for more horror. i picked signalis up in mid-april of this year and according to steam i have not played it since the 17th of that month. i played about five hours total

the first few hours were amazing, and with the exception of the dead space remake a few months prior, i don't know how long it's been since a game has sunk its teeth into me that deeply. everything about it was immediately fascinating to me--the world, the art, the design, the atmosphere, the soundtrack, the characters, the themes, the writing, the gameplay, everything

but the latter few hours were extremely frustrating, as someone not familiar with the more classic survival horror style. the combat is relentlessly punishing and the inventory system is brutally restrictive, and i wasn't approaching the game in a way that made it anything less than infuriating, as i didn't know how else to play

by the end of those five hours i didn't understand why it was garnering such universal acclaim. despite the world and atmosphere being unlike anything else i had ever seen, so uniquely tailored to my tastes in science fiction and horror and visual style, i found it incredibly laborious to play

ultimately, i assumed it just wasn't for me, and i decided to drop it entirely

but those first few hours were so gripping i couldn't stop thinking about it

there are a fair amount of literary references in signalis to works such as those of h.p. lovecraft, as well as an explicit reference to robert w. chambers' short story collection the king in yellow, a copy of the book sitting on a desk in the introduction. the collection is named after a fictional play mentioned within several of the stories, the second act of which would drive the reader to madness, the very first lines so captivating that the reader would feel compelled to continue

such a concept feels a bit too familiar, in retrospect.

i read what other people had to say about signalis. what their thoughts were on the things that frustrated me. i watched an entire half-hour review of it, and i began to understand that others found it just as enthralling as i did, and were simply approaching the gameplay differently, with more care and patience

and only a few days after deciding to give up, i decided that i hadn't given it the fair shake i thought i had, and that i would give it another shot

...but i still haven't opened it since i first decided to give up on april 17th.

a few days ago i came across a song: "no station" by the band 65daysofstatic, from their 2005 ep hole. the song prominently features a sample from the lincolnshire poacher numbers station, which operated from the mid-1960s to 2008. the transmissions, like those from most other numbers stations, began with something called an interval signal--in this case, a few bars from "the lincolnshire poacher," a traditional english folk song. a synthesized voice then recites a formatted string of numbers, purported to be encrypted messages for intelligence officers operating in foreign countries

there's a specific station that i think of any time i hear a transmission from a numbers station--one believed to have operated out of hungary from at least the cold war until 2005, known as the three note oddity. like the lincolnshire poacher, the three note oddity was named for its interval signal: a series of three rising tones, after which a synthesized voice would state "achtung! achtung!"--german for "attention! attention!"--and proceed to recite the numbers, also in german

a transmission from the three note oddity plays in the main menu and during the end of the intro to signalis, and it was the first time i had heard it.

a few days ago i rewatched blade runner 2049 with a few friends. it's one of my favorite films, and like the first, it deals with aspects of humanity in synthetic beings created by humanity, in humanity's image, to serve humanity

signalis has a similar concept, and similar themes.

when you are made aware of things in relation to a piece of media that affected you, you begin to notice things you may not have paid attention to otherwise

now i'll see a youtube video about the king in yellow, or hear the sound of a numbers station, or watch a movie about replicants, and i'll think of the book on the desk, of the three note oddity, of replikas.

i often say that there is too much art in the world i want to experience for me to dedicate too much time to the art i don't enjoy, and yet somehow this game i decided i was done with took such a hold of me that it only took mere days for me to decide it was still worth my time, despite my frustration

...and yet, i still haven't returned to it since the day i gave up, even though i said i would go back.

i think of the tones from the three note oddity and my memory repeats like the station itself

"achtung! achtung!"

as if this game i somehow couldn't bring myself to keep playing is calling me back, compelling me to finish it

there's a line from lovecraft's story the festival near the beginning of the game, an excerpt the protagonist quotes from the necronomicon: "great holes secretly are digged where earth’s pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl."

holes have been dug into my brain, and thoughts that ought to have dispersed have instead invited themselves in

despite the poetic yet haunting nature of the lovecraft quote, the penultimate line at the end of the intro is perhaps the game's most memorable:

"remember our promise."

signalis has dug itself into my head and latched onto my brain, and while it isn't a constant itch, it never completely goes away, and unrelated things keep guiding my thoughts to return to it, as though the game itself is haunting me

the game wants me to finish it, it needs me to finish it

and until i do, every time i hear those three notes, i will feel that calling and the hairs on the back of my neck will stand up

"achtung! achtung!"

attention, attention, it calls

i said i would go back to finish it, and yet i haven't.

but the game itself insists i keep my word.

REMEMBER OUR PROMISE

[lauri-rosehearts]

Heyyy! I know its been a while but I’m back! After barely posting for the last two months, I’m back with my usual long af posts about EAH theories, headcanons, and questioning of plotholes.

Ok so like two days ago, I was on tv tropes looking through the EAH predictions page, where people wrote all of these predictions and theories about what route the show was gonna take….y’know…before it got cancelled. And I saw someone predict that the one of the revelations regarding the storybook of legends would be that if someone were to sign the real one, it would cause them to be possessed by the spirit of the ancestor who originally lived out the story before the legacy system was established, and therefore thats why so many generations afterwards were willing to act out those narratives. Now I’m not a hundred percent convinced that this WOULD happen if the show had been continued cause I mean there is some evidence against it, but its not most farfetched take I’ve heard in this fandom, so I’m willing to believe that it could’ve been a possibility. And there are some things in the franchise that I feel like to some degree could be read as a character getting “possessed”; namely two instances with Raven. The first taking place in the first book by Shannon Hale, where Raven puts on her mothers outfit for Legacy day for the first time and she sort of turns evil for like 5 minutes before snapping out of it. And idk about ya’ll, but to me that scene almost reads more as Raven being taken over by an external force rather than her acting out on her own conscience. And yes, its true the legacy day outfits have nothing to do with the storybook of legends, but they are in fact confirmed to be passed down from parent to child, implying that said outfits could go way back to the original ancestors. So that scene could be read as the dress being haunted by the spirit of the original Evil Queen and Raven being easily influenced by it since shes wearing it directly.

The second example is the more well known one. The scene in way to wonderland where Raven actually signs the book and goes full evil for like 2 minutes. This was actually mentioned as evidence by the original person who came up with this take. Now the scene is painted as Raven being overwhelmed and consumed by the amount of new power she has and almost loosing herself in the process. The original writer of the take however, went on to explain that this could’ve been the OG Evil Queen taking over Raven, meaning that even after the events of way to wonderland, her spirit still resides somewhere in Ravens body.

Again, this theory isn’t mine and while I’m not totally convinced, I have to admit it is a pretty interesting theory overall, and also I’ve seen takes that are way more far fetched than this could ever be. And to be fair, while the evidence provided for it is a bit flimsy, it does provide an interesting alternate way to see things in EAH. And I have to admit, the series would take a really mind blowing turn if it had continued and taken this route, I’d be hell curious to see what happened if this did turn out to be the case

[syn4k]

do your thing, word boy

hell yeah. ok so this one isn't gonna be put under a cut because i hate you all and you WILL read my words, boy

most of our writing style inspo comes from books! wow! words influence words! who woulda thought

the one singular novel that i can say with confidence is the most like our writing style is All the Light we Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.

ATLWCS (god what an ugly abbreviation i'm never using that again) is a story told from two viewpoints- one of a girl living in France, the other a boy in Germany. set pre-and-during-and-post WWII, the two spin ever and ever closer to each other over the course of the war. there's shockingly little romance in it and the focus is on the life of these two children, for children they are, rather than their deaths.

i cannot explain the plot, for it circles back in on itself and everything is connected and gods it's so GOOD. the author according to the information on the inside jacket of the cover spent 10 years researching this and i can tell. houugh.

here's a picture of the 3rd or 4th chapter. we have read this book about 7 or 8 times by now, as you can tell from the dog-eared page

the lilting, rolling pace, the casual insertion of details that make the whole world come alive, and of course the STUNNING descriptions really made an impression on us when we first read this.

i will admit that we did not buy this book, we took it home in our backpack one day in 6th grade after flying through the first few chapters and it never found its way back. we've changed schools three times since then. the book has not.

for me, what really makes this so incredible is just how.. casual the writing is? it effortlessly explains the minutiae of life by outlining a couple key points. we saw that and we were like oh my god that's so good. i HAVE to do that.

-:-

in second place for Books that Irreversibly Changed our Brain Chemistry is The Places beyond the Maps by Douglas Kaine McKelvey.

set in Andrew Peterson's fictional fantasy world of Aerwiar, the story follows the path of a man who lost his daughter to a twisted evil and who had lost himself to grief, resigning himself to the fact that she was beyond all knowledge (to him) dead. swearing an oath to bring her home or bring her justice and failing both, he goes as a wanderer in the long wilderness and eventually finds his way to meet his Maker Himself.

needless to say, we are currently reading this out to a friend and the writing style is *impeccable.*

where Doerr's prose is clear and smooth, utterly graceful and allowing the reader to glimpse clearly the truths that lie deep underneath like the seafloor upon which all else is viewed, McKelvey's is haunting and etched with some undefinable grief through which, occasionally, one can divine the simple truth at the center of all things.

needless to say, being put at the end of a collection of fairly lighthearted short stories matching the tone of the original saga, this novella hit us like a fucking Train and we have been stealing some of his long, rambling, impossibly patient descriptions for our own works for a while now. no you can't get this on its own and without missing out on some massively important context which would require an entire rant about the wingfeather saga on its own but that's another ask entirely and ANYWAYS continuing on

we've actually been leaning heavily on this specific description of loss within the self for our characterization of Pixl in Ashes! if you've read the book and if you look closely enough, you'll see some parallels there :]

-:-

this doesn't have as much influence on our writing as a whole but i'd like to give an honorable mention to anne carson in third place who effortlessly blends the present and the past in glowing verse and- ok. Ok let me share some screenshots from her translation of the play Antigone and one singular picture from her translations of Sappho's poetry and you'll see what i mean

how will i ever be normal about this. spoiler alert i won't and i'm happy about it. like. gestures vaguely. one day we will be able to focus enough on this to make a whole post about it but for now i think that's it, thanks for coming to my ted talk lol

[thealmightyemprex]

Halloweenathon : The Return of the Phantom

This installment of the Halloweenathon we shall look at not a movie or short or show but a video game !

In this 1993 game we follow Detective Raoul Montand (tuart W Howard ) investigating a faling chandelier at the Paris opera house ,similar to the evnts surrounding the murders comitted by the Phantom of the Opera (Greg Kemper ) 100 years prior ,however things take a supernatural turn when it turns out not only does the Phantoms ghost haunt the opera house ,but Raoul is flung back in time to 1881 where he must protect Christine Daae (Jonathan Caspian-Kaufman) and stop the Phantom once and for all

So I have recently gotten into computer adventure games .I had just finished the VGA 1992 version of Quest for Glory ,when I stumbled upon this title .I am a Phantom of the Opera fan and I really wanted to playa horror game ,so this seemed like a fun one to do

Now confession:I am not a gamer,in fact this is only the third game I have ever beaten,with the others being Lego Batman (Which I had help with ) and the before mentioned Quest For Glory .So if you want the thoughts of someone who knows what they are talking about you are out of luck.

I have looked into some oppinions on this game from people who know about games where the consensus seems to be its meh........Yeah I cant agree,I had a lot of fun playing this ......But I see if your just coming from this from a gaming perspective this might be underwhelming .However the main criticisms do not bother me at ALL

1.ITs too easy:Hmm ,I understand that .....But I am a wimp who played on Novice ,I am not opposed to easy games

2.Its short: Good that means I could review it before the month ended

3.The voice acting is cheesy:I know right isnt that fun ??? I love the weird voice acting in the game ,it kind of made it more fun ,I especially love the Phantoms over the top evil voice

I wont lie I did have some problems,I found the constant walking tedious and I will admit at one point I used a walkthrough because some of the items I couldnt even see and I had a few technical issues

However the game looks great ,with some fun rotoscoping,great backrounds and fun character animation and I definately enjoyed playing (I beat the game in two days ) ,but that was mostly for the story

Thats kind of what I loved most about the game ,the plot .I love the idea of a detective sent back in time to undo history ,and adding some Phantom of the Opera on top makes it more.It also is definately a melodramtic game...Which is perfect cause Phantom IS Melodrama .I also like some of the ambiguious elements

Overall its definately not the best game but if your a Phantom fan I reccomend or want just a short breezy game .I had a good time playing

@ariel-seagull-wings @metropolitan-mutant-of-ark @amalthea9 @themousefromfantasyland @angelixgutz @princesssarisa @the-blue-fairie @filmcityworld1

[thelindenpapers]

There Was Once A Prince

There was once a prince, given a kingdom of his own by his parents.

Everything in life, to him, was about appearances.

Everyone in life, to him, was as a thing to be used.

But his subjects resented that he did not see them as human beings.

They talked behind his back, which he could ignore – but rumors abounded, as his subjects dreamed of Lands Far Away.

And they sang and gossiped, most of all, about a Kingdom of dragons which has no king: for every dragon was free.

This rankled the king so much, that, instead of enjoying his feasting and jesters and rich lounging couches; he would instead rage and mope and whine all the day.

For though he spoke often about the beauty of freedom; the reality of the concept filled him with insecurity and fear.

He stalked the people who spread the rumors.

But he got no closer to discovering where the Land of dragons was, so that he might conquer it.

His father, a great fool, was also eager to war with dragons, and to have great 'glory' and 'praise' from the victories he imagined.

But the prince's mother was frightened down to her soul: for she knew that the dragons would surely not be defeated in a war.

In fact, they would be sorely insulted by the humans' attempt to colonize them, and would kill the royal family.

And so his mother schemed, and sought, and planned, and plotted as carefully and cleverly as ever she could.

And, one day, his mother succeeded.

She bought to the royal court news of something sure to quell her husband's delusions. Something sure to soothe the ego of the prince.

Something rare: a captured dragon, who had been lured and manacled by the neck to the stone at the summit of a mountain near the castle.

And the mountain had been ringed round with runes: so that his kin could not find, see, or hear him...

Now the dragon struggled and roared and fought, for weeks upon end.

But he couldn't get free.

The prince came to 'speak' to him every day.

Monologues of mind-numbing, wrong-headed topics and ideas, for hours.

At the end of each day, the dragon tried patiently to ask for its freedom.

The dragon hails him as friend.

Speaks kindly and calmly, speaks rationally, "Please free me. Everything here is a lie, and lies are as poison to my kind. I do not belong here."

The prince, always, gets angry and leaves; and pretends upon the next day that the conversation never happened.

The prince's advisors come to see the dragon, too, so he tries to reason with them, instead.

For the dragon is also a seer.

He tells the advisors that his freedom is not just to the dragon's benefit, it is to the benefit of the king and the land as well.

The dragon can SEE the future of this evil act.

His dreams haunt him with terrible images of needless suffering, misery, and pain.

He knows that, the longer he is caged, the deeper will grow a curse upon this land.

To save the dragon, the king, and the human lands, he must be freed!

Yet, the advisors choose to continue to coddle the prince's ego, instead.

For a time, the prince sprinkles the phrase, "For I have spoken with dragons", into his speeches and conversations, and enjoys the momentary regard, anticipation, and intrigue of his people...

Yet, as time wears on, people ignore this assertion:

Because his views and attitudes do not change.

Because his policies and actions remain oriented towards control and the maintenance of image – not well-being or freedom.

If he, indeed, is 'speaking to dragons', it has not changed him for the better, informed the way he moves in the world, nor lent to him any nurturing magics…only given him another empty bragging point to preen over.

_

…The years pass.

The dragon has less and less energy for the prince's foolishness, and becomes sullen and silent: a once vibrant, joyful, wild face now creased with anger and despair, perpetually bared teeth and red eyes, staring; responding to very little, if anything, at all.

True to the dragon's desperate warning, the waters turn bitter.

The sky slowly hazes over. The soil greys. Crops die.

The wildlife dies, or flees for other lands.

The manacle on the dragon's neck is beginning to wear through his skin… he is always very slowly bleeding: the wound oozing and rotting, crawling with maggots.

Wings atrophying. The dragon is frequently sick.

Thrice, over the long years, the dragon hears a single, far-off roar over the horizon, and weeps: for he knows what the sound means.

The dragon's kin do die over time, as all things die -- and he cannot even fly to his family's side to grieve!!!

The advisors, at their limit in trying to manage the curse, come to beg the dragon for advice about the land.

"Free. Me.", He growls, irritated beyond telling at the sheer magnitude of their denial.

The advisors ignore him.

They cannot risk hurting the prince's feelings, nor can they admit that they were wrong.

For in their asinine kingdom, image is everything.

They make an excuse that they fear that the dragon will retaliate, even though they know: freedom is the sole thing he wants.

The dragon curses them for cowards as they leave.

The queen mother tells the prince, 'Oh, you just have to make the dragon happy, to break the curse upon the land. Treat him nicer!'

The prince begins to give the dragon nicer meals.

He decorates the bare stone surroundings with velvet carpets, silk curtains and bejeweled banners; golden lamps, and embroidered pillows.

"Free! Me!", the dragon tearfully bellows...

He is ignored.

_

Fully taking hold, the curse builds unrestrained.

Magical, poisoned fires rise out of the dead grey soil, and eat the dead forests. The smoke of it chokes the sky.

When the winds blow, the air is full of dust and ash.

Peasants lie unburied along quake-broken roads: ravaged by plague, thirst, and starvation.

It begins to rain acid.

The prince, in grand gesture, comes with a troop of weary, impeccably-dressed attendants blowing trumpets, to gift the dragon with a fine, tiny tea set…

Finally, one day, the prince, covered in plague boils, comes to visit.

The dragon's scales and skin have worn through in raw patches under the chains; the pain of which keep him from sleeping.

The dragon stares balefully.

He is just barely holding it together, but he knows.

There is nothing he can say that he hasn't said a million times by now.

He prepares himself to wait silently through another long, awful, one-sided conversation…

The prince sniffles at the dragon dolefully, and monologues: talking about 'how sad' he is for his 'poor kingdom'.

His parents are sick and hallucinate with fevers.

Even his advisors have died.

"But at least I still have you, my dear old friend."

The dragon fucking LOSES it.

When the dragon involuntarily jerks his head upward in fury, the manacle snaps and falls away.

…Unbeknownst to either of them, the acid rain had done more than eaten through the skin of the dragon…

It had worn away at the manacle around its neck.

Suddenly staring down at the king, the dragon's jaw drops.

The prince stares up: his usual placid, oblivious face a mask of total fear.

The dragon, tears streaming down his face, screams the years of rage and sorrow and pain and loneliness and frustration and grief into that face -- without even intending to, without thought – with one, long, firey scream, burning the prince to a crisp.

The surrounding stone of the mountain runs: heating to lava and charred slag…

...

The dragon pauses. Catches his laboured breath.

Without another word, the dragon turns, and, panting, limps his atrophied body slowly away...leaning on his ruined wings, with each step…down the mountain...

Towards the horizon.

Towards whatever remains of home.

[cemjuju]

The Banality of Turkish Democracy, Post truth as Turkish invention, the oxymoron that is "Modern Turkey"

Turkey killed Feminism and its beneficent byproducts before the movements aftereffects could take root in the culture although its modernity was fully adopted in form. Turkish resistance to modernity, I now perceive runs deeper than suspected, and hints at a level of post-colonial human tragedy that no post-colony ever experienced nor postcolonial subject ever could differentiate theoretically or practically. Moreover, post truth for Turkey has a very different and very antiquated meaning that nobody really thinks of. Post truth may be a surprise for the West, but no Turk is ever amazed at the level of banality and anachronistic idiocy it entails. Precisely because post truth is built in and is the reason for the epic failure, that we will never finalize but always experience in what is very quickly the corpse of the nation state of Turkey, thereby haunting us with the concrete realization that we were never ever becoming modern, nor would ever be reaching any real post-modern. The way we destroy ourselves, it has become apparent, is so deeply engrained in the building blocks, I now understand that all resistance is a futile struggle, and the resulting desperation is even more deepened thanks to the last 2,5 decades of banality that we take pride in as progress in our political mutation embodied in that figure of thug of all thugs that has gone way beyond every evil Putin or Xi Jiping could ever hint at. In a matter of years, Erdogan single handedly I think destroyed the Republican efforts, amplified the shortcomings of western techno-democracies and brutally vandalized any and every cognitive sophistication we may have had as a takeaway, were a nuclear disaster to wipe out all humanity. Although Hegelian teleology to me is not the ideal way history unfolds but for me that idea is truly the kernel of how evolution of all human endeavour encapsulates, namely that even when all progress and civilization is destroyed, the remains built upon may not be further in form, but more refined in some way, thereby casting light on how the eternal adage "the Child is the Father of the Man" is thank God the universal truth. That our children at their worst, are better than us, is may be the only light at the end of the tunnel for me. Well Erdogan, really destroyed even that optimism I believe. I do not think any civilization took a step down so drastically and so fundamentally in one generation that we see in Turkey today. I can only point out one or two gigantic edifices that ı find significant but even these to me are so dreadful, I very quickly steered out of the country, at least in decision. I won't be changing my opinion anytime because it sort of seems another four years is not a short enough time to change things.

As I near 50, one of the most tragic and sad experiences of my Turkish reality has become the daily re-creation of my value as a man being obliterated every goddamn day, though I thought both culturally and personally we fought to negate until now. At my prime, I felt both worldly and handsome, definitely not old yet, though called geezer under the youths' breath, but found out that when it came to my contact with the opposite sex, my prime was never recognized and would never be actualized not even if all Turkey's governing bodies were to be taken over by females. Thus, the disillusionment I felt daily due to my light skin, blond hair, blue eyes etc. which eventually did pull its weights as positives (though never as a brad pitt who could never be any female idol-turkish women know that a Man is Tall, Dark and Handsome. period.) There can never be a blond aryan sex symbol or star in Turkey. never. However, as a person who has never needed such social validation, I could stomach my incredibly well-chiseled facial features (!) never being cherished by the short, stocky, olive skinned and dark haired female beauty of the middle east that I found so sexy and always hopelessly griped after, that what I began to fearfully recognize is that no matter how old, how well elevated my children may be, how popular I may be in my industry etc etc, at the level of male of the species courting the female, every single flirtsy move I may or may not make, every gentlemanly demeanour I practice towards the fairer sex as a result of both my American feminist mother's uprbringing coupled with the well rounded good and handsome gentlemanly tradition will always forever be primarily recognized and branded by all women without recognition of age, education, etc. as the painstakingly slow but deliberate, conspiratorial evil steps of a serial rapist man after fucking every female they eye can see until they all crumble under his boot. I felt horrified when I had to confront the fact that this would only get worse because as I got older my threat only became more feeble thus less effective but never re-defined... Imagine considering females as the brighter side of the species all your life and knowing both by observation, present understanding of the highest sophistication, experience with feminism in the more formative which may make your presence an actual contribution to the cultural progression as a whole, suddenly obliterated under a crude, cultural bootstrap that no female you ever fell in love with due to admiration of higher standards would ever recognize. I would be forever praising a role model that always took me as a formative enemy that needs to be kept at bay. Thus, Turkey never really understood what liberties were gained by the emancipation of the female, that benefited the whole species, as all evolution devolved into the demonized caricature of opposing sexes the patriarchy constantly supported. Understanding that this fact would never change but would be less felt by me as I grew older made me shudder with terror and made me start to see the totality of the horror that is modern Turkey, the pinnacle I took so much pain to defend my very own presence here for half a century of my personal life.

For all that time, I associated Turkey as East, with differentiating human natural and universal features like vitality of spirit, dynamism of nature as reflected in the chaotic and entropic telelological climb humanity took, shadowed under Western institutionalized, scientist, positivist, and clinically inhuman elements that the Western establishment called progress, which I felt was celebrated and invigorated in the daily disaster that is the modern, capitalist Turkish Republic. It was Turkey that was the true amalgam of Western progressivism and Eastern spiritual empiricism etc etc etc. All hogwash, I have to admit today. And not until half a century passed. I don't know if this level of stupidity I took pride in vain until now, was either a compassionate and self-evaluative critical modern individual gaze, a product of that same establishment, or a terribly uneducated, almost vulgar failure "that only education could create" to see beyond the theoretical constructs of the day that never seemed to fully elucidate the Turkish experience for me in their daily terminological ammunition. Or maybe this was the Turkish unique genetic stamp of its people, that same people that pervaded all throughout history but never seemed to concretize its statehood and governance as successfully as its cultural presence. Clearly Turkish people are unique in their adaptability, in their blinded and focussed laboriousness that doesn't shine until the very last moment when every other person thinks all is lost, when Turks rise to the challenge and save the day... It is almost gladiatorial to watch, and it was not seldom I took pride in this genuine display of human endeavour that no other land, language and people could ever display in history perhaps. It is truly thanks to that fact I suppose, that the comparison of cognitive leap that took 8 centuries in Europe was handled by Turks in the 20th century, in 8 decades, albeit with slight growing pains, which could only be natural and even a blessing compared to what could've gone wrong.... Or so I thought...

Yet again I am reminded of the lesson of humanity in general and the paradox that is the tragic condition of humans: We are eternally devoid of attaining the full grandeur that we display due to very same level of terror that cannot ever disappear or studied out of the personal, national, historical consciousness. Forever we will be sabotaging what we do, and no better does Turkey show this horrifying reality with the disaster that the last 25 years of Erdoganism wrought upon not only the nation, but we now realize onto actual generations that we cannot foresee. I thought my daughter would wrestle with some obstacles we thought had disappeared, now it seems by the time those kinks in the fabric of the land are cleared, the goddamn government and flag may change yet we have no clue what could be in its place.

We at times chuckled at the level of destruction AKP and Erdogan did on modern Turkey with the analogy that all the most famous "external enemies" we constantly spoke up could never in their lives imagine the sophistication and impact of self-dismantling we ourselves performed. Nobody laughs at this anymore; I shudder at the implication and shrug away, occupied with the sense of desperate failure, true utter failure because my next purchase of property will definitely never be on Muslim soil anymore. I have lost faith in the future this country held for me, that I held onto and used in defence of remaining here all my life, while every single person around me ever since my early 20's said to get out. While I cherish the labour of care I bestowed onto my dying relatives for the coming 2 decades, today I do not feel fully without regret as I did a few years back. Unfortunately, because this one big blow on my intelligence, on the foreshadowing power and sensibility I have built over the years with rather a bright level of modern education, of the best establishments of the miracle of modern Turkey albeit in an industry that today no one has any use of. Today, both teaching, languages, literature etc are not only cast out as the cheapest and poorest earning professions (teachers used to be struggling middle class, but now are lower low class, even at the level of private formative teaching meaning damn hard with 20-30 hours of actual teaching per week, almost a par with the bare minimum wage. The level of fatigue and corresponding lack of compensation must be devastating to anyone persevering in the craft, as every serious person knows no matter how sophisticated they themselves may be, the level of teachers in a culture, be it kindergarten or university, is the be-all end-all of their very own existence. Einstein doesn't easily get born if kindergarten sucks.

Moreover, those two shining institutions that I proudly compared to Oxford easily, that were lacking nothing from any good state university today is counting the hours before the final demise. Such speed in destruction, by the children of their own construction... None of us like to hear of it, because such blows, we fear, will never be recuperated. We are terrified at the prospect that we will need to create yet again that spark. I personally know that stone carries human endeavour better than the people, that sometimes, even the worst teachers of the oldest best school still give the best education. Almost metaphysical, I know, but the more I get old, the more I recognize that all the dumbass Europeans really worried about was only the 50% that makes up all human life. the remaining 50% is stil vague, like dark energy, theorized in nursery rhyme conspiracies like luck, fate, destiny, divine accidents etc. This doesn't make them less real, no less so, however we do tend to lose focus of the weight that 50% carries, and we speak less thus remember less their role, the most obvious example to me, being the erasure of luck out of the capitalist, individualistic narrative of success. It is thanks to that mistake, I will forever be succesfull no matter who says what about me... That same luck gave me self-confidence in a second of time after years of pondering over its lack.... I digress.. But this is another part of an autobiography. An autobiography that both depicts the outlier of a very marginal tiny fraction of Turkish family, the existence I and my family lived, albeit short, but that same brand of strange uniqueness also made me realize and make up my mind about whether to stay or go. I thought I would stay to the end. Now I know I will never return as much as I can. I now see that I finally have learned to "love myself" to not kill myself under Turkish culture terror. Because we need to face this, I thought this would change, it won't; the Turkish state apparatus lives as a vampire on its people. We die so this edifice can live on and be worshipped. This brutality, this banality of vulgarity is so anahcronistic, it makes our worst "enemy", Christian Europe, mourn and weep after the demise of its favorite thus most formative enemy, the Muslim Turk, much more than we have ever realized.

Will continue later... Man this became dark quickly innit?

[donovanmaldonado]

Blog Assignment #3 (Donovan Paul Maldonado)

For this week’s blog assignment, the short story entitled “Wet Pain” resonated the most with me, and made for a very enjoyable read all around. I, admittedly, went into the narrative blind, foregoing any short synopses or lectures from the professor that might potentially spoil its contents. This proved to be a great choice. Conforming to most of the other selections studied thus far in the course, I thought this story was to house a generic monster, leading the plot details to follow in a fairly predictable manner. For one of the few moments in my life thus far, I was so happy that I was wrong.

There was no masked murderer, reaping havoc on everyone that stood in their way. No creature who kills or eats indiscriminately. A lack of a natural disaster who commands Mother Nature to prey upon the masses, forcing us to accompany the protagonists in a run for their lives. But, the story did follow another familiar formula, right? A plague that ravishes the land, pinning once rational humans against the survivors? In a sense. Instead of a zombie-creating plague, however, it is the very real and pervasive disease of racism to be reckoned with here. I can watch zombies tear apart humans with no real hesitation. Why? Because I happen to know, with a fairly high degree of certainty, that this is fictitious and not likely to affect me in my lifetime. The same can not be said for racial discrimination and other forms of hatred. These are very much real and happening now at any given moment.

I have suffered from the same pain that Greg did in the story. I, too, have also lost a once accepting friend to the menacing hands of racism and hatred. He was a person I grew up with. He has seen me through a lot of trials and tribulations. He never left my side and never seemed positioned to do so. Until one day, he seemingly began his unfortunate transformation. We are both Latino, him Mexican on both sides and me half, with Puerto Rican comprising the other piece of the puzzle. This distinction seemed largely benign and negligent, as we were just one thing at the end of the day. Friends. One of our favorite activities to do together was play basketball. We were both highly competitive, but he seemed to always take it a bit more seriously than I ever did. One day, this theory was upheld in an emphatic manner. I won, which did not happen much. He was usually too fast for me to keep up, as I was much bigger than him and would not be guarding him in an actual basketball game. He took exception to the last couple of possessions, and we started going back and forth in our retorts. The details of this conversation remain forgotten now, but the culmination of the argument does not. Here he proclaimed, with finality, “okay spic.” I was in utter shock.

What makes the story of Greg and I so concerning is the lack of an answer associated with it. The subgenres listed above, for the most part, offer this definitive conclusion. Regardless of the horrors seen on the screen or in between the lines, there is an origin story offered. What caused the horror to be horrific to begin with? What was the inception of this evil? With us, this is not the case. What caused our friends to succumb to this evil? Was it always there and just needed to be reawakened with our presence? Was it an invisible entity that managed to find a suitable host, infecting them as a whole? We will never know, rendering these personal experiences so truly haunting.

[zeffevnon]

but to be loved

i've been thinking about writing down what i want... from life, i guess. and i'm unexpectedly conflicted about it. it's kind of a frightening thing. maybe that's because i don't want to admit what i want. maybe that's because, for some reason or another, i don't want to let go of what i don't want. after all, it seems that is what has been driving me for... as long as i can remember, i guess. i don't know the last time i felt like i had an enduring sense of purpose that properly drove me. i remember times when i followed a distant light (namely the sense of righteous purpose i felt when i took the gospel seriously), but i don't trust my own honesty with myself in those times. looking back, i see a boy who--more than anything--feared falling short of the expectations of others. and not only do i doubt the conviction of my former faith, but i am also aware of its fleeting nature. i clung to god most when i was frightened. the fear of the abyss within me drove me from behind. seldom did i feel like i was pulled forward by divine promise.

and this tells of a larger theme in my life. one that prevails now even when i've left god behind. i am not pulled forward by anything; i am pushed reluctantly forward (to whatever degree i move forward at all) by fear of what might happen if i stay where i am. i don't believe in the reliability of standing still. things fall apart. when have i ever reliably been pulled toward something that was meaningful to me? again, my desires are fleeting--barely desires at all. they are perhaps more accurately described as whims. i admit now, still reluctantly, that this may simply be the way my brain is wired: to float from one desire to the next, forgetting in one moment what captivated me in the last. but this admission does nothing to ease the burden of the fact that i've never wanted anything...

but in saying so i fail to be honest with myself. i've never wanted anything, but to be loved. the singular thread through the ebb and flow of my motivations has been a silent desperation to be fully understood, and cherished as i am. i have always known my imperfection. it's haunted me at times, consumed me at times. it has never eluded me. i want to be accepted anyway. and not just accepted, but chosen. too many people--people who i loved, people who were supposed to love me--have come and gone. i have been left behind by parents, grandparents, friends, and lovers. love in my life is like the moon, rising and falling in a multitude of shapes and sizes and colors. yes, the moon always returns eventually. but it never just... stays. on some long, cold, dark nights, it never shines at all. the one thing i want is something i know i can't depend on. i accept now, all too casually i fear, that people are but moments in my life. but i don't want it to be that way. i want someone to come and lie with me in the opaque darkness as the nights pass one moon at a time. just one person. just one person to hold and know without reservation that i can trust to stay.

again i must admit of some dishonesty. i have a loving mother. i have a family who loves me, torn and scattered as that family is. and i am more grateful for them than anything else in my life. but a mother and brothers and sisters are no substitute for a companion. i confide in no one. i cleave to no one. i hold no one, and am held by no one. i carry on clinging to the fading hope of something i don't know i can believe in. how long can that last?

i do believe in looking into the abyss. i do believe in fighting the demons i find within. but what a sad way to live: to be motivated only by the disgust i have for myself! i don't like that at all, and i don't want to live like that. yet every day i find myself wading laboriously, slowly, poorly, in the fear of my own weakness. i do not feel strong. i do not feel as though i'm fighting nobly against some evil. if i did, maybe i could find some gratification or meaning in the struggle. i am treading, tired, head barely above the water. i have gotten better at it these last few years, forced to face being alone. even before i was single, i felt alone. my previous love never really gave me what i needed. i always felt i had to hide some part of myself, and if i ever bared myself fully, she too would leave. eventually, she did. as did the love before her. as did the love before her. i give myself to somebody and inevitably they turn their back on me.

how can i live a life motivated by such feelings? how long can i live like this? i don't want to end my life, not anymore anyway. but its sad, existing this way.

so a part of me says, 'run toward the potential of the future! spread your wings and chase the sun across the sky!' but the days are short now, and the sun sets as surely as the moon. i have had dreams. i have dreamt of being a doctor, a lawyer, a writer, a professor, and much more. but these dreams pass faster than the moments of love. i can't say i have ever been truly drawn to any career, and in fact i have always had some degree of disdain for the idea that i ought to be motivated by a career. its a bit vulgar, i think, to be driven by the thought of achievement; to fellate oneself at the prospect of one's own greatness. i don't need to be great. i need to feel fucking safe. i need to feel like everything i have worked or fought or suffered for or held dear won't one day slip through my fingers. maybe that's an unrealistic need. maybe it's just as delusional to believe i can hold on to anything as it is to believe in my ability to become 'great'. maybe i should listen to myself when i assert that 'things fall apart', and realize that to expect anything different is absurd. but existence itself is absurd, and i need what i need.

[black-dhalias]

Blunt Force

Platonic!Finnick Odair X Reader

Peeta Mellark X Reader

Warnings: Language, brief descriptions of human trafficking, sexual themes

You won at fourteen, the youngest female to ever win, tied for the youngest ever with Finnick Odair. A District Two prodigy—a Capitol favorite and one of Snow’s favorites to pass around. Male victors rarely ever reached that level of appeal, but Finnick did… That’s what made Snow so malicious, so evil to you—a package deal is what he would call it.

Maybe you were too bitter about the whole thing, too stuck in the past, but being bitter is allowed in such circumstances. You breathe in deeply, a frigid District two wind burns your cheeks a harsh red. The furs of your jacket doing little to protect—you hear the distant cheers of the people. So much value put into the Hunger Games by District Two citizens, that even when Two doesn’t win—they cheer for the arriving Victors. They chant for victory, but you only remember the faces of Cato and Clove… You trained them. Helped raise them in the center. But it was rarely ever enough to keep them alive, but 74th Annual Victory Tour is upon you.

Everything is for survival, so its not like you can blame Katniss and Peeta. The star crossed lovers, not that you really believe that pathetic story got a second. Its all a performance in the games. Just like you killing your allies during the day, when you easily could have mercy killed them at night when they left you to watch by yourself. Just like you, they did everything to survive.

“Ms. Y/L/N… When I say jump, you will jump. When I say kill them… You kill them. When I tell you to fuck someone, you fuck them. You may not have a family, but Ms. Y/L/N, your certainly care for people.”

“I don’t have anyone.”

“Keep saying that and I’ll show you the price of lying to me.”

That was the day you learned your place in Panem, it made it impossible to forget. You would have to do anything to survive, do anyone—all at the beck and whim of a temperamental President. But he controlled you, and your body—he kept a tight grip. Your life comes in flashes, colors and shades—bright lights. It all happened so fast. You get dressed. You get to the party. You drink until your cheeks are warm, and then you see the boy from Twelve.

“Peeta Mellark.” Your lips still taste of spirits, as you smile at him—maybe he saw you first. Maybe he was curious. Or maybe he saw you staring, but you take his outstretched hand with a grin.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” He probably knows your name, most of Panem knows of your famed victory as you raise a brow, grinning more vibrantly. “Tell me Peeta Mellark… Would you like a drink?”

It didn’t start out as flirting, but now as he pins you to a wall—you begin to think that you might have flirted a bit. Might have thought he had a nice smile. Might have let those blue eyes entice you a little too close to the sun.

What do you care though? You like the way his lips taste—like red wine with a texture as soft as cotton. Sloppy kisses. Aggressive touches, needy—your back against the wall and fingers in his hair. All in flashes as you pull his ear to your lips, “Tell me what you want?”

“Bite me.” You oblige, his moans pushing you over the edge. And before you know it, your locked in an office in the Justice Building with your clothes on the floor.

You don’t see him again until the Victor’s parade, the 75th Hunger Games nearly underway. Clad in the skimpy armor, not much has changed in the way they dress you—just more skin as you grew up. Now they have more to work with than they did when you were fourteen. The same stylist. The same mentor. Different district partner. Brutus—probably your closest friend of the Victor’s, since he is your neighbor.

You were so angry when you got back from your Games—couldn’t understand why you woke up screaming, when all you ever wanted was to win. So why did you feel so haunted? But Brutus helped, he made you sane. Or more sane.

You see Finnick—someone you’ve had to stand naked in a room with. Sold and bartered for, but at least you had each other.

“Are you okay?” You ask, not trying to draw attention to you.

“Don’t let him kiss me again.”

“I‘ll try, Finnick.” You can take it, that’s what you tell yourself every second. He’s a couple years older, four years to be exact. Stuck in this nightmare longer, forced longer; and some days, you need him to take it. This party has been hard though, roughly ten people and all of them want a taste. Just sixteen and twenty… Kids… But you’re already pawns, and have been from the moment they announced your names as Victors.

You slip off the sheer robe and immediately met with a round of praise, just enough of a distraction. Just to take the attention away from Finnick. Let them look.

Johanna is there too—in the typical District Seven tree get up. You won’t hear the end of her antics, so you stay away, but naturally you gravitate towards Peeta. Your last encounter stuck in your head, locked in—you wonder if he thinks about you too.

“Hey Pretty Boy, miss me?” He smiles more innocently than before, more than you remember.

“Kinda sucks, huh?” There’s an edge to his tone, but you don’t think anything of it—everyone is on edge right now.

“I was hoping for another chance with the famed Peeta Mellark.” You pause, stepping closer. “I hear you’re engaged.”

“And I heard about what you do with Odair.” You had thought his smile was kind, but it held a double meaning like a double sword. Your smile fades and your expression drops, and you’re met with the cruel reality of your decisions.

“I don’t—That really doesn’t matter.”

“If you do it with him, and me, then I bet you do it with everyone.” Whore, that was the word Snow used the first time he partnered you with Finnick.

It echoes; however, what can you do? You go numb, then you harden and walk away. A heart of stone is the only way to survive the things you have done, and gone through. Standing in the chariot, your head held high—you tighten your jaw.

You needed someone. You always need someone, one way or another, but you actually liked Peeta. Liked how he spoke, how he made you smile, but there you go. All the hope of having someone drains away. All at once—you don’t care as much.

“Y/N… You have to smile.”

“I have no reason to smile, Brutus.”

In the arena, you stay close to Finnick—he was supposed to keep District Twelve alive, and you made it your mission to keep Finnick alive. You keep far away from Peeta though. You resent him and his judgement, because your actions kept you alive. You don’t need that from anyone.

“Y/N!” Your body pins to the rocks, digging into your skin, spilling red as your fingers blister under the pressure. Finnick is the one yelling your name you think, the knife still stuck in your side from Cashmere—round and round until you slip. Just a split second of not holding on, is enough to send you flying through the air. A salty spray blinding you as you reach wildly—but there’s nothing to grab.

Finnick… “I couldn’t do this alone… Y/N I really couldn’t, its nice to have someone who understands.” You’ll never see him marry Annie, or have a little Finnick of his own. You lose sight of him on the Cornucopia, and pray he’ll be able to hold on a little longer.

Brutus… “Y/N, you made it all okay. Like I wasn’t alone.” Maybe Brutus makes it out of this, you tried desperately to reach for anything, but there is nothing to grab.

“Immerse yourself in the moment, the Hunger Games are an honor, and you should be honored to train as a potential tribute. Next to none of you will be chosen, but a select few will bring honor and glory to District two. Prepare yourself, you will be broken down and then built up into the perfect tribute. Look around, you’re no longer friend, but instead, competitors. Fight well, earn your place in history.” You always believed the Hunger Games were righteous until you won—then it really became twisted. Because kids are just kids, until they’re not.

Peeta… “For some reason, I thought you were scary. But you’re not.” His fingers rub against your bare shoulder, brushing the skin with care. He was the first to show you love, real love—or what love could taste like. He didn’t ask anything of you, only to exist.

“I’m terrifying.”

“No you’re beautiful.”

Your head smacks against the rocks, at least that’s what it feels like because you’re not sure. The whole world, has gone black.

When Finnick feels the world stop spinning—when the rocks stop burning the palms of his hands. He launches into a search for you. “Y/N!” Bu his search is a blind one, because you don’t speak. Or yell for help. You are just gone. “Y/N!” Why isn’t anyone helping? Why—your Y/H/C hair stands out against the dark tones of the ocean. Every time Finnick blinks he is closer to you, he is huffing. Counting the seconds. Drowning kills faster than a blink. Him dragging you to the rocks.

The next time he blinks he is performing CPR, demanding you come back to him. He’s never had to perform CPR on someone that matters to him, its usually just strangers. You come back though, sputtering to life and inhaling a hard breath—one that burns your throat. Too much salt water causing burns to the inside of your cheeks and chest.

Finnick embraces you tight and you melt into your best friend, having tasted what death feels like. It was flashes and bright, and you wanted nothing to do with it. But the moment ends.

“Oh yeah… Nothing’s going on.” You look up at Peeta, getting up too fast, your footing almost sending you back to the ground. But you don’t, you are glaring at Peeta through your vision that continues to go in and out.

“You know what, maybe I am just some whore. Maybe I did what I did, to myself. Created that reputation of mine. But I did everything I did to survive. We did what we did to survive.” You sneer, your head spinning as you stumble back a step. But Finnick puts his hand on your back and keeps you upright, but you shake him off. The whole world is spinning. “And I will be damned before I let some low life from District Twelve shame me.” Then it goes black…

Finnick calling your name, your body on the rocks—his hands cupping the back of your head, fingers coated in thick blood. Your hair drenched. He feels the tears carving up his cheeks, they burn with the salt water. Peeta numb and still as your cannon echoes over the arena. One second you were here, fighting for the right to just exist without shame. The next you are gone, your best friend—your person, crying. Begging.

That’s the thing about blunt force trauma, you never know how long you’re going to last.

.

.

.

.

Your death haunted Peeta, stuck with him and never seemed to get easier. He couldn’t rationalize how he treated you, or explain away the pain he caused. He partially blamed, no completely blamed himself. Maybe if he had just listened. Heard you out, you wouldn’t have stood up so quick or pushed yourself too far… Maybe you would have lasted a little longer, but you died. Just like that. There and gone.

He asked Finnick in the tunnels, if it was real—if that really happened. It was the only nightmare that wasn’t glossy, it was untouched. Just painful and blistered, that’s why it was left alone to stay there.

You took the force of Panem. Of men and women who felt entitled to your time. Of President Snow. Of judgement. Of a lot. Of Peeta… You were the victim of blunt force trauma long before it killed you, that was the worst part.

“Real…” He whispers to himself, sitting on the porch—wondering what could have been. All the what ifs. He never had a chance to get to know you, all Peeta knew was he liked you. He liked the way you carried yourself. What you stood for. He imagines he would have fallen in love with given the chance, if time would have permitted it.

That was his blunt force trauma. An injury that’ll slowly bleed him dry without there ever being a visible wound. The fact that he might have been the reason you slipped, that he might have pushed you a little too far.

[simpingcowboy]

"Why Did You Do It?"

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x GN!Reader, established relationship

Warnings: Angst, mentions of systems of oppression

Word Count: 600~ ficlet

Summary: Years after the events of WW84. You ask your boyfriend Maxwell Lord why he became the dreamstone and threw the world into chaos.

Author's Note: I love Maxwell, and wanna send him to therapy so badly. Until then, we'll get some nice talking it out with a romantic partner instead. 

"Max…why did you do it?"

     You'd never asked him before. It was long a thing of the past. Something you inevitably always knew about him. Something most everyone who saw the broadcast that day knew him by. You never felt compelled to ask. The answer was obvious enough. It was the same fate that engulfed a world of people into its grasp. Greed.

     Even now, it lingers. A horrible reminder of the worst of mankind. Of the terrible greed that rots us all from the inside out. A haunting image with your now partner, Maxwell Lord being the terrible poster child to. The visual of him sick and decaying on your TV screen still carved into the terrible recesses of your mind. 

     Most of the world saw him as a real life monster, who came to throw the world into chaos. Many never forgave him. You never thought you would either. Let alone end up falling in love with him. How could you ever love someone so evil so corrupted. Yet, here he sat. Your partner of several years. Opposite of you on the couch in your shared apartment. 

     Warm brown hair messy from a day's work. Work shirt halfway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. His stiff work pants swapped out for comfortable blue jeans. Tracing further down his body, mismatched socks cover his feet. He was just a man. So far from the monster you once believed him to be.

"Max…why did you do it?"

Max shifts his attention over to you. Shuffling his position on the couch to face you. 

"What did you say, Mi Amor?"

"Maxwell. Why did you do it?"

He knows what you're asking.

     In your time together you'd never asked, he hoped you never would. He has long crafted an automated response, for all the strangers that came up and asked. For all the press speeches and public apologies he made. A perfect response that held him accountable while still playing on others sympathies. After all, most of the world has collaborated in his efforts and were they not just as guilty as him? But he knew that wasn't enough for you. You needed- no deserved more than that. You deserved the truth. Max only hoped you'd be understanding. 

     Max let's out a soft sigh as he presses himself against the couch letting his whole body relax. His head rolls back along the edge of the couch and he lazily closes his eyes.

"It was never about money…or power…or even greed." 

     He opens his eyes briefly to catch your initial response before closing them tightly again.

 He couldn't face you and the truth simultaneously. 

"I wanted to be someone. I wanted people to think I was worth something… No one even looked at me. I was a poor immigrant. I was nobody. I just wanted to be respected…I wanted to be treated like everyone else. I wanted my son to be treated like everyone else. Money and power…were just the easiest way to get that."

Max exhales dramatically. The metaphysical sin no longer feeling nearly as heavy. 

"That is why. Mi Vida." He reiterates as he opens his eyes back up to look at you, devastation and desperation cloud his gaze. "And I- I do not think I am so bad for that", a silent tear escapes Max and races down his cheek. 

"Maxwell" you say in a hushed tone as you reach out to take his tear stricken cheek in your hand "I love you" and you do. You love Max Lord. The face of greed, the minister of evil, the man who was once the dream stone itself. But you also love Maxwell Lorenzo the man who loved his son and just like any parent was so desperate to make the world a better place for his child. Maxwell Lord was not a bad man. Nor a particularly good one. He was just a man lost in the world, always trying to make a way for himself. 

"I love you." You repeat as more tears fall. Max pulls you into him as he begins to weep into your chest. 

"I love you…

I love you Maxwell."