#its certainly a choice. and it makes me wonder about many a thing

[no-light-left-on]

I often wonder about the quote-unquote logistics of Corvo the Black/Emily the Butcher endings. Emily makes more sense to me, in a way, carving her way through the empire only to come back with blood caked under her fingernails and realising that she did everything her father refused to do 15 years ago. but why did Corvo have a similar choice?

what happens to the statues later? does Emily keep her father trapped in stone? does Corvo look at his daughter, frozen in the moment and considers freeing her? is he at his deathbed when he finally reaches out and cups Emily's cheek, freeing her into a carcass of an empire that he gutted for her, in her name, in the name of her mother?

when I first heard of the endings I thought that if you reach very high chaos, you are locked into this choice - Corvo or Emily tries to free the other and the stone just doesn't budge. they are trapped. the quest is over but the world knows that the bloodshed was extreme and this is the punishment they have to face

[moondirti]

Who from the 141 speaks the best arabic do you think? From one arab girl to another, it’d be so hot if any of them were fluent 🫠

if my memory serves me correctly, we get a bit in the first campaign from price. to me it seems to be a basic knowledge. a few sentences he picked up on the field and memorised to make his job easier. evac orders, cardinal directions, how to ask for water, food, medicine. that kind of stuff. pure utility, though that’s his approach to most things.

i like to believe (call it bias or whatever) that gaz is fluent. this ties in to my headcanon that he’s the only member who attended and graduated uni, but he strikes me as someone intensely curious about everything. introducing him to something, be it language or cuisine or a skill he hasn’t mastered yet, is like knocking down the floodgates. it’s his time in urzikstan that does it. hearing the way it rolls off farah’s tongue (let’s ignore doumit’s canon pronunciations), or how she’s able to translate a long, winding, clumsy sentence to something short. beautiful.

there’s a word for everything, he finds. one for the state of gossiping with your friends over morning coffee. one to congratulate someone on their cleanliness after a haircut. one that means may you be the one to bury me, for it would be unbearable to live without you – that is used so casually in conversation, kyle is stunned when he learns the true meaning. it doesn’t hold the same expectation, the same trepidation, as it does in english, though it retains its weight all the same. he wonders what makes a language so special that its intrinsic devotion has found a common place within its cultures, and he sets to find out.

this turns into a thing. more rambling under the cut.

the largest learning curve is the alphabet. the sounds that don’t exist in his mother tongue. he’s especially hard on himself when it comes to enunciating them properly – half the beauty is in the way words flow together, and there would really be no point in indulging in arabic’s more lyrical aspects if he’s off pitch. he gets the hang of it eventually, of course, one too many vocal exercises later.

the weathered dictionary he picks up at a second hand store teaches him that most words have three letter roots, and that it isn’t so easy as to look them up alphabetically. picking up new vocab becomes infinitesimally harder, then. for twelve million choices, the distinction between some words comes down to diacritical marks. necklace, decade, contract, held, complicated, and knots are all spelt the same way, yet pronounced ever so slightly different — a fact he learns the hard way when he tells the cashier at the kibbeh place he frequents that he likes her decade.

reading. reading is what helps him get over that.

(he probably should touch on basic grammar first — nouns, verbs, particles, sentence structure, that sort of stuff — but figures he'll pick it up as he goes, basing his methodology on an inability to remember any rules for the english language. he grew up hearing it, reading it, watching it, surrounded by it, so it just is what it is now. why work so hard on task books made for kids, then, when he can just get right into the meat of the matter? acclimatise through force.)

he picks up stacks of books upon books upon poetry. naguib mahfouz. ghada al-samman. al-mutanabbi. mahmoud darwish. it takes him a month to get through the first, and another month for the second. which only means he really takes his time with them, roving over the same line until it's etched into his memory. the cadence, the beats for pause, the way a word he has to punch from his throat is followed by one that lilts, all sing-songy. eventually, he starts to (inadvertently) mimic that sweeping manner of speech, employing it in contexts which certainly don't call for it.

the cashier — the very same one whose age he mistakenly stressed, despite the fact that she couldn't have been much younger than him — is far too nice to say anything about it, smiling instead, endeared, while he waxes poetic about meze.

farah calls him out immediately the next time they catch up.

apparently, no one speaks in classical arabic anymore, go figure. it would be like talking in shakespearean english, she tells him. he imagines it, iambic pentameter and all, and cringes, newly determined. his own research unearths (though it wasn't really a secret) the fact that there are roughly 25 different dialects belonging to different regions — and while some are pretty similar (syrian and lebanese), others could classify as a whole other language on their own (moroccan).

reddit tells him what he already knows; that the best way to learn is through exposure. there are no dictionaries for patois. and farah, despite her total enthusiasm at his interest, is far too busy of a woman to help.

(really, it just gives him an excuse to finally do what he's been meaning to.)

the next time he's craving kibbeh, he's fixed on not making a fool of himself when he asks the cashier out to lunch.

[starryalpacasstuff]

Fire (1996): A Mostly Spoiler Free Pitch Because You Should Watch It Immediately

It's time for "An Indian QL bulldozed past my expectations and I am reeling in awe", Part Two!

A few days ago, @neuroticbookworm told me about Fire, an old lesbian Indian movie she'd been wanting to watch. Me being me, I promptly tracked it down and settled in to watch it.

Very loosely based on the 1942 short story Lihaaf, the movie follows Sita, a newly wed bride who is settling in with her in-laws, which is how she meets Radha, who is married to her husband's brother. Both in unhappy marriages, they find solace and company with each other, quickly falling in love. Length: 1 Hour 40 Minutes TWs: Homophobia, C-word mentioned once, some depictions of domestic violence Release: 1996

The is almost entirely in English, and while one generally expects Bollywood movies to be in Hinglish, it's definitely a conscious choice here, which does make me wonder if the movie was supposed to be promoted to a greater international audience. You can find it here on Youtube, most of the (very few) Hindi dialogues have hard subtitles. I think it's also available on Prime? It wasn't available in India though, which is odd, but I didn't bother investigating. Let me know if anyone can figure anything out about this!

Going into this movie, I expected a melodramatic, emotional movie with a bittersweet tone. I did not expect a biting, incredibly engaging movie with excellent satire, symbolism, discussions of chastity culture, and an incredibly sweet, beautifully written romance. And I was certainly not prepared for how incredibly horny this movie is??? Both in subtle tension and overt sex scenes. There's also partial nudity, which again, completely unexpected. If you're going taboo, go taboo all the way I suppose. It's also very well directed, and while I'm not nearly as good at identifying details like that as some of the people on here, I did pick up on some colour coding and interesting framing. It's just overall packed with little details that I think a lot of us would have a field day analysing.

Honestly, I could talk about the cultural nuances in this movie for hours. Contrary to my assumption about the reasoning behind making the movie fully in English, the movie seems to rely on the viewer's understanding of North Indian customs to deliver a lot of it's messages, particularly with its satire, more on that below. While I don't think it's necessary to enjoy the movie, it definitely does add some meat to the story. Then again, I'm a biased party, so it'll be hard to determine just how many messages may be lost to someone from outside of India without someone to compare notes with (this is me shamelessly trying to get you to watch the movie). Honestly, I'd be 100% down to write a more detailed, spoiler-including post that goes into the implicit nuances if people are interested.

There's two main selling points for the movie; the incredible way it shuts down purity and chastity ideology and the absolutely adorable relationship between Radha and Sita. The movie is set on ruthlessly tearing down and emphasizing the ridiculousness of purity culture. A lot of the messaging is indirect and uses metaphors, but there's also several explicit scenes addressing the issue. It's one of the main themes of the movie and I'm almost convinced the real reason it's titled 'Fire' is the sheer number of burns it dishes out on this subject. The romance portion of this movie is one of the thing's that completely defied my expectations. It wasn't sad and dramatic, it was heartfelt and silly and adorable. There's several scenes of the two subtly flirting, laughing together and just being lowkey in love. But that's not to say there's no emotional depth—they're also there for each other and are quite vulnerable with each other.

The movie used a lot of metaphors, but my favourites were the almost satirical representation of mythological stories. In a religion as diverse as Hinduism, every holiday has two dozen stories behind it and each story has two dozen versions, so it's to be expected that you'll find a number of problematic or otherwise kind of ridiculous stories in the mix. The stories were told completely seriously, but the context of the movie highlights their absurd facets in a truly brilliant way. I'm not going to give too much away, but I will say, it was a delight to watch the juxtaposition of the myths and the storyline of the movie, particularly it's ties to the purity culture discussion. You'll understand when you watch it. I'm not turning this into a Hindu mythology lesson (yet) but one interesting tidbit is that Radha and Sita are both names of mythological figures; namely the partners of two of the most worshipped avatars of the god Vishnu: Krishna and Rama respectively. And I was overjoyed to find that their names do have relevance to the metaphors in the story, particularly Sita's.

When the movie was first released, there were massive protests against it, I'm talking hundreds of people storming into theatres to destroy them and drive away audiences. I don't know what to say here beyond this, but what I will say is that I think Fire is an amazing movie that absolutely does not deserve to be lost to the sands of time. I hope you give it a shot, and if you do, tag me in any posts you make about it!

Tagging people who seemed interested in recs from my last post, let me know if you'd rather I not tag you!

@lurkingshan @impala124 @bengiyo @letgomaggie @winnysatang

@watertightvines @nutcasewithaknife @blorbingqls @twig-tea

@waitmyturtles @cryingatships @benkaben @usertoxicyaoi

@befuddledcinnamonroll @flyingrosebeetle

[violet-moonstone]

highlights from "searching for oswald...and chicken"

wow I loved this episode...I feel like I say that every time but I REALLY REALLY enjoyed this one

first of all its a Dagur episode, which automatically makes it great...most of the screenshots I took are of him. Honestly all of his dialogue is very quotable, especially since so many of the jokes they give him are thinly veiled adult humour

also the B plot with chicken was certainly something (and makes me think the writers were thinking about the end of the hidden world while writing it?)

ok so the beginning of the episode was already tugging at my heartstrings. I love seeing Dagur and Heather's sibling relationship, whether hey're arguing or getting along.

Well that's deeply upsetting! and the fact that he said "most of his life" makes me wonder how much of the confidence Dagur displayed as a teenager was a cover for whatever he was dealing with internally.

The part where Dagur hugs Heather and she looks happy but almost surprised was very bittersweet. It seems like she's still getting used to having a family, and affection catches her off guard.

Excuse me while I go cry

Call me deranged but I think Dagur slamming Snotlout against a cage was hot

As always, Hiccup is adorable. Literally looks like a cat

This is funny but also very upsetting! Snotlout and Dagur really make a habit of using humourous line delivery to cope with being deeply unwell:

*clears throat* uh yeah Dagur, I'm sure you do love a good "fruit bath," from time to time if you know what I mean...

Come on, the writers, animators and voice actor HAVE to have known that line came across as suggestive. Like the way he sounds? His facial expression? They may not have intended it to specifically imply he was talking about getting in a sauna with some twinks, but it certainly sounded like something sensual was going on.

Also I didn't get a shot of this but when Dagur starts listing adjectives to describe Heather's reckless behaviour, Hiccup says "Sentinel" while looking at Oswald's journal. Dagur says something like "that's not quite the word I'd use," which makes me think Dagur was going to call her a not so PG word...

Snotlout staring directly at the camera while narrating Tuffnut's emotional breakdown in the style of a pun-loving mystery novelist:

What an asshole (I love him). there's something really funny about Tuff leaning against the tree with a hand on his hip. Poor guy. Astrid and Stormfly were clearly less amused than I was.

Ok let's talk about Hiccup motivating Dagur to open the door to Oswald's shelter. My little Dagcup heart was really soaring here. And look at the lighting!

LOOK AT HIM! LOOK AT HIS FACE!

Oooohh man, Dagur expressing guilt about his past and Hiccup trying to help him through it also really got to me.

Dagur: I was a villain!

Hiccup: No, you were a kid

Me: *crying*

Because yeah, Dagur in Riders of Berk/Defenders of Berk did horrible things, but he was also enabled by all the adults in his life who could have stepped up after Oswald left. I've already written (both in posts and in one of my Dagcup fics) about how being thrown into a dungeon as a kid only made Dagur a worse person (no one in the show talks about the scars on his face that weren't there before...). And There is clearly an opportunity for restorative justice when it comes to characters like Alvin and Eret that wasn't extended to Dagur despite the fact that they had already overpowered him and could have at least given him a choice between punishment and trying to make up for his actions. Anyway...let me not rant about that anymore.

Ok what's next...oh yeah! Astrid doing this:

Hilarious.

Um...ok so...I needed to screenshot this for uh...reasons. It's the um...the composition and the...the lighting and...yeah. All that stuff.

THE DRAWING OSWALD DID OF DAGUR AND HEATHER AS KIDS

oooooohhh my heart!

Look. At. My. Boy. He looks so happy and at peace after reading his father's letter.

Ok so again...the writers making very interesting decisions for Dagur's lines.

Dagur being funny and a little concerning again

I liked the colour scheme for this Gronckle

More Dagur appreciation.

Before the episode where Fishlegs helps Dagur fly Shattermaster, I would have assumed Dagur would make fun of Fishlegs for being a nerd -- but instead he appreciates it. I think their friendship is super adorable, and I wish we got to see more of it.

Fishie! He calls him Fishie! (I ship them a little sometimes tbh) I can see Dagur having a thing for nerds.

hehehe

and uh, let's close off with hiccup being hot and windswept

[neerons]

Some of Sariel Noir's best quotes

"Know that this devil will stake his life on your pure heart, your wise gaze, and your fierce resolve."

"There is something I wish to protect, even if it means selling my soul to the true devil himself, and burning for all eternity in the fires of hell."

"Do you realize who you resemble, when you act in that manner?" (—Sariel to Emma acting like him)

"Rio, what in the world makes you think she could be in a flower vase? Calm yourself." (—Sariel talking about Emma to Rio while they're looking for her)

"There is no harm in sucking up to me."

"You have always been courageous, determined to put your emotions aside and process things logically whenever possible. And I certainly consider it a desirable trait to possess. But too much has happened this evening, and I imagine you're well past the limit of what you can tolerate. I do not mind if you need to prioritize how you are feeling right now."

"If you ever refer to me like that again, I must warn you that you may not see the next sunrise." (—Sariel to Gilbert calling him 'Daddy')

"At last I've found you. (...) I imagine a little discipline will go a long way with you... hehe..."

"It would seem you have a lot of confidence in your ability to remember things. (...) ...I am simply wondering whether you ought not be taking notes. While it's true books can be reread, much of the information I am sharing with you is not written down anywhere. As such, you may find it useful to write things down so that you may review them later."

"So long as the kingdom and its people exist, our noble beasts will give everything they have to protect it. As you know, they have very different ideologies, and they are a problematic lot, but... on this one matter alone, almost all of them can be trusted." (—Sariel talking about the Rhodolitian princes to Emma)

"It's a basic right. Everyone needs time to rest and relax, no matter who they are."

"I'm fond of those who are wise—regardless of gender."

"I'm talking about the creature that says 'squeak squeak' and begins with the letter R. I cannot even put that filthy word in my mouth." (—Sariel talking about rats)

"(...) Prince Gilbert, rude though it may be of me to ask, perhaps you would be kind enough to vanish for the time being?"

"There probably aren't many ladies that would be able to approach Prince Gilbert." (—Sariel talking in front of Emma, Keith, Silvio, Rio and Gilbert)

"...Now, now. I am a man, you are a woman, and we're all alone in your bedroom at night. How might you want this scenario to end?"

"To say that I'm relieved to have you beside me is an understatement." (—Sariel's lobby dialogue)

"(...) I did feel some murderous intent in the cane, however." (—Sariel to Gilbert pointing his cane at him)

"Dear Prince Clavis, (...) Apparently you made a child bawl in the middle of town? Please act your age. (...) There have been complaints that people who got wet because of you were close to catching colds because of it. It's winter. Please do not be using water or ice. This is not an invitation to make traps using fire. *NO MICE. The next time I see any, I will put them in a bag along with you and send it down the river. I have warned you." (—Sariel's letter to Clavis)

"...Prostate himself? (...) ...Ahh, I see. Wonderful, I shall have to make the hellcat do it the next time I get the chance." (—Sariel talking about Clavis to Rio)

"You damned hellcat—" (—Sariel to Clavis)

"I do not know what choice you will make going forward, but... For as long as you are able, do not let each other go. Especially because you love each other. It makes no difference whether you are a prince or a commoner. A person needs someone to love in order to remain human. I learned this after witnessing what happened to His Majesty." (—Sariel to Rio)

"What on earth are you doing curled up so disgracefully on the floor like that, Dog?" (—Sariel to Rio)

"(...) At that time, Clavis was the most innocent and childlike of the princes. I had to admit that I was easily swayed by his sweet grin. He took a keen interest in anything and everything, and he had a strong drive. Clavis was the student—well, disciple—I shared most of my knowledge with." (—Sariel's thoughts about young Clavis)

"Which do you like better, spending time with me like this, or spending time reading a book?"

"You are right, it would be tactless of me to speak ill of you when you are present. I shall wait until you are absent, and then I will be free to speak as much ill of you as I wish." (—Sariel to Clavis)

"(...) I'm the one who taught Prince Nokto and Prince Licht how to use their swords."

"I wonder how many times he and I have shared a drink now. I remembered the times where instead of amber-colored wine, there was water or milk in the cups in front of us. We had been partaking in these laidback meetings ever since we were both young. They were an absolute necessity for us." (—Sariel's thoughts about Jin)

"(...) You misunderstand me. I don't hate the man, I despise him." (—Sariel talking about Clavis to Emma)

"Now, now. Don't be so sullen. Another fundamental aspect of training someone is to make them want something but never completely satisfy them."

"I also despise hellcats, miscreants, oh, and the Third Prince." (—Sariel talking about Clavis)

"If you do, I'm not nursing you back to health." (—Sariel to Rio telling him he might faint because of how beautiful Emma is)

"(...) Since Emma isn't available to praise you, shall I do the honors instead?" (—Sariel to Rio)

"Hehe, I'm never going to let you run away from this palace of beasts. Will you continue to allow them, and myself, to enjoy your company to the fullest?"

"My hobby is teasing those who are worth teasing, such as yourself. Think of it as an honor that you met my expectations." (—Sariel's lobby dialogue)

"In that instance, I was considering binding Emma's arms behind her back and dumping her in the river. Hehe, naturally, I am joking. I have absolute confidence in my judge of character." (—Sariel talking about Emma potentially failing his test to Rio and Emma)

"I have one more order for you, if that's all right. (...) I'd like you to have a drink with me like this every now and then."

"(...) if it is to be a competition, perhaps I shall take part as well." (—Sariel reacting to Luke saying he would steal Emma away)

"The princes were all very excited when they discovered that today is your birthday. Happy birthday." (—Sariel's lobby dialogue)

"You allowed yourself to get so close to her that rumors began circulating that she was your mistress. Did you keep Belle at your side even knowing it would have no benefit for you?" (—Sariel to Chevalier)

"Prince Chevalier's faction are perhaps a little too free-willed, and at times the ache in my—"

"Consider it one of the perks of being Belle. You are permitted to keep a pet at the palace. (...) This is your pet, is it not? When I entered the bookstore, it started barking non-stop, so I had no choice but to bring it with me." (—Sariel talking about Rio to Emma)

"Hmm? Is something the matter? I can't imagine why you're blushing. Careful now, or you really will get eaten."

"Don't worry. It doesn't matter what kind of noise you make. If anyone overhears and finds fault with you, this devil of a man will take care of it. So please, won't you allow me to hear every last sweet sound?"

[urlocaldesertdweller]

Reader X Mafia! Venture pt2

ah yes the wanted and requested pt 2

(PLEASE READ PT 1 BEFORE READING THIS, or don't idc)

https://www.tumblr.com/urlocaldesertdweller/757756682688495616/reader-x-mafia-venture?source=share

srry yall i took the more wholesome route cuz im a wuss. :,)I made Venture a hopless romantic cheesy kind of possessive person.?? help me (I also confirmed them listening to love songs during all of this thinking about u<3)

That one night you encountered the Sloan Cameron, you thought it was the only time you were going to see them, you thought that was that. You really thought you were going to have a normal life after that.

It's only been so many eventless days after that night that you noticed these "gifts" appear on your front door. First was a bouquet of thornless yellow roses. Considering you always doubted your own beauty and looks, you thought it was a mistake until you picked it up to find a pale brown envelope with "To (Y/n)" written in a yellow glitter gel pen.

In this city, you would've had the right mind to not pick anything suspicious with your name on it, the number of horrible things people can plan to lure people out of their protective homes to sweep them away. But considering you almost seem to be known for making bad choices you pick it up and rush into your safe home quickly locking it and shutting your blinds.

You felt like a little detective when you set the flowers and letters on the table under the light looking for anything you can find. A sign, a signal, a message something can bring a thought or an idea to your head but nothing came up until you finally opened the letter. Everything was written in what seemed to be an attempt at cursive and many smudges and cross-outs with more ink can be seen it makes you chuckle. This love letter you see looks like a messy 5th-grade paragraph.

"Well, you finally got the courage to pick up this letter mi amor! If you manage to figure out who sent this, well you got me! But anyway I just wanted to send you this so you wouldn't be too scared when more gifts come your way. I'll keep things simple for your pretty head gorgeous. You caught the eye of a dangerous but sweet person you have already met, everything you do and say makes my heart skip a beat more than any heist I can pull off. I want to give you every rose in the world and make you mine for the rest of my life. You truly catch my eyes more than any other relic or artifact from the past."

You have to admit that whoever wrote this was clearly in some cheesy romantic mood, but being honest the words made your stomach stir with clear interest despite the red flags appearing in your head. But looking further into the letter to find much smaller text, it seem that they completely had given up on the cursive and went back to normal handwriting.

"-P.S. If you know who I am (did I make it too obvious?) Please find me during the night, but you won't find me but I'll certainly find you! ;)"

You feel your hand twitch wanting to slap yourself in the face feeling the second-hand embarrassment radiating off of this goofy letter. You didn't have to think too hard about wondering who could've sent such a letter. You turn to the bouquet, picking it up. You inhale the sweet subtle scent, these would certainly brighten up the place along with its beautiful fragrance.

The realization finally hits you as you fill up your best vase with water. Someone likes you. Not only that but they like you enough to send you roses with a cheesy letter full of effort. Until your heart stops to remember who likes you, you know easily it's Sloan Cameron. But why? What could have possibly caught their interest about you.? Not only were you going to confront Sloan but you were going to question them.

It's night once more, you have mentally prepared yourself for this moment as you pull your jacket on. A normal life they said, a normal life that feels so out of reach now with a gang member having a crush on you. These past few days have certainly been full of mixed feelings, to say the least.

You step to your door, and you hesitate to reach for the knob a million thoughts rush to your mind. One was thinking about Sloan waiting for you and they will be waiting with a weapon in their hand, another says that they'll kidnap you and keep you as a love toy or something weird like that... It's really telling how you were feeling with most of the thoughts ending in a negative and dreadful outcome.

No, you can do this! If you can watch them bury a body, and outrun them, you can certainly face them when they supposedly confess to you about like like you. Yeah, you can do this!

You throw your palm onto the knob, completely ignoring the fact you just drenched it in your own sweat, but you swing the door open and step out with confidence! You were almost full of too much confidence as you nearly left the house with the door wide open, you scramble to lock it as you huff returning to your nightly stroll.

Of course, you always felt like something was watching you even before your encounter with Sloan. You stuff your hands into your pockets, and you keep on glancing all over the streets even taking a look from the rooftops as if Sloan would be there watching you from above like Batman.

It would be some time until you thought of walking towards where you first found Sloan, at the rotting graveyard where you caught them slacking during their work. You huff watching the environment change in minutes until you finally stop at the edge of the dry grass looking upon the tombstones.

You realize that where the fresh hole was now filled up with a pile of dirt with a wooden cross. You figured that this was the grave that Sloan Cameron just finished days ago. Despite Sloan killing numbers of people you can't even imagine, you felt that it was somewhat bittersweet for them to have some sort of respect to give the people proper graves.

You hummed and whistled shuffling around waiting. You almost thought about moving somewhere else until you heard boots echo through the small alley from your side you saw a figure in the shadows which made you jump a little. You seemed to always act innocent and dumb during situations like these.

"Hello.?"

You say loud enough to echo towards the walls of the alley. The figure starts to walk toward you, and the long silence makes you more nervous thinking there's a good chance that this isn't Sloan. Your legs feel the blood rush and you feel like running all of a sudden.

You panic as the figure starts to run towards you, they are too close for you to even try to run. You yelp to see the shadow enter the light. Even though you see Sloan stop right in front of you, you are still scared as you pull your hands up defensively with a yelp.

"Please dont hurt m-!"

"(Y/n) calm down it's just me!"

You hear them giggle which frustrates you with how cheery they can act after almost giving you a heart attack.

"...Sloan! Dont ever scare me like that again! I thought you were some crook wanting to kill me.."

You lightly shove them in the shoulder with a pout. They only keep on chuckling which makes you almost want to break your sternness for a moment.

"Alright alright I won't do it again I promise mi joya!"

They say with a wink which reminds you of why you came out here in the first place. You keep a stern look which seems to get the message towards Sloan and they almost seem to look like a kicked puppy. Besides the butthurt look, they can tell that you want to say something. You take this moment to finally take a peek at their clothing, it seems that they were still wearing the same work outfit but lost the thick jacket allowing you to glance at their well-built arms, the loss of their jacket gives you the possible idea that they were off duty.

"...What is it.? What happened.? Did you not like my gift.?!"

They seem to say everything out in a heartbeat clearly worried about what you are going to say. You only sigh and push a finger towards their lips hushing them before they can assume what's wrong. You tighten your eyes to which theirs widen but they quickly pipe down.

"You think too much. Just let me talk okay!?"

They dont bother with moving away from your placed finger and they nod with a mhm! Again you ask yourself how someone like them got such a dangerous and dark job.

"First of all. The flowers were nice and so I thank you."

You watch them smile a little clearly feeling proud of themselves that you liked at least half of their gift but they are quite down to hear you out once more.

"But! The letter dear god the letter..."

They cough and you watch their faces upturn into a nervous smile as they shuffle uncomfortably tugging on the collar of their tucked button-up.

"I dont know what to think honestly. And I was hoping that tonight could be where we can talk about this...thing you have on me. That's all, don't get all sweaty and scared yet!"

They look like they have been holding their breath for a while you guess suspecting a complete rejection. They exhale and they bend over their bends catching their breath before quickly shooting back up bright as ever.

"...Yeah we can talk! Yep, talking is my...number one thing heh..."

Never mind they still seem tense around you. You only sigh as you shift on your feet wanting to move around instead of staying at this gloomy graveyard.

"You dont have to keep up an act with me, I just want a simple walk and talk with you, set some ground rules know.?"

They perk up and step aside letting you leave the graveyard first with a bow. You can't help but chuckle at their charm with you, you can't deny that it warms your heart a little at the thought. You step out from the rotting wood fences and Sloan follows behind you eventually walking up beside you, you notice that ever since they have been keeping almost a look on you not the creepy kind but the more admiration kind which makes you chuckle.

"So... Was it all too much.? Yknow in the letter.?"

You look at Sloan with a small grin.

"Being honest, yeah if I hadn't met you before I would definitely think that I'd have a stalker."

They feel their cheeks redden up and they look down at the sidewalk stuffing their hands in their pants pockets.

"But whatever is going on, between you and me right now. I'm just going to need some time to think right now okay.? That's all I need, you can send all of the gifts to your heart's content but if you want you and me to know be a thing much more talking and discussions will be in order.!"

They lift their head and look up at you with a small grin, they look at you like a fallen angel for you gifting them a chance. You bump your shoulder into theirs jokingly to lighten the mood to which they find themselves giggling and bumping back.

"Me? Oh yeah! I'm surprised you haven't called the cops on me for finding me during my job! It's a gift alone that you are even talking to me with my kind of reputation! But yeah you can take all the time you need."

The two of you share a comfortable moment of silence seems that both of you are content with how this meeting is going. As you walk further up the street you pass the bar you left that one late night that led the two of you first meeting. You thought that you were going to pass and eventually do a turnaround until you felt Sloan's hands grip on your wrist stopping you right in front of the large entrance.

"Hey, my gang owns this building and bar yknow.? There is a really nice view from the high levels I promise you!"

Before you can even turn to look at them to speak they whip out their best puppy eyes shining straight into yours, they tug on your sleeve hoping that you play along...walking into the same building the gang that your supposed stalker also works for.? Yeah, you are dead before you know it. You only sigh which sends the signal to them and they smile the biggest you've seen them smile and before you know it they pull you towards the entrance ignoring the long line that stretches along the street then cuts around the corner.

You remember waiting in this long line just to get a good drink, you feel the pairs of eyes burn holes into your back as Sloan stops in front of a tall bodyguard who only glances at you and then at Sloan.

"Heya Tuilp! ...Dont worry about them, they are my guest!"

Tulip grunts and nods and Sloan drags you into the bar where the music blasts and the whole mood seems to shift in the main bar. The bar already made you feel out of your element until you had some drinks to relax your nerves.

But Sloan glances at you and giggles then continues to guide you through and past the main Bar to where the overall vibe and aesthetic of the building changes to one of more professionalism. From the high ceiling to the complete sets of marble walls and flooring. The glass elevator further amazes you and you are tuck in with Sloan. Your gaping mouth at everything tells Sloan everything about you during this.

"So I can tell you haven't been in this part of the building before!"

"This place is...certainly gorgeous..."

If the bar alone made you feel the odd one out, this much cleaner rich lobby-looking room made you feel like a wanted target. Sloan pushes one of the highest buttons and before you know it the elevator shoots up faster than you could think, which makes your heart race, the feeling alone of quickly gaining height makes your legs shake...it also didn't help that you had a bit of a fear with heights.

Sloan leans forward noticing your yelp then quick silence, soon watching your shaky legs they know. They can't help themselves so they grab onto your hand and hold it tight. You look at them and only grin and soon enough your mind starts to focus on the warm skin-to-skin contact between your hands instead of the continuing elevator.

Soon enough you hear a ding and the doors open behind you. And you smell the fresh air and feel the cool wind hit you, Sloan still holding on your hand interlocks your fingers into theirs and they lead you out into the warm night. You eventually let go of their hand and you walk towards the railing.

"Pretty nice huh.? I like to come out here from time to time when times get too rough for me..."

They join you by your side on the railing looking at you with a smirk seeing your stare into the sky. Sloan wasn't kidding, although you could easily see the stars back down from the streets. All the way up on the building Sloan's gang owned, you couldn't help but feel closer to the night sky and further away from the chaotic city. You feel yourself leaning on the railing feeling your eyes never cease to pull away from the tinkling and blinking stars.

"This is beyond beautiful..."

The two of you continue to look upon the shiny sky, the moon is bright enough to place a light on the two of you. Your eyes finally break away to look around on the surrounding floor. You quickly realize now that this was the sky roof and a part of the roof garden. Now you know how Sloan got the roses for you, you can't help but think that this was slightly planned by Sloan and you eye them up with a smirk before nodding towards the large garden. Surprisingly everything looks happy and thriving for living in a city like this.

"Did you plan on taking me up here to the garden as well, ya charmer..."

"Well, you could say that I did have some sort of plan to show you one of the prettiest places I know! I'd just thought it could be nice to share it with someone who isn't from the gang yknow.?"

You walk further into the garden, and you hear Sloan's boots thump against the floor which makes your heart beat just a little faster, you never thought that you could have such a fun time with a gang member on a rooftop. You turn all around to look at the variations of plants ranging from vegetables, and fruits, to flowers.

"Oh? Would you say that all of this gang stuff weighs down on you from time to time.?"

They stay quiet and you turn to look at them with a look of concern.

"..."

"I'll take that as a yes then..."

You'd figure on changing the subject with taking their hand in yours and taking them towards the thorny rose bushes. A wave of the scent reaches you sense and you hum hopping to talk about roses instead of prodding with personal business with Sloan. They already seem to set their mind on the flowers, they take in a white rose in their hand cupping it, and bring it close to their nose. They slowly inhale and exhale seeming much more happier now which makes you relieved.

"Good to know where the roses came from then.!"

You chuckle as you glance at the bright moon finally noticing how bright it is with being able to see your...at this point, you'd forget with names and call them your date considering how intimate this is looking. They chuckle finally pulling away from the roses to look at you with the sweetest smile, maybe it was your unnecessary jacket for tonight but you felt a little warmer with their smile towards you.

"Yeah, I always looked for the best for you!"

The two of you share a laugh comfortably together once more until you hear a click... This makes the both of you widen and awake, but it seems that Sloan looks more nervous than you, which makes your heart race.

"Um, Sloan what was-!"

They grab onto your hand running which makes you yelp, you hear one more click then you realize what it was. Timed sprinklers, water shoots out all over the place. At that moment it almost felt like the sprinklers were getting more water on you and Sloan than the actual plants...

You both scream as you feel your clothes get soaked with water giving the extremely uncomfortable feeling of the clothes sticking to your skin. You walk too far into the rather large garden, and you watch Sloan just stop in the middle still getting hit with water they turn towards you their hair no longer fluffy and messy. You both look into each other's eyes feeling a message being sent through eye contact.

You can't bear your awful jacket anymore and you finally shuck it off feeling completely relieved and feeling 10 pounds lighter. Honestly the water eventually just felt like a nice outdoor shower...with your date.

"..."

"..."

You share a moment of silence before breaking out into a fit cheering and jumping. You had to admit the city would have its heatwaves even during the night somehow so this felt heavenly. It takes you a moment to realize that Sloan wrapped their arms around your waist and your jumps match in rhythm. Honestly, you didn't care what they did to you because, in your equally messed up head, you felt yourself catching feelings for the Mole.

"Whoo! This is amazing!!!"

"...I LOVE LIFE!!!!!!"

Eventually, the sprinklers stop leaving the two of you soaked, you stop jumping and you have nothing else to do but look at each other. Maybe it was the soaked feeling kicking in. Maybe it was Sloan holding you by the waist. But you felt yourself leaning in forward...

Honestly, when you closed your eyes you didn't know what to expect but you felt something soft against your lips. You open your eyes to see that Sloan is holding a freshly plucked rose between your lips and theirs. You felt a little embarrassed not only with how Sloan juked you but also realizing how much you fell for this person. Nevertheless, you pull away to watch them grow a smirk and they chuckle. You playfully beat against their shoulder which only makes them laugh harder to the point they start to wheeze.

They drop you on the ground as they hold their chest and whip a tear away.

"Oh my! I'm sorry I couldn't help it I'm sorry!"

You quickly find a way to get back at them by taking advantage of them being busy with laughing. You cup their cheek which stops them completely and you lean in to peck their wet cheek with your lips. They go from a laughing mess to a flushed stuttering mess, they bring their hands to their face trying hard to cover it.

"I wasn't ready... How dare you surprise me! Mind you I loved it but...yknow.!"

You only grab on their arm now you are the one dragging them away out of the gardens to find some method to dry each other off...

i did it :,) im rlly hoping yall like it even if I went the more cliche cringy route, maybe soon I can write a different more dark route if you want!

[kosmicdream]

I love manga and comics, but I gotta say. So many of the series i have found most influential to my work either won’t finish, have not finished, or finished in a sort of unsatisfying way. Even if they’re fine, its usually not like.. IT. This is a pretty common experience. I have had a lot more luck watching movies that have endings that felt worth the experience and I’ve started to try to read in hopes to get more exposure to “good endings”.. But i do wish it was more common in my favorite medium to like, have that experience! Even when the endings are pretty good (and there are some, i personally think “paradise kiss” had a great ending that makes me return to the series multiple times over the decades) - I also am like.. I dunno. Its never the highlight of the story, you know. Its not the main reason why you’d read it, is the ending. I would assume most stories across all mediums, the ending isn’t going to be the “best part” anyway. However, after finally finishing watching UTENA earlier this year, I can say that at least for that series (no movie spoilers pls, i still havent seen it ;n;) the ending was in fact, the best part to me and made the entire experience even more memorable and worthwhile to watch. Months later, I’m still kinda amazed that happened! Wish it was not so rare, but also what a treat to get to see something like that felt like what i think an ending to a story should be. Still not a manga/comic ofc, but y’kno. Still good.

Other strong endings for me were: Paradise Kiss (as I said above), There will be blood, Monster, NGE (specifically end of evangelion) … umm!  I don’t know.. Is that really it for me? I like the 98’ Trigun end, but i also hated it as a teenager. So its more of a “nostalgic” one to me, same with Princess Mononoke. I’ll include those just for the sake of having more to think of. There’s plenty more i am fine with and enjoy fine enough.. but i guess its a lot harder for me to find ones that last in my head as what i find to be a satisfying & impressive end.. Of course, endings are all based on taste. Maybe i just haven’t seen enough endings. I think this contributes, along with a plethora of other elements, why writing endings are so hard! There’s just a lot you want to say and it is such a long journey to get there anyway. You are filled with doubt with your executions of ideas, or maybe find the ending you thought of less satisfying than you used to think it was. The longer you spend with something, the more you might find issues. Plus, it really is so hard just to get there. You’re usually falling over with exhaustion just to get to the finish line, let alone do the ending of your dreams. I know when i get to the ends of my chapters, i’m usually so desperate just to get there, i end up feeling like they come out poorly vrs my vision for them. 

Yes.. i have been thinking about endings a lot. Its just something that’s always on my mind, with NRD nearing its close. It still is going to take time of course, but as I revise the last chapters I’m still like left with a lot of feelings with wondering how it’ll come out, if i can even do it, ect. I know i will, its inevitable. But after that, well, my big struggle with FFAK will continue. I know that NRD has given me more tools to handle a series as long as FFAK, but its still getting older and it can be harder to understand all the things I wanted to say with it, what I still can say with it and what is the most valuable to say with it. I can’t do everything! And i certainly have more ideas for it than I could draw, I’m excited to have the story close too. Before it used to make me too upset to even think it i’d cry.. But now i’m like yeah! I wanna know too. I want to share what I thought of, even if its not what readers might have thought it was going to be like. Honestly, with every choice i make in the story, i always have had at least 1 or 2 other options, and I get attached to the other versions of the story that i dont get to make. They all end up very different ends, but still more or less the same story regardless. 

Anyway, just some thoughts on writing and comics today…

[redisaid]

Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she’s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

[receival]

warrior of darkness starters.

the following is a collection of sentence starters from shadowbringers, the third expansion of square enix's final fantasy 14. part 1.

sounds like tedious work. but not as tedious as waiting around, i suppose.

look how many people there are!

well, if it isn’t the hero of the hour.

stay with me. focus on my voice.

oh, do not look at me so.

we did everything right, everything that was asked of us, and still - still it came to this.

your time has not yet come.

something vague … yet urgent … calls me to action once more.

every face in this city i know. yours i do not.

pray forgive my less-than-cordial welcome.

come with me. i will answer whatever questions you have when we are somewhere more private.

do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?

i can only beg your forgiveness - matters here forced my hand.

you don’t have that whiff of indolence about you like some folk i’ve met.

we can speak here without fear of being overheard.

what say you? have i earned your trust for the moment, at least?

are you there, my friend?

now, a full and frank discussion in the privacy of my study would seem to be in order …

i’m going to guess you’re new to our fair city?

i see you’re no stranger to honest labor.

should you find yourself confused by the local language or customs, i’ll be here to answer your questions.

i understand it was something of a chore, but ‘twas necessary that you grasp these things before we proceed.

… i am not familiar with that name. is there something i should know?

mayhap we can revisit that mystery another time.

considering the ... circumstances of our meeting, you would be forgiven for doubting my version of events.

i promise i will not rest until i have found a way to help you return home.

you came from beyond, didn’t you? you came from beyond the rift!

what a brave and reckless and marvelous thing you did.

after careful consideration, i have decided to grant you my assistance.

make a pact with me, and the fun can begin.

pray rest and recuperate, and we shall reconvene anon.

we are denied the comforting blanket of night, but may peaceful dreams attend you nonetheless.

i am a shade, cursed to do naught but drift.

this world is beyond saving - like those who try to save it.

do me a favor. be careful out there. this world has had its fill of heroes.

me? i was more worried about you.

i thought i’d lost you.

i may be a stranger to this world, but i will not stand idly by and let innocent people be slaughtered.

what say you, old friend? hungry for another adventure?

thank you again. you saved my life.

there’s naught to be had here but cobwebs and memories.

just look at it … can you imagine a more beautiful city?

disapprove ...? it frustrates me, certainly. that is only part of it, though. the whole situation makes me uneasy.

however unjust this system seems to me, if these people claim to be content with their lot, it is hardly my place to criticize their choices.

i am not so naive as to think there is some miraculous solution to all of this.

there has to be a better way.

'tis fortunate that you arrive when you did, (name).

… is there something i can do for you, friend?

someone must have been eavesdropping on our conversation.

no one here gives a damn about me.

i’m giving you a chance, nothing more. what comes of it is entirely up to you.

i do not regret my decision ... yet i will admit that a part of me wonders if it was for the best.

i thought for certain i was dead.

redemption is beyond us.

‘tis good to see you back. you were taking so long i began to worry something had happened.

what then is a man of mercy to do, but offer the sinner another way to show his contrition?

what in the blazes did you do? they have the entire city looking for you!

i am sorry, (name). there are more important matters to which i must attend.

pray press me no further. i am leaving.

the outrage i witnessed must not go unanswered.

thank you, my friend ... for staying at my side through this whole sordid endeavor.

… (name)? it feels like an age since i last saw you!

i had it under control!

i knew you’d turn up sooner or later, but i had been hoping for sooner.

they either perish … or are warped into mindless abominations.

that’s an exaggeration! and i don’t sound like that, either!

i’ve no doubts she deserves all the admiration she gets. just as you do.

what, and twiddle my thumbs while you work yourself to death?

sooner or later, every single one of them will turn.

i feel just as helpless as before. no matter how hard i fight, it's never enough.

you needn’t have gone through the trouble.

in a place like this, you learn to take what moments of happiness you can get.

it’s never easy, ending a life you’ve cared for.

without a body, we can’t even give her a proper burial.

you weren’t hurt at all, were you?

hurt? there wasn’t even a fight. i was too late. too slow …

you can’t blame yourself for things beyond your control.

forgive me, (name). i couldn’t stay there a moment longer.

(name)? you’ve gone pale …

… i’m fine. we should keep moving.

we were too slow to save them …

there are … things which we can ill afford to lose.

forgive me. i fear the events of the day may have taken their toll.

how quickly you have justified my faith in you.

would you be so kind as to conceal your involvement in this endeavor for the time being?

i expect to be told the whole truth of it one day.

please. i wish to be left alone for awhile.

i promise to find you later, when i feel myself again.

sleep well, (name). i hope untroubled dreams find you.

these are my "private" quarters …

it’s when you charge ahead trying to save someone else that you end up losing those you love.

not that you need telling. i’ll bet you've lost plenty. but i wonder ... what will it cost you this time?

i don't remember when it was that i learned regret wasn’t worth the bother.

you get numb to it all over the years. the lost comrades, the broken promises, the abandoned principles - just more nagging burdens to ignore.

stay your weapon. i am not your enemy.

they tracked me down, and conscripted me to their cause.

i have more questions, but now is not the time.

you are come at a good time. as you may have heard, we have something of a quandary on our hands.

‘twas inevitable they would come knocking. the only question was how soon.

the world is dead, and writhe as we might, like maggots in its rotting corse, it will not be reborn.

i waste my breath. you have made your stance clear.

am i imagining things, or did he just stare straight at us?

while i am grateful for your support, my lord - i cannot in good conscience put your people in harm’s way.

there is, however, much to say, and precious little time in which to say it.

might i trouble you for a word, (name)? outside?

(name)! what brings you here?

i do not wish to show our hand unless absolutely necessary.

so long as hope burns in our hearts, we will fight on regardless.

there may come a day when all hope seems lost. but even should the rest of the world give in to despair - we shall not.

trust you to spoil the moment!

yes? what do you require of me?

there you are, (name)! mayhap you could lend me a hand!

you certainly took your time.

let’s rejoin the others and quit this place.

all this trouble because of me … i’m so sorry …

save your apologies until after we’ve escaped.

it’s quiet. too quiet.

you will regret coming here.

it is for your own protection.

you are made of sterner stuff than the rest. but will it be enough?

as if i didn’t have enough on my hands already …

mayhap there is another way. one which does not require bloodshed.

we should be safe enough here.

it’s good to see you again, my friend. i don't know about you, but it feels like years since last we met.

this is not the sort of place one visits on a whim.

you really have outdone yourself this time.

i’m sorry. thank you for saving me.

why can’t i remember?

we are now, i am sorry to say, entirely at their mercy.

[tonydaddingham]

what does aziraphale know?

i wanted to have another look through the pre-fall scene because there was something that wasn't feeling Quite Right to me about it, and honestly the below is just a stream of consciousness rather than any coherent theory, analysis or otherwise - so read at your own peril.

so the school of thought for many reasons has been that the Angel Who Crowley Was (AWCW) was a powerful angel, and i don't think that can be argued sufficiently given what we have seen so far from s1 and s2. but after rewatching the pre-fall scene i do wonder if crowley's importance in the Grand Scheme of Things has been overestimated, possibly by noone more than AWCW/crowley himself, and if aziraphale was actually the one with status, however quiet and modest.

when we open with the pre-fall scene, we see crowley alone, and he calls at a passing angel for some help with the map/plan. now this angel seems to rocketing past at the literal speed of light, and i cant help but feel that they were actually intending on going somewhere. and at the below specific angle, that angel looks like they were heading in a downward trajectory.

given that AWCW points up when referencing "Upstairs", we can infer that whilst heaven may not be bound by concepts like upstairs or downstairs, it does seem to have a concept of a higher placement for a higher being (ie god). this is also going on the assumption that in this scene, AWCW and the angel are even in heaven-space (which arguably, they're not), but regardless the angel seems to be heading down, indicating that they've just come down from the Up.

in any case, when aziraphale arrives, has helped AWCW with the cranking, he then says, "was that it?". and the way he says it, his body language, indicates to me that he is being polite, but in a perfunctory way. to me, it almost feels like he has things he needs to get on with - not in any frustrated or impatient manner, but just simply, 'is there anything else you need from me?', because he has things To Do.

(gif quality does not display this lmao but it's the impression i got anyway)

but AWCW puts out there that that was just the starting the ignition, and gleefully says that the next bit is where the true magic happens. which, i think is obvious, is where aziraphale actually reacts in any of the same manner - he begins to really smile, and offers up his name, even going so far as to say hi for the first time in the conversation. and i do think this is because he's just gotten a slam dunk of 'oh shit this angel is cute', but that's almost immaterial.

the part of the dialogue that struck me however is that AWCW says, "ive been waiting for this since... well, always!". it's not particularly revelatory, but to me basically says that AWCW has literally been working on this since he was formed from the firmament, having concept and design meetings with god, but this has been his entire "life"'s work, and he has never known anything else. he could just be being hyperbolic and i could be reading into it, but it would make sense for this starmaker to have only ever been a starmaker.

and heaven is certainly portrayed as being the most desolate place ever conceived, whether its in the dreaded High Rise Penthouse office building or in this vast, empty, dark space (presuming of course that the latter is in fact part of heaven, which it may well not be - and instead be in the space between planes before the universe was actually created)

regardless it gives the distinct impression of being very Lonely. so can we surmise from this that AWCW is not only a starmaker, but The Starmaker? working entirely in a team of one (thinking about the ep6 line of a "team... of the two of us") to create this nebula, possibly even most of the universe? crowley is described as being the only demon with an imagination, and his weapon of choice is literally the same instrument with which he cranked up this nebula... was his imagination in heaven also that revered and that's why he was entrusted with this project? and other similar ones? possibly.

but that spells for loneliness - single genius can be lonely. so it stands to reason that AWCW would be eager to have someone around to get dizzy with him about the wonder that is this new nebula and appreciate him for his creation. but it's not out of it being aziraphale being the one to appreciate it - we can surmise that in the way AWCW brushes him off. is this a case of self-importance? feeling he has status and should be recognised for this achievement? i feel like this is potentially a likely scenario.

in any case, AWCW seems pretty set on creating not only for himself, which he evidently finds fun and self-rewarding - going so far as to preen at the heartfelt but small praise that aziraphale gives him, but because its part of gods plan, and he's doing it for her.

he's even given perhaps one of the most famous lines from the bible, "let there be light". do we even trust that in GO it was god that originally said it - was it in fact AWCW? well either way, he completely believes in her vision, as far as he understands her vision to be.

so imagine how it must have felt then, in this instance, to have this stranger angel tell him that hes fairly certain that god is planning to destroy it in the next few millennia. AWCW, who is entrusted with creating parts if not all of her universe, isn't even clued in on the full facts, but aziraphale seems to be.

aziraphale is even seemingly part of the team (or is the whole team?) that seems to be entrusted with the plan of god's ultimate creation - earth and people built in her own image... but in kind doesn't seem to quite understand the true purpose of the nebula AWCW has built, at least according to him.

do we take this as an indication that god doesn't readily share her plans between angels, or that the nebula doesn't actually have as much importance as AWCW believed it to have? in any case, aziraphale seems to have been entrusted with god's plan, and AWCW - a creator whose creation the plan directly threatens - isn't.

aziraphale then goes on to describe the people they are currently designing; if we went with the notion (ie not sure how true this is in GO!verse) that humanity is god's ultimate creation, aziraphale has been trusted to help with that. i can't imagine just any angel would be, so there must be something in aziraphale that god sees as being fundamental in helping her with building them. from what we know of aziraphale's characteristics even this early on in his arc, he seems to be a kind and selfless person, and these may be the qualities that in building humanity god considers instrumental.

when we further consider that aziraphale then ends up being guardian of the eastern gate, and seems to have gone unpunished in giving away his sword (spelling its own implications for humanity as concerns war, cruelty, and death) and lying to her about it, this really does indicate to me that aziraphale is literally one of - if not the - favourite. given his qualities that it seems the other angels seem to lack (yes, even AWCW to a certain extent), it might just be that aziraphale was god's perfect angel. that would make sense.

the other thing that struck me is that aziraphale warns crowley against questioning god. the fall hasn't happened yet, so what gives aziraphale the foreboding sense of doom if crowley were to directly question her and her motives? "if i was the one running it all, id like it if..." strikes me as being the foreshadowing that it's this exact phraseology that AWCW puts before god and spells for disaster; that crowley intimates that if he were in charge, he would do things better. which is eerie when you again take into consideration the bookend that is aziraphale, "if im in charge, i could make a difference".

i would take the context of this being set pre-fall to indicate that there isn't any concept of actual punishment in heaven just yet (other than what a supervisory angel might order another angel to do, or a general reprimand). so what exactly is aziraphale afraid of? why is he scared for AWCW? doesn't he trust god to be understanding and kind if AWCW were to ask questions? what is it that aziraphale knows that AWCW doesn't?

so this is where i come to wondering if crowley was indeed prince of hell (okay yeah, fuck it, this is now a theory). what if it was actually aziraphale? god's perfect angel, entrusted with creating and guarding her ultimate creation? would it really be implausible that aziraphale went back to god and mused on what AWCW had said to him?

that it would perhaps be beneficial to have further input on how things were being created, especially when all the hard work, the creativity and genius, that was going into making her plans a reality, was just going to be wiped out in a snap? AWCW had 'friends' that fanned the flames of questioning god, doubled down on his resolve, and aziraphale tried to forestall the punishment that would inevitably come for him... but in doing so was punished himself?

but because aziraphale is her Favourite, instead of making him fall, she wiped his memory of it? he evidently remembers crowley as an angel, but beyond that? especially his remark that he's never killed anything (when, even if indirectly, aziraphale actually has? s1 with the french guard and the airfield soldier (perhaps not taking book canon into account here re: soldier) and the demons in s2) - does aziraphale not remember being a soldier? had a hard factory reset and is back to the unblemished, untainted angel he was before?

what if crowley did indeed bargain for aziraphale to be spared? that it was his fault that god was going to make him fall, it was his questions not aziraphale's? i think narratively it could make sense in the way that aziraphale and crowley are put as two halves of the same whole; that crowley did a selfless thing and was damned for it, whereas aziraphale wanted something selfish for crowley but was spared from the consequences. it would also go some way to explaining why crowley always has to protect aziraphale - its literally been his way since the beginning, in recompense for what happened to aziraphale?

i realise that this is completely batshit, but i do like the idea (im a huge fan of a bait and switch), and poetically speaking i think it could work - that instead of crowley being the original fallen angel, it was actually aziraphale? borne out of kindness and fondness for his new friend, the friend that actively seemed to welcome his company and wanted to show him the stars, and wanting to make heaven and the world a better place?✨

[aspoonofsugar]

Bumbleby VS Robyn

Blake and Yang's most important moment in volume 7 is their disagreement over Ironwood and Ruby, which is solved with their fight against Robyn and their choice to share the truth with her.

This is overall a minor moment, but it touches on several important themes and ideas, which are central to Blake and Yang's arcs.

ROBYN AS BUMBLEBY'S FOIL

Robyn herself is an interesting foil to both bees.

Just like Blake, she is a freedom fighter and she isn't afraid to break the law for her ideals:

Robyn: The law isn't perfect, you know. It's certainly not equal. My only goal is that all the citizens of Mantle and Atlas -- and Faunus -- have an equal shot at a good life.

Blake: There's too much wrong in this world to just stand by and do nothing. Inequality, corruption… Someone has to stop it.

Her political history even resembles Blake's. She is the leader of a movement, who hopes to change society peacefully. Still, when this chance is stolen, she resorts to strength.

Just like Yang, she is a person who gives much importance to honesty and trust:

Robyn: We can't fix the wall without the supplies on these trucks. I think Mantle deserves to know what they're being used for. It doesn't have to be difficult. Just tell me.

Yang: If we're going to help, if we're going to keep risking our lives, no more lies. No more half-truths.

She even resembles our Goldilock in personality. She is as quick to give names as Yang is to make puns. Morevoer, both are strong-willed and sometimes hot-headed. (Also, both are blond and with purple eyes)

So, Blake and Yang are really asked to face off against a part of themselves. Not only that, but they are forced to play parts they deep down dislike.

Blake is forced to arrest a Huntress, who is trying to help the poor and the oppressed:

Blake: I can tell you, ambushing a Huntress who's just trying to help isn't an option I'm thrilled about choosing.

Our Shadow Beast has spent the majority of her life fighting Atlas, but she is now allied with Ironwood who embodies the Kingdom and its classism.

Yang is forced to hide information from others. Both from Ironwood because of Ruby and from Robyn because of Ironwood:

Yang: Do you… Do you think we should've told Ironwood about Salem, before he put so much on the line for Amity? I trust Ruby, but I think he deserves to know what he's stepping into. We all did.

She was the angriest at Ozpin for keeping secrets, but she is now withholding information herself.

In short, Blake and Yang are in a new situation. Blake is with those in power. Yang is in the known. And yet things aren't easier:

Blake: I'm not sure there are many good options left for any of us anymore. Keeping secrets, taking lives? It makes you wonder how far we're gonna have to go to keep doing the right thing.

Now that they are stronger and wiser, the bees realize they might be becoming like those they resented. So, they decide to forge a new path:

Blake: It isn't an option I'm thrilled about choosing. Yang: Then, maybe we shouldn't.

They take a risk and share the truth with Robyn. What's the outcome?

SHADOW AND LIGHT

Out of the ashes a new flame ignite Rise up from shadows and into the light

Bumbleby vs Robyn is a fight, which makes full use of shadows and lights. This kind of symbolism is dear to Blake:

After all, she is linked to the twilight, when lights and shadows meet, because she is meant to become a bridge between different cultures and people. Here, she fulfills this role.

Throughout their battle, Bumbleby stay in the light. Robyn instead steps into the shadows:

This happens because our 2 girls can move in the light of Atlas society and know the truth. Meanwhile Robyn can only survive by escaping and hiding and is in the dark.

So, Blake tries to overcome the gap:

Blake: Amity Colosseum, all these supplies, they're for… They're for a new communications tower.

She leads Robyn towards the light:

This is Blake's call. She is supposed to bring people lost in darkness into the light. This is why symbolically she can see in darkness (like a cat). It is so she can notice people who are unseen and unheard and make them visible and heard. Here, she stays true to herself.

PLAY BOTH SIDES

Play both sides (play both sides) When truth you cannot recognize

Bumbleby vs Robyn is rooted in the themes of trust, lies and truth. All these ideas are central to Yang's character:

Raven: The truth is that "truth" is hard to come by. A story of victory for one person is a story of defeat for someone else. By now, your uncle has surely told Ruby and her friends plenty of stories.

This is Raven's teaching, after all. In order to understand the complexity of the world Yang should doubt others and ask questions:

Yang: Why should we believe any of this? Raven: Now you're catching on. So far you've done nothing but accept what others tell you, but you need to question everything.

This is the only way for her to see what is usually hidden:

Scathing eyes ask that we be symmetrical, one sided and easily processed. Yet every misshapen spark's unseen beauty is greater than its would be judgement.

So, this is what Yang does throughout the whole scene. She expresses doubts about Ruby's decision and comes up with her own strategy to deal with the current situation. Blake may be the heart of the operation, as she is the most determined to get through and is the one to step forward. Still, Yang is the mind, as she is the one to bring up the idea in the first place. Let's highlight this idea is in itself an ambiguous solution.

On the one hand Yang and Blake are telling Robyn the truth and trusting her. On the other hand they are adding new secrets and lies between them and Ironwood's group:

Ironwood: Are you with me? How did Robyn know about the Global Communications Project?

In short, Yang finds a solution to pursue trust and honesty, but she does so by accepting the necessity of a gray zone. Maybe this is why she is the one who looks straight into the shadows, after Blake leaves first:

And what she sees is disturbingly familiar:

Robyn: I won't stop until I know the whole truth.

Yang: That question… Why? I didn't know an answer, but I was determined to find out. It was all I thought about.

ADAM AND RAVEN'S GHOSTS

So, the bees come up together with a solution to their current predicament.

Blake is passionate about this idea and pursues it with faith. She leads Robyn into the light with no hesitation.

Yang comes up with the plan, but is wary of the situation. She looks at Robyn's shadows and has doubts.

These opposite approaches are complementary and clearly stem from Blake and Yang's different developments, which the scene references through the subtle presence of both Adam and Raven.

Adam is directly alluded to:

Yang: Blake. We did… what we had to do. Blake: I know. But next time, I wanna make sure we don't have to.

Blake regrets killing Adam. She knows she had no other choice, but is still not happy about it and does not want to go through something similar again. Even if she is now stronger and free, she still has some emotions to unpack. This is why Adam comes up here and in another moment of volume 7:

Blake: I just realized where we are. This mine was closed after an explosion. Weiss: I remember this disaster. Or rather, I remember how furious it made my father. I wish I could take back the years of pain my family has caused the Faunus and all of my complacency in it.

In the mine Blake remembers both Adam's SDC scar and Ilia's parents. They are two memories linked to Faunus discrimination, which is a problem she is still grappling with. Our Cat Girl is then still mulling over some unsolved feelings over:

Adam's death

The Faunus discrimination

It is then no surprising this comes up in 2 scenes linked to specifically Yang and Weiss, so the 2 characters set up to help with these 2 sides of Blake's story.

Raven isn't mentioned, but her presence is there, as Yang clearly follows her mother's advice. She is asking questions and thinking for herself. She even comes up with a plan where she and Blake go behind their allies' back for what they believe in.

Yang: You're right. I don't know you. I only know the Raven dad told me about. She was troubled, and complicated, but she fought for what she believed in, whether it was her team or her tribe!

In other words, Yang here takes after Raven. She plays the part of the Wise Woman who shares a part of her knowledge, but not all of it because it is dangerous:

Yang: Look, we are trusting you, so trust us when we say that Amity Tower needs to stay a secret until it's done. We just need a little more time.

Yang is clearly conflicted about this. As she is in general conflicted about Raven herself. This is shown also in another moment of volume 6:

Maria: Child, a Huntress is supposed to protect others to the bitter end. But after I lost my eyes, I only ever looked after myself. Even after my surgery, I was too afraid to fight. Afraid someone would find me again, finish what the others started. You shouldn't aspire to be like me, especially when some of you are clearly stronger already. Upon hearing this, Yang looks down sadly.

Once again it is the context and Yang's body language which drive the message home. Maria frames herself as an authority figure who fails the younger generation. She says she ran away and that the kids are clearly already stronger than her. This is bound to bring a very specific conversation to Yang's mind:

Yang: Oh, shut up!! You don't know the first thing about strength! You turn your back on people, you run away when things get too hard, you put others in harm's way instead of yourself!! You might be powerful, but that doesn't make you strong.

In short, Yang still can't fully process Raven. She can't reconcile the Wise Woman with the Terrible Mother. This is what these 2 brief moments suggest. And once again they seem lousely linked to 2 different teammates:

Blake > the girl Yang loves and with whom she wants to share a future with

Ruby > Yang's little sister she is determined to protect like their mother couldn't

Future and Past - 2 things Yang still has to fully deal with.

As you can see, these short scene is really full of motifs, themes and foreshadowing. Blake and Yang's arcs have been on break throughout Atlas, but the 2 girls still received moments which flesh them out and build their future storyarcs.

[asirensrage]

How would each hashira from Kimetsu no academy react with the new teacher y/n assigned as a preschool teacher entering the academy. They won’t see her as much as she is not in the same grade level she’ll be teaching but when they do see her, are they in love with her? Do they see her as a good friend? Will some of them hate her? I want to include muchirio who is a student at the academy too. But what exactly might happen?

Okay! This took me a while to figure out (and remember what each of them does in that AU) but I think I have it down. This was a great choice because I've worked as a preschool teacher lol. I hope you like it!

The Set Up:

Starting a new job is always nerve-wracking, especially as a teacher. You not only have to get the respect of your fellow coworkers but your students as well. Luckily, things are a little easier as a preschool teacher. Kimetsu no Academy is a huge place that covers school from preschool to high school. While you’re generally in your own section, you still have met some of the staff and older students…

The Reactions

Sanemi: He learns you’re not afraid of him the moment you drag him away from where the children are sleeping and demand that he keep his tone down. You don’t care that he’s chasing down some delinquent student, if the children wake up before they’re ready, your day will be ten times harder. He admires you for the way you stand your ground and decides that he enjoys bantering with you. It’s hard to find someone who won’t run. Honestly, if he wasn’t as madly in love with Kanae, he could see himself being swayed to you. If either of you didn’t kill each other when you argued…

Shinobu: Shinobu is one of the first to meet you. She is brought along with Kanao by Kanae who comes to introduce herself and warn you about the way the school is haunted. At first, you don’t believe her, but there are times when things move, the light flicker or one of the toys makes noise on its own. It’s usually during naptime. After it happens one too many times, you seek Kanae out for help. She, Kanao and Shinobu bring you talismans and teach you the chant she uses. You become great friends with Kanae and start to see Shinobu and Kanao as younger sisters.

Gyomei: You can’t lie, at first glance Gyomei was intimidating but you’ve learned long ago that appearances don’t always tell the truth. It doesn’t take long for you to learn that Gyomei is a sweetheart who you can always rely on if you need assistance with something. Especially if it requires his strength or size. The two of you become good friends and Gyomei is usually your first choice when it comes to inviting someone into the class for assistance. The kids love him and he’s gentle enough back. It might be enough for you to have a bit of a crush, but you’re certainly not going to admit it.

Mitsuri: You need Mitsuri the first time you order pizza for the class. It’s a celebration and a pizza party is the perfect way to have it. She’s bright and bubbly and not that much younger than you. The two of you get on fabulously and it quickly escalates from her delivering pizzas to the two of you going shopping together. You will, however, never get over how much the girl can eat. It’s honestly impressive and you can’t help but wonder where she puts it all. God forbid anyone around you makes a comment though because you’re not afraid to stand up and defend her. She’s your best friend now after all.

Obanai: You don’t have too many interactions with Obanai, outside of staff meetings. But he does have a way of coming around and stopping by your classroom with Mitsuri is there. You know she has a crush on your fellow teacher so you’re not ashamed to casually mention when she’s coming by in his hearing distance. Especially since you can see how interested he is too. You’re just waiting for the day the two of them get together. You can’t wait to celebrate with Mitsuri and know you helped make it possible.

Giyuu: You like Giyuu. He’s straightforward and a bit intense, but he does actually listen to your concerns and thoughts. You find him to be a good companion to hang out with, and his quietness is a welcome reprieve from the screaming and incessant talking of preschoolers. The two of you bond telling the ridiculous stories of the students and you’re one of the few people who have successfully made him laugh out loud with one of the questions your students asked you. He has a crush, but he assumes you’re not interested so he doesn’t confess. He’d rather have your friendship than nothing.

Muichiro: You meet Muichiro and his classmates during a drill. The older kids come to help escort the younger children out and entertain them as they’re teaching them the proper way to react. You don’t really interact with him, you don’t have the need to, but you appreciate the care he and his friends show to the younger kids. 

Kyojuro: Kyojuro was one of the first to welcome you to the school. He’s energetic, and caring and his willingness to get down and interact with the preschoolers, as well as throw himself fully into their games, makes him a welcome visitor. Kyojuro thinks it's admirable how you care for the children in your class and is always the first to volunteer with you when it comes to staying overnight for the security rotations. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but you do so he’ll help with no complaints. He absolutely has a crush but he doesn’t want to push his admiration. He’ll wait until he’s confident that you may return his feelings and try to plan the perfect confession.

Tengen: Ngl, the first time you met, you put the fear of god into Tengen because he blew something up too close to your classroom during naptime. Needless to say, he admires how flashy you are. He did, however, listen and there is a scheduled time of silence where there’s a lack of explosions. At least near your building. Tengen finds you highly amusing and he’s the first to invite you out to any event he’s going to, even if he knows you’ll bring others like Giyuu and Mitsuri with you. Tengen is hopeful that Kyojuro wins your affection and will not hesitate to try to schedule group dates between the two of you and him and his wives. 

[paragonrobits]

I've seen a few takes suggesting that vampires would be considered disabled because of their need for blood, with a tone of writing assuming this was the default, and its honestly kind of fascinating and I honestly wonder how this came about.

I have, quite literally, never seen vampires depicted like this outside of this site. So I'm forced to contemplate why this has become any kind of natural thought about vampires.

I suppose the first thing to consider is a leaning towards thinking of vampires as disenfranchised, oppressed, or otherwise having to deal with accommodations or unique problems they have. And this is genuinely surprising to me because the element most common with vampires in modern work (dating back to at least the 90s from media I personally remember, and certainly much older than that with multiple decades spanning vampires becoming increasingly less used as antagonists and becoming romantic, however threatening or even genuinely malicious), is power.

Vampires are powerful. This sort of requires that they be supernatural in nature (a lot of the ideas I see here suggest them as people with unusual dietary needs, which I find a lot less interesting than them grappling with the monster inside), but can apply in a more mundane context. But over everything else, vampires are powerful. They are physically powerful; they're almost always far stronger than humans, either by default or because they can develop the power to rip you apart like wet tissue paper, throw trucks around, and similar feats.

Powers of mental influence, domination and mind control are incredibly common, almost universal. This also factors into the idea of vampires as predators and... well, to be blunt, another kind of predator. Vampires can force you to do things you don't want to; take over your mind, make you think and feel and do things and make you think you WANT to do them. They can coerce you.

This element of potential coercion also factors into another aspect of vampiric power, being that they have almost universally been depicted into two ways until very recently. The first one is wandering undead abomination; the corpse that rises from its grave to prey on the living (and this one is SO OLD that when people claim that vampires are inherently sexual, or that lust is a core aspect of a vampire, it kind of ignores that the entire vast body of folklore that created the idea of a vampire across many different cultures very rarely has anything like that). This type of vampire is not relevant here, but it IS worth noting that until recently, most vampires were like this.

The second one is power in the sense of social status. Vampires were almost always depicted as wealthy and ridiculously rich if they weren't borderline feral thugs and brutes. This leads towards metaphors about the rich and powerful, literally eating the poor. The coercive nature of the vampire is instead reflected here in their wealth and social status, and the privilege it accords them. This particular aspect is so overwhelmingly common that whenever vampires are treated as people, this one became the rule. If vampires were treated as individual beings with some capability for moral choices, they were rich and/or aristocrats of some kind, such as old money families for modern works. Vampires that were not rich (such as animalistic vampires, ones desperately holding themselves back from killing people to satisfy their hunger) were a glaring exception to the rule.

above all else, a recurring motif is that vampires take. Sometimes they physically require blood to live, or if they're genuinely undead, prolong their existences. (Specifically, at the expense of others.) They might be monstrous, undead predators who feed off the life and pain of others. Sometimes they are monstrous, but are capable of moral decisions and choosing not to hurt others as much as possible (and then, a big draw of the concept is the struggle between restraining the beast within and how good it feels to let loose and embrace that monster).

So with that all, it begs a question; where exactly did this idea of vampires as victims or at least a more or less defanged take become more prominent?

Personally my take is that its the logical conclusion of the increasing emphasis on a vampire as tragic and romantic, while minimizing the more harsh aspects of the vampire and making them more useful as metaphors in some way, though it runs the risk of losing what actually makes vampires interesting in favor of a disability metaphor that honestly feels to have come from nowhere and, in all honesty, also feels potentially really iffy when you consider what vampires otherwise tend to be.

[akechi-stole-my-heart]

no more what ifs - a goro akechi meta

Inspired by a meta I reblogged a bit ago. It was really good and you should read it, as it serves as a good companion piece to this analysis, but it didn't analyze the song through the specific lens I personally believe it's meant to be seen through--that is, the Third Semester/Maruki's reality. Don't get me wrong, I think the song can be applied to Akechi in general, just that we can't truly understand the depths of its meaning unless we view it through the lens of what Akechi is feeling in the Third Semester. Needless to say, that's what I'll be doing here.

People come and they go Some people may stay with you though I am all alone tonight and I kept on Asking myself questions

Akechi has lived most of his life alone. People have come and gone temporarily, but no one has really stuck until Joker entered his life. (I don't think I need to make the case that it's Joker he's talking about when he says some people stay with you, I think it's pretty obvious it has to be him.) Joker, someone he can't comprehend, the only person he's let in. Akechi can't understand Joker, so naturally, he's constantly thinking of him, and why he's stuck with him when so many others haven't.

Conceited I was at time I never really doubted myself But tonight got me thinking about it all If I am the fool or what not

All Akechi can do in the Third Semester is think about his choices and his mistakes and wonder if he did the right thing and what led him here. He's been forced to live (for now) after everything he'd worked and lived for fell apart under him. He's reflecting on his past arrogance and how that blinded him.

"If I am the fool or what not" holds a double meaning. Akechi is doubting if he was a fool in the general sense, if he was made a fool for his plan of revenge. But he's also wondering if he was the Fool in the Persona sense of the word (something that will have a payoff at the end of the song).

I do not Regret with my choices I'm rather proud Ooh I know I won't change Anything Because I can only be me so

Akechi can't afford regret. To regret would be to admit that Maruki's ideal reality, where his choices were erased, has any hold on him. To regret would be to let go of the person he is and the person he has become.

Who Akechi really is is another topic that can be elaborated on ad nauseum, so I won't do that here. Maybe I'll do that another time when I finally write the meta about Akechi and agency that's been living in my head for a long while.

Suffice to say, Akechi believes his choices, his actions, his revenge, all define him. He refuses to let Maruki erase them just because they don't fit with his ideal reality. Akechi is fundamentally incompatible with everything Maruki stands for, and he knows it.

How can I be so sure? At a crossroads I'm afraid too But I can't let fear get the best of me Someone once said burn my dread babe

"Burn my dread" is a reference to a song from Persona 3. I haven't played the entire game as of yet, but Persona 3 is a game all about facing and accepting death. "Burn my dread" is a lyric that points to this theme, and the theme of facing one's fears head-on.

Akechi is dead. He knows this perhaps from the very moment he comes back to life. He certainly knows it for most of the Third Semester. He is dead, and to reject Maruki's reality, to embrace himself, is to face that death for the second time, and accept it. But Akechi can't let his fear of death stop him from making his choice. He will die on his own terms and "burn his dread."

Who knows what tomorrow holds? Just wanna live my life the way I want What fills up my soul is passionate Music that makes me want to sing

This is, yet again, Akechi asserting that he will be himself, that he will find meaning in life on his own terms, and that he will not let anyone other than himself define who he is or what he wants. Music is dynamic and complex, something that can express deep truths of one's soul. The Jazz Jin, a place of music, is Akechi's in a way very little else is. It's not Shido's puppet's, not the Detective Prince's, but Akechi's place of solitude and self reflection. It is the place he decides to share with Joker--in a way, he is baring his very soul to Joker. Letting him into his heart.

My story will be starring me just like yours ooh ooh Who knows when will it end What matters most is how you bring joy to life so

This is paying off the beginning of the song. Akechi is asserting that the world doesn't revolve around Joker. Goro is the Fool, he is the main character, he is not defined by anyone but himself and himself alone.

And the last two lines simply restate themes running throughout the song. Akechi is himself. He will accept his death when it comes, and he will not live by anyone's rules but his own.

No More What Ifs shows us the doubt that Akechi rarely expresses that runs deep to his core. Wondering if he made a mistake in isolating himself, wondering if Joker was right all along, wondering if and how things might have gone wrong.

But Akechi can't let himself doubt for long. He always comes back to that certainty that he can't be anyone but himself. He can't let anyone change him. He can't let go of who he is, not for anything. The song is full of him reassuring himself of his path--that no matter what, he will not regret. He can't afford it. He will not waver from his path.

Now, more than ever, after being faced with the consequences of his mistakes and being offered an out, Akechi has to assert his free will and defy Maruki. And that's what this song expresses.

[laundrybiscuits]

Just curious and i like hearing your thoughts on this stuff. May i ask what aspect of steddie fanon you're referring to (which don't fit IRL queer culture so accurately)?

Ahaha...okay so. IMPORTANT NOTE: fandom is not that crucial, do whatever you want, run free through daisy fields of whatever headcanons and characterizations you please. Also, fic is not real life and that's okay!!

That being said, fandom can get slightly weird about sex, especially queer sexual cultures and especially historical queer sexual cultures. I mean, I get it! Our current hegemonic understanding of sexuality is actually pretty recent; I studied sexuality from a sociological perspective as part of my undergrad degree, focusing on moral panics (gosh I wonder why Eddie's character arc appeals to me! so mysterious!), and I know just enough to know that I don't know shit. So I certainly don't expect anyone to be doing paradigm-shifting sociohistorical research for a fic. That would be ridiculous.

All of this is leading up to say that based on 1) the relayed experiences of queer mentors who were in the scene in the 80s 2) the secondary sources I’ve researched 3) personally having many gay male friends who love oversharing through the last ~15 years, I believe that if canon-compliant gay Eddie Munson is a virgin, it’s largely by choice. 

I've seen it suggested that Eddie's poor academic performance and nerdy interests would be, essentially, a dick deterrent. And like...I enjoy Eddie’s weirdo loser vibe as much as the next fan. I fully support him not being in any way smooth or cool with boys. But even when I myself was in my late teens/early twenties, many of my closest friends were awkward nerdy twinks who absolutely managed to get laid every weekend because MSM* hookup culture is eternal. 

And in the early 80s, when Eddie would’ve been in his late teens, MSM hookup culture was at its peak. AIDS still wasn’t being taken that seriously, and transmission etc. wasn’t really understood because…well, you know this story. It’s not a good story. Fuck Reagan. 

In short, I really can’t emphasize enough how certain types of sexual contact were extremely available for men seeking sex with men. A pretty young thing like Eddie could have literally as much sex as he wanted. Nobody is asking him for a high school transcript or anything about his hobbies, they’re asking if he tops. 

Now, would Eddie actually participate in the hookup culture of the time? That's a more complicated and speculative question, and not actually what you asked, but I'm going to talk about it briefly anyway.

In the 'yes' column: he has his own vehicle**, zero supervision, and a penchant for risky behavior.

In the 'no' column: the boy has at least three extremely involved hobbies eating up his spare time and energy; he's also a not-so-secret romantic.

Personally, I can see the pseudo-intimacy appealing to Eddie's tendency to keep people at arm's length, and I think it’s very plausible for him to be curious and experimental enough to want to explore a bit. I tend to land on 'tried it a few times, doesn't make a habit of it' in my backstories. I also tend to hint at the softer, friendlier side of hookup culture in my fics, just because I don’t often see it represented. 

Of course it’s like any other scene, there are bad actors and generally shitty people/situations, and sometimes the MSM scene specifically can be a bit of a soul-draining meat market. (ETA, because I am not white and neither are the vast majority of my friends and I felt increasingly weird not mentioning it even though it's not relevant to Eddie's situation: the scene is often also super racist, among other things! But that's a whooole other complicated kettle of fish, and again, not relevant to Eddie's situation.)

But there’s also space for casual sex to be part of a friendly relationship, in a way that I don’t really see in hetero circles. It’s hard to explain. It’s one of those dynamics that basically never shows up in mainstream media at all, so I absolutely don’t blame fics that don’t show it either. It’s just one of those things.

This is a step to the left, but I recommend checking out Dykes To Watch Out For: it’s practically an anthropological document depicting dyke culture in the 80s, it’s often funny as hell, and it’s just a fantastically detailed and relatively accessible window into a particular way of life that doesn’t really exist anymore. 

*MSM = men who have sex with men. It’s a sociological designation; not everyone in this category identifies as gay, bi, queer, etc. It may be useful to think about sexuality as having three distinct components: behavior, identity, and desire. The term “MSM” puts focus on the behavioral aspect, because it’s most relevant in this context. 

**As someone who has experienced several other countries' driving cultures, I just want to emphasize to non-Americans how willing many Americans are to drive for multiple hours for basically any reason whatsoever.

[paullicino]

Six Years - On PTSD and Choosing Life

Content warning: This essay very frankly discusses mental health, trauma, gaslighting and suicide. It also links to discussions of abuse and sexual assault.

If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, know that you are not alone and help is available to you or anyone who might need it, such as the Samaritans, the Suicide Prevention Hotline, or this list of other crisis hotlines and this list of international support resources.

This was reposted from my Patreon.

There are blue skies today. The sun bounces off the mirrored windows of a skyscraper downtown. It cuts straight across my balcony and shines onto my wall. A few blocks away, the staff of my favourite café will share their latest gossip with me, as they always like to do, and maybe later tonight I will make good food and play games with friends until unwise times in the morning. Isn’t life full of wonderful things?

You can find them everywhere. And I certainly do. Sometimes I’ve found them in the intimate, up-close details of a famous oil painting, between the notes of a new song heard by chance, even in the rustling at the bottom of a dumpster, which becomes chittering and then fur and a tail and then direct eye contact with a tiny criminal whose only felony was hunger. I’ve found them amongst perfectly crafted sentences that capture thoughts and feelings and hold them forever on the page, in the silence of the impossibly wild mountain wilderness a thousand miles from home, in the first moments that I’ve taken someone’s hand and watched the gaudy lights of some forgettable venue play across the lines and the shapes of their face.

That’s so many wonderful things to live for. And I can get overdramatically passionate about the tiniest, silliest little details.

I’ve been trying to write this for a long time. I had three significant dreams during that period. In the most recent, I had moved into a dark and barren basement, with most of my possessions still in boxes. Some old friends from long ago came knocking. They pressed their faces against the small windows and tried to force the ageing door. “Where did you go?” they kept asking, their voices entering through every crack. “What happened?”

Six years ago this month I destroyed my suicide note. I burned it on a rainy August night and watched it curl into a tiny, helpless twisting of ashes and charred plastic that no longer had any power or purpose. The note was inside of a ziploc bag, a choice I’d made to ensure its integrity and survival against any of the several different plans I’d made to end my life, and this had melted into black strands of hair-like debris that reached up to nothing. One or two of my handwritten words remained half legible in this mess and tried to reach beyond the flames, to share their intent with the world, but they would never again mean anything to anyone.

I made videos of the burning and took a few pictures, a sort of ritual of recording, then I told a close friend what I’d just done, and then, for a very long time, I set the image as the wallpaper on my phone. It would be an ever-present reminder to me of my choice to stay alive. It was supposed to help me feel strong, though the truth is that I rarely did. It was the worst, most harrowing and most damaging period of my life and with help, honesty, insight, therapy, time and invaluable connection with others who have either seen the same things that I have or had comparable experiences, I managed to fumble and fight my way through it all. But I will never be the same. Six years is a long time and I am still profoundly affected by so much. I am still trying to understand things. I am still trying to figure myself out, to make sense of my identity, my situation, my experiences. To work out where I went and what happened. And I am still trying to move on.

These words are something about that ongoing experience, that work in progress, and about the dual significance of a span of six years. It is not so much about causes or causers, but instead about consequences and changes, and that’s for three reasons.

The first is because what happens after and as a result of trauma is so enduring and significant, perhaps even the most significant consideration of all, and it’s how we find ourselves discussing things like spans of six years or, for some people, far longer. I want to try to explain some of that sort of intensity and that sort of timescale.

The second is because it’s my hope that this is the most helpful way for me to talk about all this, the most illustrative to other people, the most constructive. I could have chosen many approaches, some which I believe might have been more harmful and destructive, and I don’t generally want to be a punitive or destructive person. Ultimately I think this is the most positive and productive approach.

The third is because I’m still not ready to unpack many things, as so much is still ongoing. I am not at the end of this, not out of the woods, and I think I need to know that I’ve reached the end of whatever journey I’m on before I can return to the start.

There is, allegedly, a power in choosing how your own story is told. So I’m choosing to tell it this way and, I hope, with the awareness that any exercise of power requires consideration and responsibility.

Six years is a long time, and while I’ve been trying to write and rewrite this thing for months, those months still pale in comparison to more than half a decade. A lot has changed in six years, and yet I also wish some things weren’t still the same, that I would have been able to make more progress, that I would have been able to create more distance.

Because, while I am six years from that burning note, from that summer rain, in my memory and my mind it doesn’t work like that. I still find myself beside that moment in time, like I could open the door to the next room and once again be right there.

---

Writing this has been very difficult. Writing is supposed to be one of the things that I am best at, and in the past words used to spill out of me so regularly that I wrote a tri-weekly diary, but I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my relationship to writing has changed. It’s not just that this is a difficult topic. It’s that words don’t come as easily or as fluidly as they once did, making it much easier, all too appealing, to simply not push myself. To avoid things entirely.

But I wanted to write this, in part, because it would be another act of not giving up. I wanted to show myself what I could do, what I still can do, and that, even if I’m changed, I’m still stubborn enough to fumble and fight my way through.

---

I want you to imagine a house. It can be any kind of house, that part isn’t important. What is important is that the house is your home and you have lived there for a very, very long time. It is comfortable. It is safe. It is so intimately familiar that it is a part of your identity. Perhaps you grew up there, or you raised a family there, or you retired there. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s your home and that everyone knows you live there.

Next, imagine that you have a terrible day. The worst day. And at the end of this terrible, terrible day, on a bleak and dusky evening, you expect at least to be able to come back to your house, your home. You take the same route back to the same address, where you see the same building stood before you and open the same front door, ready for the comfort of a place you’ve made your own.

You enter this space that you’ve known for so long and you notice something is wrong. The first clue is something small, perhaps a lamp missing from its usual spot, or you collide with furniture moved somewhere unexpected. You feel for a light switch that is now on a different wall. You stumble on the stairs as you make your way to a bed that is hard and unwelcoming. In the morning, the light from the window is not only a different shape, but cast in the opposite direction.

The changes stop being so subtle. After you notice that a carpet is suddenly faded and pale, you open a closet to find it is twice as deep. Some of your possessions are missing. The spare room no longer has a skylight. The kitchen is a different colour, with different appliances, with no back door, half the size it once was because the walls have been moved. There are new rooms whose arrival and contents are both equally inexplicable. Your most cozy corner is now cold and uncomfortable. You must relearn the entire layout, from bathroom to basement, because moving around the way you once would only causes you to stub your toes, to trip, even to fall.

Your friends don’t understand why you no longer enjoy going back to your house, your home. They don’t understand why you screamed at the different closet, why the sunlight on the wall makes you nervous. Being in your own home now hurts and scares you. How can you possibly relax here? But this is still your same house, at your same address, the one that everybody knows. You can’t argue that it isn’t. And if you invite a friend inside, after ranting about everything that is different, they ask “Why did you change all this? It’s so much worse.”

What can you even say in return? “I didn’t”? That shit’s insane.

But that is how it feels, like I live in a house that isn’t my home. Sometimes I don’t recognise myself. Sometimes, on the worst days, I don’t know who I am any more.

“Where did you go?” ask the voices, entering through every crack. “What happened?”

---

Last summer, a man came roaring down my street in his flawless luxury emerald convertible. I remember him well. He had dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket and a hairstyle slick with oil, like he was being a parody of a rich man from an eighties film. He surged through the stop sign right in front of me and I let him know what I thought of his public display of privilege and indifference.

“Go a little faster, you cunt,” I yelled. “Maybe you can hit a kid.”

He swivelled his head, looked back over his shoulder and stared straight at me.

He also slowed down.

It was then that I realised the volume I must have used to project myself, over the noise of his engine and toward a driver already continuing down the street, meant a few of my neighbours had likely heard me too.

I’m not sure I cared.

I used to be a more modest and deferential person, and often that is still the case. But often it is not. I have less patience. I have less fear. And I have less trust.

The fear thing is great. Last autumn I walked across a narrow, quivering suspension bridge with no care for the drop below. Later, I found another far narrower, far smaller one and, all by myself, alone in the woods sixteen kilometres up a trail, I jumped up and down on the thing until it shook and swung.

I used to be terrified of heights.

My sense of fear isn’t gone. But it’s both so much more manageable and also, quite often, a thrill. It’s taken me a while to realise that I increasingly seek out things that are exciting, risky or extremely stimulating. I am frank with strangers. I am quick to make decisions. I am keen to try new things.

It doesn’t sound so bad, does it? That’s because it isn’t. Not all change is bad and not every consequence of my experience has been negative. Slowly, gradually, I am learning to appreciate a few of the changes, to lean into them. While one part of me feels sad that I’m less trusting than I used to be, another part of me sees this as more practical. I’m far quicker to drop something or someone like a rock the moment I sense things that I don’t like, and my sense for such things is certainly sharper than it used to be. Am I always right? I don’t know about that. Perhaps some people have been casualties of an overabundance of caution. Or paranoia.

That might just be the new cost of doing business.

---

It was some time in early 2020, while talking with my GP and taking some evaluations, that we began to look at my behaviour more closely. A year before, I’d talked extensively with a therapist about anxiety and about a growing sense of discomfort and distrust. I had far less patience, particularly for those who pushed boundaries, violated or were exploitative, often regardless of whether these things even involved or affected me. Anything that felt uncomfortably familiar, whether it was something I saw in a film, caught on the news or heard about on social media, could ruin my day. I would become jumpy, irritable, scared, or simply unable to do much beyond lie down and try everything I could to banish the feeling that my chest was being crushed. This might take hours. One evening, an ex found me curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. On another evening, a routine trip to see an exciting film turned into a sleepless night of panic and distress.

I began taking tests and found myself either dismissing the results or retaking them over and over in an attempt to get different answers. The outcomes kept telling me I had the symptoms of PTSD. This was far too dramatic a result and there had already been enough drama in my life already. I myself was too much drama.

Anyway, I thought, having the symptoms isn’t the same as having.

Sometimes I think about how, during some of my most difficult moments, the toughest weeks and months that I didn’t really know how I was going to get through, I made a lot of haphazard decisions motivated by panic and fear and ignorance, by doing my best to improvise and cope and adapt. Some things worked out. Some things did not. Probably the deciding factor there was luck and I’m not really sure I can look back with any wisdom or insight.

I didn’t always know what to do, what to say, who to trust, or how much to trust, how to respond to new information and changing situations, or what in holy hell might ever work out. My response to all of this was to keep secrets or to be cagey, to avoid places and people, to suddenly and liberally cut others off through a mix of ghosting, avoidance and outright blocking, or to occasionally have three-day long anxiety spikes in which I remained highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. During one of these, someone teasingly pushed me to take part in something that I didn’t want to, something that wasn’t even a big deal, and I was so close to breaking down that I had to almost run from my friends and find a quiet place to catch my breath, all the emotions in my body somehow pinched into a single point somewhere in my gut. During another, a laptop accidentally nudged half an inch sent me into panic mode, manifesting a feeling like a blade of ice slicing straight through my pulmonary artery.

These sorts of responses and behaviours would happen even in spite of all the various combinations of therapy and medication and support I was cycling my way through. I don’t feel proud of how I handled many of these things. I would love to be able to say that I handle them so much better now, with the aid of wisdom and insight. Perhaps sometimes I do.

Sometimes I have simply made terrible decisions and, looking back, I am still not sure how I might have ever done any different. I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further.

---

It’s a magnificent day as I write this. The world is jade and azure and gold. The sky is exquisitely, flawlessly blue. Every leaf is rich with the gloss of summer. The sun is setting into the sparkling sea beside a succession of fading distant mountain ridges, each hazier than the last, the furthest so indistinct it looks almost like mist, a ghost of an idea two thousand metres tall. Container ships the size of city blocks sleep in the bay, their hulls traced and wrinkled with rust from a lifetime of global migration. As the growing shadows of slowly swaying trees reach their way toward me, the last light of the day glides over the ground, over the grass and even over my body itself, like spilled wine gushing from a glass. It colours everything the sweet shade of nostalgia. The air is gently warm and the grass is soft beneath me.

I love days like this. They are one of the reasons why I moved here, why I put so much time and effort and energy into relocating halfway around the world. Into building the life that I wanted, piece by piece.

And I love so many of those pieces. I love my little apartment, with the balcony that I always wanted, with its ragtag assortment of secondhand furniture collected one item at a time, with its shelves tucked in here or squeezed in there, never quite tidy enough to look presentable. I love my walkable neighbourhood, with its shops and cafés and cats that follow me from block to block, or critters that peer out from between bushes in the rustling dusk. I love how low cloud creeps in to cover the tips of the skyscrapers downtown, or how the jagged outline of mountains shape the horizon in almost every direction. I love trying to make things, especially with other people, and the reward of being creative, of being silly or being funny. I love all the things I’ve learned to cook, or the ways I can warm myself up on a cold day, or the late nights I can so often indulge, with no care for what might come tomorrow.

I have so much to be grateful for and so much to be proud of. So much here. So much now.

Pretty soon, the sunset will transform the whole sky into a gradient of colour. Someone somewhere will be playing guitar on the beach, and maybe they’ll be good. Stars will appear in the sky, above the familiar urban zodiac traced out by the city lights of apartment buildings. If I stay up late again, the dawn sky will turn the royal blue of an emperor’s cloak. And then all of this will happen again.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to appreciate.

---

A few weeks ago I had my first nightmare in some time. They still happen. The specifics matter less than the broad themes. Deception. Gaslighting. Manipulation. Boundary violation. All of it in plain sight, yet still unseen, making me feel like I’m helpless, like I’m crazy, like I have no hope of ever being believed.

I thought about it all day. The situations, the faces and the fears. This is the way it’s always been and once one of these nightmares visits you, it stays for a while. It’s like a small stain, an odour that gets into your clothes, the stink of cigarettes after a party the evening before.

Can you wash out a stain? Sometimes. With the right substances, with the correct regimen. And with some aggressive, persistent scrubbing.

One summer night years ago an ex woke me up because I had been thrashing about in my sleep. I had worried her by rolling around and muttering like a madman. Was I having a nightmare, she asked, and it wasn’t just that I was, but that I had them all the time. Every week, at least, each leaving that same gross feeling of violation and abuse. The anxiety medication that I had been prescribed was helping me sleep more, but it also seemed to make my dreams more vivid and profound. It was either that or barely being able to sleep at all, woken by the slightest of noises, up before the crack of dawn because some unresolved tension in my body overpowered all tiredness and fatigue. Even with medication, the smallest of things could still turn me into a nervous wreck, and one night I cried cross-legged on my bed as I explained to my ex not just that I had interpreted a few of her utterly inconsequential actions as a sign she wanted to leave me, but also that I might always be like this. Forever.

The nightmares began a few months after I burned my note. It was right after I opened up to another friend about what was going on in my life, and their response was to tell me about something else that had happened, the full story of an event from another six years before, from distant 2012.

It’s not my tale to tell, but six years is a long time to not know the full story of something. A long time to be deceived, to find out you’ve been lied to by someone you trust and that your ignorance has affected many decisions that you’ve made. Again, I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further. But some did.

Six years. It hit me then how long it can take for people to feel able to talk about something, as well as continue to be affected by it. How far the ripples travel and who they touch. And now, here I am, with my own six years.

That discovery was one of several experiences that transformed me into that person having three-day long anxiety spikes, remaining highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. That person thrashing about in his sleep. That person yelling “You cunt,” down his street.

---

I’ve written before about my physical health and my relationship to my body. I was anxious about things being wrong with it long before I had thorough examinations and validating diagnoses, but as part of those treatments I wrote about, a trio of doctors warned me about how stress was worsening every condition and symptom I experienced. Stress was ruining my health. I was having so many migraines that my GP sent me for an MRI that revealed how those migraines were changing the white matter in my brain.

I would have to do something about this.

Those doctors would help me do something about this, as would other professionals, and their help was invaluable. This would be impossible to tackle alone.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard say such things as “It’s not your responsibility to fix someone else,” and, while I don’t disagree, doesn’t such a phrase also imply it’s surely somebody’s responsibility, in this society that we all share, built from things that help us support one another?

Otherwise we’d be suggesting that people fix themselves.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard tell others, or themselves, or sometimes the world via the spontaneous and sneeze-like broadcasts of social media “It’s on you to fix your shit,” and I wonder if that’s where that sentence should terminate, if that’s exactly how it should be phrased, if those are really the words that everyone, or anyone, needs to hear.

Because sometimes I also think of another clumsy analogy I once put together. It’s a scenario in which I describe a pedestrian struck by a car, perhaps one driven by a rich cunt with dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket, perhaps even one that has mounted the curb or surged into a crossing. The pedestrian is knocked down, maybe immobile from the pain and injury that comes from a broken pelvis or fractured leg. An ambulance is summoned, a customised vehicle equipped to transport them to a hospital. In that hospital, that specialised medical facility, a team of trained experts will use skills and equipment to triage and manage, to analyse the pedestrian’s injuries, to provide relief and to chart a course toward recovery. There will be x-rays, there will be drugs, there may well be physiotherapy. I doubt at any point that the person lying in the street would be told, by someone coming upon the scene, “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

No. Not any more than they’d be expected to walk to the hospital, to interpret their x-rays or to prescribe their own medication. Indeed, if they attempted any of these things themselves I wouldn’t be surprised if someone along the way communicated to them some more polite version of “What the holy fucking fuck do you think you’re doing?” and “You’re in no state to do this yourself, let alone know what you need,” and “Fucking hell. You’re at your most vulnerable right now. Fuuuck.”

Hopefully.

Once, many years ago, I knew someone who broke their pelvis. It takes months to recover, maybe a year or more for a limp to fully disappear. And it requires all kinds of help and oversight. It worked out. Doctors and medical professionals can be remarkable.

I have read a lot of books and papers over the last six years. I have listened to a lot of podcasts and interviews. I have been recommended a lot of material by therapists, by friends, by fellow PTSD sufferers. One well-known trauma expert I was pointed toward is Canadian psychologist Dr. Gabor Maté. And he says this:

”Everybody is born needing help.”

He means that it’s a fundamental element of the human experience.

---

Sometimes I go running and sometimes I go to the gym. The reasons I do this are complex, ranging from wanting to be healthier, to wanting to feel better about my body and how it behaves, to feeling like I am making progress with something. That last one is particularly important, because I’m doing something where I’m objectively able to recognise change.

When I run, an app tells me how far I ran and how long it took. I can’t disagree with the app, because it’s entirely objective, and so when I have a bad day, feel terrible and wonder what the point of anything is, the app still shows me that I achieved a reasonable or even an improved time.

It wasn’t always like this. I was bad at these things. I run better than I used to. I perform better at the gym than I used to. I have the metrics to prove it, and while I’m not a particularly dedicated or regular person with my exercise, I still keep at it and I still see improvements.

Whatever it is I’m doing, these apps and their statistics all offer me the same, very simple analysis:

“You’re doing better.”

I motivate myself to run, to go to the gym, to go on twenty-five kilometre hikes over difficult terrain, but I don’t do these things without some kind of help that comes from either expert resources, advice or training.

I don’t exist in a vacuum. None of us do.

---

Help is important because it offers things like perspective and expertise and informed advice. And don’t all of those things sound so extremely important?

How about we imagine that our immobilised pedestrian wasn’t collected by an ambulance. Let’s imagine instead that the driver of the car that hit them stepped out of their vehicle, shook their head, put their hands on their hips and said “Look what you’ve done.”

And then “It’s okay, I know what’s best for you,” before carrying the inert person into their car and driving away. Perhaps even unseen. No witnesses.

If such a thing happened, in this society that we all share, with that person at their most vulnerable, who is responsible then? Who is responsible for what happens next? Who is responsible when that pedestrian, forever limping, says things like “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have been walking there,” or “I should have been looking out,” or “I should have been more visible,” and so on?

A lot of accidents and injuries and collisions and whatnot can be traumatic, scary, confusing. “How do I make sense of this?” asks that person, whether carried away alone in a car, or surrounded by doctors in the emergency room, or anywhere else they may happen to find themselves. “How do I deal with this?” And who might be around them at that moment to help answer such things?

And what will they say?

Perhaps you know someone who was, metaphorically, struck by such a car, before being then carried away by a driver with all sorts of ideas about what’s best, and who later blamed themselves for everything that happened. I don’t know.

I do know how important it was to receive the right help from the right people.

---

It’s hard to know exactly what to do. You may respond to your trauma with a desire for revenge, retribution or restoration. You may not have the insight or the time or the means to do anything much at all. There is the ideal of what could or should happen when harm has been caused, but there is also the uncomfortable reality of how such things actually play out, of how long justice can take, of who is granted credibility, of how complex social dynamics can quickly become, of how awkwardly and uncomfortably people can react when they discover something they would rather not have, or that they have been misled, or so much more. We’ve all seen such things play out secondhand and firsthand.

I have had six years to consider the most helpful way to respond, the most constructive, the most positive and productive. I am still considering. I don’t have much in the way of answers or advice there.

Sometimes I think about the anonymous Broken Teapot essay, with all it has to say about the complexity of dealing with abuse dynamics, of harm happening within a group or community, about social consequences. It was written over a decade ago now, but it remains a very relevant piece of writing that brings up all sorts of considerations around responsibility, about trying to come to terms with trauma and abuse, and about how people might try to use systems or processes to try to solve things in unhelpful ways or even for their own ends.

People can have a lot of opinions about how to handle trauma, how to respond to abuse and how to leap into some sort of process of justice or accountability or reparation or even plain old revenge. So many opinions.

It’s exhausting.

Back in 2020 I tried to write something about all these complications and considerations that I was going to title The Calculus of Abuse. Like much else, it rots in my drafts folder.

Sometimes I think about how many of the ways that we push people to address both their trauma and the things or people that have caused their trauma only makes things worse. I am sceptical about the practicality, value and effectiveness of processes of justice, reparation and accountability. I think a lot of people believe that they will fix things, that they will be fair, that they will spotlight situations and systems and people that cause harm. That, in this cold and unflinching exposure, justice will be done and books will be closed on long and difficult stories.

And I think that’s because we see this happen now and then. Sometimes it happens very publicly. It seems to at least occasionally all work out.

Sometimes I think about friends who were excluded from social circles because they spoke up about something creepy or problematic, because it mattered less what actions or behaviour someone had demonstrated, even what could be proven, and much more who was more popular, or that the status quo be maintained, or that applecarts not be upset. I think about how different people share or don’t share their traumas and their experiences, what they include and what they leave out. I think about people who weren’t believed, people who were misrepresented, people who were shut down. I think about people who spent so long trying to get a handle on their trauma that any thing or person they might want to stand up to already had so much time to prepare, to seed the ground, to dig in, to get a head start. And I even think about the capacity people have to improve, to feel regret, to move forward as better humans. It’s a potential that I hope exists in us all and the writer Kai Cheng Thom seems to agree, saying that even those who cause harm themselves need help to “exit harmful behaviour patterns.”

Sometimes I think about what a friend of mine said about abusive people just being "regular people with very limited tools." And that’s not so different from a child. Doesn’t that make you feel sad?

I think about all of these things because how could you not? How could you not worry about how taking action to address a terrible thing would, in fact, only make that terrible thing even worse?

There is a paper by the American psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman called Justice From the Victim’s Perspective that touches on how many processes and pushes toward addressing abuse and trauma can be retraumatising, without any guarantee they will lead to a meaningful outcome or significant change. It touches on how legal processes and systems can be manipulated to further harm and harass those seeking redress, or how disparities of power and status and money can immediately put the damaged and disadvantaged people who try this on the back foot. It touches on difficulties presented by such things as burden of proof, especially combined with the challenge of a memory minced by traumatic events. How does someone demonstrate and prove trauma, or gaslighting, or manipulation, or anything else?

It also talks about how not everybody seeks such things as justice, restitution, revenge, or not always in the ways that we think, and for a multitude of reasons. These can vary from worrying they won’t be believed or that the process will serve them, to wanting to move on, to the idea that it may be pointless, as some “offenders are empathetically disabled… not capable of a meaningful apology, so they can never provide anything to victims that would be useful.”

Both this and the Broken Teapot essay also feature people examining how they themselves have handled abuse and trauma. I think this is probably the most difficult part of many years of therapy, reading and reflection. Sure, it sucks to have been harmed by an event, a situation, a person or a system, but at some point you also start asking yourself difficult questions like “How do I avoid something like this again?” and “Did I do anything that made this worse?” and “Was I codependent, did I enable someone or did I perpetuate something with my reactions or my responses?”

“Abuse dynamics aren’t so simple,” says the Broken Teapot essay, at one small but very important moment, not long after “I was not solely ‘a victim’. Is anyone?” And, after all those years of therapy, reading and reflection, I’ve come to believe that abusive people and systems gain at least some of their power from how you interact with and respond to them. If we were, all of us, perhaps better informed, we might understand, avoid or escape so many difficult things so much sooner.

And while both the Broken Teapot essay and Justice From the Victim’s Perspective talk a lot about sexual assault, their considerations and their examinations of consequence are more broadly applicable. This reflects how I find myself relating to so many stories of trauma and abuse, regardless of what the specifics of any incidents might be. It’s because I recognise the same things in the subsequent developments, reactions and outcomes, much like I might recognise the same chord pattern in different songs. I see people trying to understand their own changing behaviours, trying to articulate why they won’t do a particular thing or go to a particular place any more, trying to both explain and understand how their body or their health has been affected. The specifics don’t need to be the same for so many of the consequences to be. And I recognise and am much more attuned to recognising those consequences.

Both these pieces of writing are also very good at illustrating one of the most important things that you can learn about trauma, and that is, whatever happens or whatever choices you make, things can never be put back in the box.

Trauma is never erased.

---

Here’s what I think is another of the most important things we can learn about trauma, which is that people are generally very bad at dealing with it and are even worse at dealing with it if they are unsupported. And even if they have all the support in the world, they are probably still going to make bad choices, self-sabotage, lose perspective and do things they regret.

They will probably be foolish, be confused and be likely to make choices that could hurt other people. They may not have great insight or work against their own best interests. That doesn’t mean that they get a free pass. It doesn’t mean we are obliged to simply accept these behaviours. But I think these are realistic expectations that we should have.

In his pioneering book The Body Keeps the Score, the psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk writes that many trauma responses are “irrational and largely outside people's control,” coming from people who are “rarely in touch with the origins of their alienation.” An awful lot of the book is about helping such people to find ways past this, rather than disregarding them or pushing them away, even though this will be difficult. I don’t remember anything in the book that comes close to “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

---

While one part of me wishes many things had not happened, feeling both weaker and sadder, another part of me acknowledges that I have gained new skills and strengths. And one of the best things about what I’ve gained is that all this doesn’t just help me, but can also be applied to help others.

That’s a good thing.

I’m a tiny bit wiser than I used to be. A lot of reading and talking to experts and digesting all sorts of media leaves its mark. It’s not just that I know a little more about myself and my experiences, it’s that I can now better recognise parallels to those experiences in other people’s situations, behaviours and pasts. I anticipate slightly better, seeing problems further ahead, and I have a stronger sense of what I need to drop or to avoid.

I’m doing better.

---

I don’t have much that I can write here in terms of the specifics of therapy. I would describe a lot of the process of unpacking and analysing the causes of my PTSD as being extremely painful, like trying to both tidy up and then reassemble broken glass with your bare hands. The things that brought about your PTSD are shameful and harrowing. Their analysis can also be, through a process that can variously be sad, scary, frustrating, educational, validating and empowering. It takes a long time and requires expert assistance, which means the help you need can be a somewhat scarce resource and very, very expensive.

You pay for your trauma for a very long time.

---

I discovered one of the most beautiful sounds in the world some time after 2016, some unknown amount of time after I moved into this apartment of mine, with its balcony and its skyscraper views. I don’t remember now when I first heard it, but it’s been years now and I still adore it whenever it happens. It’s small and subtle and can happen at almost any time of night or day. It’s a sound that makes me think of safety and independence, of making my own space and then occupying it. Of security and stability.

I really, really appreciate security and stability. Much as I increasingly seek out change and crave new experiences or opportunities, these things feel so much better if I can enjoy them with the understanding that I have some sort of foundation under me. Something solid. No matter how small or how far away. Some place of safety.

The sound happens when it’s raining. Whatever metal it is that rings my balcony is hollow, so that when rainfall strikes it, it responds with a kind of subtle but sonorous singing. This ringing isn’t the specific sound I’m talking about, though. That sound is slightly different, something that rises above this other background arrangement.

When a particularly large drop of water hits my balcony railing, it gives a flat, gentle ping of appreciation. The background patter of the other raindrops will continue and then, again, after some irregular interval, presumably as water has collected from the balcony above into a particularly large drop, the ping will sound again.

I heard it one morning this spring, months ago now, right after I woke up and not long after I had started writing all this. I lay there in bed on a day the colour of slate and cigarette smoke and I thought about how the world is made up of so many beautiful, tiny things. Ping, goes one of them, and maybe nobody else on the planet notices or cares. But I try to remind myself of this and how my life is full of so many other probably stupid little things that I like, that I love. Don’t lose these things, I try to tell myself. Don’t forget about them and don’t forget to notice them when they happen. You gave yourself so many more of them when you chose to stay alive.

You get a lot of time to think on days the colour of slate and cigarette smoke.

---

You’ll notice I say “sometimes I think about” a lot here, when reflecting on less positive things, and you might consider this a writing device or a cheap hook or some other writer’s cheat. It partly is, but it’s also a truth. I do think about these things, and so many other things, very often. I think about one or another of them almost all of the time. I find it very hard not to think, to turn my brain off, and the unfortunate truth is that it reminds me about things to do with my trauma almost every day. It has done so for six years now and, as we’ve already established, six years is a long time.

Evenings can be the most difficult time. While I’ve always had a flippant attitude toward sleep schedules, I never used to have trouble going to bed. Some nights my brain will never switch off. My memory is overflowing. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired, it makes no difference if I’m exhausted. The rules around sleep are different now and I think I’m still trying to relearn them.

One therapist described the traumatised mind as like an overflowing wastepaper basket full of difficult memories that are constantly falling out. Any new addition can cause one or many of them to spill and scatter. Time and therapy can help to more properly sort them and make space for other, new things.

What a good analogy.

Occasionally, there might be a suggestion of ADHD sent my way. I can understand why things would look that way and a lot has been said by people more experienced than I about how ADHD and PTSD can seem similar. I think if ADHD had ever been the case some mental health professional or other member of the medical community that I’ve dealt with would have spotted this by now. But no. I’m distracted by some memory or flashback. I’m avoidant, or I’m in need of some thrill or stimulation. I might be full of nervous energy or unusually, intensely focused on something because it feels so good to be thinking about something I enjoy.

And sometimes things are bounding out of that wastepaper basket like clowns out of a clown car. I can feel like I've lost a lot of control over my mind and it's all I can do to rein it in. Some days I have coping strategies and some days I'm sick of it and wish I didn't need to have to cope.

And so I keep myself busy with the stimulation and the novelty that I crave. With people. With events. With runs, with the gym and with twenty-five kilometre hikes. Whatever it takes, whenever I can. It’s not ideal. I’m still figuring out what I need. I don’t always get the balance right. Sometimes unexpected things make me very emotional, either very sad or very frustrated, and I rarely know in advance what might do that. Sometimes I sleep less than four hours a night. Sometimes I want to be alone. Sometimes I desperately need company. I probably seem very strange.

But, let’s not forget, in the past I would lose whole days. For hours, my chest would feel like it was being crushed. I might be found curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. The nightmares would come every week. So things have clearly, obviously, demonstrably improved.

I’m doing better.

---

I still suck at writing. I don’t know how to fix that yet. I still very regularly feel like there is a gulf between me and so many other people, even my friends. I still have outsize reactions to irrelevant, immaterial things. I still lack confidence in my own personal calibration. "Many traumatised people find themselves chronically out of sync with the people around them,” writes Bessel van der Kolk. Yeah.

Toward the end of its six season existence there is an episode of BoJack Horseman where an actor reacts angrily to some improvisation and unexpected physical contact that happens during filming. Her colleagues are confused as to why she does this, and perhaps she doesn’t understand herself, but we the audience know that this a response to a physical assault by the titular character some time before. She never finds out, but this leads to her missing out on perhaps the biggest opportunity of her life, after a director discreetly describes her as erratic.

There is no further development with this plotline, no resolution to be had. Nobody finds out why she is like this, nor wants to, nor sets things on a new, better course. I try to remind myself that this sort of thing can be happening all the time, to try and grant people some grace and compassion, but also I try to remind myself that this is me. I have my versions of this behaviour. Maybe fewer than I used to, but still. I can be erratic and I have to face the consequences of that, as well as minimise it as much as I can.

I recently stopped buying fresh fruit from my local store because they would repeatedly put mouldy, furry produce on display. The last time I discovered this, I was holding up a box of ostensibly shiny, blood-red strawberries to once again discover the mass of fuzz hidden underneath. Food is expensive enough as it is, I thought, and it doesn’t also need to be garbage. Too late, the look on the face of the customer standing next to me clued me in to how vocal I’d been with my three-word expression of disgust and displeasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

---

You’ve read a little about my first dream, about old friends. You’ve read a little about my second dream, the nightmare. Here comes my third, from earlier this summer.

I dreamt that I was trying to get home again. I was confused about where I was, trying to remember a route through unfamiliar Vancouver alleys. It was evening, not yet dark, but the time between when you lose the long shadows cast by the last of the sunlight and begin to wear the rich, jewelled canvas of the stars. None of  the people I stopped and spoke to knew the streets I named. None of the alleyways I walked down took me in familiar directions.

I never found my way home, but I never stopped trying. Perhaps this does indeed mean I haven’t reached the end of whatever journey I’m on, that I can’t yet return to the start. I think it’s both practical and pragmatic for me to accept that the next six years might still present me with many challenges. That I will have bad, directionless days. That sometimes I’m going to fuck up and fall short.

I woke up to another bright, warm summer’s day, far later than I meant to, and I made myself a fine cup of coffee and a rich breakfast that I would be foolish not to enjoy.

Sometimes I think about suicide. Those thoughts haven’t left me yet and I’m not sure they ever will. Sometimes they arrive strong and loud and insistent, from out of nowhere and with all the power of a thunderbolt in a storm. Sometimes I want to be a shining example of how to conquer PTSD and sometimes I'm so sad I can’t get out of bed and sometimes I am just pissed off and angry. Each day is still different. But tomorrow I will wake up and perhaps I will think to myself “There are blue skies today,” or perhaps I will hear ping, or perhaps I won’t need anything at all to feel great. And perhaps there will be some undeniable sign in the day’s events, in my behaviour, even in the world around me, that demonstrates to me how much I’ve improved.

Each day is still different and today the glib part of my personality says “I sure hope you’ve improved, it’s been six years! That’s six years of painful PTSD examination, therapy, medication, reading, research, specialist appointments, many thousands of dollars spent and a god damn MRI of your weird and messed up brain.” And am I being disrespectfully flippant of my own experiences when I add that having an MRI of my brain was, at least, kind of cool?

Because another part of my personality wants to remind me I’m wiser, braver and maybe even a little more able to help others, people who I will remind myself can’t be expected to fix their own shit alone. People who shouldn’t be pushed aside, in this society that we all share.

And I don’t regret calling that cunt a cunt.

It’s been six years and each day is still different and this morning, when I pause to ask myself how I’m doing, I find I have the most simple of answers.

It’s three words.

“I’m doing better.”