#it is all insufficient. i was not supposed to live this long.

[transmechanicus]

I’m allowed one (1) vent of the colossal amounts of pressure my body and mind are under per month and i usually do my best to bury it in the early hours of the morning, so now that i’ve provided this valuable and important context:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[scatteredshowersposts]

A post-canon, pre-reunion No. 6 playlist for Shion. This playlist follows Shion from the end of Volume 9, through Beyond, until just before he reunites with Rat. It concludes right before the events of my story, Summer Rain.

In the Country - La Luz There isn't one thing that I wouldn't do for you Why leave?

Good Grief - Dessa But I’m willing to work for this Just show me where to dig And I’m ready to hurt for this

I Don't Trust U Anymore - Left at London As a kid, I was idolizing millionaires and all the presidents But I don't trust them anymore No way, no way, no, not again And I may never trust at all No way, no way, I'm over them

Working for the Knife - Mitski I always thought the choice was mine And I was right, but I just chose wrong I start the day lying and end with the truth That I'm dying for the knife

Glass House - Screaming Females Whose house is this? A gift was promised Future structures till we all vanish

The Center Won't Hold - Sleater-Kinney I need a real affliction Gives me a reason to stay I need a new reflection Don't wanna see my face

Fear the Future - St. Vincent When the Earth split in two I was I, you were you I run for you Run for me, too

Kokomo, IN - Japanese Breakfast God, I wish we could go back there Left alone in my room I know they deserve you too And maybe I'm not that worthy

[lets-try-some-writing]

Death and Taxes

The Thirteenth is death, he is its herald and its warden. He is a divine being greater than any mortal with a purpose so specific that no other could fulfill it. He only took on a mortal frame for the sake of searching for a potential living Prime to set things straight. He was not at all prepared for the mess that is being a mortal.

In light of his oddities, mecha who work in customer service across Kaon both fear and adore him.

Previous part here.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Death, or rather Orion Pax, was not unfamiliar with mortal customs. He had seen enough in his long eternities within the void to have a basic understanding of how mortals worked. Combined with Alpha Trion and Ratchet's dutiful teachings, things made even more sense for him. But of course, there are simply some things one must experience to really comprehend. One of those things was bureaucracy and domestic affairs.

While serving under Alpha Trion, Orion had no need to bother with things such as buying his own energon, dealing with housing, or otherwise interacting with mecha aside from Ratchet on a regular basis. Alpha Trion took care of anything that required serious interaction and the Archives were always stocked with enough to get by. When not wandering the void, Orion resided with datapads in a small dark corner with a singular pillow and that was all he needed. There was no interaction and no bothersome affairs. If he needed something, it was provided.

That all changed when he finally found someone worthy of the Matrix.

Megatronus was most certainly worthy, but he resided all the way in Kaon. That was initially not an issue for Orion since he would leave for extended periods of time anyway and return to the archives as needed to collect data or otherwise restock on supplies. However after he began to bend the rules a little too much in the optics of his fellow Primes, he had to become more... conservative with how he used his abilities. No longer could he travel between the archives and Kaon every half a groon to get something or other. Now his trips needed to be with purpose and taken with greater care. Not to mention he could not longer leech off Alpha Trion on a regular basis, not when he spent much of his time so far from archives.

The issue was small at first for Orion as he brought a stock of energon and shanix with him down to Kaon in order to get by. He hung around in the pits largely loitering in corners when he wasn't conversing with his chosen Champion. However that quickly grew to be highly suspicious as other gladiators glared and those in charge of the pits started to take notice of him. Megatronus even reached out in concern, wondering if he was alright and if he needed somewhere to recharge. It was at that point that Orion realized he needed to get a proper base of operations down in Kaon if he was to continue operating and going back to the archives in a timely manner. He wasn't supposed to be drawing any serious attention.

And so after contacting Ratchet, Orion went hab hunting. According to what he read in the archives and online, it should have been an easy task. He had the required rank to get a reasonable residence, and Ratchet dealt with all the actual talking, yet Orion found himself struggling to find a place he actually liked.

Ratchet: What about this one? It has a sizable living space and a nice patio.

Orion: No, it is too bright for the void that I am fond of to pierce the veil of this reality.

Ratchet: That's fair enough. I like it a bit darker too. How about this one then? Its a bit quaint but its less bright.

Orion: The sounds from the railway will drown out the calls of the lost. My duty will be left unfulfilled. It is insufficient.

Ratchet: Alright, I understand. Then this one seems better, right? Its quiet, away from the most obnoxious lights, and is within a compound for Iaconian citizens.

Orion: My spark will weaken surrounded by those who serve the corrupt. Their sins will weigh heavy on my mind.

Ratchet: Well then what do YOU have in mind?

Orion: This one is far from the obstructions of mortal make. I will be able to see through the veil without difficulty and none shall break me from my reverie.

Ratchet: ...

Orion: ...

Ratchet: Its on the outskirts of Kaon. That's bad territory Orion. Gangs and all sorts of other unsavory types tend to live out in the boondocks.

Orion: They shall not touch me. I shall ensure it.

Ratchet: ... I believe you.

Eventually, against Ratchet's warnings and Alpha Trion's questioning, Orion moved to the outskirts of Kaon with his singular box of belongings. His hab was in the most seedy part of Kaon that was still within walking distance of the arenas. Ratchet was not at all pleased, especially once he noticed the shady individuals who lived in the area. Of course Ratchet was far less concerned for his friend and more worried about those who would be interacting with him. But Orion was totally unconcerned as he marched right into his hab without greeting anyone, put down his singular box of things, and set up a desk by the window so that he could work for the archives from a distance.

Ratchet was left to become more and more concerned as Orion proceeded to put his small collection of datapads on his desk and sit down, the rest of his hab completely empty. It took quite a while for the medic to explain to Orion that he needed to have something decorative in his hab to not be seen as unusual. And thus within the next few cycles, a small gathering was hosted at Orion's new residence where a few associates gave him things to decorate his hab with and offered to help him set it up. Ratchet ended up giving Orion a small blaster and assisting him in painting every single wall various shades of black, blue, and purple, all in dark varieties. Megatronus dropped by for a little while with a set of officers at his sides to ensure he didn't run off and he then proceeded to pass Orion a bottle of high grade before leaving. Soundwave also made an appearance before leaving, but it was a quick in and out situation where he handed Orion some Shanix with a card attached that said to buy what he wanted.

That was Orion's house warming party of a sorts, and so after a rundown of how normal mecha function from Ratchet, Orion was left to his own devices. It did not take long at all for him to garner a reputation. Most of his cycles consisted of spending the early groons doing work for the archives, namely handling files from a distance and digitizing texts from nearby and far smaller archives. Afterwards he would proceed straight to the arena to speak with Megatronus in an attempt to not bend the rules and possibly be left with a greater punishment. This alone was fine. It was when he deviated from his normal routine that his reputation formed and was reiterated.

Orion did not generally need to consume energon. In fact it was more unsettling when he did consume it due to how half of it bled out from his plating throughout the course of the cycle. Despite that, Ratchet told Orion again and again that normal mecha consumed some energon and kept a stock of it. Thus Orion was forced to go to the store and buy some semi-regularly. The first time he did so at the local store, he stared the cashier down in total silence until his groceries were scanned and he paid. The cashier was scared stiff but ultimately waved it off, thinking Orion a one time costumer. The cashier was wrong.

Once a deca-cycle on the dot, Orion would return to the store to buy the exact same thing, over and over again. Not a word would be exchanged, but Orion had a tendency to overpay and not a spark was willing to try and give him his change with how... cold he was. He came in, bought his energon, and left without a word. What was at first unsettling came to be appreciated by the mecha working at the store. When Orion came in, other less civil customers left and Orion would stroll along the aisles without comment. It was a break for the overworked employees and his abundant overpaying was a welcome reward for their efforts. It reached the point of becoming a ritual of sorts, one where Orion came by on one appointed cycle once a deca-cycle. All employees would fall silent and relax as Orion would spent exactly half a groon wandering and taking his time observing before buying the same thing he always did. Then he would quietly ring up his items and the employees would have a silent battle over who got to be the one to serve him. The winner promptly assisted him and in return received the extra Shanix that came from Orion's overpaying habit.

The employees did not ever dare comment on the fact that Orion looked like he crawled out of some pit and simply never returned. New employees were all trained in the delicate art of being respectful of the favored customer from Iacon and not a spark dared to interrupt his routine. The singular mech who tried to ask Orion if he needed help received a frigid gaze and a quiet but terrifying answer.

Employee: Sir, can I help you? You seem to be a little lost.

Employee 2: NO! You idiot! Leave Mr. Pax alone!

Orion: I require no aid from that which will wither and die. The offer is quaint and appreciated, but useless.

Employee: Y-Yes Sir. Please continue what you were doing.

Employee 2: You glitch, you've ruined his routine.

Nothing particularly bad happened when Orion's routine was messed with, but there was always an aura of potential danger when it was. Not to mention he tended to not leave extra Shanix behind when he paid. The employees were totally unaware of the fact that their interactions with him merely made him more prone to focus and thus actually count out the correct amount of shanix to be given for his purchases. But of course they didn't know that and simply assumed he was an oddball who liked the quiet and paid generously to have it while shopping.

Orion's reputation at the store was unique, but it did not reach the legendary reputation he held amongst the neighborhood he moved into. Much like with his purchases of energon, Orion did not tend to do anything out of his hab very often. But there were instances where it was required, and from those experiences, Orion learned and was rewarded with wary gazes for it.

Once a stellar cycle Orion was required to take his trash out to the incinerators since he had not paid for any sort of garbage disposal services. This was not a hard task for a mech who produced little waste and who had strength that exceeded the normal bounds of mortality. But of course initially his newfound neighbors found themselves eager to scout him out and see if he was a viable target. Gang members were sent to watch him and talk to him if possible to assess the danger he posed. All returned to their organization with the same consensus.

Orion Pax was not to be touched.

The first few times he was observed, the information gleaned told his observers that he was a scrappy but well funded mech. A difficult target, but not impossible considering he lived alone and was an archivist. This led to his hab being broken into a handful of times before any sort of confrontation. Only instead of finding swaths of shanix or useful material, what greeted the invaders was a space straight out of a horror film. Orion's hab was pitch black, with all sorts of anatomy notes, drawings, and prints covering the walls like some sociopathic killer lived in the space. His space was frigid at all times and his few shelves were filled with datapads and each were labeled with the name of some important mech up on the political ladder. His ceiling was covered with strange murals that were hardly able to be processed but showed images of things not meant for mortals to see. And to top it all off, the further one went into his hab, the more empty it became. Only his living room had furniture in it. Every other room was bare save for his berth which was a single slab of metal and stacks of energon cubes all around. It was terrifying, especially when the invaders noted the many various drawings of mecha and the weapons laying around.

The singular time one of the local gang members tried to bother Orion and shank him for some cash, it ended horribly. Orion turned toward his would-be-attacker and proceeded to shift before his very optics. Wings made of blades sprouted from his back, optics formed where there shouldn't be any, and his limbs grew longer, sharper, and unnaturally spindly. The air chilled but Orion did not move. This was the story told by the one who claimed to have tried to rob Orion, and despite not having any additional witnesses, not a spark dared to claim it was lies. Orion was a cryptid and it would not surprise any of the local gang members if he really was a monster from the pits or a shapeshifter enjoying screwing with them.

He was in their minds, an aspiring serial killer. Thus his danger level skyrocketed and rumors spread of the strange rich mech who lived in the hab a short walk away from the store. What frightened Orion's observers even more was the simple fact that his lights were never on, not once did he turn them on. That only served to emphasize his terrifying optics and partially exposed spark chamber whenever he at by the window late at night, watching, staring, never moving. They thought he was vetting out potential targets, totally unaware of the fact that Orion was merely trying to learn to be more normal. In light of this, he took in the fearful and aggressive behavior of his peers and thought that was the correct manner in which to act. He prowled around as they did when near his hab or travelling through Kaon, his field was always held like a shield, and he stared down anyone who dared come too close. He held no anger toward anyone, but he was almost certain what he was doing was normal.

It was not, and his habit of picking up behaviors only gave him an even more startling reputation when he observed a drug deal happening from his window. Orion did not order things too often, but when he did he paid the delivery mech and went on his way. But as he watched the drug deal go down, unaware of its nature, he saw how it worked and mimicked the behavior. Those involved in the deal gave copious amounts of shanix or interesting objects to one another in exchange for the offered goods. Not knowing any better, Orion was quick to pick up the habit when he ordered things.

His orders only came a few times a stellar cycle, but when they did, delivery mecha all across Kaon rushed to answer the call. To them, Orion Pax was both the most terrifying mech on the planet, and also the best paying one. Much like the employees at the store, they uttered not a word when they came with his packages, but each bore their determination and prayed to Primus as the door unlocked and the terror within accepted the package. It was a ritual, or rather a rite of passage for delivery mecha. Those who could withstand the terror Orion posed were truly devoted to their craft, especially since they had to maintain a straight face. It was the ultimate test of will, and it was one even veteran delivery mecha who were accustomed to gang wars and drug deals struggled to withstand.

Orion never hurt any of them, but he learned from what he saw, and based on what he saw, he needed to show his aggression to a degree when receiving anything and be as suspicious as possible. Thus when delivery mecha arrived at his door, he held the door open just wide enough to stick out an arm and that was it. His field was constantly held at an uncomfortable wavelength and he stared down whoever was outside his door in total silence. The ritual was simple for delivery mecha with enough skill and will to withstand the fear. They would knock three times, one after the other before stepping back to a comfortable distance. They would keep their gazes low and wait for the click of the door and the chill of frigid air to touch their plating through the crack in Orion's door. At that point they would offer the package and papers for Orion to sign and the door would close for exactly a klik. If the delivery mech didn't pass out, they would swiftly be returned signed papers and anything from straight shanix to objects of increadible value before the door would shut, the ritual complete.

Mech-animals avoided Orion's hab like the plague, neighbors feared him and never met his gaze, those who worked at placed he frequented both loved and were terrified of him, and amongst mail mecha he was a cryptid of untold power. None bothered him, none questioned him. They simply watched him go from his hab to the arena, all wondering what he was. He was the rich archivist from Iacon and that was all that needed to be said. Despite that, there were still rumors, none of which ever reached Orion's audials despite his ability to walk the void.

The most prolific rumors were popular enough to reach Megatronus and Ratchet, both of which nearly died of laughter upon hearing them. Evidently Orion was either a cryptid who served the Unmaker, a rogue experiment, a ghoul, a sparkeater, or most hilariously, a servant of the council come to put fear into the sparks of the locals. Neither Ratchet nor Megatronus ever saw fit to tell their odd companion of the fearful reputation he garnered. It was more hilarious watching him roll with it without even knowing he was playing into the stories weaved about him

[literary-motif]

Act I — The Proposal

Scene ii — The Funeral

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: (brief) suicidal ideation, implied alcoholism, talk of smoking

The procession was bleak. Whatever grim truth people tried to hide behind flowers, making beauty blossom over the graves of the people they had lost felt like sacrilege as Asirel walked through the graveyard. His mother’s suit looked even blacker than on the day he died, his sister’s white hair ruffled by the wind seemed like snow in the corner of his eye. 

He hated this. Every step pierced his heart, every sniffle from his mother, every wet sigh from his sister. He hated this. 

What right did the flowers have to bloom in a place that should be filled with tar, where the sun should never again dare to show itself because it was proof that the world kept going while they were no longer there? What right did the white marble of his headstone have to catch the sunlight, shining as an insufficient monument for the final resting place of his father?

Why was saying goodbye so hard? 

Asirel felt his knees buckle as he approached the grave. The earth was strangely damp in his shaking hand. What right did he have to be gone? What right did he have to leave him to shoulder his legacy, and pick up the pieces he had left behind when he died in that hospital bed? 

What right did he have to dive into eternal rest and not take Asirel with him? What right did he have to be released from this waking nightmare of living? What right?

He promised himself that he would not cry. After the experience in the hospital, he could no longer shake the responsibility, feeling it brought down on him like a collapsing building. He would not let his little sister carry this crushing weight, shielding his mother in her grief as he did what he was supposed to do, did what was expected of him. Demanded. 

He did his duty, numbing his heart with a shimmer of ice. 

He swore to himself he would not cry, but he came dangerously close to breaking his word as he stood before the coffin, raised hand still clutching the earth as if it was the only thing holding him together. 

The dark wood of the coffin was polished, its shine already partly hidden by the earth his mother had thrown on it. The white roses in the grave felt like a mockery, a symbol of innocence in the ground where the vilest truth of all lurked. Death. 

He was sure the image would be engraved in his mind forever: his father’s mahogany coffin adorned with white roses, the petals sprinkled with dark, murky earth. 

The ring burned cold on his finger as he opened his fist, feeling a part of himself missing as he looked at the earth falling into the hole that had been dug. 

Ashes to ashes, he supposed. Dust to dust. Memento mori — he would celebrate the day the phrase was burned out of his memory. 

Smoking was not a habit he had managed to pick up, it was not a vice that stuck to him. Still, he felt himself longing for a cigarette, wanting to lose himself in the taste of ash on his tongue as he exhaled a lungful of smoke that stole his breath. Alcohol was a twin vice he had cast out long ago, rejecting the oblivion a bottle of whiskey offered after one too many times of seeking refuge in it. 

He hated being drunk, hated the feeling of control slipping through his fingers — but he hated the headstone in front of him even more. 

The study — his study — had a cabinet filled with liquor his father used to indulge in when it all became too much. This was too much for him. He could indulge.

He would have to clear out the stash eventually, but the thought of changing anything made him want to disappear into a hole right next to his father. 

Why did you have to do this to me? He hoped his father — or whatever God or weaver of fate twisted the fragile red strings of a life in the universe — was listening somewhere, and had the compassion to feel remorse for what they had done to him. Why, why, why. How dare you leave me when I still need you? How dare you leave me alone when I still need you!

Asirel stepped back in line, empty accusations swirling in his mind as he watched his little sister step forward, her lower lip wobbling uncontrollably as she took a handful of earth. 

His thoughts swallowed the words of the undertaker — ‘and we shall miss this great man. His journey ends here only in body’ — breaking his heart apart piece by piece at the reminder that he was dead, damnit. Dead. Dead. Your father is dead. Gone forever. Dead. Dead! And suddenly his eyes filled with tears. He had to clench his fists and grit his teeth at the feeling of the silver ring on his finger. He blinked them away decidedly. 

Not allowing a single tear to fall during his father’s funeral was the hardest thing he ever did. 

Your steps through the arched gate of the graveyard were measured and precise. They never faltered, did not slow as you looked at the graves around you. You kept your eyes straight ahead, looking at the row of benches near the chapel as you passed under the line of trees framing the stone plastered road leading towards it. Their leaves rustled in the wind, branches reaching towards the sky as if they wanted to tear down the heavens. 

The mass of black before you slowly separated into people the nearer you came. With their backs towards the chapel, you were sure they saw your swift approach. 

The Cain family — what remained of it — sat bundled together on a bench, talking quietly. A few friends and acquaintances of the departed lingered nearby, engrossed in their own conversations or taking their leave. Your gaze swept over them — the guilt at having missed your friend’s funeral pushed to the back of your mind — recognizing a few business partners Mr. Cain had introduced you to, quizzically eyeing some others.

“Your new boss is here,” Asirel’s sister said, not raising her head from where it rested on his shoulder, her soft hair tickling his chin. Her voice was raspy, despite her best attempt to sound lighthearted. 

His head snapped up immediately, watching your brisk approach. “‘My boss,’” he echoed with a scoff, smoothing down her hair. “I’m my own boss. They’re just,” he trailed off, trying to find the words as he took in your straight back, cold eyes and determined step. 

The coat you had worn on that night made your elegance as apparent as it had been in the muted gold of Switzerland. Your walk was precise, and he wondered faintly how someone could go from one place to another with the intent and purpose you seemed to pour into it. He was staring, he realized belatedly, only pulling himself together as you came to a halt in front of them. 

Your gaze fluttered over all of them briefly, your eyes softening as you saw their sorrow. He had not taken you to be compassionate — a heart was a heavy burden in your line of work — so when you spoke with a gentleness he had not heard before, he found himself enraptured. 

“Mrs. Cain,” you greeted, addressing the widow first. You did not know her well, but the way your late friend had talked about her with such a fond smile — one that was so rare on his lips, rarer still the adoration in his eyes when he had shown you the portrait of her he kept in his wallet — had instilled a deep affection for the stranger whom he had loved so dearly. You felt like you knew her, despite having met her only a few short times, crossing paths in the hallway. “I am terribly sorry for your loss.”

She nodded, looking at you closely as if trying to remember why you looked familiar. You gave her a sheepish smile in return, laced with sadness given the circumstances. You clenched your right hand subtly, thumb brushing along the edge of your silver ring. She followed the movement, her eyes lighting up in understanding. 

The final puzzle piece fell into place, and her eyes filled with tears again. She smiled at you despite them. “The little apprentice,” she said wetly, wiping at her eyes. “It’s good to see you. He would have wanted you by his side even now, I’m sure.”

The little apprentice. He had not called you that to your face in years. 

A surge of grief stabbed through your heart, and you cleared your throat, trying to ignore how it latched onto the regret of missing the procession, opening a well deep inside of you that made your chest feel constricted. It ached, burning sorrow cursing through you as you realized the nickname stuck in conversations with his wife. He had cared enough about you to talk of you to his wife. 

“Thank you,” you bit out, clenching your jaw and keeping your eyes closed for a moment too long to regain control. You were here on business, as much as that hurt to remember when the earth on your friend’s grave was still fresh. Business first. 

The world did not stop turning just because a man died, and you could not cease stringing it along just because you had lost a friend. 

“I apologize for my disturbance, Mrs. Cain, Miss Cain” — his sister’s head raised slowly from Asirel’s shoulder, giving you a polite nod in greeting — “but I require a moment alone with Mr. Cain. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

“Of course,” Asirel said, clearing his throat as he stood, brushing away residue of the trees from his black coat. 

His sister raised a hand to her mouth, feigning a cough. “Not a boss my ass,” she said, smirking mischievously at the glare her brother shot her. 

Thankfully you had not heard, already a few paces ahead to lead him to a more secluded area of the cemetery. Asirel followed dutifully until you came to a stop in front of a white mausoleum. 

The structure was impressive despite the time having weathered it down. The once shining white stones were cream-colored, coated in black and green near the edges. The two columns by the front reminded him of those he saw in Rome, straight lines creating ridges on the surface while the top and bottom were decorated with what looked like winding branches of vine. 

You stood beside the column, doing a double take on the sculptured vines near the bottom. “Look at that,” you said, smiling faintly. “I would say it is an Ionic Column but look at the capital.” You pointed upwards to the twisting vines, Asirel following your gaze. “And now look at the base.” You motioned to the ground and the lower piece of vines adorning the column. “It has no base at all. This is another capital. As above, so below. What an ingenious piece of architecture, and very fitting for its purpose.”

Asirel blinked, looking at the mausoleum closely. “They are not buried in the ground, though,” he said, motioning at the mausoleum. “They are entombed in the walls.”

You hummed in contemplation before you broke into a bashful smile. “Yes, very true,” you said, glancing at him. “Perhaps a representation of heaven and hell, then. Maybe someone thought that a particular soul would wind up in the ‘other place.’”

“The ‘other place’?”

“Where is Polonius?” you quoted. “In heaven. Send hither to see. If your messenger find him not there, seek him in the other place yourself. Don’t tell me you aren’t familiar with the tragedy in five acts?”

Asirel bit back a smile despite the grim circumstances. 

He could feel the dirt on the sleeve of his right arm from when he had taken a handful of earth to throw into his father’s grave. He could still see the polished coffin when he closed his eyes, the white roses tainted. The sorrow of grief still burned in his chest, but as you talked about Roman columns and quoted Hamlet at him, he could not help but be a little lighter. 

“I prefer the Scottish play, actually.”

You clicked your tongue, turning to face him properly. “Very wise of you not to speak the name,” you said, taking in his appearance properly. 

His blond hair was carefully brushed back, sleek strands staying in place despite the faint wind whistling through the air. His eyes were faintly red, dark circles beneath them that made him look like he had not slept properly in days. You did not miss the silver ring on his finger, catching the sunlight faintly. 

It reminded you of the business you had put off for long enough.

“Did you consider my proposal?”

“The Faustian Bargain, you mean?” he teased, only half joking as he looked at the peculiar columns again. “I have. Yes.”

He had made up his mind on the terrace, the very instant you had asked him, but he did not dare tell you that. His circumstances did not leave much choice. You were right. Allies were necessary, especially in a world with so many enemies, and especially with the large footsteps he had to fill in his father’s wake. 

For all the magnitude with which he had shaped the world, Asirel resented him for not taking the time to prepare him better for the inevitability of him taking over his legacy. This was much too important, much too large an imprint on the world to stumble through the motions without proper comprehension. He needed the guiding hand like someone drowning in the ocean, and as you thrust yours in the water slowly pulling him down, he seized them with all his might. 

There was too much on the line to be allowed a mistake, to fail. 

This was his reason, this was his duty. This was what he had waited for all his life. This was his life — all of his ambitions and dreams to change the world within arms reach if he played his cards right, and his hand was much too good to flounder without understanding the rules of the game.

The few years of experience you had on him — not much, but enough to set him straight — were exactly what he needed. With you, he felt he could live up to his father’s legacy. 

You hummed, glancing over his shoulder to observe Morley — his father’s secretary, Helen Morley — in conversationwith the undertaker. She had grown out her hair since the last time you saw her, the wavy blonde now reaching past her chin, pooling elegantly over her shoulders. She pushed up her glasses, the black frame making her face look sharper than the soft features warranted, and turned her head, feeling your eyes on her.

Your gazes met. She inclined her head in greeting, the dark red of her lipstick twisting upwards a little in a small smile. You nodded back, fixing your gaze on Asirel again, wondering faintly if he planned to keep her on. “And what conclusion have you come to?” you asked.

“Yes,” he said again, emphasizing the simple word that made relief flood your chest immediately. 

“Ah,” you said eloquently, not managing to keep the smile from your face. The devastating circumstances of your agreement were not lost on you, but it felt like you had walked through the valley and were slowly embarking on the uphill climb out of it. “I’m glad to hear that. We are business partners then, I believe?” You held out a hand for him to shake.

Asirel laughed, catching himself off guard. He cleared his throat. “I think so, yes,” he said, taking your hand. 

And just like that, his fate was sealed. 

You lingered too long. 

The mourners slowly streamed out — the Cain family arm in arm — leaving the hallowed ground behind to return to a home that was just a little emptier now. The crowd dispersed. You stayed, sure the graveyard was deserted safe for you and the countless dead buried in the earth, and the chosen few entombed in the walls of their crypts. 

The closer you got to his grave, the more you feared the name you would read on the gray headstone. There was nobodyaround to see, and you allowed your steps to waver, hesitatingly approaching your friend’s final resting place. 

You knew he was buried there. You knew he was dead, but reading the name for yourself would be indisputable proof of it. You dreaded the finality with which this last signature was left on a life. So you stalled. 

“Yes?” The deep voice rumbled from the other end of the line. Had you not known him so well, you would have thought that you had woken him from sleep. 

The grip on your phone tightened. “Vic,” you said, stepping up to the grave. Your gaze traced the letters of his name — what’s in a name? — the little pentagon engraved on top of it encompassing more of the person he was than a name ever could. “Go. We’re on.”

[garden-of-mancers]

Hihihi! I wasn't sure who to come to for this info, and I couldn't find anything related to this, so if you don't have an answer/insufficient research or something like that, then feel free to ignore this! /gen/neu

What's the difference between a tulpamancy and imagimancy? Ty if you answer this ask! <333

No problem! Full disclosure: I have done more research into the Buddhist origins of tulpamancy, but I'm not Buddhist or a tulpamancer, so if I get any academic or cultural information wrong, I apologize.

So, tulpamancy has an origin in Buddhist spirituality, and the modern western "tulpamancy" you see on tumblr is a misappropriated version of it.

In Tibetan Buddhism, tulpamancy is the act of creating a thoughtform (tulpa) with the goal for it to become an autonomous person through developing independent thought, emotions, etc. These thoughtforms are also called "emanations" or "emanation bodies" depending on the Buddhist you're talking to. Most tulpas also break away from their creators once they reach autonomy, therefore completing a cycle or the exercise. I know it's originally supposed to be an exercise to teach the Buddhist student *something* about nirvana and being a living human, but I can't remember or figure out what the specific goal is, so I apologize if any part of this explanation is 'off.' I'm not Buddhist, so I encourage you to take my answer as a starting-off point to do your own research into the topic.

Here's a reddit post by a Tibetan Buddhist on tulpamancy, and here's another reddit thread with multiple insights on the purpose of tulpas.

Appropriated tulpamancy like you see on tumblr, where the tulpamancer is making more than one thoughtform, isn't working towards the goal of autonomy, or is utilizing manifestation techniques to create headmates or "friends" is not tulpamancy. It's thoughtformism--it's a completely different practice that is just using terminology from a different (religious and culturally charged) practice. It should not be practiced under the guise of tulpamancy. It's not cultural appropriation because you're white, (anyone can convert to Buddhism); it's cultural appropriation because you're using terms and ideas in a way completely divorced from the original (cultural, religious) context.

(This cultural shift didn't start on tumblr, by the way. Occultists and westerners were recontextualizing and appropriating tulpas long before people on tumblr did it.)

After a lot of POC and Buddhists criticized the tulpa community, a few secular thoughtformist communities have come up. Daemonism is one example, where the "lore" and framework around your thoughtform is based on the novel His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. (Although, what I've seen in the community is that daemians can play pretty fast and loose with the rules and no one really minds it.) But a lot of thoughtformists I've seen on tumblr just seem to make a certain flavor of dude (like a servitor, egregore, godhead--all things I'm not yet familiar enough with to explain) without tulpamancy OR daemonism as a label (which is a good thing!).

Imagimancy is the latest thoughtformist community to come up, and in my perspective, it feels like a "configurable" experience in thoughtformism. There's no more religious or cultural context, there's no more lore from already-existing books or movies, there aren't even any occulty or mystical labels if you don't want there to be. It's just... imaginary friends, but taken seriously and refined into a practice or activity that "older kids" and adults can do in a fulfilling way. To me, imagimancy IS the closest thing to what appropriated "tulpamancers" wanted tulpamancy to be. There are no rules or restrictions. One of the co-coiners of the imagimancy term describes imagimancy as "not trying to reinvent or relabel things; just filling the gaps between [thoughtformist] communities," and I think that's the best explanation out there tbh.

This isn't a "tulpas dni" post or anything like that; I'm interested in everyone's experiences of thoughtformism, even if someone's vocabulary isn't the most culturally sensitive. But I am very much in the ballpark of "what you're doing isn't tulpamancy. Call it something else" as a person tbh.

[jewish-vents]

My Anti-Social Personality Disorder is helping me cope with the spike in antisemitism - I've been told I'm not a person, I don't have a soul, people like me shouldn't be allowed to have kids, I should be euthanized, everything someone with ASPD does is secretly evil or manipulative and every person who sucks secretly has ASPD, etc. - but it's not helping me with the one thing I need it to. I need to protect my great-grandmother, my only living relative, the one who raised me after my parents died, who fought tooth and nail to get me out of the foster care system. I need to shield her from all this bad news and make sure she doesn't realize how violent and dire things are. She always protected me. I have to do the same for her. I have to keep her happy for however long she has left on this Earth.

I love her more than anyone or anything in the world. I would take a bullet for her if I had to, but antisemitism is more like a sea of landmines that keep detonating all around us. I try to get out in front of everything. I buy her silky summer scarves because she loves them and they cover up her Magen David. Instead of going to the summer music festival here, which I know attracts a lot of country good ol' boy white supremacists on top of the left wing antisemites, I bought us tickets to a classical violinist she's a huge fan of. She asked about my girlfriend breaking up with me and instead of telling her about how antisemitic my ex is I blurted out a truth I've been hiding for years, which is that I'm asexual but not aromantic and that's made dating hard sometimes. I've sought out, downloaded and burned DVDs of all kinds of her favorite movies from the black and white era so she'll be distracted away from her time spent normally watching the news by that. In spite of my dyslexia, I've recommitted myself to learning Hebrew because she helps me and that pulls her attention off of the news and the realities I don't want her to face.

And yet it's not enough. More and more of the news of antisemitism rising around the world filters through to her. I'm doing everything I can but it's not enough. I am not enough. I am insufficient. ASPD comes with being acutely aware of your own high intelligence but what no one ever tells you is, to quote an anime I watched recently, "You can't recover from something you can't escape." There's too much for me to shield her from all of it.

I'm used to being treated as if my personhood is conditional and can be revoked at any moment. That's my whole life. That was not her whole life. She's a survivor of the Shoah. Her whole life has been spent seeing progress made in antisemitic attitudes in many countries after witnessing the worst it could get. My brain is uniquely (mal)adapted to process and disregard people's cruelty as normal. Hers is not. She expects people to have humanity. They don't. And I can't protect her from that. I can't save her. I can't keep this from creeping into her spectrum of awareness.

Sometimes I wonder why Hashem even bothered giving me heightened intelligence if I can't manage to use it correctly to help her. What is it good for? What is it worth?

Sometimes I think this must be a skill issue. If I just tried harder, surely, with my IQ, I could keep her safe and oblivious to everything. I need to be doing more. But what?

Sometimes I just look at goyim and - and I am aware this is not something you're supposed to admit to/is bad, I just don't care - I think, "I hope someday someone treats you exactly like you've treated others. I hope you get back exactly what you've put out into the world, and you get as little sympathy and help in that moment as my great-grandmother is getting right now."

I'm so sorry you're dealing with this. If you haven't already, I strongly recommend that you reach out to your local Jewish community. If you don't have one, or you for any reason don't feel comfortable with the local community, seek out community online.

There is only so long that you can shield your great-grandmother from the world. I understand the urge; we all have it, but no one has the power to keep their loved ones from ever being hurt.

What you can do is support her through the pain, and find other people who will help support her.

This will not be the first time your great-grandmother has experienced antisemitism. She may be better equipped to handle it than you fear.-🐞

[commissions4aid-international]

Have you ever experienced seeing your dream broken in front of your eyes and not being able to do anything about it? Have you ever thought about living in a tent in a cold and unclean ocean, sleeping on the sand, without a bathroom or water? Have you thought about living in a place where you can’t meet your family’s basic needs and feel helpless about it?

I am Shahd from the southern Gaza Strip. All my life, I have been building a life for me and my family. It persisted in a good future, when the war in Gaza began on October 7, 2023. We were in extreme fear during the displacement, and found ourselves in an insufficient small tent. Despite the lack of safety, food, clean water and the spread of diseases, we had to live this difficult life under bombardment, knowing that at any moment, my family and I could lose our lives

My whole life has been scattered, and I am extremely frustrated and sad by the ongoing genocide I witness every day

Do you understand what it means to be in a situation where you have been displaced over and over again, just to reach the only supposed safe area that I ordered you to go to by a much stronger force than you as an unarmed civilian, just to be told that you can’t be there anymore? After you lose everything, like your home, your memories, your friends, your family and loved ones, your job, and everything you have worked hard to achieve...

Amid these hardships, I see a glimmer of hope, because I haven’t given up yet.

If you know of any organizations, associations or entrepreneurs who support and fund projects, please do not hesitate to share my association with them.

They can also contact me directly.

I know that the path to success after destruction can be difficult, but with your help and support for me and my family

[Verified by nabulsi | $3,338 of $50,000 goal]

Thank you for reaching out, we'd love to help!

Everyone, please share and donate to Shahd's family's campaign! This family - which includes children - has been displaced for a long time, and they are struggling greatly to find basic necessities - food, water, medical care, access to a bathroom, etc. They are currently quite low on funds, so they need all the help they can get!

[covid-safer-hotties]

I loved my teaching career. COVID normalization stole it from me - Published Aug 23, 2024

It might not have been the most favourable, but one of the most memorable comments I ever received on a student evaluation was that I could be “a bit hard to follow, but that was more an example of [my] passion for this subject over anything.” That subject was creative writing. And yes, sometimes, I had difficulty tempering my excitement throughout a teaching career that has now been cut short.

I have – or had – been teaching as a contract or “sessional” creative-writing instructor. Given the competitiveness of the academic job market and my age (I was nearly 40 when I earned the requisite degree, though I had already published four books), I had come to accept that it was unlikely that I would ever have a faculty position. But I could live with that because I still had the rare privilege of making a (barely) livable wage doing something I was very passionate about.

The COVID-19 pandemic took that from me. Actually, that’s not quite right. It was the perceived “end” of the pandemic that really ruined my teaching career.

I am immunocompromised and rely on medication to manage an autoimmune disease. This means vaccine protection from the virus is probably less effective for me than for most people. Also, my particular illness – Crohn’s, an inflammatory bowel disease – has been shown to put me at significantly greater risk than most for long COVID: a potentially chronic condition that can be very debilitating. And despite how it may seem, COVID circulates widely much of the year: We are still in a pandemic.

When universities returned to in-person learning in early 2022, a brief letter from my specialist was all I needed – because of my medical condition – to continue teaching online. But all that changed about a year ago.

Ironically, it is now harder for me to receive accommodation to teach online even though there is less protection in the classroom against COVID. I cannot require masking, which is perhaps our best tool against transmission (particularly respirator-style masks such as N95s), in the classroom. Nor does one-way masking offer as much protection as universal masking. Also, current air filtration in classrooms is generally insufficient. In other words, classrooms are not safe and accessible workplaces for medically vulnerable people. But that’s certainly not how university administrators, and even those who were supposed to represent employees’ interests, perceive things these days.

Last year, trying to discourage me from requesting to teach online, a union rep told me that he “believed in in-person learning.” The most frustrating thing about this comment, and the widely held opinion it represents, is that I too very much miss teaching in person and would, if it were safe to do so. (That said, I believe I am every bit as effective a teacher online.)

On another occasion, a university administrator, after I had submitted my medical documentation, thought “the solution” was for me to co-teach the class so it could include an in-person component and, consequently, less pay for me. After a struggle that went on for months, I taught the class entirely online, but the accommodation agreement I had to sign stated I had “a medical condition that needs limited exposure to as many people as possible.” I nearly refused to put my name to this bizarre description of what is a prevalent disease, but it was too late to apply elsewhere.

It is clear it will only become increasingly difficult for me to teach online as time goes on. The back-and-forth with administrators, department heads and union reps, waiting to find out if I will or won’t be accommodated, and/or what new obstacles will be thrown at me – it has all caused me significant anxiety, which in turn has made it more difficult, ironically, to manage the symptoms of my illness.

I know that the people I have been sparring with are, for the most part, decent folks: They are just ill informed. But I can’t keep trying to do the job of a public-health official to ensure my own health. It’s quite literally making me sick. I’m done. I quit. I have to.

Disability activists have fought long and hard for workplace accessibility to be a right. But the culture has not caught up to understanding the particular accessibility needs of the immunocompromised.

I do not know how to go forward from here. Online courses, especially creative writing, are few and far between. I am looking for online work that utilizes my skills and education and/or that pays more than minimum wage. I have yet to find even an opening for anything like that. For now, I’m grieving: In many ways, it’s a full-time job.

The last time I taught in person was the year I graduated from my MFA program – just months before the pandemic began. After the semester had ended, a student asked if we could have a coffee together so that I could offer further guidance on revising a piece of writing that I had told him was of near-publishable quality. And I only say that to students when it’s true. He also, to my surprise, wanted to share a bit of his own constructive criticism for me – about how I could facilitate workshop discussion a little better. I chuckled at his audacity, though later, upon reflection, took his suggestion. But mostly we focused on his creative work.

As we were getting ready to go our separate ways, he mentioned, in passing, that he had a long drive home: 2½ hours. It has always stayed with me that a student was willing to spend five hours driving for a relatively brief chat over a coffee. Clearly, he thought I was a good teacher, but with more practice and experience, I could become – like a talented, but novice, student writer – an excellent one. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like I will get that chance.

[writerrinthedarksblog]

You're okay | Pedro Pascal

TW: depression

Y/N pov:

These last few days have been hard. There's just so many things going on inside my head, I can barely focus on anything.

It's currently 7 pm here in New York and I swear I just want to scream. I'm supposed to memorize my lines for my upcoming movie that starts shooting in a few weeks but I simply can't. Everything is so messed up right now. My mind is driving me insane. I've been locked up in my apartment for 2 days by now, my phone was somewhere in my place but I didn't give a fuck about checking my messages or answering the calls. I just want myself back, I don't want to feel depressed again, I'm so freaking scared. I even lost my appetite because of how nauseous I've been feeling. Everything inside of me was hurting.

I've been struggling with my mental health since I was a teenager because of some bad traumas, but I haven't had a relapse for a long time. I really thought I was getting better, but I guess I'm not. All I can think about is how insufficient I feel. Why can't I just feel good for once?

I'm laying on the floor and July by Noah Cyrus was playing in the back. My head hurts because of all the stress and anxiety. I feel so mentally drained.

My self destructive mind is destroying me slowly. I feel like everyone is sick of me, why would they even like me if I'm such a mess? What would my boyfriend think of me? He's such a lovely, sweet person and here I am, a living disaster. I'm not good enough, how is he in love with me? Am I even a good actress? What if the people on the internet are right about me? I'm so sick of myself.

I started sobbing, trying to let go of my bottled up emotions. Why is everything so hard? I don't want to feel like this anymore.

Suddenly someone started knocking at my door and I panicked. I don't want anyone to see me this weak and vulnerable.

"Y/N, please open the door" Pedro said, "Amor please let me in" he said in a worried tone.

"I- I- I can't" I said with a broken voice.

"Baby what's going on?" he said with a sad tone

Pedro's pov:

I've been trying to reach my beloved girlfriend since yesterday, it's extremely rare of her to just go missing. I thought she was busy working on those lines she told me about, but this was getting very weird, so I decided to call her best friend Florence to ask her if she knows something.

"Hey Pedroouu, what's up?" Flo said in her british accent.

"Hii Flo, I was just wondering if you know something about Y/N, she hasn't been answering my calls or texts since yesterday and I'm getting very worried" I said.

"She didn't answer me either, I just hope she's not..." Flo said in a worried voice.

"She's not what?" I interrupted her.

"I don't know if she talked to you about this, but Y/N gets this depressive episodes sometimes and she gets to isolate herself as a coping mechanism because you know... it's hard. It's really weird though, it's been a while since the last one" Flo explained.

"She never told me about this" I said.

"Well, it's probably because she doesn't want to feel like a burden. You should go to her place, let her know that you're there for her. At the beginning of our friendship it was really hard for her to open up with me. She really hates showing her most vulnerable side to anyone, especially people she really cares about. I would visit her but I'm shooting in Scotland right now" Flo said.

"Oh and let me tell you Pascal, Y/N gets extremely sensitive when she's going though some deep shit so please be patient, and take her some sweets, it will help to lift up her mood" Flo told me.

"I'm heading out to her place now, thank you so much Flo, I'll let you know how she's doing" I said.

"Please take care of my best friend, byee" Flo said ending the call.

I ran out to buy some of Y/N favourite's sweets and some pink tulips before heading to her apartment, luckily she lives close to my place here in Manhattan so I didn't have to take the subway.

When I got to her door, I heard some music and loud sobs. It broke my heart. I started knocking at her door, but she didn't answer.

"Y/N, please open the door" I said extremely worried.

"Amor please let me in" I begged.

"I- I- I can't" she said with a broken voice.

"Baby what's going on?" I said.

"Please go away" she said sobbing.

"I'm not leaving you, Y/N. Please just open the door, I'm here for you" I said putting my forehead in her door.

A few seconds later, the music stopped and she opened the door. She was wearing a big Fleetwood Mac shirt that she probably stole from me, some shorts and her favourite avocado socks, looking like a homeless man as she would say... Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks and nose were a bit red from all the crying. The view broke my heart.

"Amor" I said in a low voice.

She broke down crying again covering her face with her hands. Immediately I left the grocery's bag on the small side table, to hug her right there. She just kept sobbing on my chest.

"Shhh, everything's okay, you're okay" I said trying to comfort her.

"I- I feel so drained and it's so overwhelming" she said crying.

"I know baby, I know. But I'm here for you and I promise that everything will get better, you will feel better" I said kissing her forehead.

I carried her to the couch and I sat her in my lap. She cuddled closer to my chest feeling a bit calmed. I caressed her face with my hands trying to clean the dry tears while she played with her fingers nervously. I left a kiss in her forehead and in the peck of her nose making her giggle.

I came close to her lips to finally kiss her gently, and when I felt her smile during it, I felt the happiest man alive. She's the most perfect girl I've ever seen. Even at her worst she has me mesmerized. I wish she could see herself from my eyes.

"Why are you staring? I know I look awful" She said.

"I'm admiring how gorgeous you are, mi vida. Thank you for being vulnerable with me, I know it's hard for you to let someone see you like this" I said.

"Thank you for being here for me even at my worst, it really means a lot" she said.

"I will always be here for you, amor. So don't try to push me away because I will always stay close to you, on your good days or bad days. I will never leave your side, Y/N. I love you so much and I really wish I could take all your pain away. You have the prettiest soul, and I wish you could see how everyone around you is completely mesmerised by you, especially me. You're like a ray of sunshine in a cloudy day". I told her.

"I know your mind can play you wrong sometimes, but I promise that you're worth of all the good things and I'm so lucky of calling you mine. Everything will get better baby and I will be here by your side, always." I said putting my forehead against hers, caressing her cheek.

"I love you so so much Pedro" she told me tearing up a bit.

"I love you more, mi vida" I said leaving a kiss on her lips.

"Do you wanna see what I brought you?" I said cleaning her tears with my hands.

"What is it?" She said smiling.

I stood up to get the sweets and flowers out of the bag. I walked to the couch and I saw the way her eyes glowed when she saw what I had in my hands.

"You didn't have to, they're beautiful" she said hugging me. I wrapped my arms around her waist.

"I will never lose a chance of spoiling my favourite person, you deserve so many beautiful things, te amo más de lo que puedes imaginar" I said.

She left a small and cute kiss on my lips, before saying that she loves me too.

We spent the rest of the night watching some funny videos on tik tok and eating the sweets, eventually Y/N started feeling a bit better. We even called Flo and she showed us how her precious dog Billie was wearing her wig from the movie she was filming, making us explode in laughs.

_

ok so I didn't know how to finish this... I hope it's finee. pls let me know if I wrote something wrong, english is not my first language and sometimes i get confused with the grammar. anygays enjoyyy💗

xoxo,

mills.

[menlove]

the thing abt HRT and gender affirming surgery is that like... yes many providers do provide incorrect/insufficient information. a lot of providers DO downplay the risks or don't mention all of them. ignoring this reality and pretending that everyone who starts HRT/gets gender affirming surgery is completely 100% informed doesn't do anyone any good

however

this problem is FAR from exclusive to gender affirming medical care. it is a GENERAL problem in ALL aspects of medical care, especially in the USA (and I'm sure elsewhere but I can only speak on our healthcare system as I haven't lived anywhere else)

like here's a couple examples.

when I was 8 years old, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes by a nurse practitioner. she however prescribed me a type of insulin for type 2 diabetes and instructed me to take it once a day and only check my blood twice a day. this is completely incorrect, as type 1 diabetics need to take short acting insulin every time they eat and long acting insulin once or twice a day and check their blood sugars at MINIMUM 4 times a day. I almost died. I had to be hospitalized about a week later with insanely high blood sugars. this was grossly mishandled by that nurse practitioner who had no idea what she was doing & she could've killed a child. does that mean no one should have access to insulin? or that we should start scare mongering diabetics telling them their providers are trying to harm them?

another example! when I was 14, I was having an allergic reaction to a medication and had to go into the ER. they didn't read my chart to see that I had type 1 diabetes, did not check my blood glucose levels, and gave me a steroid shot. that shot spiked my blood sugar (which was already high) so high so fast that I passed out and nearly cracked my head on the floor. it turned what would've been a quick ER trip to an overnight fiasco. does that mean doctors should never ever give steroids as treatment for allergic reactions?

or far more general than me- how many times are people prescribed birth control without the side effects being fully described? how many people get gastric bypass surgery without fully understanding what they're doing to their bodies? how many people have debilitating chronic illnesses but have no clue how they're supposed to handle them bc no doctor ever bothered to educate them (as I see constantly with other diabetics)? how many people have 0 knowledge about their own reproductive systems or have their concerns about their reproductive systems completely ignored until it turns lethal?

the issue isn't gender affirming care. the issue is medical professionals who don't care enough about their patients to make sure they're fully informed and fully consenting, or even that they themselves know exactly what they're doing. it's overworked medical professionals who skip vital steps because they've been working 15 hours in a row. it's the disregard for the health of people assigned female at birth (& the disregard for the health of people assigned male at birth if they decide to pursue gender affirming care). it's the disregard for poor people, for people of color, for patients in general who tend to get viewed with disdain for not having medical degrees and asking questions

like yes it IS something we should be talking about. but focusing the conversation on "we have to ban gender affirming care!!!" instead of "the medical system needs to take better care of its patients" is just stupid

[burnthoneydrops]

The Sun and the Moon I (e.b. x original character)

Synopsis: The presentation of two young girls into polite society should be a joyus occasion. Unfortunately, it is not for all.

Requested: No?

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2906

A/N: Here it is! The start of my Eloise series! I hope y'all enjoy and remember, feedback is always appreciated!

The morning sun is catching in the window at just the wrong angle, as I shield my eyes from its burning rays. I hear the stairs creak underneath the floorboards of my room, and I know that my hope of sneaking past my aunt is long gone. She is already awake, therefore making it impossible for me to do anything without her catching me first. Though I should have figured that my aunt would be similar in nature to my mama when it came to watching me, I thought that perhaps this fresh start would have meant some more freedom. Sadly, I was incredibly mistaken. There is a knock at my door and my dreams of hiding under the covers all day are quickly crushed. 

“Miss? Lady Moore is requesting your presence in the dining room,” one of the maids, I believe her name is Natalie, informs me. 

I groan, not hiding the fact that I dread getting up from this very position. When that does not seem a sufficient enough answer for Natalie, I call back that I will be down in a second and I can hear her footsteps pittering down the hall. More importantly, away from my door. I do not bother changing, as I have learned that anything I brought in my suitcase is insufficient for my aunt. Though I should be more accustomed to waking up in the earlier hours of the day, as work on my family’s land requires all hands at all times, but knowing that this work is going to be different is what seems to keep me entrapped in my bed. 

Aunt Moore is, however, just as strict when it comes to punctuality and even more so with presentation, which means if I am not up soon, I will most definitely hear about it. I finally rise from my bed, tossing the heavy blankets over to the opposite side, and set myself down on the wooden floor, the cold sensation waking me up a bit more. My descent down the stairs has my feet dragging across the rug that lays down the middle, but they are quickly picked up when one of the maids looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head. My aunt is waiting for me in her favourite chair and I greet her with a small ‘hello’ so as to not startle her with her back turned. 

“Ah, good you are awake. The date for your presentation to the Queen is fast approaching and your selection of dresses is still horrid. Therefore, we will be making a trip to the modiste today,” Aunt Moore explains, her hair perfectly pinned as usual. It takes all of me not to roll my eyes in silent protest. Being poked and prodded with needles as itchy fabric is held against me is not my idea of an exciting day, but I suppose it is one of the many things I am to grow accustomed to should I continue to live here. 

“Apologies that the clothes one wears for farm work are not suitable for more elegant endeavours,” I reply. 

“And we will have none of that tongue of yours,” Aunt Moore adds, choosing to say nothing more on the subject. 

“Yes Aunt Moore,” I reply as she dismisses me with a wave of her hand. 

Natalie joins me as I walk back through the hallway, and she tells me of all the possibilities we could put together for today’s look as we make our way back up the stairs. I try telling her that none of it is necessary, but I know she does not listen to me. She has worked here long enough to know just as well as I do how set my aunt is in her ways about how we are each to look, and seeing as she had no children of her own, I am the one subjected to all her biggest dreams and desires. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I am greeted by my unruly hair and grimace a bit. Perhaps a little bit of upkeep from Natalie would not go amiss. 

I let Natalie work her magic, and try and follow along as best I can in the mirror, but how one has the patience for all of that is something I will never understand. 

The Bridgerton Residence, the same day

“Must we visit Madame Delacroix again, Mama?” Eloise whines as she drags her right foot across the carpet. 

“Indeed we must. Your premiere season cannot be spent in old fabrics, therefore we are to get you an updated wardrobe,” Lady Bridgerton explains, hurrying her second youngest daughter down the hallway.  

“But surely no one has that great a memory that they will remember every dress I have ever worn?” Eloise tries. 

“You clearly underestimate the Cowpers,” Lady Bridgerton sighs, alerting the footman that they need the carriage brought around. 

For once, Eloise decides not to rebuttal as the two of them get into the carriage. The only thing saving this horrendous adventure is that the sun is shining, the warmth being something Eloise was grateful for. It somehow makes the ride less laborious, as before she knows it, her mother is pulling her out of the carriage and into the lobby of the modiste. Eloise is hoisted up onto the raised platform so that she may be viewed from all angles and it takes everything within her not to roll her eyes so far back that they fall into her skull. The shiny jewels and feathers were already loud enough, must she also be placed high so everyone can see her? It is something that has truly confused her every time, but there are some things you do not fight Lady Bridgerton on. Fashion is most certainly one of them. 

“I think this one will look lovely,” Lady Bridgerton remarks as Madame Delacroix holds out a periwinkle fabric with a few transparent decorations on the skirt. 

“I agree Lady Bridgerton, it will look most charming indeed,” Madame Delacroix nods in agreement, holding the fabric up to Eloise’s skin. 

“Let us carry on with it then,” Eloise replies. 

Madame Delacroix, though already having her measurements in her book, starts to take them again, claiming that season dresses must have different qualifications than regular dresses, therefore making the measurements vary slightly. Or something like that, in all truth Eloise stopped paying attention after the first few words that were emitted from Madame Delacroix’s mouth. As she stares into one of the many mirrors, there is a ringing above the front door, signalling another customer. Two pairs of shuffling feet make their way from the street outside, and as Eloise turns her head, she sees a girl with the most uncomfortable look on her face as, who Eloise guesses is her mother, grips her shoulders from behind. Eloise cannot place who these two might be, while though the mother looks slightly familiar, the daughter’s face does not bring anything to the forefront of her mind at all. 

She is pretty though, Eloise comments internally, her lighter brown hair in a half bun, some pieces falling down around her face. Her dress of choice looks rather dull in comparison to the bright coloured fabrics in the store, and it doesn’t seem to fit her properly either. The girl’s eyebrows quirk in a strange way when Madame Delacroix starts pulling gently on her dress sleeve, assessing the situation at hand. The mother gives the girl a little tap and she straightens up, pulling her feet together uncomfortably tight. Madame Delacroix tells them to wait while she finishes up with the Bridgerton family and the girl glances over, catching Eloise’s eye before her mother drags her to one of the chairs near the window. 

“Who are they Mama?” Eloise asks as her mother makes her way back to the platform from looking at more fabric colours. 

“Lady Moore and her charge,” Lady Bridgerton replies. Before Eloise can ask any more, the conversation is cut short by Madame Delacroix’s return, her muttering a short apology for the delay. 

Aideen’s Perspective 

The bright fabrics around the building are blinding in comparison to my shabby dress, and I can feel Aunt Moore’s embarrassment seeping through her pores from having to be seen with me. I catch the eye of the girl on the platform quickly as I am pulled away to the waiting chairs, and I can’t help but notice the way her eyes light up from the sun coming through the window. Though as she is turned back to the mirrors, she looks just as frustrated at the whole ordeal as I am, which provides me with some comfort that I am not the only one. The girls we passed on the street looked simply overjoyed to be dawning their newest fashion, but all I could think about was how itchy it looked on each of them. If the goal is to meet a suitable man to whom I am to wed, I do hope he is charming enough to make the pain of the presentation worth it. 

After a while, the girl and her mother are making their way to the front desk, where the modiste is running through their order, making sure everything looks correct on the piece of parchment she has scribbled on. Once they reach an agreement, the mother grabs the girl by the elbow and guides her out the door. She turns her head, her chestnut hair swishing slightly as she looks back over her shoulder and we once again make eye contact. Her light pink dress brings out the warmth in her cheeks and I can feel my own getting warm under her gaze. The moment is brief, as the modiste, who I quickly learn is called Madame Delacroix, approaches us, guiding me onto the same platform from before and pulling out some measuring tools.

The Bridgerton Residence- a few days later

“Let her come out on her own!” Violet Bridgerton tries her hardest to raise her voice above her gaggle of children.

“Is this the plan?” Daphne questions as she steps closer to the group. 

“Daphne! Thank goodness you are here,” Lady Bridgerton remarks, though it does not seem to have calmed her down much. 

“She’s requested time,” Anthony informs his younger sister. 

“We do not have time,” Daphne reminds them as she steps closer to grab the doorknob. 

“No offence, Sister, but I believe you are the last person she would like to see,” Benedict interjects, positioning himself between Daphne and the door. 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Daphne questions, looking more than slightly annoyed. 

“Are we sure she is even in there?” Hyacinth butts in. 

“Of course she is,” Francesca replies. 

The siblings continue to bicker before Francesca brings the conversation to a halt, claiming to have heard something. Anthony, fed up, goes to reach for the door again, but is unsuccessful, this time because the door is being opened from the other side. Three maids, all with varying degrees of disgust on their faces, pace out of the bedroom, leaving a concerned family waiting behind. Eloise emerges slightly behind them, dragging her feet a little as she walks. She rolls her eyes as she is greeted by her family, the train of cream fabric trailing behind her. 

“If one of you utters a single word,” Eloise starts, punctuating every few words with an exasperated sigh, “let us get this over with”. She picks up her train and marches out of her room, past her family who, thankfully, are heeding her request for silence. 

The carriage feels suffocating as all four Bridgerton girls and their Mama sit facing each other. Eloise appears as though she wishes to crawl out of her skin, and Daphne decides now might be the time for some sisterly advice. 

“Just remember to remain composed. And control your emotions. Her Majesty does not take kindly to any hint of hysterics. I found a small smile works best to appear open and approachable but not too eager. Now let us see it”. 

“No,” if Eloise could emit lasers from her eyes, now would have been the perfect opportunity. 

“She’s practically melting,” Hyacinth notes from her place beside Daphne. 

“Here, allow me,” Francesca grabs the fan from Hyacinth, reaching over Daphne in the process. 

“And your curtsy dearest, tell your sister how you managed such balance,” Lady Bridgerton asks Daphne. 

“Simply locate a stationary object and keep your eyes set,” Daphne explains, though no one believes Eloise is truly listening. “You have natural gifts-”

“Do not patronise me, and give me that!” She points at Daphne before grabbing the fan from Francesca, fanning herself aggressively. 

Aideen’s Perspective 

Standing in the long line of girls in frilly white dresses and feathery head pieces almost makes me want to run out the door. I feel as though I am sweating profusely though I cannot say anything in fear that Aunt Moore will have my head. I take to fanning myself with my glove, though I am not entirely convinced it is doing me any good, and I notice a blonde girl with a rather snooty face scoffing at me as I do so. I stick my tongue out at her and feel a sharp hit on my shoulder. Aunt Moore has caught me in my antics and harshly whispers for me to stop, so I might not draw any more attraction to myself than I already have. 

“It is not too late. You can say I’ve collapsed, or have gotten something unmentionable on my gown, or that the feathers affected my sense. Anything, Mama, to get me out of doing this,” I hear a girl desperately plead with her Mama for her chance at escape. I glance over and notice the same chestnut hair from the modiste. My eyes linger on her for a second, not that she is any the wiser, but Aunt Moore pushes me forward as yet another girl is announced to see the Queen. 

“Lady Moore and Miss Aideen Watson,” the announcer calls as the doors open, and all eyes turn to me and Aunt Moore who stands slightly behind me. My chest begins to rise and fall at a faster rate, and I feel as though my head is spinning. Somehow, I manage to move my feet one in front of the other, holding my dress so I might not trip. 

“I did not know Lady Moore had a daughter,” A mother mutters to my right. 

“It is her brother’s daughter. You remember the one who moved out to Ireland, supposedly chasing the love of his life,” her friend replies as I take another step forward. 

“Oh yes. Poor man following that maid all the way across the channel. What a shame,” the initial mother comments and I use all my energy in that moment not to turn my head and glare at them. The other families are looking at me as I slowly parade myself down the aisle to the Queen, who from her place on her throne does not look too amused by my presence. 

I curtsy once I finally reach the end of the aisle, and I nearly fall as bending down has caused me to lean forward just a tad too much. Luckily, I do not end up with my face on the floor, but the Queen does not say anything and I am escorted out of the way. Aunt Moore grips my elbow as we are moved to the sidelines and while she doesn’t say anything directly, her rather tight grip tells me all the disappointment I needed to know. 

“The Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and Miss Eloise Bridgerton,” are the next two called behind me, and I stand on my tiptoes to catch a glimpse. The girl from the modiste is standing where I was mere moments ago and looks fit to collapse right there and then. Her breathing quickens as she is now faced with the Queen and she glances quickly at who I can only assume are her family on the side. 

“What is the meaning of this?” the Queen demands as she is handed a slip of paper from a man who has just walked in the side door. People are shuffling around to try and see what is going on as a smile forms on her Majesty’s face. “I have seen enough,” she calls out, effectively dismissing the room. 

“Does this mean I can go?” the girl, or Eloise as I now know, asks as she grabs her dress. 

“I do not know what this means,” her mother replies. Eloise takes this as her cue and runs back out the main door, looking positively joyful. 

The little sheets are being passed around and as Aunt Moore grabs one, I try my hardest to look over her shoulder at what has enraptured the attention of the entire room. “Lady Whistledown” is printed on the top along with a silhouette of a woman with pinned up hair. 

“Lady Whistledown?” I ask Aunt Moore, who is visually scanning the sheet with rapid speed. 

“She has returned after all,” is all Aunt Moore chooses to say on the subject. 

Dearest gentle reader, did you miss me? 

Given the buzz in the room, this whole adventure might be turning out to be more exciting than I thought. Oh what a season this might be.

[harus-simp]

Are you serious?

-Jay x reader-

Warning:mentions of alcohol, but mostly fluffy

Requested: You know for the ‘confession on black day’ post could it be either Jay or Kamden? If you have someone else in mind that’s okay! (Anonymous)

Author's note: well it's techincally not a request but my anon here suggested who to make it with so this goes for you my lovely anon <3

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On a day that you were supposed to go to the club and forget of your lonely life as a single person with your friends ends up with you receiving a love confession? How odd is that?

Today you decided to forget about everything and just have a good time with your friends. And what was the occasion you may be asking yourselves. Well it was not like you needed an excuse to have a good time with your friend group, but today was special.

It was none other than black day, a day were all single people gathered and celebrated their solitude. You may think that everyone felt horrible being all alone, but it was not everyone's case, well it was yours tho, they just wanted to go out and drink.

Having said this, you were waiting outside your house for your friend jay to go together as you both lived almost next to each other. Now you would be lying if you said you hadn't the fattest crush on him. It has been there for a while, and it didn't seem to be disappearing any time soon.

He was just so mesmerising to you, his sense of humour always made you laugh uncontrollably and his pretty smile was enough to turn you into a hot mess, flustered by the effect this man had on you.

But today wasn't a day to be thinking about that, you would just stick to enjoy the night by his side, and although insufficient to you, you needed to accept that at least on that single would remain as your social status.

As you heard the bell ringing from the entrance you made your way to the door to open it, revealing jay's figure leaning on the door frame while checking his phone. The sound made him look up and smile at you ruffling your hair.

"Took you long enough"

"Don't do that, you'll ruin my hair!"

"Yeah whatever, not like that'll change much"

Yeah you just decided to ignore his comment and closed the door behind you to head to the bar you all had decided to go.

"So, shall we start going?"

.

.

.

When you got there you were welcomed by the smell of alcohol in the air and the sensation of pure heat as it was more crowded than usual.

You both quickly spotted your group on one of the furtherest tables from all the noise and people dancing. Well you didn't think this bar was also a disco kinda place, but all the contagious music made you forget about it making you actually feel grateful for it.

You started drinking and chatting for a whole hour when you decided to go to the dance floor and just let go of all your worries and problems. You were followed by some of your friends, except for jay that stayed there watching you all have fun. But specially focusing on you, on all your moves, how you swayed your hips from side to side in synch with the rhythm of the song.

As he turned to the table to pour some more soju on his little shot cup he noticed the smirks present in all of the present ones.

"What are you guys staring at, that's kinda creepy"he said

They all just simply laughed at him and his obliviousness.

"Says the one who practically has been eating their friend out from staring. You need to work on that dissimulation my bro"

He turned his head completely embarrassed denying everything.

"What are you guys talking about, I haven't done anything like tha-"

"Jay, you've been staring at them for approximately 30 minutes, just go and ask them out already"

"Yeah, we are getting tired from you both now, so you better go and dance with them right now"

And he didn't have much time to react as you approached the table and tried pulling jay up.

"C'mon jay, don't just seat down like a grandpa, dance with us"

And after an awful 3 seconds (yes that's how long it took to convince him lol) he accepted his fate and let you drag him to where the music was coming from.

You immediately started dancing with each other,moving your hips while he once in a while made you twirl.

There was a moment when your arms found their way to jay's shoulders to stabilise yourself from all drinks you had had that night.

His reflexes and the alcohol he had drunk throughout the night made him grab your hips and stare at your eyes with a look of complete love and admiration.

"Jay?"

That made him snap and apologise for his behaviour, putting his hands on his pockets and returning to the table.

However, he noticed from afar how your cheeks got a little bit red. Besides, you hadn't asked him to put his hands away, so all his confidence increased as he decided to finally do what he had been thinking on doing for a long time (and maybe alcohol played an important role there too).

As you approached the table to look for him he stand up and grabbed your hand taking you outside of the place.

You decided to just let yourself be dragged by him. When he suddenly stopped you didn't even had the time to react when he suddenly blurted out.

"Look I know you might not remember by tomorrow but I like you y/n, I had for quite some time now"

"Wait, are you serious?"

"Ye-yeah, I don't think I would have been able to hide it any longer, but that's how I feel. It's a shame that you will forget it"

"Uhm you know I'm not drunk right?"

"Huh?"

Turns out you handled pretty well alcohol, so yeah all his plan didn't come out as he expected.

He looked panicked and nervous as he looked down with a saddened expression,making you giggle at his cuteness when he was slightly sober.

"Why the long face? I haven't even replied to you yet"

His eyes suddenly lit up while he looked back at you raising his head up.

"So yeah, I like you too jay jay"you said while booping his nose.

A smile made its way into his features as his heart was filled with happiness and relief from the confession. His crush had accepted him? Yeah, it was a good enough reason to feel like that.

"But seriously, on black day?"

"Well what can I say, it's not like I could have kept on like this any longer"he said with a wide smile, a smile that could brighten up anybody's day.

"Stop smiling so much pretty boy, that smile of yours is gonna get out of your face".

And just like that you gave him a short but sweet kiss that he reciprocated almost immediately.

"Shall we get out of here?"he asked grabbing your hand.

"Gladly"

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[paladinbaby]

on growing up together the second time around

paladinbaby / sense & sensibility, jane austen / @inkstaindusk / emma, jane austen / motherthing, ainslie hogart / @nicholasbraungf / touchtank, quinnie / no choir, florence & the machine / paladinbaby / paladinbaby

[Image Description: Collected images and text.

1: A close up of @beatricexbenedick"s d&d character Shania. Shania is a blue skinned genasi woman with long teal hair and a yellow flower tucked behind her ear. She is looking downwards and smiling.

2: “It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; - it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.”

3: A tumblr post, the original poster has reblogged it and added the second paragraph. “knight/ lord ships are like. what if i would die for you. what if i wanted you to live for me. what if i wanted to touch you but could only be satisfied with being near you. what if i could touch you but only through the safety of our gloves. what if i couldn’t stop thinking about you right next to me. what if i bloodied my hands for you and never looked back at the wreckage. what then.

what if i wasn’t allowed to love you. what if i loved you anyway. what if you knew and i knew but we wouldn’t dare to take that step. what if we made meaningful eye contact as i knelt at your feet and devoted my whole being to you. what if i whispered your name for only you to hear.”

4: “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” It’s written out by hand digitally, in the same colour as Shania’s hair.

5: “And maybe not destroying the thing you love, resisting that impulse, is the highest expression of love.”

6: “When you have wanted to be wanted all your life, and then somebody wants you, it feels like cheating. It feels like eating something you’re not supposed to eat, and you eat it too quickly, always afraid of your lover walking and seeing it smeared all over your face, red, the damning evidence of your hunger to be wanted, and nobody wants to love someone too desperate to be loved, so you do your best not to be desperate, you walk in the harsh January sun with your hands freezing in your pockets and try to look like someone who doesn’t want anything too much. Here’s the thing, you want everything so much that you’re like a ravine in the shape of a woman, taking in anything that seems like it could be love.”

7: “He tells me he’s gentle when he wants to be / So I think he wants to be gentle with me”

8: “And there are no grand choirs to sing / No chorus will come in / No ballad will be written / It will be entirely forgotten / And if tomorrow it’s all over / At least we had it for a moment / Oh, darling, things seem so unstable / But for a moment we were able to be still”

9: A screenshot of a Discord message. “she doesn’t have much money when she arrives and she uses it to buy her flowers”

10: A close up of my d&d character Cyndi. Cyndi is a pink skinned tiefling with white scars across her face, and long pink hair tied back with a yellow ribbon. She is looking upwards with her head tilted back and smiling. End ID.]

[thricemartyred]

@atcmicbxtty said: "You're really mean...." Unprompted

—————♡—————

{♡} - An uncharacteristically sympathetic crease in his brow, ❝I…oh, no, that wasn’t…❞ His natural instinct to defend himself or to somehow attempt to justify the malignancy of his actions through some convoluted means of warped rationalisation, for the first time in what felt like at least two decades, was halted. Suddenly, his mouth felt uncomfortably dry and the demon was momentarily lost for words as he struggled to hold her gaze. She was only a kid. She looked so upset by what she had witnessed, and she didn’t even know the half of it. Dante swallowed hard.

Fleetingly, he glanced over his shoulder to watch the lover he’d just publicly and exploitatively revoked all feeling for dragging his heels as he headed off in the opposite direction whilst licking his wounds like a kicked puppy, and then looked back to the young girl. He had said some irreparably cruel things to his discarded lover, all the while laughing right in his face, mocking him, humiliating him, for fiendish amusement and in the name of Lucifer - worse, in front of the kid. At what point had he become so used to viciousness that he had actively started to become it? The sense of superiority he had felt from the upper hand he'd arrogantly brought to bear that night had dissipated with alarming gravity to him. Where there had been accomplishment, there now sat his contrition, bare, hovering in the space where glory had briefly resided. He hadn’t felt like that in a while - at least, not in its raw state. Usually, when his conscience would inevitably catch up with him, he turned to substances to tame his rising guilt.

In insufficient lieu of something considerably stronger, his hands fumbled to retrieve an unlit cigarette from his coat pocket. ❝…Yeah, well, you weren’t supposed to hear any of that shit. And you shouldn’t even be out this late! What are you, like, fourteen?❞ His lighter sparked and he inhaled from the cigarette, shifting on his feet in a state of restless agitation. ❝Go home! It’s a school night!❞

He appeared fundamentally ill at ease with exchanging this conversation, seeming to almost lean away from her as if she might spontaneously combust if he got within five feet of her. His reluctancy to speak to her? Probably on account of being labelled the local child killer by most who had known him before his mortal death due to the sheer enormity of what it transpired that he had done. Though he had been but a child too, manipulated into spilling the guts of his peers, of snuffing out innocent young lives preceding violent sacrilege against their cadavers, in the false guise of holy faith. He could still taste the flesh in his teeth. For a moment, he appeared like he might actually be sick, narrowly managing to ward it off with a protracted drag on the cigarette held between his tremulous fingers. On second thought, better make it two. Odd numbers were bad luck. Dante regarded the girl with a narrow gaze, ❝Can you stop looking at me like that? Look, I’m sorry, okay? Fuckin’ Hell…!❞ Too overwrought to consider the offhanded language, the demon rested his head wearily in his hand and tried not to heave. An apology hadn’t passed his lips in a long while, his utterance of those words coming as a surprise to himself. If only he would learn to say them more often. It would be an ineffectual expenditure of feelings though, even if he did. People such as him, they were unworthy of forgiveness, and besides, Dante had already repented his sins - and look where he was now! Cast out of Heaven, a servant of Hell. Indicatively, he was Satan’s Bitch. And Dante was hopelessly devoted to every Goddamned second of it.

So why now did he falter beneath the scrutiny of a little girl? Perhaps, sheltered within the darkest compartment of his inner self, there was still a tiny, shivering fragment of goodness left inside him after all.

[natugood]

I never realized how much of a positive impact it would have on me mentally and emotionally, but I am so happy I got top surgery. Yes, I do still feel sad and miss my breasts, because they were a part of me that I grew into and learned to love. But I feel so SO much more myself without them.

I get to exist without the constant, subtle pain, the reminder that my body isn’t mine for some reason, even though I know that it is, or at least that it should be. It’s like before I was existing as myself but through a warped mirror, seeing a reflection or version of myself which I knew to be true, but also which I felt disconnected from. Like I was inhabiting an alien clone of my real self. It didn’t feel wrong because I had never known another existence, I had never seen or experienced another version of myself, I couldn’t imagine another version of myself.

I didn’t let myself imagine another version of myself, because I was afraid that the joy I would experience at seeing myself as I wanted would torment me and make my life agony. I wanted to survive, I didn’t want to live in pain. But I knew I felt wrong. I looked wrong. I was wrong. But I was wasn’t wrong, I was just me. I was trying so, so hard to learn to love me. And I still love that version of myself. My breasts were a part of me, a part of my body, and even though I never wanted them there, I accepted them, because what else was I supposed to do? I wanted to love myself, and they were a part of me, so I tried. I tried so hard, but as time went on, even though they felt more and more right, they also felt more and more wrong.

I think a part of me always knew that they were temporary, that they were visitors on my body, a necessary but unwanted part of my form. When I had my surgery, I wanted to take time beforehand to say goodbye. They were a part of me. I loved them. I was going to miss them, even if I knew I would be happier without them. They meant the world to me, even if I wanted them to go away forever. They were a part of me, a part of me that made me, me. I was sleepy that day though, and I was more anxious and uncertain about the events to come than I was about whether I would have time to take a private moment to myself, to get to say goodbye. For once, I was living in the moment. The anesthesia hit much faster than I expected too; I thought I’d have a few more minutes with them, but before I knew it, I was waking up. They were gone. I didn’t get to say goodbye to them. In our last moments together, I didn’t think about them at all.

When I woke up, my body felt strange, and pained, and lacking. As the days went by, I felt the same numbers that I had felt before, though in some ways it was exacerbated by the post surgery dressings. But beneath the numbness, it felt good. So good. It took me awhile to really register that goodness, to even register they were gone.

So much of the time they existed I tried to ignore them. Your chest isn’t the focal point of your existence anyways, so I didn’t think about it a lot, or at least I tried not to. But with them gone, it felt like a part of me had been released. The constant pain, the fear, the awareness of their existence - vanished. The surgery was not the beginning of the process. It was slow, and had been ongoing over since I got my first binder, eight years before. I’d compressed them, tried to live without them, tried to forget their existence for so so long. It felt fake that I could finally relieve myself of that burden.

And now, there I was. In my own body, but insufficient another alien body. Trying to reacquaint myself with myself, the myself who I’d know but never gotten to see, the myself who I had become. As time has gone on, I have felt no regret. I don’t see my body through a warped perspective anymore. I just see myself for who I am. I am finally myself. I get to be happy now. I am free.

[pentacass]

We got Kira's perspective in Just you and me but when did Aelirra realize she wanted to be "more than a mentor" to Kira? Was it before or after her imprisonment in carbonite?

-@legends-chauvinist

ohoHOHO!!!!! delicious. thanks for the ask!

It is way, way after her imprisonment in carbonite. Only after she was reunited with Kira did her feelings crystallise into puzzle pieces that fit together oh so beautifully.

[From a writing perspective, I wanted to avoid the icky master-padawan dynamic. Besides, for these two, I love the whole 'you were a part of my life before I even realised it' thread.

Long read below cos I never talk about them and it all came pouring out loll. It's basically a summary of their whole story oops]

For background, Aelirra never was Kira's master. When Satele tried to assign Kira to her, she refused firmly - she'd only just passed her Jedi trials. No matter how skilled she was, she recognised that she didn't have the experience to guide Kira, as masters were expected to do. Satele agreed, but paired them as a team anyway, trusting that Kira would learn from her experience accompanying Aelirra on missions.

After that, an odd tension lingered between them, the knowledge that Aelirra was supposed to guide Kira as a master. But they agreed to operate as equals in the team, Aelirra slipping naturally into a leadership role while Kira offered alternate solutions and advice to balance Aelirra's decisions.

They grew much closer after Kira became a Knight, Aelirra pushing hard for her knighthood despite Kira's reveal of being a Child of the Emperor. They were friends, confidants, and trusted each other above all else. They shared a lot of personal stuff with each other, had regular heart-to-hearts, but that ended after Aelirra was captured and escaped the Emperor's control.

And here's why neither realised their burgeoning feelings for each other (though Kira came much closer than Aelirra). Aelirra shut herself down and became a machine - pushing herself to the limit, serving as a Jedi examplar to her own detriment, keeping everything of a personal nature at arm's length...including her connection with Kira. Feeling the gulf that split the ground between them, Kira was hurt but felt guilty for her own feelings, and compensated by supporting Aelirra, keeping as close as she was needed.

There was new friction between them, a sort of loyalty that hurt like a thorn in the palm, but they never managed to pluck it out before Aelirra was cast into her carbonite prison. After being rescued by Lana and forming the Alliance, when Aelirra finally had stable ground to stand on and take a breath, she started thinking about her old crew - and why they hadn't returned. (Save for T7, of course.)

She understood that things had changed, that they had their lives to live, but Kira's absence in particular gnawed at her. It was something she had, perhaps not taken for granted, but insufficiently appreciated in her single-minded drive to be the 'perfect Jedi'. Kira had always been there for her when she needed it, even when she didn't want it, and now she felt Kira's absence like a phantom limb.

This ache turned sour after Vaylin was defeated. Logically, she knew the Jedi had gone to ground. Kira could've been one of them. But she was known throughout the galaxy as the Alliance Commander now, someone more than capable of providing safe refuge for the Jedi. Kira should have known where to find her, right? Or did she...not want to come? Was it because of something Aelirra had done? Had Kira abandoned her because of who she was before, the Jedi whose duty had become her entire world? Had Aelirra pushed her away too many times, and one final time, aboard Marr's doomed ship? Or did Kira just not need her anymore?

Doubt began to weigh on her, and she told Lana to stop the search for her crew. She was Jedi at heart - she knew when to let go. Then the Meridian complex mission happened; Kira strolled back into her life with a casual, confident smile. And she knew. She knew, then and there, that she was looking at her other half. The one who made her whole.

But here's the kicker! Aelirra's dense as hell when it comes to romance. She'd thought it was a platonic, ride-or-die soulmates deal. Then Kira came to live on Odessen, occupying a space near Aelirra where she belonged, with new, mature confidence. With gazes that lingered just seconds too long, bolder touches that made Aelirra forget to breathe, nearness that made her want to burrow against Kira, never to be parted again. And she understood.

When Aelirra finally said 'I love you', it's twofold. 'I love you as I always have, and now I love you as a part of my soul.'