#like jesus fucking christ i think suicide is the only solution for you

[17gz]

white guy from a country where everyone and their mom has names like John Baker and Jake Smith and Sarah Johnson and Chris Williams and Josh Brown:

its just reeeeaallyyy suspicious that your name is ahmed or mohammed :/ ummmm bot alert! scammer! yes my country is actively supplying weapons to kill palestinian people and i've donated $500 to ao3 in the past 6 months but what about my moneeeyyyy?????? anyways anyone i disagree with is part of a belgian scam ring. this is a logical step rather than viewing brown people as human beings for once in my life

[kaiasky]

lots of people in my local sphere are praising bushwell's self immolation as a brave thing to do and it does kinda fuck me up. In my worst moments there is no greater comfort than the fact that if I killed myself in a specific way at a specific time then I could turn all my suffering and pain into something commendable and people would love me for my death in a way they never could in life. I think that's a little incoherent but you get what I'm saying right? I don't want to live in a world where that is an "necessary" or "beautiful" or "brave" sacrifice to make but when people refer to it as that- I'm forced to confront the fact that I do live in a world that thinks like that. That I live in a world where I really would be of more use dead. Again I'm being a bit incoherent but I felt the need to say something and get it off my chest I understand it's a complicated and touchy topic for everyone.

(re this) yeah.

idk, it's... i think we valorize lots of people for dying as a part of broader culture. war heroes, people who were assassinated, every martyred christian saint. including Jesus Fucking Christ. And so in that sense i think it's hard to blame someone for seeing somebody who killed themself and go, this is martyrdom, this is heroic, reblog reblog reblog. it hits you on a gut level.

But then like you said, you think about it and you go, oh yeah, valorizing killing yourself is a terrible thing (both morally, in that it encourages other people to consider killing themself, and politically, in that if all the most devoted fucking adherents to your movement kill themselves who will be around to fucking fight for change??)

I hope and suspect that the people who reblog this kind of stuff are simply unaware of this logic and that through having it gently pointed out to them they'll also come to see what's wrong with valorizing suicides.

Ultimately like, I think the choice to continue existing or stop existing is a decision everybody (gets/has) to make for themself, but we should do as much as possible to tip the calculus in favor of "keep existing" as possible.

It goes without saying and sounds sappy, but to all of you, you wouldn't be of use dead. if you were gone, regardless of how or why, it would be nothing other than a tragedy and a huge, irreplaceable loss.

(Tangentially related, but the only advice I've ever found that like, worked for me (ymmv) for dealing with suicidal thoughts is a post like, "alright, if you're seriously contemplating suicide, then you can do that whenever, there's no rush, it's be a waste to not fuck around before ending it, so you should 1. quit your job and become one of those cool ski bum guys who couch-surfs in the summer and works as a ski instructor in the winter, and try a year or two of that out first." And so whenever I'm doing bad, I think alright, is today the day I pull the trigger on the ski bum lifestyle? And for whatever reason that feels more extreme than suicide and so it snaps me back to "hm, maybe there are less-extreme solutions than those two")

[bobthebenevolentpirate]

😩 I am so weary.

DMCA is a federal law. Tumblr doesn't have the option to not enforce it. Yeah it might have gotten better at detecting it over the years but they can't just not enforce it. If you want tumblr to continue existing they have to play fair, otherwise they go the way of Limewire. So if we're gonna be angry about it, be angry at the government??

Tumblr also didn't really have much choice to enact a porn ban, Apple gave them an ultimatum because of the child porn. Was it the best solution? No, but they had to do something and had to do it quickly (i.e. didn't have the time or money to make a more sophisticated solution). And they allowed more porn than other sites in the first place, so it's absence then hit harder.

Staff isn't making the bots. They're doing their best to kill them, but there are more people making the bots and more bots than there are people at tumblr to deal with them.

The fact that hateful people can post hateful shit is also the reason why we don't have to censor ourselves as much on this hellsite as on other social media, the reason we can talk about rape and suicide and the other dark, heavy topics that other sites don't allow. Yes, the hateful people suck, but the alternative is that tumblr becomes more like Twitter and TikTok, which I know for a fact y'all do not want.

And like, Jesus-fucking-Christ y'all really seem to think staff at tumblr has more day than they do. This is not a startup, they have to just do what the people in charge (who rarely actually know what's best but who have the money) tell them to do. Y'all wanna be like "worker solidarity" until the workers are people you don't like for whatever reason, then you do the equivalent of bitching at store employees because the CEO said the store had be laid out differently. Being mad at staff, who are literally just trying to keep this hellsite running, and threatening violence against them isn't actually doing anything except possibly the catharsis of knowing you can tag staff, since Automatic's CEO and investors don't have tumblrs. Let's be upset at the actual root cause of this shit, which is often government regulations driven by lobbying from major corporations trying to continually make a profit and investors insisting on things they know nothing about because they're only interested at playing capitalism with complete disregard to how it affects anyone else.

“tumblr became bad because of porn ban” “tumblr is bad because of bots” ��tumblr is bad because there’s hateful people who post freely” THE AUDIO POST HAS A COPYRIGHT DETECTOR NOW. DOESNT ANYONE REMEMVER WHEN YOU COULD PUT ANY SONG ON HERE AND LISTEN AND SCROLL AND LOVE????????????? STOP SENDING ME TO SPOTIFY APP

[dreamsclock]

one thing i can’t stop thinking abt is the idea of jack confronting tubbo about the “dead man’s switch” on his nukes, which he NEVER told jack about. jack is so confused because, “i thought you were finally happy, though? yknow.. with ranboo? what happened, tubbo? why would you..” and tubbo just. doesnt answer him. goes all quiet. you can never be too certain, he thinks. because it’s not like there is much permanence in his life, anyway.

c!tubbo makes me so goddamn sad and this ask actually had me crying this morning LMAO i’m so emotional,,,, c!tubbo deserves so much better than he gets and the implications of him building a dead man’s switch and not telling anyone is DEVASTATING :(( have this little thing i wrote bc i’m really enjoying writing c!tubbo right now !! pls heed the warnings though 

warnings: suicidal thoughts, discussions of suicide, trauma, alcohol, nightmares, PTSD, explosions, death, general dark themes (c!tubbo is pretty fucked up :( pls be careful while reading! if you need more tagged, let me know)

Tubbo can’t meet Jack’s eyes. Everything is so close, suddenly, everything is so close and quiet and focused that it crushes his chest like Dream’s netherite chestplate which is too big for him, far too big for him, but that he can’t afford to take off in case he’s killed. With a jerky inhale, he shrugs, keeping his eyes fixed on Michael, very carefully keeping his voice light.

“It’s- You know,” he says, awkward, “it was a precaution. In case one of us ever needed to use it, you know?”

Jack doesn’t know. He’s too smart for that. “Which is why you didn’t tell me about it,” he replies, frowning, “Tubbo, if you’d ever meant for me to use it, you would’ve told me about it. I’m not stupid.”

He’s not. Tubbo feels the prick of something in his throat: tears, maybe. Humiliation, thick, syrupy embarrassment at the situation, more likely, because he hadn’t ever wanted anyone to find out about this - it’s stupid, when the server has a lot bigger problems.

A boy and his dead man’s switch aren’t important enough to pursue solutions for.

“I thought you were happier,” Jack pushes, voice soft, confused, “you know, you have Snowchester, and- and Ranboo and Michael and me. Even Tommy’s still alive, you know, that’s a fucking miracle.”

Tubbo snorts, throat burning. “It is a miracle,” he agrees, trying to sound amused, “and- and I am. Happy, I mean. I am happy, Jack.”

But isn’t that the issue? Isn’t the underlying issue that he’s happy, and that happiness is so fleeting, so terrifyingly short-lived, that he can’t afford to underprepare? It’s not that he wants to die, not really - that would be silly, he thinks, because only sad people want that, and he’s lucky, he has a husband and kid and friends and isn’t that all he’s ever wanted? He has no reason to be sad, not really. 

But Dream’s inevitable escape still hangs over him like the world’s weight on his shoulders. The Egg is still a problem. The Syndicate could kill them, squash Snowchester like bugs if they cared enough. Tubbo is missing a nuke. And, like usual, he can still see horns in his dreams, the sight of horns and the scent of alcohol and the sound of his name roughly being called from the President’s office, an unsteady “Tubbo, Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve been waiting for you for hours”, and Tubbo hears his own voice, higher-pitched, filled to the brim with anxiety, reply with a “sorry, sorry, I’ve been- I’ve been busy”.

Still has nightmares about his old life - his days spent with Schlatt and Quackity and his nights spent with Wilbur and Tommy, falling apart at the seams trying to follow the orders of two madmen that get him killed, and more often than not those nightmares will spiral, sending him pressing his back to the side of a box and saying “Schlatt, I can’t- I can’t get out” and staring down a firework and then he explodes and L’Manburg explodes twice, under his rule both times, and he can’t do anything to stop it and it’s because he failed and-

And oh great, he’s crying. With a shaky snort, Tubbo scrapes a hand roughly over his eyes, shakes his head, and pulls himself together. “I am happy,” he says again, and there’s a falseness in his voice now, ringing out brightly while he shuts down, “I wouldn’t use it unless I had to, Jack. I promise.”

(Wilbur Soot whispers to you: techno is on our side he won’t hurt you)

(Wilbur Soot whispers to you: i promise)

Jack blinks down at him, squeezes his shoulder uncertainly. He’s never been the best at comfort - he and Tommy have that in common, which is funny, considering how tense they’ve been recently, really, Tubbo thinks, they’re both more alike than they realise. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Tubbo sniffs, choking down the pressure in his throat. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Jack releases his shoulder with a sigh, still looking unsure. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” He presses. “I’m here for you, man. Really.”

“I know.”

He does know. If there had been anything Jack could fix, Tubbo would be at his door in a heartbeat. As it is, he stands frozen in his house, with Michael toddling near the window happily, while Jack sighs and begins to head for the door.

“Jack?”

Jack turns, furrowing his brow. “Yeah, Tubs?”

Tubbo swallows, turning to face his friend. “Don’t tell Ranboo,” he says, as firmly as he possibly can, “alright? Promise me.”

“...Tubbo, I’m not sure if-”

“Hey,” Tubbo snaps, “Jack, I promised you I’d be careful with it, alright? I don’t- I’m not about to worry Ranboo over something that isn’t even a worry in the first place. He’s got enough to worry about without this adding to it!”

Silence. Tubbo wonders if he’s been too harsh. 

“Yeah, okay,” Jack says tiredly, “I promise not to tell him. Okay?”

He regrets snapping at Jack. It reminds him of Schlatt. Nausea rising in his throat, Tubbo runs his fingers over the tiny horns on the top of his head, trying not to think about it.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and then Jack leaves him with Michael, colder than ever. He hopes Jack actually believes him: because it’s not a problem, not really. For all intents and purposes, he’s got his happy ending.

Out of the window, his eyes dart to the vault, hidden in the hill, where Dream’s armour and weapons lie.

...The problem with a happy ending is that it’s not allowed to be a permanent thing. Tubbo’s learned that the hard way, and he doesn’t want to be ill-prepared for it to end suddenly. Nothing bad has to happen to his home or family this time. Nothing bad has to happen to anyone except himself.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers, because it makes him feel less small, “it’ll be okay, Michael, trust me on that.”

(A game of chess isn’t lost over a single pawn. Tubbo knows that better than most. His hand curls round Checkmate, and he wonders how long he has before Dream forces him to make his move.)

[geralehane]

in any world you find me (and i you) 

Lexa groans and struggles to sit up, rapidly blinking as she slowly comes to it. A quick mental check up lets her know nothing is broken – at least, nothing vital. She groans again as she rolls her head back and forth, gingerly, and reaches to unfasten her seatbelt with numb fingers.

Clarke, she thinks and barely stops herself from springing to her feet. She’ll be no use if she hurts herself. Slowly standing up, she makes her way to her co-pilot, and almost collapses with relief when she sees her chest rise up and down. Alive. She’s alive.

or, Lexa and Clarke meet their doppelgängers because multiverse. that's it, that's the fic.

READ ON AO3

patreon | ko-fi

Lexa groans and struggles to sit up, rapidly blinking as she slowly comes to it. A quick mental check up lets her know nothing is broken – at least, nothing vital. She groans again as she rolls her head back and forth, gingerly, and reaches to unfasten her seatbelt with numb fingers.

Clarke, she thinks and barely stops herself from springing to her feet. She’ll be no use if she hurts herself. Slowly standing up, she makes her way to her co-pilot, and almost collapses with relief when she sees her chest rise up and down. Alive. She’s alive.

She brushes Clarke’s blonde hair away from her face, selfishly allowing herself several precious seconds of quiet adoration before gently shaking her shoulder. She grins when Clarke lets out a groan similar to hers as she wakes up, long lashes fluttering before revealing hazy blue eyes.

“Lexa,” she rasps, confused. Then, her eyes widen as she remembers the crash. “Oh fuck. Are you okay?”

Lexa silently orders her heart to calm down. Of course Clarke would be worried about her friend. “Yes. I’m fine. Are you?”

Clarke nods. “I think so. What the fuck was that?”

“Orion? Orion, are you there?” Raven’s voice crackles through the radio, and Lexa coughs before telling the spacecraft’s system to connect.

“Jester is on,” the depersonalized voice of the ship lets her know, and Lexa coughs again before speaking.

“Hey, Raven,” she croaks out, foregoing formal speak. It’s not like they need it in the first place. They are essentially space pirates, for Christ’s sake. “We’re here.”

“Jesus fuck, Lexa,” her friend breathes out on the other end, sounding half-relieved and half-furious. “What happened to you guys? You went off radar. I was ready to jump after you but--”

“Which would have been a suicide,” Lexa points out. She sighs as she slowly stands up and looks around. The ship didn’t get too banged up on the inside. No visible cracks as far she can see, but she needs a thorough examination before she can come to any conclusion. “We encountered a -- vortex, of sorts. Got sucked in. I don’t know where we are right now. Probably landed on a nearby planet.”

“You’re not hearing me,” Raven says, sounding increasingly irritated. And worried. “You went off radar. As in, I don’t see you anywhere in the Universe. I was ready to jump after you before it happened. Now, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to find you.”  

“Uh.” Lexa blinks. “What?”

“Rae,” Clarke’s standing up, now, too, and her eyes are as wide as Lexa’s. “Are you trying to tell us we’re – what? In another Universe?”

“I built the map myself,” Raven says, sounding unusually solemn. “You know what it runs on. The Eye doesn’t lie and doesn’t make mistakes.” She lets out a slow, disbelieving breath. “And it doesn’t see you now.”

Lexa and Clarke exchange an alarmed glance. “But that’s impossible,” Lexa says. It’s more to convince herself than to counter Raven’s argument. The Life Crystal that they stole for Raven several years ago that she dubbed The Eye isn’t called that for nothing. It can detect any form of life in any corner of the Universe, cyborgs included. Or, apparently, almost any corner of the Universe.

“Maybe the planet we’re on has some sort of magnetic shield that doesn’t let The Eye see us,” Lexa proposes as her mind quickly works out any possible solution to this.

“Well, it might, but if it does, there’s a high chance it might be poisonous to you guys,” Raven points out. “Wherever you are, though… I’m so fucking happy you’re alive,” her voice cracks with emotion she’s clearly trying to suppress. “For a second, I thought…”

“We’re fine,” Lexa says, softly. “We’re not on your plane of existence, apparently, but we’re fine.” She moved her jaw from side to side, thinking. “I’m surprised you got through. So the signal reaches us, but not The Eye?”

“That’s not even Twilight zone level of fuckery,” Raven confirms. “I have no idea how that’s possible.”

“I propose we explore where we are,” Clarke pipes up. She’s rubbing her forehead, and Lexa tries to ignore the sharp pang of concern in her chest. They’ll deal with this a little later. “Let’s send JD outside to get the air sample.”

“Probably the best thing you can do,” Raven tells them. “I’ll try to figure something out on my end. We’re working on getting you back, guys. Just sit tight.”

“Not much else to do,” Lexa snorts to herself. Still, she appreciates Raven’s enthusiasm and her willingness to help. “We’re gonna get JD ready and survey any possible damages to the ship. Keep you posted.”

“Alright. Talk to you soon.” With that, Raven disconnects, and they are left staring at each other in what promises to soon become very awkward silence.

“Alright, well, I’ll go--”

“I’m sorry I kissed you.” Clarke’s eyes widen after she blurts that out, cutting Lexa off and causing her to splutter with surprised embarrassment. She wasn’t sure they’d ever bring it up. It was – a sour of the moment thing, or so she’s told herself. They were full of adrenaline, being chased by the Feds, fired at left and right. It honestly felt more like an act of desperation. Something to feel even more alive and revved up. Clarke’s bright eyes met hers, and next thing she knew, their mouths crashed together before Clarke pushed her in her chair and jumped into hers, buckling up and flipping the lightspeed switch.  

Lexa frowns. Lightspeed. They travelled at lightspeed without giving the ship clear directions, and it took them to the vortex – and now they are here. That is a vital piece of information that they definitely should have disclosed to Raven.

And they will once she gets her mouth to work and replies to an expectant Clarke. “Uh.” So far, so good. “Why?” Clarke begins to frown, and she hurries to correct herself. “I mean – I’m not sorry you did.”

“Oh.” Clarke’s voice is small, unsure. “But – you’re the Commander. And I’m – me.”

Lexa gives her a muted smile. “Are you worried about violating the Code of Conduct? Because last time I checked we didn’t have any. Since, you know. We’re intergalactic criminals and stuff.”

“I was thinking more of Robin Hood and his Merry Men kind of thing,” Clarke says. A tentative smile blooms on her lips, and Lexa wants nothing more than to kiss it until it grows and spills into laughter. Maybe she’ll actually get to do that. “It’s not about any Code. I just – I kind of ambushed you without checking if you’re okay with it.”

“Tell you what,” she says, grinning. “You can ambush me any time you want. Because truth be told, I’ve wanted to do the same pretty much ever since we’ve met, but I, too, was worried about… ambushing.”

“Oh. Oh-kay,” Clarke nods to herself, like an diligent student. “Ambushing is on the table. Good to know.”

“Yeah. And -- oof!” She’s noticed that sometimes Clarke is too quick to act on things. Right now, however, she doesn’t mind.

When they break apart, it’s slow, with neither willing to let go just yet. “Duty calls,” Clarke whispers, regret coloring her voice. Lexa chuckles.

“That, and I really wanna get out of here so we can do this more.”

Clarke’s beautiful when she blushes, she decides.

***

JD, their rusty but trusty robot that’s especially beloved by Raven due to being one of her first successful projects, beeps readily when Lexa finishes programming him to get the air and ground sample. He whirs as he turns around himself and wheels into the small hallway. Lexa waits till he gets in there and shuts the door, ensuring the ship’s sealed and foreign air won’t get in. Then, she pulls the lever to open the external hatch. Most of the things around the ship have to be done manually, but that’s what she loves about it. She specifically didn’t let Raven tinker with the system, only allowing her to install the navigation. Everything else, she can manage just fine.

They split up and quickly check the ship for any damages while JD is at work. Aside from a few dents, it’s not too bad. Yet, the attempt to take off fails.

“Must be something outside,” Clarke notes apprehensively. “I hope it’s not the engines.”

“What else could it be?” Lexa states more than asks. Clarke shrugs.

“I don’t know. Maybe we’re just stuck.” She shrugs again when Lexa throws her a look. “What? Just trying to keep the morale up.”

“I appreciate your efforts,” Lexa deadpans, but that doesn’t work, because Clarke only grins and pecks her lips. If that’s how it’s gonna be from now on, well – she’s at peace with that.

JD comes back in twenty minutes and brings a curious discovery with him. Apparently, the atmosphere outside is identical to that of the Earth. Clarke and Lexa glance at each other, bewildered.

“That’s next to impossible,” Lexa voices what they’re both thinking. Her co-pilot hums, thoughtful.

“But not impossible,” she points out. “Congratulations, babe – we might be the living proof of string theory.”

She can’t resist. “Babe?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow. Clarke scoffs, failing to hide her blush.

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” she teases.

“Not the time, but maybe later,” Clarke fires right back, a lopsided grin playing on her lips. “Also I can’t believe you’re flirting with me when we’re standing on the verge of the most important scientific discovery.”

“Do you really think we’re in a parallel universe?”

She watches as Clarke bites her lip, clearly excited. “What else could this be?”

“Well,” she stands taller and straightens her leather jacket, feeling determined. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

***

They jump out of the ship, blasters ready. Lexa inhales the air, frowning. “Smells like spring,” she says quietly, and Clarke hums in silent, astonished agreement.

She doesn’t know what she expects to see once they climb out, but that’s not it. The scenery is rather dull. It reminds her of those old sci-fi movies from the last century. And of the Grand Canyon from the inside. Sand and rocks and occasional shallow caves.

It’s the caves that have her worried. She immediately recalls everything she knows about space parasites, and shudders at the thought of contacting one. They are definitely not going in there. They’re not going anywhere, period. Lexa decides then and there that they’ll check the ship, fix whatever it is that doesn’t let them take off, and get the hell out of here.

Clarke, however, clearly has other plans. “Lex,” she whispers urgently, nudging her with her surprisingly sharp elbow. “There’s someone in there. Looks human.” And points at one of the caves when Lexa glances at her.

Fantastic. She sghs and comes to stand in front of Clarke, looking her in the eyes. “You’re probably imagining things,” she tells her calmly. “We’re worked up, it makes sense. Let’s fix out ship and go home.”

But, as it often happens, Clarke doesn’t listen. “There!” she quietly exclaims, looking over Lexa’s shoulder. “It’s a girl. A human girl. What if she needs help? What if she’s hurt?”

“We don’t help, Clarke,” Lexa says lowly. She tries her hardest not to sound threatening,, but she’s not sure she succeeds.

Blue eyes meet hers, defiant. “Except you helped each and every one of us,” she says, almost accusingly. “If it weren’t for you, half the crew would be dead in a drug den on the outskirts of the Leo Cluster.” She pauses, gauging Lexa’s reaction, and nods, clearly satisfied with what she sees. “She could be in danger. Maybe she got here the same way we did.”

“Escaping the Feds?” Lexa snorts. “All the more reason to stay away from her.”

“Fine.” Clarke raises her chin, and Lexa groans inwardly, because she knows what’s coming. “Stay here and fix the ship. I’ll go to her.”

“Yeah, I will allow that to happen,” Lexa deadpans, and tightens her grip on her blaster. “Stay close to me and don’t hesitate to shoot. Remember shapeshifters from CG18?”

Clarke shudders involuntary. “Roger that. A kid tries to bite my hand off, I shoot.”

“Good.”

***

Not only Clarke doesn’t shoot – she doesn’t let Lexa do that, either. Granted, there are no bloodthirsty children involved this time, but this can’t be normal. Lexa’s more than convinced those are closely related to CG18 bastards. Have to be same species. Because how else would she explain meeting their doppelgangers?

“Lexa, wait!” Clarke cries out, grabbing her hand with the blaster just as another Clarke dives at another Lexa, shielding her from them.

“What the fuck,” she sighs, annoyed. “I thought we had a deal.”

“Shooting ourselves wasn’t the deal,” Clarke states indignantly.

“Are you hearing yourse—they are not us!”

“Lexa,” Clarke slowly, loudly breathes out through her nose. She’s more than willing to bet that she’s counting to five in her head. “We’re operating under the assumption that we ended up in a parallel universe. Which, if it’s true, means that there are parallel versions of us.”

“We’re not from here,” Clarke – another Clarke – pipes up, then. She looks as close to fainting as Lexa feels, and her blue eyes, so familiar yet foreign, are wide with astonishment as she looks between them. “We have no idea how we ended up here, or what here even is.” She gulps as her gaze falls down to the blaster in Lexa’s hand. “Look, we’re totally harmless. I’m still in high school, I mean – come on,” she chuckles nervously. Lexa – the other Lexa – blinks at her before glancing at them.

“Yeah,” she says. “Um – could we stand up?”

Her Clarke gives her a look that’s both begging and warning, and she sighs, lowering the blaster. “Fine. Get up. Slowly.” The others nod and hastily scramble to their feet. Now that she has the chance to really look at them, she notes how young they are. They can’t be older than eighteen. Her gaze stays on the other Lexa a bit longer.

She definitely wasn’t this scrawny when she was eighteen.

The other Clarke is probably thinking the same thing, because right now she’s looking between her and the Lexa she came with, and her eyes are sparkling with curiosity and, dare she say, appraisal.

Her Clarke sighs. “Cut it out,” she tells her younger copy. “Focus. How did you get here?”

“We don’t know,” the other Lexa speaks up. She finishes methodically dusting herself off and fixes her buttoned up shirt. Lexa rolls her eyes when she notices her Clarke’s gaze soften. Now who needs to focus? “We were in my room, and then there was this swirly thing--”

“A vortex,” the Other Clarke helpfully supplies, making the Other Lexa sigh.

“Whatever. Point is, we got sucked in and now we’re here.”

“Well, what were you doing before the vortex appeared?”

Both the Other Clarke and the Other Lexa blush, and Lexa thinks she has a hunch. “Pretty sure there were tongues involved,” she murmurs to her Clarke, turning to her and lowering her voice. “Also pretty sure they’re not gonna tell you about it.”

“We were -- studying,” the Other Clarke says meekly. Lexa sighs as she feels a headache approaching.

“I’m still not convinced you’re not some type of space parasites,” she tells them warningly.

“I swear we’re not,” the Other Clarke says. “So, is this like – Mars, or something? Are you guys astronauts?”

Lexa lets out a dark chuckle. “Do I look like astronaut?”

“Not really, no.”

It’s during that awkward lull in the conversation that a blinding flash of light sends them scattering for cover. Lexa grabs the Others and shoves them behind her as she points her blaster forward, discouraged because she can’t exactly see what she should be pointing it at.

Just as quickly as it appeared, however, the light disappears with a loud clap. In its wake, two bodies are left rolling on the floor, familiar groans making Lexa sigh. She’s the first to stand up and slowly approach the newcomers.

“Let me guess,” she says, offering her hand to a new Clarke and helping her up before doing the same with the new Lexa. “You got sucked in a vortex.”

“Yeah,” the New Clarke says, awed. “And I did not expect to end up in Heaven.” Her bright gaze dims somewhat when she looks around and sees the other versions of herself next to different versions of Lexa. “Oh,” she says, sounding mildly disappointed. “Okay. I can work with that.”

“I wish I didn’t know what you’re thinking about,” Lexa tells her sincerely before glancing at the New Lexa. She’s older than the Other, much closer to her own age, and much more confident, too, as she meets her gaze with her own steely one. She takes an extra second to appreciate the dark blue suit. Raven would probably make fun of her for a month if she ever wore something like that, but damn if it didn’t look good.

She doesn’t even flinch when the light flashes again.

***

All in all, they end up with three pairs of the copies, excluding themselves. Lexa doesn’t quite know what else to call them, but she’s wise enough to keep that to herself. She’s still not convinced this isn’t a parasite playing tricks on their minds.

“This is probably mass psychosis, or something,” Kid Lexa mumbles to Kid Clarke, whose eyes flash with fear. “I don’t think we’re even here, physically. It’s one big hallucination.”

Lexa hates to admit that she’s a little hurt by that. No one’s ever called her a hallucination before.

“I feel pretty real,” Corporate Clarke – Lexa’s not proud of the nickname, but it seems the most fitting considering her and her Lexa’s outfits – says, frowning. “Can’t say the same about all of this.” Her eyes meet Lexa’s, and she hurries to avert her gaze, blushing. Lexa guesses she was still dazed from the vortex experience when she unabashedly flirted with her earlier. She sighs.

“Maybe you know what’s going on?” She addresses Lexa the Scientist, and immediately cringes at the name. Sounds like a cartoon character. But, given the situation they’ve found themselves in, maybe they are all exactly that. This is too surreal to be a part of real life.

Scientist Lexa nervously straightens her glasses, and Lexa barely refrains from grimacing at that. She does not do nervous. “Well -- if we don’t settle for the mass psychosis theory…” Kid Lexa perks up at that, but Lexa shakes her head, and she deflates. “Um, we could be at the intersection of several parallel universes. The vortex is a portal of sorts.”

“Really helpful,” Lexa scoffs.

Clarke places a hand on her arm, giving her a pointed look. “Be nice,” she warns softly.

“I have to remember that,” Corporate Clarke murmurs. Her Lexa shoots her a quick smirk in spite of her tense posture. She clears her throat, then, gathering everyone’s attention.

(Lexa can’t help but be amused by Kid Clarke’s blush whenever she glances Corporate Lexa’s way. She really needs to find herself a suit, if only to test a theory.)

“While I am, no doubt, as interested in the inner workings of the Universe as all of you,” she says, calmly, “I am more interested in getting back to my universe first. Any ideas how we can make that happen?”

Lexa inwardly groans. She can’t believe that in some universe, she’s the type of a person they rob and make fun of on a regular basis. She’s never been more thankful for Reyes’s absence, because that’s not something she would’ve ever lived down.

She quickly considers renaming Corporate Lexa to Rich Jerk Lexa, but ultimately decides against it. That’s the level of self-hatred she hasn’t mastered. “Would we be standing here with you if we had any?” she settles on replying. Corporate Lexa’s green eyes narrow at that. It’s barely noticeable to any outside observer, but she knows herself, and she knows she’s irritated.

“We will employ your services if the answer turns out to be brute force,” she lets her know. Lexa sighs, mildly disappointed. That was way too obvious. Not on the level she’s expected.

“Yeah, I’m the muscle, what a low blow,” she deadpans. “Luckily, we do have the brain.”

Everyone, aside from Corporate Lexa who’s eyeing her now, turns their expectant gazes to Scientist Lexa. She swallows. “Well, uh – I don’t really know how to get back to our respective universes. But I also d-don’t really think we need to do anything in order to go back.”

Lexa quietly implodes when she doesn’t continue. “Oh, my God, can you just tell us why?”

“Hey, chill out,” Kid Clarke demands and she suppresses the urge to throw her hands up in air and walk away. But because it’s Clarke – young, bratty version of her, but still her – she doesn’t.

And because it’s Lexa she’s just snapped at, her Clarke throws her a disapproving look, leaving her feeling both warm and frustrated. She’s ready for all of this to be over.

“She can speak for herself,” Scientist Clarke speaks up, then, giving Kid Clarke a dirty look. “But also – you do need to chill,” she tells Lexa next.

Lexa only shakes her head.” Are you seriously jealous of yourself?”

“Well, aren’t you?” Corporate Lexa chooses this moment to snidely ask, and Lexa thinks about her Clarke trying not to look too much in her direction and grinds her teeth together.

“How do we send your asses back.” She states, trying not to glare at Scientist Lexa, whose adorable fiddling with glasses and the sleeves of her cardigan must’ve awoke the soft side of all Clarkes, because they all collectively frown at her harsh tone.

Maybe she can convince her Clarke this is the space parasite after all, when she’s done killing them.

“Well,” Scientist Lexa starts, increasingly more nervous, “I don’t know if it’s the same in all of the universes, but in ours, there’s been a discovery recently. We proved the string theory.”

“What do you mean we?” Lexa demands. There’s a coiling deep in her stomach that she does not like. At all.

“Um,” Scientist Lexa glances at her Clarke, who hugs herself. “We as in her and I.”

Lexa can practically hear the thoughts flashing through Corporate Lexa’s head. Mainly because she’s having those same ones as well. “Tell me,” she murmurs as she slowly stalks to Scientist Lexa, “that this isn’t a part of your research paper.”

“No, oh, no!” Scientist Lexa shakes her head, eyes wide with fear. “I had nothing to do with this. I just – have a hunch about the reason we’re here. Like I said, we’re at the intersection of the universes. It could be that the universes summon an identical part of themselves here in order to continue functioning. It could be something as trivial as stones, or something as… not trivial as people.”

“Why would they need to do that?” Kid Lexa asks, confused. Lexa can’t blame her.

Scientist Clarke shakes her head. “You don’t want to get into that. Especially since, if we’re right, we will all go back to our own universes any second now.”

“Our memories will probably fade, too,” her Lexa points out. “So write everything down now if you want to remember any of this.”

“I’d rather not,” Lexa quips, making each Clarke chuckle. Well. She’ll miss that, at least.

“If anyone ever wanted to make out with themselves, now’s the time, just saying,” Kid Clarke jokes. Or – Lexa’s not entirely sure she was just joking. Kid Lexa immediately blushes. Lexa only sighs with sympathy. She remembers those teenage hormones all too well.

“Alright,” she says loudly, interrupting the sudden chatter. “This has been bizarre. Nice meeting you. We should go,” she tells Clarke, who gives her a dumbfounded stare.

“We’re not going to see them off?”

“Why can’t they see us off first?” Lexa tries to argue. When Clarke doesn’t budge, she sighs. “Look, I’d rather be on our ship when we get thrown back. What if we end up back where we started, and not on our home planet?”

“Oh,” Scientist Lexa speaks up, concerned. “You will absolutely go back to the point where you got picked up. So if that was somewhere in space, I’d at least consider wearing a spacesuit.” That little shit, Lexa thinks with sudden, adoring amusement. Which feels weird, since it’s essentially herself she’s thinking about, so this is basically emotional masturbation.

She shakes her head. “Right. Thanks.” Clarke’s hesitant gaze meets her own determined one. “We gotta get back to the ship. You heard them. We could get sucked in any second now.”

“Okay,” Clarke relents, then. She throws one last look at the group of their doppelgangers, who watch them with a mix of awe and sadness Lexa’s not ready to admit she’s feeling as well. “Um. Good luck with -- everything. Have great lives, guys.”

“You, too!” Kid Clarke beams, waving. “Can I just say – I love how everyone’s ignoring the fact that we end up together in every universe.”

“Fate is a pretty heavy burden,” she hears Scientist Lexa quietly reply before she ushers Clarke away, and they jog to their ship.

Once they climb inside, no one speaks for several seconds. JD beeps at their arrival, and the system lets them know Raven’s tried to contact them twice – Lexa immediately feels bad, because their friend is probably worried sick. “Oh, damn,” she says, then, disappointed. “We didn’t ask them if they knew Raven.”

“I hope they do,” Clarke says, chuckling. “We didn’t ask a lot of things, you know.”

“I was a little busy trying to make sure we made it out alive,” Lexa points out. She feels a little silly for pouting, but now that they are back to the safety of their ship and their survival isn’t at stake anymore, her curiosity decides to wake up and drive her up the wall. How long have all of them been together? Are any of them married or about to get married? Do they live together? When did they meet? She sighs, shaking her head in defeat. Some questions just aren’t meant to have answers. But those could’ve if it weren’t for her constant worrying and—

“Stop,” Clarke demands, jostling her out of her musings. “I can see you beating yourself up. Stop. You went with your gut and focused on the important thing. Surviving. If it did turn out to be the parasite or a violent shapeshifter, you would’ve been prepared, unlike me. That’s why you’re the Commander. That’s why…” she trails off, then, and Lexa admires the pretty pink dusted across her cheekbones.

She swallows and reaches out, gently brushing Clarke’s hair behind her air. “Fate really is a heavy burden, isn’t it?” she says softly. Clarke’s lips curl in a small smile under her thumb.

“Not when it’s shared,” she whispers. Her lips taste like dust and warmth and spring, and Lexa happily allows herself to disappear in it, if only for a mere moment.

“Lexa,” Raven’s urgent voice makes them break apart, but they do so slowly, savoring each other’s taste. “Please tell me you’re there.”

She doesn’t look away from Clarke’s sparkling eyes as she replies. “Rae. We’re here, we just got back. Will tell you everything once we get out of here.”

“Not to crush your hopes and dreams, but you sound mighty confident that you will get out of there,” Raven jokes darkly. “As in, I have no fucking idea how to reach you. I still don’t know where you are.”

Lexa lifts the blinds up, and sure enough, the vortex is there, right in front of them, and getting closer by the second. She smirks. “Doesn’t matter. See you soon, Reyes.”

“I hope you haven’t gone insane,” Raven says cautiously, and they laugh.

“We’re of sound mind,” Clarke reassures her. “And we’ll leave the same way we ended up here – through a vortex.”

“A vortex? What the fuck?”

“Exactly. Don’t worry, it’s harmless.” Lexa blinks as she realizes that they probably won’t remember any of this once they are back to their universe. She looks up to find Clarke’s eyes, and reads the same thought in them.

“Mute us.” The system complies, and Raven’s line goes dead for the time being. “Should we tell her?”

Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. The vortex is almost there. “We could. But what would it change? We’re space pirates. No one actually able to do something with our discovery will believe us.”

“Right.” She squeezes her hand as they stare into the swirling void before them. “If we remember – we tell her. If we don’t…”

“…then we live,” Clarke concludes for her. In her blue eyes, Lexa sees all the universes they’ve lived in. “Then, we live.”

She thinks she can work with that. And then, they disappear.

[lovelivresse]

A non-exhaustive list of reasons why Baz needs therapy

those are only the examples I could think of when I wrote this, there are probably other things

That boy is suicidal or “I don’t have a death wish” my ass or RAINBOW PLS ADDRESS THIS 

“Stake through the heart?” he asked, falling back into the corner and resting an arm on a pile of skulls. “Beheading, perhaps? That only works if you keep my head separate from my body, and even then I could still walk; my body won’t stop until it finds my head.… Better go with fire, Snow, it’s the only solution.” (Carry On, Chapter 17) Baz… Baby… You know too much about how to kill a vampire. Also, talking about the boy he loves killing him, and genuinely believing that the boy he loves would kill him… not cool

“She would have killed me.

She would have faced me, what I am, and done what was right.” 

and “He will … Finish me.

Snow will do the right thing.” (Carry On, Chapter 40) He thinks of him dying as something that’s “right” TWICE, and also the whole being killed by loved ones thing… Baz you need a hug

[about the fire] “This is what I deserve” (Carry On, Chapter 60) NO IT’S NOT 

“I could hear him singing, even after I’d been walking for ten minutes. “Ashes, ashes—we all fall down.” (Carry On, Chapter 17) This one doesn’t really count, it just hurts my feelings that the part of the song Baz is singing that is highlighted is the one about ASHES. 

So in conclusion, after his LITERAL SUICIDE ATTEMPT it’s never addressed again that he has some serious suicidal tendencies. He says he doesn’t have a death wish and that’s all, it’s completely overlooked after that when CLEARLY, he HAS a death wish.

Fucked up things that seem to have impacted him the most or you think that Fiona is a better parental figure for Baz than Malcom but she isn’t really, Baz is just biased

“I know fuck-all about vampires. It’s not like I got an instruction pamphlet when I was bitten.” (Carry On, Chapter 30) A BIG part of who he is is completely unknown to him. As seen before, what he knows best about vampires is how to kill them. On top of that, even the things he thinks are true about vampires aren’t necessarily (Lamb can bite a human without killing or turning them) and he gets mixed signals (Nicodemus seems to age normally while Lamb is something like hundreds of years old and he still looks like he’s in his thirties)

“I don’t think my father ever would have mentioned it, even if he’d caught me draining the maid [...] Though he’d much prefer to catch me disrobing the maid.… (Definitely more disappointed in my queerness than my undeadness.)” (Carry On, Chapter 40) Malcolm’s complete lack of acknowledgement of Baz’s vampirism + Baz thinking that his sexuality is even a bigger deal to his father than his vampirism. He has those two things that are both parts of his identity that he didn’t choose and that are both considered to be something bad by his father, that CAN’T be easy and it definitely caused him a lot of shame and self-hatred. We have the point of view of 18-year-old Baz, I’m not sure he would be nearly as okay with his sexuality as he is if we were in the head of the Baz who just came out/thinks of coming out to his father

“My father never acknowledges that I’m a vampire—besides my flammability—and I know he’ll never send me away because of it.

But my mother?

She would have killed me.

She would have faced me, what I am, and done what was right.” (Carry On, Chapter 40) Once again, Malcolm’s complete lack of acknowledgement of Baz’s vampirism + the fact that Baz thinks his mother would have KILLED HIM if she knew he was a vampire. 

“He swings his wand and practically howls, spraying fire all around us. “This is what my mother would want for me, you idiot. [...] “My mother died killing vampires,” he says. “And when they bit her, she killed herself. It’s the last thing she did. If she knew what I am … She would never have let me live.” (Carry On, Chapter 60) Natasha wanting him dead because of his vampirism is something that’s mentioned again after chapter 40, here in chapter 60, which shows that 1) the opinion his mother would have of him really matters to him 2) he believes this opinion would have been VERY negative 3) he doesn’t even CONSIDER the option that his mother might have loved him enough to accept that he had been turned

“My father still isn’t ready to admit I have a boyfriend, and it would be too exhausting, living in a place where I have to pretend I’m not a vampire or hopelessly queer.” (Carry On, Epilogue) Malcolm please stop ignoring most of who your son is I’m begging you

I also wanted to say a few words about Fiona because I feel like in general we (as in, the fandom) really see Malcolm’s bad behavior towards Baz but not Fiona’s, while she’s also far from perfect. She saved him from the Numpties, that’s a good thing, that’s what we see, but look : “She berated me all the way home, and all the way back to Watford. She made me sit in the back seat of her MG. (A ’67. Glorious.) “The front seat is for people who’ve never been kidnapped by bloody numpties. Jesus Christ, Baz.” 

The front seat thing is a joke now but when you really think about it and when you focus on that whole paragraph and not just Fiona’s words, this is the situation that is presented : Baz just spent 6 WEEKS locked in a coffin, starved, not knowing what would happen to him, and instead of, I don’t know, TRYING TO COMFORT HIM, his aunt “berates” him, as if he was the one to blame in this situation. Jesus Christ, Fiona, give the boy a hug and ask him if he’s okay instead. 

And then there’s this : “Then the Coven made her a vampire hunter” (Carry On, Epilogue) That part would have fit better in the 3rd category but since I’m talking about Fiona let’s put it here. SHE LITERALLY KILLS VAMPIRES AS A JOB. I love Fiona but it makes me so angry whenever I think about it. I don’t know, I feel like a NORMAL PERSON wouldn’t become a VAMPIRE HUNTER when their nephew IS A VAMPIRE. That must fuck Baz up so bad that she does that, even if he doesn’t even realize it himself, and I hate that the impact of Fiona killing vampires for a living on Baz isn’t tackled at all.

So in conclusion, Baz thinks that is father is disappointed in him for existing, basically, he thinks that his mother would have wanted him dead AND KILLED HIM for what he is, and then there’s Fiona

Other fucked up things that are just barely mentioned or RAINBOW PLS ADDRESS THIS part 2

“He slipped a flask out of his jacket and took a swig. I didn’t know that he’d been drinking” (Carry On, Chapter 17) Baz was drinking. Was it a one time thing? Did Simon somehow catch him the ONE time he got drunk in the Catacombs? If it was not the first time he went there and got drunk, did he have a problem with alcohol in fifth year? I NEED ANSWERS 

“Of course I’ve read Anne Rice. I was a 15-year-old closet case whose parents pretended they didn’t notice when the family dog disappeared” (Wayward Son, Chapter 22) Once again, his family doing a poor job when it comes to handling his vampirism but we've been over this. INSTEAD CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE FACT THAT HE FED ON HIS DOG, AN ANIMAL THAT HE VERY PROBABLY LOVED, BUT THE BLOODTHIRST WAS JUST TOO STRONG TO RESIST???????? It must have been so difficult and traumatizing for him, and it’s just dropped like that in the story like it’s nothing while I’m over here crying about it

[nbapprentice]

You said a while back that while Supergiant games (Bastion, Transistor, Hades) was mostly okay, you had some words about them. I was curious as to what those words were, since Hades' full release is soon.

okay. alright. ive been playing hades lately so i definitely want to give my two cents (or dollars by the size this is gonna get). but let’s go Step by Step

the good: i want to throw a whole Endorsement over supergiant games with the art direction and its characters, which is what keeps me coming back again and again, and what i can assume is that most people are attracted to. 

gameplaywise, they have a Format they stick to which has become their staple, not to their detriment but to their advantage, like... gameplay tropes, so to speak, that they stick to (such as the addition of special conditions that give a disadvantage in exchange for more long-term rewards)

i fucking adore that they take one concept per game, go for it, and when they’re done they are Done; they don’t bother with sequels, they don’t want to run things to the ground and i fucking respect that. They have their themes, and they stick to them (to various degrees of success).

that said, like every piece of media, they are not perfect and this has to be analysed and spoken about

CONTENT WARNINGS: genocide and ethnic cleansing, antisemitism, misogyny, homophobia, suicide, and mentions of incest, and a general Spoilers warning

bastion: touches on ethnic cleansing, and not in a way i’d say is satisfactory. our narrator and one of our Sympathetic characters is one of the men who worked on a world-ending weapon meant to use against the Ura (a group of people coded as East Asian) which after a bit of googling is literally called “the final solution” if there was ever a war between the Ura and the Cael (who feel like rly tan white people to me). jesus fucking CHRIST.

we also meet more Ura other than our two named characters and we have to kill most of them. so that fucking blows.

the game tries for “being a genocidal monster will get you fucked up and blown up” which duh, but i feel we shouldn’t have had a person responsible for war crimes be one of our friends no matter how bad he feels about the whole thing, or the people victim of war crimes become villains in the latter half of the game. zia’s father could’ve taken ruck’s role ez pz.

transistor: the weakest of their games, imo; the lore and writing are fairly flimsy and i did not come out feeling Satisfied, especially because it had this rly good build-up that did not pay off. not to mention... their villains? 3/4 were gay people. lol. two married guys (not even explicit, you only realize by their shared last names) and the ps*cho lesbian trope (iirc she wanted to kill the protagonist’s lover or something). the female protagonist also ends up killing herself to live forever in a digital paradise with her dead lover. it’s. god. 

very Aesthetic, GORGEOUS music, interesting gameplay; had potential, i do not feel like it lived up to it at least as far as the story goes.

pyre: now this one. this one’s BEEFY. where transistor felt flimsy, pyre is rich; lots to sink your teeth into, rich in lore and loveable characters, again w the beautiful music, themes of cooperation and togetherness. my favorite of the cast is volfred sandalwood, the only Black (or, well, Black-coded) revolutionary i’ve ever seen portrayed with this amount of sympathy.

onto the bad: they literally have a Class of character named “Savage”; there’s the “mystical mentally ill person” trope; there is an overwhelming amount of explicit m/f pairs (one of them being. a romance that formed in a single day and then both of the characters were somehow willing to risk it all for each other? PLEASE) while the only hints of gayness are... hints. especially when Jodariel (another of my favs) is teased to have feelings for the player regardless of gender then only gets an ending with a male character with whom she has nothing in common 🙃

hades: and now. this one. music: gorgeous. character designs: spectacular (aphrodite is straight up naked but it’s so... natural and casual, it doesn’t feel sexualized at all). voice acting amazing. character interactions charming and endearing. as a greek mythology nerd, it was nice to see them go for the obscure shit like Zagreus at all, NOT portray Persephone and Hades as a loving couple, AND portrayed the gods as the bunch of petty assholes (some more benevolent than others) that they are. imo they’re too generous with their portrayal of achilles but i’ll allow it.

and finally... it seems all those criticisms about having all the gay characters hidden in the shadows paid off, cuz we got (aside of patroclus and achilles) a bisexual polyamorous protag. Holy Shit! and it’s not even playersexual, romance whomever you want shit without the routes recognizing each other: he explicitly talks about how he’s thinking abt them both (though it’s like “yeah usually mortals take one lover but gods love many huh” polyamory is a human thing too bro!!!!!)

and this is where it all goes, well, at least vaguely downhill lol. ok so the incest warning i gave up there? well. it’s not... outright incestuous. but it has some ugly implications. i want to emphasize: the characters never refer to each other as siblings, nor do they treat each other as such (thanatos, in fact, only recognizes hypnos as his brother, and megaera only sees the other furies as her sisters), but they were all raised by the same woman, Nyx... zagreus and thanatos even grew up together (im assuming megaera didnt meet zagreus until he was fully grown).

this is complicated even worse by the fact that they tried to trick zagreus into believing Nyx was his mother. he realized pretty early on this was not true but like... adoptive mothers, anyone? granted i can believe that bc of the attempt at deception that probably ruptured any attempt at actual familial closeness, and it’s not like hypnos and thanatos saw zagreus as their brother at any point, so they were p much aware of the truth too. with the fact that thanatos even looks like goth miles edgeworth (im not kidding you can google him up right now its literally edgeworth in a cowl) i rly feel they were aiming for Childhood Friend Anime Rival Man than the “surprise kiss bc ur not actually related <3″ shit. zagreus never once refers to nyx as his mother in-game, and also refers to thanatos and hypnos as her sons, never his brothers.

so yeah, like. if one’s feeling generous, zagreus and thanatos are more of a “my father is emotionally closed off and neglects me so my best friend’s mother basically raised me” kind of situation... just pulled off in, perhaps, the worst way possible (why didnt they just say Zagreus was told Hekate was his mom, that’s such an easy fix? or that he was born of nobody other than Hades??? [gestures at athena])

but then, the gods. aaaaaaaahhhhahahahh the gods. demeter shows up! and she calls zeus, hades and poseidon... her foster-brothers. which somehow would make the persephone thing less fucking awful, apparently. they really. really really did not need to do that. she could’ve just said “my fellow gods” or whatever. or my “god-brothers” or something, to pretend it was just a weird god alliance thing??? i dont know but implying that foster family isn’t family is just... bro, the dynamics still exist.

Don’t Like That.

i even contacted supergiant games over this. they reassured me they were even trying to avoid the incest of the original myths bc they didn’t want to mess with such a heavy theme. i believe them... but i really think they didn’t think this through. compared to something like fire emblem fates this is nearly benign, but the implications don’t look good :/

tl;dr of the tl;drs: i admire their artistic philosophy and the heavy emphasis on fresh gameplay, characters and their relationships; i appreciate that it seems that they listen to criticism?; i don’t appreciate that they didn’t think to at LEAST talk to adoptees when making a game about family.

[neutralnuance]

Wow I am a fucking mess

I am a depressed bitch with no self control. What have I been doing for the last eight days? Fucking eating. And I don’t mean in a “good!!!! recovery Kween 🥰” kinda way. I mean in a “Jesus fucking Christ how has your stomach not ruptured from the mass volume of food you’ve been consuming per sitting” kinda way. I mean in a “you were kind of healthy sized, a little on the chubby side before, but I feel like this week alone you’re starting to gain a lot of weight” kinda way. I mean in a “pup, as your mother I think you need to get back on your diet. You’re putting on a few pounds” kinda way.

I feel so broken. I don’t know what to do. I pretend to take notes in each class but I’m really just writing prose about how miserable I am. I think it’s a suicide note. Idk. I’ve written a few but I have a little box in my closet I put my notes in. I don’t know what to do. I feel so empty and meaningless and the only solution I have for myself is food. I feel so low and immovable and there’s only a couple things left to do.

Why can’t I just be skinny and happy

[laufire]

ENDGAME

Okay. I definitely won’t be able to sleep today, so I might as well pour out all my Endgame feelings right now.

First thing first, I was probably in the WORST POSSIBLE HEADSPACE to watch this film; national elections where fascists could take over Congress (spoiler alert, they didn’t. I literally just cried with relief for over ten minutes) AND being extremely concerned about characters you over-identify with on the same day, all after the worst year of your life, apparently don’t mix well. Who would have thunk.

(btw, I was spoiled as I was voting about That Very Big Thing; everyone who follows me probably can guess what I’m talking about. I almost threw hands tbh. Then almost cried over a dozen times on the way to the theatre because the stress of the day was killing me ugh).

All this to say, my head is a mess right now, I don’t even know if this post is going to make any sense, and I will probably take time to process certain things and have a definite opinion on them LOL. But well, here is now.

And err. Warning for a brief mention of suicide ideation?

(crossposted to dreamwidth, livejournal, and pillowfort)

TONY (& CO)

– In case it wasn’t obvious, the thing I was spoiled about? Yeah, it was Tony’s death. FML. I mean, even if I wasn’t spoiled, I would’ve seen it coming as soon as we saw him after the five years jump, lbr (happily off-screen married to Pepper? With an adorable daughter? Pepper resigned to the possibility of losing him instead of begging him to stay like in IW? And then the movie kept hammering it home LMAO; that and a lot of things for the mains that I kind of saw coming from less than a third into the movie, which IDK if it’s because I was particularly intuitive, or the foreshadowing was that heavy handed xD).

Obviously, I’m not rocking your world if I tell you I’m extremely heartbroken, I guess. Especially because, as I said, my emotions were already all over the place. And seeing a character I adore, and in who I project a lot of my issues on –including, yes, suicidal issues–, sacrifice their lives (no matter how poignant, and moving, and well-written it might be) was incredibly hard for me. So, yeah. I’m going to have to deal with that for a while I guess. Which I plan to do by writing a bunch of Fix-It and Not Actually Fix-It fics ASAP.

But. I mean, out of all the endings Tony could have, this was always my second choice for him. And he was grandiose in this film. He figured out time travel. He created a gauntlet capable of holding the Infinity stones. Beings far more powerful than him were trying to carry that gauntlet to the van and none of them thought to use it, but he did. He was completely vindicated. He is the Saviour of the Universe.

And he looked gorgeous the entire time, which is truly important for me.

– In all seriousness, the thing I take to heart the most is that

his legacy remains intact

, and it’s inspiring, and heroic, and poetic, and prosperous. Clearly, without him, my enthusiasm for the universe will never be the same, but one thing that worried me is that I wouldn’t want anything to do with Marvel for a while after this film, and that’s not how I’m feeling; I’m very much looking forward to further parallels and homages to him in my ever-growing list :P

Tho, honestly, I’m kind of side-eyeing myself for the fact that, the one time!!! I go and fall in love with a male lead character, he happens to be genuinely heroic and self-sacrificing, instead of just using those concepts as lip-service and getting to have his cake and eat it too LMAO. I mean, sure, given my reactions to those characters, the AeJons Snowrgaryens of the world, I wouldn’t have liked him so much if it was the case, but dammit. It’d be nice to experience that high sometime xD

– The Iron Fam is the best part of this movie for me. Tony’s relationship with Morgan was way too adorable to handle it; Pepper was enormous and so poised (and the scene where they circle around each other in their armors… poetic cinema); I didn’t get enough Iron Husbands to satiate me (Rhodey’s caress should have been skin to skin!), but I loved what we got; Happy is an assholes who made me cry ABOUT CHEESEBURGERS.

And let’s not talk about Peter, OMG. My heart. And Harley appeared to Tony’s funeral! Though, honestly, the person I missed the most there was Christine Everhart, who should have been there just on the basis that I like her (plus, ya know, IMO she was important to Tony’s origin dammit).

I’m going to consider Nebula an honorary member, tbh. Her scenes with Tony in space cut me deep; and she and Rhodey are buddies!

Natasha and Fury (I loved his appearance *sniffs*) are honorary members too, because fuck it. They both appeared first vis a vis Tony on his movies, and have two of my favourite relationships with him, and I say so.

– Related to that, one Failure™ of this movie, is not providing a Nat & Tony one-on-one scene. Seriously, I can’t believe they didn’t realize how necessary that was. But I ADORED the scene where they and Bruce are lying down bouncing ideas about the stones (it made me softly whisper “ot3” LOL); it was possibly the only “Avengers” moment that worked for me –other than Clintasha, but that’s on a different league tbh.

I wanted more Nebula & Tony scenes too; I would’ve loved to see Tony interact with Past!Nebula. Yes, realistically, he would probably had made her LOL, but. I needed it. it’s definitely on my to-write-list :P

– I wanted just some positive interaction between Carol & Tony to counteract Current Comics Bullshit and I got Carol rescuing him, smiling beatifically at him, and Tony basically saying she was Da Bomb and the Avengers should follow her lead instead of keep sucking xDD So that was nice.

– I loved the scene at the beginning where he fucking SNAPS, and goes for Steve’s throat. It was probably my favourite scene. It’s resolution with everyone’s reactions and after the flashforward kind of… totally sucked, but whatever. Still amazing.

– The only part of his storyline that I HATED, and I mean absolutely loathed, was his scene with Howard. Jesus Fucking Christ. They went with the most simplistic take they could have, didn’t they. I haven’t felt more insulted in the theatre in my entire life, and my family made me watch both Ocho apellidos movies with them, so Marvel? That’s a feat. The moment where he says his father hit him with a belt so we (Tony included) are supposed to think, well, at least Howard wasn’t physically violent with his son, hooray?

And I think we’re supposed to take his “wouldn’t want my son to turn like me” as motivation for Tony’s actions and like… newsflash, but Tony has “put the worlds’ needs over his own gain” since Iron Man. Fucking. One. It’s literally what he does in this film, because we’re shown that, despite having achieved his happy ending, he was still trying to figure out time travel even if it meant risking his future.

Seriously, if they wanted me to be moved, they should’ve used Maria. Or hell, Edwin Jarvis was right there. And if whitewashing of Howard’s abuse becomes one of those MCU things that ends up bleeding into the comics, I’m gonna riot. Ugh.

BTW, just thought about this. Has anyone confirmed what the H. of Morgan’s second name stands for? Because my immediate idea was that it was for Happy, but now the fear that it might relate to Howard has entered my brain and I need someone to drive it out.

OTHER FAVES :P

– I am a lot more heartbroken over Natasha’s death than I expected to be. I like her character on paper a lot, but sometimes the writing or the acting don’t agree with me; neither was the case in this movie. I thought she was incredible. I loved the scene where she’s leading the post-dusting council. So losing her in this movie, of all movies, really hurts. And I understand why people who love her would be unhappy, and even furious –to some extent, so am I, tbh; specially because I don’t think she was properly honoured by the other characters after the fact–, but I do think it was extremely fitting for her arc.

– I loved Nebula’s storyline; how she was able to form new relationships, and what I know will be enduring friendships. Her interactions with her younger self were fascinating too; I loved that she perfectly followed the time-travel mumbo-jumbo. And she was so adorable at the beginning. Her bond with Tony didn’t have as much screen time as I wish it had, but the rest of the movie really shows how much his kindness touched her, and I love it. I’m a bit sad she didn’t get to kill any Thanos, tho.

– Okay, putting him in the “faves” section doesn’t exactly feel right, but whatever: I maintain that Thanos is a great villain. I don’t know what people that say otherwise are thinking. He’s the perfect foil for so many characters, and he is genuinely villainous; he is so delusional and self-righteous (seriously, his “solution” for the Snap 2.0 was… o.0) his plans feel sincerely menacing. He perfectly spells out his own doom; narratively speaking? He’s a joy of a villain to me. And I loved how he reacted to the information about the future; specifically, that upon learning about Nebula’s “betrayal”, his tactic was SOFTENING towards past!Nebula to make her even more eager to please him.

– Carol didn’t have much screen time, but I liked what she got (like, nothing too deep, but I didn’t expect much). I liked the Carol/Rhodey nod, even if I’m not sure how I feel about the ship in this incarnation. I wanted to hear something about Maria, but welp.

And on a shallow note, I kind of love that fandom absolutely freaked out about her wearing lipstick on a scene (while praising the “~natural no-make-up make up, effortlessly feminine without looking like you’re actually trying” look that she sported on CM, and disregarding that while yes, it was a troubling look that fitted a pattern across movies, A4 was made first so it was hardly a “betrayal” of the semi-grunge style), for the movie to go and give her the butchest look she’s ever gonna get on film lmao (and I will be pleasantly surprised if they’d keep a look like this for a movie where she’s the lead and not a supporting character, tbh).

– Sam and Bucky were So Soft™ with each other OMG. If their show doesn’t have at least ONE episode centred on them going undercover as a married couple, I’ll write it myself, because they are perfect for it (especially if you add some of the early banter/antagonism).

Btw, Sam getting the shield? The only good part of that mess at the end LMAO.

– I have mixed feelings for the Alt!Gamora development. I just… really loved the GOTG-IW versions of her character and her ship, and she’s gone and just… :( And that type of pseudo-amnesia/relationship do-over thing can be so badly written sometimes… But she’s back, and if done right, the role-reversal between her and Nebula could be gr10 for GOTG 3. We’ll see.

THE BAD™

– I know if I walked up right now to the Russos, and asked them why they hate Thor so much, they wouldn’t even understand the question. They would say, but we love Thor?? He’s such a fun character?? Or some version of the sort. They can fool themselves, but not me. You don’t do this to a character for whom you feel a modicum of respect, IMO.

Like, the fat-phobic jokes? The way they dealt with his substance abuse? How his arc about stepping up and assuming responsibilities ended by… him throwing away his responsibilities. Losing his hammer was a turning point for him to relearn the lessons about value and worthiness and power he’d been taught, and then… this movie. I couldn’t even fully enjoy his scenes with Frigga because I was so appalled by it all.

His only great scene, IMO, was how horrified and out of it he sounded after killing Thanos. I really felt that.

I didn’t even enjoy that he passed his power to Valkyrie because… unlike with Sam, that basically came out of nowhere. If they at least had given them ONE more scene at the beginning; seriously, it writes itself: just put her in the room when Bruce and Rocket are trying to convince him to go with them, and have her being the one that does it. Make her help him the way HE helped HER in Ragnarok; show her trying to help him and getting angry and frustrated. IDK, something.

And I know I’m probably alone in this because everyone around me practically creamed their pants when it happened but… having Steve control Mjolnir felt like adding insult to injury. Not just lifting it (which I would’ve been annoyed by too, given that they rewrote the new Asgardian mythology just to have this scene lol), but commanding it as only Thor did. Just. How much more are you going to take from Thor, people.

I want to make it clear that my problem is with the execution, not with Thor going through this; that, written differently, with more care, I could have loved.

– I’ve always been conflicted with MCU Steve. I loved the Captain America old comics I read as a child, and 616 Steve was A Hero. So I wanted to love MCU Steve just as much but… it often felt that he just didn’t measure up.

Well, conflict over. I don’t like the guy. Reading Man Out of Time just a few months ago probably isn’t helping (and yeah, that’s not a fair comparison, but it illustrates why I look at 616 Steve, and I adore him, and then I turn to MCU Steve and just… this guy is not worth my time).

I couldn’t even enjoy the ship, because my feelings for it come solely from my love for Peggy, and she didn’t even get to say a word? Add to that the fact that an endless loop of “OMG HE MADE OUT WITH YOUR NIECE. NOW HIS NIECE. RUN” was going through my head the entire time (the fact that Sharon was absent from the funeral when EVC acted in half of the MCU Russos films is hilarious in light of this xDD).

 MISC

– I really enjoyed some of the heist shenanigans. Especially Tony’s plan for a distraction being GIVING HIS PAST SELF A HEART ATTACK. How extra and edgy can my man be xD Tony and Scott are A Duo.

– I was thinking that Alt!Loki might make an appearance in GOTG3 if Thor is really a part of it, and how that might mix, but then a friend reminded me about his show, so I guess that’s where they’re going? IDK, The Avengers’ Loki is probably the one I liked the least out of all his appearances, so unless I hear something really good about it, I’m not picking it up.

– IDK if it’s because I was desensitized, but the white suits and Clint’s hairdo didn’t look as ugly on the final product?

– So THAT was the gay character Feige went on about. I knew he was going to be an unnamed nobody with less than five lines LMAO. Stop being cowards and give us Danbeau and WinterFalcon.

– I was very touched about Ned and Peter’s hug (MY BBYS), but isn’t Ned supposed to be five years older? AKA out of high school? I mean, he looked like he had missed Peter, not like he had disappeared with him too? And the entire class is going on a trip in FFH? Is it because of nostalgia/a friends thing? Were all of them dusted? Because poor teacher then xDD

– I think a lot of emotional threads were unceremoniously dropped, but other than the ones I’ve mentioned, I’m more indifferent towards their recipients so… eh. A great example is the fact that Bruce’s conflicting journey with Hulk was solved off-screen LMAO. Some of the humour felt extra-cringy too tbh.

– I have Tony-related fanart as my lock screen, my computer background, and my phone background. I get teary eyed with just looking at them. I should think of changing them, but I wont xD

– I know I’m forgetting things but whatevs, I can talk about them later.

[jokerfan99]

What? (RWBY/RVB) Crossover by Necroceph

RVB Opening Theme

At the tank/Sheila's corpse

BANG BANG BANG

How to stop the tank firing? Well, Tucker and Caboose are trying to discuss that problem.

Tucker: Okay, which wires did you pull out? Caboose: Blue, Green, anything that makes Sheila move. Oh! And I also pull out the purple one too which is connected to an ice making machine. Tucker: This thing has an ice making machine?! I didn't know that! Caboose: Yeah but all the ice that came out is all browny and rusty. It tastes like rotten licorice. Yuck! Tucker: So which wire did you pull out that 'turned the tank on auto-fire? Caboose: I think the red one. Tucker: Well what are you waiting for? Put it back.

Caboose opens the junction box at the tank's side and reconnects the red wire back to its place, but after putting it back the tank still keeps firing.

Caboose: Did Sheila stop? Tucker: It's still firing! Did you really put it back at the right place? Caboose: I put it back in the hole with the same color as the wire. Tucker: Fuck! Turret's not responding anymore. Any ideas? Caboose: Maybe we should wait for the turret to finish all the ammunition. Tucker: Fuck that, that'll take too long. How about we just tear off the tank's battery? No wait, the thing's got a backup solar generator. Caboose: Or maybe we just climb on the turret and jam the isnide with a rock. Tucker: Oh! Uhm... yeah that sounds like a good idea. Hold on, I'll get the ladder.

On the base's roof

Church: You have to be the most suicidal girl I have ever met!!! I mean- who the fuck would be stupid enough not to wear armor in a middle of a war?! This canyon is filled with trigger happy idiots who'll shoot anyone at anytime, regardless if you're carrying a flag or not! You would not believe how much that hurts, but you... oh, you won't last a day here! Weiss: Mr. Church, I am fully aware of what you're saying, but I have a strong reason to why I refuse to wear my armor. Yes, I am violating rules and regulation, but a soldier still have rights to have proper equipment. Church: Proper equipment? The fuck are you talking about? The Mjolnir system is a good enough armor in this army. Weiss: Except my armor isn't a Mjolnir.

Moment of silence

Church: ... Wait wait wait. Could you repeat that? Weiss: They gave me a different armor. Church: Different armor? Since when did Command started giving new armor, I wasn't informed of that. Weiss: They don't, sir. We're still using the Mark V, but what they gave me is a substitute. Church: Substitute? As in there aren't any available Mjolnirs? Weiss: Yessir. You want to hear the long or the short story? Church: Long so I can understand better. Weiss:  Okay. It all started back at Command shortly before I was deployed here. I was promised to be equipped with my personal Mjolnir Mark V armor, until they all ran out all the sudden. Church: Ran out? What happened, some big planetary battle happened? Weiss: That's the same thing I asked the quartermaster and he said no. There was an accident that happened at one of our bases at the Anima system and... sigh... you would not believe the idiocy that happened there. The soldiers stationed there have been trying to create a metal eating culture that they can use against the REDs. I was quite impressed by the results after they launched it at the enemy, until the solution also started to eat their creators' armors and equipment! Amateurs. Still don't understand the dangers of biological weaponry. Church: And they gave you a 'substitute'. Damn must be tough to be in your position. So what's this substitute armor, mind showing it to me? Weiss: I prefer if you don't. Church: Oh come on, just a look that's all. Weiss: Well okay. But you better not laugh once I showed it to you.

Back at the tank.

A panel dropped beside Tucker. Close one for it could've hit his head.

Tucker: Jesus! Watch where you throw that! Caboose: Sorry! By the way I've opened the turret! Tucker: Great! Now jam the rock into it. Caboose: What?! Tucker: Man that firing's blocking my voice. Just do what you have to do, I'll be down here if you need me!!! Caboose: Okay! Tucker: Nah screw it, I'm sure Caboose will be okay without me. Time to have good chatr with the new babe. What the?

Before Tucker leaves, he saw a flash of light flickering within the junction box. He looks closely at the inside and notice that one of them, an orange wire, is sparking out electricity.

Tucker: *whistle* This looks dangerous. I better pull it off but not sure what'll happen. Hey Caboose, what does the orange wire connect to? Caboose: Oh that wire? That connects to the air conditioning! Tucker: Huh, then it's okay.

Tucker pulls the wire.

Back on the roof

The tank stopped firing at last. Church sighed in great relief as he thought those two won't be able to fix it and they did. Now to turn back to the new recruit. He sees Weiss taking out each pieces of her armor out of her duffle bag. Helmet, vest, boots, etc. Church doesn't recognized this substitute armor before. Back at bootcamp, he was lectured to identify all types of body armor, but never this one.

Church: So that's your 'substitute' armor. I've never seen this type before. Weiss: I knew you haven't, so let me give you a brief lecture. This armor dates back before we found an easier way to mass produce the Mjolnir system. It is called the M52B body armor, designed back before the Great War and was worn by soldiers of the UNSC Marine Corp. Unlike its Mjolnir counterpart today, it is not made out titanium alloy and does not possess a personnal shield generator, but consists of several layers of ballistic shock-absorbing and heat reduction gel layers to help reduce velocity and felt shock from ballistics, shrapnel, and explosives as well as reducing the burn caused by plasma once it reaches the flesh. Any questions? Church: .... Uhm... yeah, mind telling me the shorter version? Weiss: It means it's shit you dunce!!! Yes, this armor has good protection, but since our weapons have been advanced with the help of the Sangheili after the Schism, the chances of survival while wearing this thing has dropped down to 68%. And that's not a chance I'm willing to take! Church: *whistle* Okay that armor's really shitty. But regardless, you can't just go unarmored all the time! Weiss: I know that and besides, Command said it will soon deliver my Mjolnir. All I need to do is wait its arrival. Church: And when will it arrive? Weiss: about three days time. Church: Huh, won't take that long to get here. But still you gotta wear that junk just in case. After those two morons you saw earlier used 'auto-fire' on the tank, some of the shells might've landed on the RED's turf. I know the RED Seargent here very well and whenver we 'attack', there's always a very high chance that he will launch a counterattack and...... What?

Weiss is making a shocked expression as if she's seeing something. Church is puzzled by her sudden reaction.

Church: What? Why are you making that face? Caboose: TUCKER! PUT IT BACK, PUT THE WIRE BACK!!! Church: [turns around] JESUS CHRIST, CABOOSE!!!"

Church became horrified to see what he's seeing. He sees Caboose hanging on the turret's barrel and that's not all, the turret is spinning around up to 3km/h!!!

Caboose: CHURCH, HELP ME!!! Church: This is just plain FUCKING fantastic! Rooke, follow me! GOD!

Back at the tank (again)

Tucker: Oh this is not good, this is not good! What do I do? What do I do?

What have I done?! he thought. Caboose said the orange wire was connected to the air conditioning. Perhaps he didn't hear him correctly due to the firing. He had reconnected the orange wire, but the turret is still spinning! Then he started pulling every wire in the box, only to make things worse! The effects of the removal causes the tank to making a loud commotion in the canyon by producing bizarre sounds through its horns and headlights flickering different colors. He better stop this before Church...

Church: TUCKER!!!

Never mind.

Church: Answers, now! Tucker: Church, I could explain! One of the wires were sparking, I pull it out and... Church: Yeah yeah yeah, I can tell the work that you'd been doing here! Goddammit, Tucker, I was still in a fucking meeting! Tucker: Hey don't blame me! Caboose is the one that started al this mess. Caboose: TUCKER... I don't feel so good... DID IT!!! Tucker: Shut the fuck up! Church: Okay, how do we stop it? Should we remove the battery? Tucker: Hell no! This thing also run's on solar power, it'll still function! Maybe we should wait till nightfall. Church: We can't wait till nightfall! Reconnect the wires, fix it, I don't care, just DEACTIVATE IT!!!

VROOOOOooooooooommm

Church: What the-?

The tank stopped!

Church: Well that was fast. Good job, asshole. Tucker: I didn't do anything!

A nauseated Caboose drops beside the two.

Tucker: Yo, Caboose! You okay? Caboose: Ugh... [stands up] Oh excuse me!

Caboose rushes to a nearby rock to release what's left of his breakfast. Church and Tucker wonder what deactivated the tank, until Weiss approached them with an annoyed face.

Weiss: Of all the other soldiers I have met back at bootcamp, you two, not you Church, are by far the most idiotic men I've ever met! Tucker: Well well, come to meet with the handsome guy, eh? You've come to the right time 'cause I was- Weiss: No. By the way, don't you guys know there's an emergency off switch beneath the butt of the tank? Tucker: Wait, what?!?! Church: There's an emergency off switch on Shei- I mean, our tank?! Weiss: Of course! Every tank needs to have some kind of precaution in case it goes wild. Didn't the tank's tutorial program told you something like that?

Church and Tucker looked at one another. Luckily their helmets blocked their embarrased faces.

Church: No it didn't say anything about an emergency off switch. Tucker: I've heard the tutorial program a lot of times, I never heard about that. Caboose at rock: Sheila did told me... BLAARGH!!!... I forgot about it. Church and Tucker: Shut up!!! Weiss: Wow this war is starting to get pretty.... fun. Was I really deployed in the right place?

A/N: Sorry about the long wait for another episode of this crossover. Been lazy. Plus I also edited the previous episodes, just to fix em up a bit. I'm not sure if I'm proud of creating this story but at least I tried my best.

Deviantart: https://www.deviantart.com/necroceph

[berniesrevolution]

On the list of America’s irrational fears, Palestine is near the top. This is no small feat for a “country” with no actual territory and a population about the size of South Carolina. Despite its lack of an air force, navy, or any real army to speak of, Palestine has long been considered an existential threat to Israel, a nuclear-armed power with one of the most powerful militaries in the world and the full backing of the United States. Since there’s no military or economic justification for this threat, a more nebulous one had to be invented. Thus, Palestinians are depicted in the media as hot-blooded terrorists, driven by the twin passions of fanatical Islam and a seething hatred for Western culture. So engrained is this belief that the op-ed page of the New York Times can “grapple with questions of [Palestinian] rights” by advocating openly for apartheid, forced expulsion, or worse.

This worldview demands an Olympian feat of mental gymnastics. It can only be maintained so long as most Americans have no firsthand contact with Palestine or Palestinian people. Even the smallest act of cultural exchange is enough to make us start questioning the panic-laced myths we’ve been taught since birth.  

Of course, the best way to discover the truth about Palestine is to visit the country yourself, though most Americans don’t have the free time or financial resources to do so (this is not a coincidence). This means that those of us who are fortunate enough to visit have a responsibility to share what we’ve seen and heard, without lapsing into pre-fabricated narratives, even “sympathetic” ones. We can’t fight untruth by telling untruths from the opposite perspective. What we can do, however, is report what we saw and heard in Palestine. We can try to provide a snapshot of daily life and let people come to their own conclusions.

With this in mind, here’s what I learned during a recent trip to the Holy Land…

The Palestinian doorman of the Palm Hostel in Jerusalem is a large and friendly man who insists his name is Mike. My fiancée and I are skeptical, as we’d expected something a bit more Arabic. We ask him what his friends call him.

“Just Mike,” he says, and taps an L&M cigarette against the wooden desk. He’s sitting in a dark alcove with rough stone floors, nestled halfway up the staircase that leads from the fruit market to the Palm’s small arched doorway.  A pleasant, musty oldness floats in the air. You could imagine Indiana Jones staying here, if he’d lost tenure and gone broke for some reason. To Westerners like us, it seems too exotic to have a doorman named Mike.

Before we can ask him again, though, Mike pounces with a question of his own. “You’re from the States, right?” He speaks English with a thick accent and slow but almost flawless diction, an odd combination that is causing my fiancée some visible confusion, which seems amusing to Mike. I tell him that we’re from Minnesota, a small and boring place in the center-north of the USA. His grin gets bigger, which makes me self-conscious, so I also explain that Minnesota has no mountains or sea, and the winters are very cold.

“Yeah, I know,” says Mike. “I lived in El Paso for thirty years. Border cop, K9 unit. It was a nice place. Had a couple kids there.” Now it’s my turn to gawk, and I start to race through all the possible scams he might be trying to pull. Mike seems to guess what I’m thinking. “Really. I even learned some Spanish.” He scrunches his brow in mock concentration and clamps a hairy hand over his forehead. “Hola. ¿Como estás?Una cerveza, por favor.”  He opens his eyes and laughs. “Welcome to Jerusalem, guys. Damascus Gate is that way. Enjoy.”

I don’t know why I’m so surprised he knows a handful of Taco Bellisms, or why this convinces me of his honesty. However, now it’s impossible to walk away. We have too many questions. The first one: Why’d he return to Jerusalem? Mike looks down at his cigarette, smoldering into a fine grey tail of ash. He flicks it against a stone and a bright red ember blazes to life.

“This is my home. I had to.”

Later, as we sip sweet Turkish coffee outside a rug shop in the Old City, it occurs to me that Mike was the first Palestinian person I’d ever spoken with face-to-face. His life story seemed unusual, but I have no idea what’s “usual” when it comes to Palestinian lives. I’d never thought about them before, to be honest. The world has an infinite number of stories, and the days are not as long as I’d like. It’s not like I’d chosen to ignore Palestine. I just hadn’t chosen to be interested in it.

Which was odd, because Palestine has been all over the news since I was a kid. There isn’t a single specific story I recall, just a murky soup of words and phrases, like “fragile peace talks” and “two-state solution” and “violent demonstrations.” They all swirl together, settling under the stock image of a bombed-out warzone as the headlines mumbled something about Hamas or Hezbollah or the Palestinian Authority. I remember reading about rockets and settlements, refugees and suicide bombers, non-binding resolutions and vetoed Security Council decisions. Not a single detail had stuck. I could feign awareness of some important-sounding events—the Balfour Declaration, the Oslo Accords, the Camp David Summit—but I couldn’t say what decade they happened, or who was involved, or what was decided.

For years, I’d been under the impression that I knew enough about Palestine to be uninterested in what was happening there. This isn’t to say I felt any particular animosity toward the Palestinians. But it’s impossible to fight for every cause, no matter how righteous, if only for reasons of time. Every minute you spend feeding the hungry is a minute you’re not visiting the sick. Life is a zero sum game more often than we’d like to believe.

As we headed toward the Via Dolorosa, the road that Jesus walked on the way to his crucifixion, I began to feel uneasy. The Israeli police (indistinguishable from soldiers except for the patches on their uniforms) who stood guard at every corner still smiled at us, and they were still apologetic when they forbade us from walking down streets that were “for Muslims only, unfortunately.” Their English was excellent. Many of them were women. They were young and diverse and photogenic, a recruiter’s dream team. But all I could see were their bulletproof vests and submachine guns. Above every ancient stone arch bristled a nest of surveillance cameras. Only a few hours ago, I’d been able to block all that from my sight, leaving me free to enjoy the giddy sensation of strolling through the holiest city on earth.

The road ended at the Lion’s Gate. Just as we approached it, a battered Toyota came rattling through. It screeched to a halt and a squad of Israeli police surrounded the car. All four doors opened and out stepped a Palestinian family. The driver was a young man in his 20s, with short black hair cut in the style of Ronaldo, the famous Real Madrid footballer. When the police told him to turn around and face the wall, he did so without a word. It was obvious this was a daily ritual. The policeman who frisked him looked as bored as it’s possible to look when patting down another man’s genitals. Soon it was over, and the family got back in their car. One of the policemen pulled out his phone and started texting.

If I’d made a video of the search (which I didn’t) and showed it to you with the volume off, you probably wouldn’t find it very interesting. The Israeli police didn’t hurt the man, and he barely made eye contact with them. There were no outrageous racial slurs or savage beatings. The only thing you’d see is a group of people in camouflage battle gear standing around a small white sedan, with a middle-aged woman and a couple of young girls off to the right. Unless you have hawk-like eyesight and an exceptional knowledge of obscure uniform insignias, I doubt you’d be able to tell “which side” any of the participants might be on. All you could say for sure is that the police wanted to search the family’s bodies and belongings, and the family looked very unhappy about it, but the police had guns and cameras, and that settled things. It’s interesting what conclusions different people might draw from a scene like that.

Later that night, after we get back to the Palm, I tell Mike about what we saw. He asks what we’d thought. “It was fucked up,” we say.

Mike sighs. “You should see Bethlehem.”    

Jerusalem is so close to Bethlehem that you barely have time to wonder why all the billboards that advertise luxury condos use English instead of Arabic as the second language before you arrive at the wall.

The wall is the most hideous structure I’ve ever seen. It’s a huge, groaning monument to death. Tall grey rectangles bite into the earth like iron teeth, horribly bare, cold, sterile, a towering monstrosity. The wall makes the air taste like poison.

We’re in the car of Mike’s cousin Harun, who is Palestinian, but his car has Israeli plates so we aren’t searched at the checkpoint. We inch past the concrete barriers and armored trucks. Harun holds his identity pass out the window, a soldier waves us through, and a few seconds later we’re in Bethlehem, a short drive from where Jesus Christ was born. It feels like entering prison. I don’t say prison in the sense of an ugly and depressing place you’d prefer not to visit. I say prison in the literal sense: a fortified enclosure where human beings are kept against their will by heavily armed guards who will shoot them if they try to leave. This is what modern life is like in Bethlehem, birthplace of our Lord and Savior.

Looking at the wall from the Israeli side breaks your heart because of its naked ugliness. On the Palestinian side, the unending slabs of concrete have been decorated with slogans, signs, and graffiti, which break your heart for different reasons. One of the hardest parts is reading the sumud series. These are short stories written on plain white posters, plastered to the wall about 10 feet up. Each story comes from a Palestinian woman or girl, and most are written in English, because the only people who read these stories are tourists.

One in particular catches my eye, by a woman named Antoinette:

All my life was in Jerusalem! I was there daily: I worked there at a school as a volunteer and all my friends live there. I used to belong to the Anglican Church in Jerusalem and was a volunteer there. I arranged the flowers and was active with the other women. I rented a flat but I was not allowed to stay because I do not have a Jerusalem ID card. Now I cannot go to Jerusalem: the wall separates me from my church, from my life. We are imprisoned here in Bethlehem. All my relationships with Jerusalem are dead. I am a dying woman.

The flowers are what gets me, because my mother also arranges flowers at church. Hers is an Eastern Orthodox congregation in Minneapolis, about 20 minutes by car from my childhood home. That’s about the same distance between Bethlehem and Jerusalem, although there aren’t any military checkpoints or armored cars patrolling the Minnesotan highways. Until today, I would’ve been unable to imagine what that would even look like. The situation here is so unlike anything I’ve ever encountered in real life that all I can think is, “it’s like a bad war movie.” For the Palestinian people who’ve been living under an increasingly brutal military occupation for the last 70 years, an entire lifetime, I can’t begin to guess at the depths of their helpless anger. What did Antoinette think, the first time the soldiers refused to let her pass? What did she say? What would my mother say? There wouldn’t be a goddamned thing she could do, or I could do, or my father or my sisters, or anyone else. We’d all just have to live with it, the soldiers groping us, beating us, mocking us. No wonder Antoinette gave up hope. In her place, would I be any different? We walk in silence for a long time.

We end up in a refugee camp called Aida, where more than 6,000 people live in an area roughly the size of a Super Target. Here, the air is literally poison. Israeli soldiers have fired so much tear gas into the tiny area that 100 percent of residents now suffer from its effects. If they were using the tear gas against, say, ISIS soldiers instead of Palestinian civilians, this would be a war crime, since “asphyxiating, poisonous, or other gases” are banned by the Geneva Protocol. However, such practices are deemed to be acceptable in peacetime, since there’s no chance an unarmed civilian population would be able to retaliate with toxic agents of their own. Without the threat of escalation, chemical warfare is just crowd control.

Before we continue, there are three things you should know about Aida. The first is that there’s no clear dividing line between Aida and Bethlehem, so an unwary pedestrian can easily wander into the refugee camp without realizing it. The second thing is that it doesn’t look like a refugee camp, at least if you’re expecting a refugee camp to be full of emergency trailers, flimsy tents, and flaming barrels of trash. The third thing is that the kids who live there have terrible taste in soccer teams.

We meet the first group as soon as we enter the camp. There are five of them, all teenage boys. One of them is wearing a knockoff Yankees hat. They’re staring at us, and at once I’m very aware of my camera bag’s bulkiness and the blondeness of my fiancée’s hair. A loudspeaker crackles with the cry of the muzzein, and it’s only then that I realize how deeply we Americans have been conditioned to associate the Arabic language with violence and death. The boys exchange a quick burst of words, raising my blood pressure even higher, and cross the street toward us.

“Hello…  what’s your name?” The kid who speaks first is tall and stocky, wearing the same black track jacket and blue jeans favored by 95 percent of the world’s male adolescents. He’s also sporting the Ronaldo haircut, as are several of his friends. Two of the kids start to pull out cigarettes, so I pull out my cigarettes faster and offer the pack to them. Is this a bad, irresponsible thing to do? Sure, and if you’re worried about the long-term health of these kids’ lungs, you should call the American manufacturers who supply Israel with the chemical weapons that are used to poison the air they breathe every day.

I tell the kid my name is Nick, and he shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Shadi.” He’s carrying a rolled-up book, as are his friends, so I ask if he’s going to school. “Yeah bro, exams. We have three this week.” His friends laugh, and then engage in a quick tussle for the right of explaining that they’re heading to their math exam now, which is a boring and difficult subject, and I agree that it is, although at least you never have to use most of it after you finish school, a sentiment that earns me daps from Shadi and his friends, and we stand there giggling and smoking on the street corner of the refugee camp, though for a few moments we could be anywhere in the world.

My fiancée and I, both teachers by trade, start to pepper the kids with questions. Shadi says that he has one year left at the nearby high school, which is run by the UN refugee agency that was just stripped of half its funding by Trump. After he finishes, he plans to study at Bethlehem University. The other guys nod with approval, and speak of similar hopes. I ask them who their favorite footballer is, and they all say Ronaldo, at which I spit in disbelief, because everyone knows that Ronaldo sucks and Messi is much better, visca el Barça! Shadi and his friends break into huge grins, since few elements of brotherhood are more universal than talking shit about sports. Seconds later we’re howling with laughter as Shadi’s buddy makes insulting pantomimes about Messi’s diminutive size. A small part of my brain is loudly and repeatedly insisting that everything about this moment of life is batshit lunacy, that there’s no reason why I should be standing in a Palestinian refugee camp, yards away from buildings my country helped bomb into rubble, with my pretty fiancée and expensive camera, talking in English slang with a group of boys whose lungs are scarred with chemicals made in the USA, the exact kind of reckless young ruffians whose slingshots and stones are such a terrifying threat to the fearsome Israeli military, and the craziest thing of all is that here in the refugee camp, surrounded by derelict cars and rusty barbed wire and 6,000 displaced Palestinians,  we are not in danger, at least not from whom you’d think. Here, in the refugee camp, we can joke around with people who speak our language and know our cultural references and actively seek to help us navigate their neighborhood. None of this is to say that Aida is a safe, comfortable, or morally defensible place to put human beings, but only that the people who live there treated us with such overwhelming kindness and decency that I have never been more ashamed at what my country does in my name. I tell Shadi and his friends to take the rest of my cigarettes, but they smile and decline.

“We, uh, have to go now,” says Shadi, as his friends start to walk up the street. “Do you have Facebook?” We do, because everyone does, and as we exchange information, I wish him good luck on his math exam. “No way, bro, I suck at math,” he says. We both laugh, and I pat him on the back.

“Fuck math. But hey, you’re gonna do great, Shadi.”

“Thanks bro. Fuck math.”

I hope he gets every question correct on his exam. I hope he goes to university and wins a scholarship to Oxford. I hope he invents some insanely popular widget and it makes him a billion dollars and he never has to breathe tear gas again.

We continue walking through Aida camp. The buildings are square, ugly, and drab, but the walls are decorated with colorful paintings of fish and butterflies and meadows (along with a somewhat darker array of scenes from the Israeli military occupation). We meet a group of cousins, aged four to 10, all girls, who ask if we can speak English. When we offer them a bag of candy, they take one piece each, and run away yelping when a man limps out the front door of their house. “Thank you,” he says, his face a mask of grave civility. Cars, all bearing green-and-white Palestinian plates instead of the blue-and-yellow Israeli ones, slow down so their drivers can shout “Hello!” We meet another group of kids, boys this time, who grab fistfuls of candy and make playful attempts to unfasten my wristwatch. We make a hasty retreat from this group. The streets are scorched in spots where tear gas canisters exploded.  Narrow strips of pockmarked pavement lead us down steep hills and into winding alleys, and soon we’re lost.

This is how we meet Ahmed. He’s a tall man, about 40 years old, with a small black mustache and arms as thin as a stork’s legs. A yellow sofa leans against the concrete wall of the three-storey apartment building where he lives. Ahmed is sitting there with an elderly couple. He asks if we’d like a cup of tea, and although we’ve been warned about the old “come inside for a cup of tea” scam, we accept his offer. The elderly couple greets us in Arabic, and I try not to notice the large plastic bag of orange liquid peeking out from beneath the old man’s shirt.

While we climb the stairs to Ahmed’s apartment, he tells us that the old people are his parents. “They live here,” he says, pointing to the door on the first floor, “because they don’t walk very good. My mother has problems with her legs, my father is sick from the water.” He traces the pipes with his finger, and we see they’re coated in a thick reddish crust. “Here is the home of my big son,” he says when we reach the second floor. “He has a new baby.” We congratulate him on becoming a grandfather. “And I have a new baby, too! Come, I show you!” One more flight of stairs, and we arrive at Ahmed’s apartment.

It looks remarkably similar to a hundred other apartments we’ve visited. Framed photos of various family members hang on the living room walls, which are painted the same not-quite-white as most living room walls. There’s a beautiful red rug and a small TV. A woman is sitting on the sofa, nursing a baby as she folds socks. “My wife,” says Ahmed.

She speaks a little English too, and says that her name is Nada. She has a pale round face and long black hair. Her eyes are soft, kind, and completely exhausted. Yet if she’s annoyed or embarrassed by our presence, she doesn’t show it. She just hands the baby to Ahmed and goes to make the tea.

“I’m sorry for my house,” says Ahmed, cradling his son like a loaf of bread with legs. “We try to be clean, but…” There’s not so much as a slipper out of place, but I know what he means. “We rent this flat. And my son, and my parents. All rent. Before we have a farm, animals, olive trees, but now, we rent.” I ask about his job. He smiles and shakes his head. “I want a job,” he says, “I love to work. With my hands, with my mind. I love to work. But here, haven’t jobs.” For a second he looks like he’s going to continue this line of thinking, but he stops himself. “I help my wife, that is my job.” Ahmed laughs and passes his baby to my fiancée. “And he, he helps in the home?” She demurs while I protest in mock indignation. I do the dishes every morning before she even wakes up! Still laughing, Ahmed rubs his shins, and again it’s easy to forget we’re sitting in a refugee camp in Jesus’ hometown.

Then the baby wheezes. It’s a dry, scratchy wheeze. Ahmed squirms in his seat, looking embarrassed. The baby begins to cough. My fiancée rubs his back as the coughing turns wet and violent.  Machine gun explosions blast from his tiny lungs. As an asthmatic, I recognize the sound of serious sickness. The baby writhes in my fiancée’s lap, struggling to breathe. He’s gasping and it’s getting worse fast. At moments like these, personal experience tells me that a nebulizer can be the difference between life and death. I don’t insult Ahmed by asking if he has one, because it’s clear that he doesn’t. All I can do is rub the boy’s chest with my finger, a stupid and useless massage. He kicks and stretches as if trying to wiggle away from the unseen demon that’s strangling him.

Nada hurries back with the tea. “I’m sorry,” she says, picking up the baby. She coos to him in Arabic and rubs his back, both of which are comforting but neither of which can relax the inflamed tissues of her infant’s lungs. “My baby…” Unable to find the words in English, she looks to her husband.

Ahmed rubs his cheek. “When she is pregnant, one night the soldiers come. They say the children throw stones. They always throw stones. So the soldiers shoot gas in all the houses. In the windows, over there.” His voice gets quieter. “And she is very sick. When the baby is born, he is sick too.” I ask him if it’s possible to find medicine. “Sometimes yes,” says Ahmed, “but very, very expensive.” For the first time, there’s a note of frustration in his voice. “Everything is expensive here. You see this,” and he picks up a pack of diapers, “it cost me thirty shekels. 10 dollars, almost. And the baby needs so many things. It is impossible to buy. I haven’t money for meat, how can I buy medicine?” He points to a plastic bag with four small pitas. “This is our food. One bread for my two sons, and two breads for my wife. She must make milk for our baby.” When I ask him what he eats, he holds up his cup of tea.

Somehow Nada has soothed the baby out of danger. His breathing is almost normal again, just a quiet raspy crackle. She’s still staring at him, her big brown eyes wide with worry. I don’t know how many times she’s done this before. I don’t know how many times are left before her luck runs out. 

Somehow she’s keeping her baby alive with nothing but the sheer force of her love. I ask to use the toilet so I don’t have to cry in front of her.

(Continue Reading)

[angelaiswriting]

Piter | Vladimir Ranskahov x OC (NSFW)

[pic found on Google]

✎ Pairing: Vladimir Ranskahov x OC

✎ A/N: it’s long as fuck, but I loved writing this SO much. It’s not just the ball, there are other things happening too. And Jesus Christ, do I love writing for this man! I feel like pre-Daredevil (and pre-Utkin in general) Vladimir would be kinda lighter and I love this idea. I also invented his and Tolya’s patronymic since I couldn’t find one. And I also love all these characters that don’t exist ? Yeah, you guessed it right, I’m a hoe for these guys.

✎ A/N 2: it’s a crime that there are so little GIFs with my Nikolai man!

✎ Warnings: smut, 18+, super short mention of suicide and death but it wouldn’t be me otherwise

Word-count: 6,376 (proofreading was a challenge, so I hope there aren’t too many mistakes) Good luck reading it!

Requests are OPEN, feel free to request anything! ❤

Piter | Katya

*

Любовь – как ветер: её нельзя увидеть, но ты её чувствуешь.

*

It was one of their rare times in Petersburg. Seen as Vladimir and Anatoly Ranskahov ruled the Russian capital, their traffics weren’t exactly seen under a good light in Piter. But things were hopefully going to change soon. Petrov and his group had organized a ball, masking it under the veil of some charity event, and the Ranskahovs had been invited. A lighter relationship between the two parts would have meant an easier life for both Petrov and the Ranskahovs–and, of course, more money in their pockets, with an enlarged traffic of drugs and weapons.

Born in Piter, Katya had moved to Moscow with her family when she was around five years old. Her father had been a renowned surgeon before Petrov’s daughter died on his table. To put it fairly, Aleksandr Ippolitovich Kartashov had done his best, but whoever had shot that Petrova girl had made a mess and, long story short, he hadn’t been able to save her. Sent away from the city, Aleksandr Ippolitovich had been forbidden to return–not that there was a risk: deprived of the career of his dreams, he had shot himself two years later with one of the guns he had bought from the men of the ruling drug lords of the time and had left his wife and daughter without their anchor.

Vladimir, though, knew how much Katya loved and missed her city, and when he had officially been invited to Petrov’s ball–more for business reasons than for entertainment ones–he had asked her to come with him and Tolya.

She had said yes–of course, she had said yes. And it wasn’t just because of Petersburg. It was because Volya would be there with her and they’d be able to dance and she’d have the right excuse to dress up as best as she could for the man of her dreams. And Vlad wasn’t exactly unaware of that, on the contrary. He had even taken a day off from the ‘family business’, as Mikhail had once joked about it, to go dress shopping (or hunting, as he had found out) with Katya. He wasn’t the type of man that tired easily, but they had left early in the morning and had come home in the evening and he had been so exhausted that he had fallen asleep with his clothes still on and Katya hadn’t managed to change him into his pajamas. But it had been a perfect day, and even now he still felt like strolling down the Arbat with her woman at his side.

And now, fighting with the knot of his tie, he still wondered how someone like him had managed to get with someone like her. Katya was anything he wasn’t: she was smart and cunning and fun, while he was all business and nothing else.

“Here, let me help,” Katya giggled, moving his hands away from the tie.

“I hate this thing,” he groaned as she undid the mess he’d made.

“You look better without,” she smiled, pulling up on her tiptoes to peck his cheek. She slipped the tie from under the collar of his white shirt and undid the first button.

“What are you planning?” Vlad smirked. His hands had moved to rest on her hips and he pulled her closer. She had showered with his shower gel and only God knew how much he loved it when she did that. Somehow, that simple action made him feel somewhat special to have her engulfed in his scent. “Something dirty?” His breath prickled the skin of her neck as he traced her skin with his nose.

Katya laughed, wiggling out of the embrace and stretching a hand in front of her to stop him from getting closer. “Not now, Volya, I still need to get dressed.”

“I can help you with that.”

She giggled, shaking her head as she let the silky robe he had bought her one day fall to the ground.

He stared at her as she put on her new set of lingerie and then her blue dress. She had picked that one out because she knew he would have worn blue for the ball and she wanted to look good next to him. Vladimir knew–and he never missed an opportunity to tell her that–she always looked good: she didn’t even have to try because she had always been the light of his life. And as cheesy as that sounded, that was what he felt when she was around. Both Tolya and he knew bringing Katya with them wasn’t the smartest choice because it was well known that he got easily distracted when that woman was near him. But she was family and he was sure that, one day, he’d marry her and build a family with her and he could never leave her behind. This was the exact reason why, two years later, he’d be instructing her to reach Mikhailovka because he was going to reach her there once he and his brother would manage to get out of Utkin.

For a second he was back at six years before, when nothing had been official between the two of them. They had met in school, and when he and Tolya had dropped out, she had kept around. Their friendship had got tighter and she had become a constant in their life, so much so that his brother had stepped in on him jerking off with her name on his lips many a time. Six years before, when the thought of ruling Moscow had just been a mirage, he had attended a ball with her. It had been some school ball bullshit before she finally graduated and she had spent weeks begging him to accompany her. They had left early, though, and he had taken her on a car drive. And with the Moscow River flowing next to his car, he had found himself making love for the first time. It hadn’t mattered that that was her first time: she had trusted him and for the first time Vladimir had thought he had found love without even looking for it.

And so he smiled, getting up from the bed and standing behind her to pull up the zip of her dress. He stood like that, one hand on her stomach and the other between her shoulder blades, where the zip had stopped. Her skin was burning against him, but he still perceived the light shiver running down her spine when his fingertips had touched her. He leaned forward, kissing the hair she had put up in endless braids–just like he loved it.

Katya smiled at their reflection, her hands reaching the one he had rested a little below her breasts. “Worried?” she inquired, leaning back until she was pressed against his chest and he had to remove his hand from her back.

“No,” he grinned. He wasn’t exactly being honest just as he wasn’t exactly lying. That night was just a good night, one that shouldn’t be ruined by pointless worries, and he was going to treat her as the queen she was. “I just can’t wait for whatever this is to be over.”

Katya hummed, closing her eyes for a second or two. Vlad could still see her red-painted smile in the mirror in front of them and he couldn’t help but smile again. And when she turned around in his arms, he leaned down to peck her lips.

There was something Katenka didn’t know about the way he felt when he had her in his arms: invincible, like he actually belonged there, with her, wherever they were. It warmed him from the inside, an emotion he wasn’t sure he had experienced before meeting her. He felt important and thrilled by the idea of being able to protect her even if he knew she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. But it still made the world stop and blur around them, because for a few seconds nothing else existed–not the mob, or his business, or Sokolovsky and Petrov, and all the worries that constantly stalked him like a predator finally evaporated into nothing. And so he indulged in moments like that, and he kept silent to hold her tight and feel her heart beat against his chest as though it was singing to him, lulling him away from the weight of his duties.

“It will all work out for the best, I’m sure,” she reassured him, leaving a kiss at the base of his neck right where she had unbuttoned his shirt. “Once the alliance is made, Sokolovsky and his problems will be but a memory. Still, don’t trust Petrov blindly–he’s not exactly the man you’d like as an ally,” she went on, hands reaching behind his neck and fingers intertwining.

“Tonight is ours,” he simply said, hands reaching down for her hips to hold her tight. “We’ll get rid of this meeting in no time and then we’ll be enjoying the party, just you and me.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

*

“We’re not settling for anything that could risk taking the rug of power from under our feet,” Volodya was saying and Tolya nodded.

They were in the limo that was bringing them to the party, Piter’s evening traffic rumbling by all around them as they waited for the streetlight to turn green. Petrov had sent them that car and for how much the brothers had wanted to reject the offer, Katya had managed to convince them otherwise. They could despise that man and his gang all they wanted once back in Moscow, but now they were in the enemy’s territory and they had to play by Petrov’s rules. A single false step could make the house of cards fall without remedy.

“It’s gonna be fifty-fifty or nothing, but he’ll still try to change that to his favor,” Tolya agreed. He looked charming in that black suit of his, with his rings shining in the lights of the city seeping in through the windows of the limousine. “He’ll threaten to switch his sympathies towards Sokolovsky. This is an opportunity we cannot miss, but I’ve been thinking of a solution ever since we got the invitation to this bullshit of a ball and came up empty-handed.”

Katya smirked, turning her attention towards the men next to her. “That’s actually a good thing I have the rifle of one of your men pointed at him at all times, isn’t it?”

They both turned towards her with frowns on their faces. But as soon as Vladimir saw she wasn’t lying, the smirk grew on his lips.

“At all times?”

She nodded.

“Even now?”

“He was fucking one of his whores when we left the hotel,” Katya confirmed.

“How do you know it?” Tolya asked, perching on his seat.

She shrugged, turning her attention to the Neva River on their right. “A woman has her ways, even more so when she has spent the majority of her life with people like you two.”

“So our man just needs a word from you and Sokolovsky is gone?”

“Yes, but we can’t afford to kill him if the danger is not real. He’s our only chance to fight Petrov if things get tough, and you both know it.” She had read their minds when Vlad had asked that question: if Sokolovsky turned into a corpse, Moscow would completely be theirs, but he wasn’t their only pain in their ass. She scooted closer to Volya to look at them both in the eyes before speaking again. “Everybody knows he has his eyes set on Piter, even kids do. He will drag his ass on our side if things don’t work out with Petrov because he knows we can give him this city. Petrov knows that too, or else he wouldn’t be seeking this meeting and alliance with the Kings of the capital. It will work out because they both know what we–what you–are capable of. We might have less than two thirds of their men combined, but we know the secrets of Moscow. There’s no way they’re coming out safe and sound from a war with us.”

Vlad smirked and circled her waist with his arm, pulling her closer and kissing her temple. “That’s my girl!”

Tolya smirked. “What if they have treaties they’re keeping hidden from us?”

“This is a possibility,” Katya nodded. “But we have to take this risk. We side with Petrov, get rid of Sokolovsky and then we get rid of Petrov too. A pact with Sokolovsky will never work and western Russia doesn’t need two different groups of people ruling it. So now we get there, we smile and play by their rules and in no time we’ll be toasting to our future.”

“What if he bugged the car, though?” Vladimir asked after a while when the limo finally stopped.

“I guess now it’s the moment of truth,” Tolya answered, getting out of the car.

Vlad and Katya waited a few seconds before doing the same. She got out first and grabbed his hand when he reached her in Petrov’s pebbled front yard.

“He has quite the house,” Katya gawked at the palace-like mansion in front of them.

It was a huge, white house, whose front side was styled like the Winter Palace. Lights were switched on in every window and even from outside one could hear the chatter and the other sounds coming from the party. Guards dressed in white could be spotted literally anywhere, with their earpieces and guns on display. Even though the city believed it to be a charity event, everyone knew who Petrov was, so no one complained about the security measures. It was, after all, a private mansion and many precious objects were displayed inside. And as any other art collector, Viktor Yurevich Petrov didn’t want to risk a theft.

“Show off,” Vlad muttered under his breath, pulling Katya closer by her waist and following his brother inside the house.

He heard her giggle at his side before her lips pressed lightly on the side of his neck. Her hand squeezed the one with which he held her waist and Vlad looked down at her. “Just relax,” she smiled, stopping in the foyer for a moment. She fixed the collar of his shirt before shooting him another smile. “It’s gonna be over in a heartbeat. We go in, we shake hands and then we’ll enjoy the night until we can’t stand anymore, yeah?”

“I was thinking of a better way to make you unable to stand,” he smirked. He couldn’t help but pinch her right above her ass and he laughed when she squealed. “Let’s not make Tolya wait.”

Petrov’s two best bodyguards waited for them in front of the door that led to the rest of the house. The greeting and welcoming were less cold and formal than Vlad had expected, but his blood still managed to boil in his brain when they looked Katya up and down.

Tolya, who had seen his brother’s face go blank in anger, shot him a warning look: they really didn’t need to cause any drama, most of all when they were surrounded by trained killers who had their eyes pointed on them.

“The lady can wait at the party,” one of the men announced, motioning with his hand towards the corridor on their left. “We have a great bar and the caviar we’re offering is of the best quality.”

Vladimir straightened his posture and squared his shoulders, jaws clenching and unclenching twice before calming down enough to speak. “She’s coming with us.”

“I’m afraid this is not how Viktor Yurevich would like to proceed,” the other man retorted. “And moreover, this is no business for a woman. I’m sure your lady will enjoy the party and the company of our guests while you and our boss discuss business.”

“I’m not going to-”

“It’s okay, Volodya.” He hadn’t even realized he had clenched his hands into fists until Katya’s hands tried to loosen his left hand. When he looked down, she was smiling that same fake smile she plastered on her face when someone pissed her off. “Just go, they’re right: this is no place for a woman. I’ll go drink something and wait for you at the bar.”

“You sure?”

She nodded.

“Very well.” One of the guards grinned at them and moved to let Katya pass. “If you’d like to follow me, Viktor Yurevich is waiting in his study. This way.”

“Go, I’ll be fine,” Katya whispered in Vlad’s ear, her breath tickling his skin. “Besides, I could really use a shot of something.”

“This is…”

“I know you consider me more than good enough to handle your business, Volya.” Her hand squeezed his and he couldn’t help the small smile that grew on his face. “But, I told you: we’re in their territory now and they make the rules. Let’s not anger Petrov before due time. And I’m also slightly starving, so I hope they have more than just caviar here.”

Vlad giggled, pulling her closer and kissing her temple. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

When they pulled apart, Katya was grinning, the collier resting on her cleavage catching the light from the huge crystal chandelier above them. “Don’t have too much fun either.”

*

It was well past ten when Tolya and Vlad finally got out of Petrov’s office, which meant the meeting had taken more than two hours–well more than they had estimated.

“I’m glad we managed to come to this agreement,” Viktor Yurevich was saying, joining his hands behind his back.

Anatoly smiled. “It’s our pleasure to enlarge our traffics with you and your men.”

“Yes, yes,” Viktor nodded, leading them down the corridor, his men following them but keeping their distance. “I’m sure we will both benefit from this alliance. But now, enough with this! There’s a party waiting for us in the other wing of the house. And I’m sure our Vladimir Borisovich here has a lady waiting for him that I’d really like to meet.”

Vlad nodded.

Viktor Yurevich didn’t let their silence become awkward. In his sixty years of life, he had lived through too many silences, most of all after his daughter had been killed. He hadn’t let life or casualties turn him into a brooding man: he was cheerful and the ugly scar on his forehead made a great contrast with his personality. “I know by experience that it’s not good to make a lady wait,” he chuckled, leading them through endless doors.

Volodya and Tolya exchanged a look: this wasn’t the route they had followed when they had been accompanied to Petrov’s office.

“My wife Konstantina is the worst of them all, I’m sure our Lord knew what he was doing when he made her. But thankfully she’s busied herself with this charity bullshit for the last month as she organized the ball, so she won’t mind my absence. We’ve been together for so long I’m not even sure about the number of years, but our anniversary is approaching and I’m sure she won’t miss her chance at scolding me,” he laughed and the brothers joined in on him.

Petrov was a nice company indeed, something the Ranskahovs hadn’t even imagined before that day. But still, they didn’t let his charm blind them, for they knew the brutal killer that hid under that fake exterior.

When they finally entered the ballroom–one to set the tsar’s to shame–, Vlad immediately spotted Katya standing at the open bar. It was as though he was always able to see her anywhere, even in a room full of people. He smiled, one of the rare smiles that graced his lips only in her presence.

“I’ll go get Ekaterina Aleksandrovna,” he announced, shooting a look and a nod in Petrov and Tolya’s direction.

He hadn’t exactly taken her in before leaving their hotel room or even before leaving her in the foyer. But now, with her back towards him, he pictured his fingertips trail down her bare back. The dress she had chosen had filled him up with jealousy that day when he had accompanied her on her shopping tour because he knew men would stare at what was his. But he had seen the way that dress had made her feel, the way her eyes had lit up–as though she was a princess, even if it clung to her body more than he cared to admit. But that was Katenka he was thinking about and he knew too well she had him wrapped around her finger.

Petrov’s guests were just a blur in his peripheral vision as his eyes focused on the man next to her. He was trying to put his hands on her and she was trying to act like a lady and not like the warrior Vlad knew she was, and she was trying to push him away in the manner that was required to a lady.

She turned in his direction when he was a few steps away, almost as if she had sensed him and his anger, and Vlad saw the relief bubble up in her eyes and her growing smile.

But he still lunged forward and punched that guy square in the face. His ears barely registered Katya’s surprised giggle as the man fell to the ground, a hand on his jaw, because he was still tired by the previous meeting with Piter’s drug lord and he was still seeing red.

“You okay?” he asked, gritting his teeth, as she grabbed his outstretched hand.

“Better now,” she smiled, rubbing circles on his hand with her thumb. “What took you so long?”

Volya groaned, finishing the champagne in her flute. “He wanted to make a toast, then another and another. He’s very meticulous, though, and I appreciated that. The contract was clear, balanced for both us and him. It was a surprise, but I’m glad it’s over.”

“You’re tired,” she noticed, smoothing away the frown from his forehead.

Vlad shrugged, taking her hands in his. It was almost scary the way she could read him that well. “I’m okay, ready to enjoy the night with my woman,” he smirked. “Petrov wants to meet you first, though,” he added, starting in the direction of where his brother and their host were waiting for them.

“Can you believe I met his wife?” Katya whispered. “She’s a witch!”

But they were now to close to the man in question and she shut herself up, a smile plastering on her face.

“Ah, Ekaterina Aleksandrovna!” Petrov smiled, stretching her hand out for her to shake.

Katya returned the smile and shook his hand.

“A great man, your father, Aleksandr Ippolitovich. A great man indeed,” he went on. “Saved me on more than one occasion. I still regret he wasn’t there to patch this cunt up,” and he pointed a finger to the scar on his forehead, “but I see now he was helping his wife through the delivery of such a stunning woman.”

Katya peeked quickly at Tolya, standing next to Petrov, and she saw him clenching his jaw. She really didn’t want to turn and see Vlad’s expression and Vlad knew that too well because he was doing his hardest at keeping the murder at bay and he knew he’d kill if she turned towards him. “Thank you, Viktor Yurevich,” she nodded politely. “And thank you for inviting us to your event. Your wife, Kostantina Pavlovna was telling me before how excited she was that it all turned out so well.”

“My pleasure, my pleasure!” Petrov laughed. “And my wife loves these things. She was a wedding planner for a while, after the death of our beloved Dasha.”

Both Katya and the Ranskahovs knew Petrov had mentioned his dead daughter to twist the knife. Vladimir had even been on the verge of punching him, but Katya, once again, had sensed his thoughts and had grabbed his hand and she was now holding it tight.

“I am deeply sorry about your loss, Viktor Yurevich,” she faked a smile and Vlad wondered how she had managed to become that good at lying–and at throwing salt on the wound. “Unfortunately, I know the pain, having lost my father as well, and I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

Petrov nodded. “Well, enough small talk! I’ve invited you here to enjoy the party, too,” he grinned, changing the subject. “I’ll go look for my wife, you never know what she might be doing.”

They waited for him to leave before loosening up.

“Son of a bitch,” Katya muttered under her breath. “He knew exactly who I was and still thought well of pissing on my father’s memory.” She sighed and Vlad pulled her closer. “I’m glad the meeting went well, though.”

“Better than expected, to be honest,” Tolya nodded, massaging his forehead with his hand. “I see you’ve already found someone to punch,” he went on, smirking at his brother.

Volodya grinned. “I was just warming up this dead party,” he chuckled. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, brother, Katya and I are going to have fun.”

He dragged her away before Tosha had the time to say anything.

“Would my lady like to dance?” he proposed, mocking the guards that had welcomed them upon their arrival.

Katya picked up on the joke and laughed. “It is my duty,” she cackled. “After all, my man has been talking about business for the whole evening.”

She went on laughing for a few more seconds before he put his hands on her waist to dance to the slow.

“I’m sorry for the treatment,” he said after a while, her forehead resting on his shoulder, her hands locked behind his neck. “You’re part of the business as much as me and Tolya,” he went on, swaying to one side and to the other.

Katya hummed against his skin and left a light kiss above the collar of his shirt. “It’s okay, I had lots of people entertaining me.”

“Like that guy before?”

“Don’t be jealous, Volya,” she chuckled, pressing herself against him more firmly. “I really don’t need a dickless man in my life. We both know I only have eyes for you,” she reassured him.

He smiled, patting her butt once.

If there was one thing in this world Vladimir Ranskahov loved almost more than anything else, it was the sweet smiles she sent him, as though she was trying to melt his stony façade away. And God, she knew way too well how to make him crumble. It wasn’t exactly something he was proud of, but when he was with her, everything else lost meaning and he was left alone with her, dancing under huge and expensive chandeliers in a house he was ready to burn to the ashes.

“But it was lonely indeed, waiting for you here, all alone…” she trailed off, a playful smirk on her lips.

Vladimir smirked and grabbed her ass, pulling her as close as possible, not even caring about the people around them. “I doubt it, with a dress like this… Another girl would’ve found something fun to do.”

She faked a shocked expression before grinding against him. “No other girl has someone like a Ranskahov. But you’ve made me wait, still are, so I might as well go to an older Ranskahov to see if he can spice up the night, you know?”

Vlad let out a laugh, his hands squeezing her butt a little too hard. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wanna test me? I didn’t ‘forget’ my panties for nothing,” she grinned and boy, did she steal his breath away!

Katya was a tease, of that he had been sure ever since he had met her in school. And he was a simple man, with simple kinks, and she really knew how to work him up with just a few words.

“You came here, in Petrov’s house, with all these armed guys ready to make fire at us, with your pussy to the wind?”

She smiled sheepishly, but Volya knew it was just an act. She loved to tease him just as much as she loved to be teased and they both knew she had done that with a plan on her mind. “You know I don’t like tongs, and my usual panties would have been visible under the dress…”

Vlad’s smirk grew bigger. “You could’ve just told me you wanted to fuck in this shithead’s house, you know?” He leaned down, kissing her above her ear. “I’d be glad to comply, even in front of all these stuck-ups.”

Katya chuckled and her fingers played a little in the hair behind his neck.

He grabbed her hand when she didn’t answer and asked for the restrooms. They stopped in a corridor, though, and Vlad pushed her gently against the wall. He let one of his hands inch up her dress before slipping it between her legs.

“You weren’t lying,” he choked on hair, feeling her warm and wet.

“I would never lie to you, Volya,” she purred, hooking her right leg behind his left one.

One corner of his mouth pulled up in a half smile and he pressed himself against her, his lips trailing up and down his neck before he picked her up and she secured her legs around his waist.

“So if I were to take you right here and now, you’d be okay with it?” he asked, sucking hard just above her breast. He loved the idea of walking back to that room full of people with a hickey on his woman’s cleavage for everyone to see. Because, clearly, that one guy at the bar didn’t know who she belonged to. Hopefully, though–and Volodya really hoped this was the case–, that guy simply didn’t care and he could put up a fight in Petrov’s house and accuse him of letting his men play with his most powerful ally’s woman.

Katya hummed, her fingers weaving through his hair. “Obviously,” she hummed again, tightening her hold on his waist. “It amazes me how easily you can get hard, though,” she laughed and he joined her.

“Only when I am with you,” he joked, pushing her dress up without even checking if people were in sight.

She laughed and shook her head as she pressed herself more into the wall to balance herself as her hands unbuttoned his trousers. “What if we get caught?”

He leaned forward, kissing her jaw until he reached her ear. “I have a revolver strapped to my leg,” he confessed.

Katya gasped and he pulled away to stare at her, a confused frown settling on his features. “Are you nuts? What if they find out?”

“They won’t, don’t worry,” he reassured her as he pulled himself out of his boxers. “We’ll be out of here in less than an hour. Our things are already in the car and Mikhail is waiting for us to get back at the hotel. We’ll have breakfast at home tomorrow, love.”

He felt her relax against him, but as he leaned forward once more, her breath got caught in her throat. His fingers slipped under her dress again to brush against her labia.

“Don’t worry, Katenka,” he whispered, pushing two fingers into her, catching her by surprise. “Nothing bad will happen, we’re expanding our boundaries and we,” he went on, pecking her lips, “will fuck right under Petrov’s nose and he won’t be able to stop me.”

Katya nodded, wiggling her hips a little at the feeling of his fingers into her. “Move them,” she begged, turning her head right and left to make sure no one was in sight.

Volya complied, fingering her slowly, his lips sucking the side of her neck. Feeling her clench around him, whether it was his fingers or his dick, was another one of the things he loved the most in the world. It was a feeling he knew he’d never grow tired of, something that even in old age, when erectile dysfunction would become a reality for him too, would manage to put a huge grin on his face. It was the most delicious of grips, and even more when, like now, her breath came out ragged and she did her best to keep as quiet as possible.

When he bowed down to lick her above her sternum before switching his attention back to her cleavage, her hands went back to his head as she pushed herself harder again his hand.

He pulled out without compliments and had to silence her groan with a kiss as he grabbed his erection to give it a slow stroke. “Keep quiet, Katya, wouldn’t want the old man to walk in on us, now, would we?”

“No,” she breathed out, unbuttoning his shirt as he pressed the tip of his dick against her.

“What are you doing?” he chuckled, covering her mouth with a hand and pushing into her slowly to mask her moan.

She moved his hand away when she was happy with the result, her hands caressing up his chest to grab the sides of his neck. “I want to see them,” she panted, moaning when he pushed in to the hilt.

Vlad smirked. “The tattoos?”

Katya nodded and he grinned, pulling back out before pushing back in hard. Her moan echoed down the corridor and for a moment he really wished for someone to walk in on them. He wanted them all to know what he was capable of doing to his woman with just a thrust because he found her all too arousing. She had leaned her head back against the wall. Her eyes were screwed shut and her lips were parted, her red lipstick driving him wild.

And had he known she liked the sight of his tattoos so much, he would have found a way to make their quickies last longer so that she could stare at them.

“Do they turn you on?” he pressed, quickening up his pace, her walls closing in on him in the hottest way.

“Yes,” she managed to answer before her breath hitched in the back of her throat. Her nails raked down the exposed skin of his chest and stopped on one of his old scars. “And these,” she added, clenching down on him so hard he let out a grunt, his forehead falling on her shoulder as he hiked her up a little more. “So much,” she moaned again, but this time a little too loud and he covered her mouth again with his hand.

He grinned against her skin, thrusting into her at a rough pace, her hands tugging at his hair so hard it hurt. Vladimir didn’t even notice, though, too lost in the feel of her. It was as though he had lost his mind–or as he thought it’d feel like to lose his mind. She was so warm and wet and welcoming, so eager to pull him in even more, to scratch him and pull him closer as he sucked at her neck. And it was the best feeling in the world–more than dropping out of school, more than learning how to handle a gun, more than having his first time. It overwhelmed him, it made him forget about Petrov and Piter and their stupid alliance and that guy that had tried to touch his Katenka. It was better than a sniff of cocaine, better than taking a life. Even when it was just sex–because he really wasn’t the type of man who knew how to make love or who was even sure about what love even was–, it was like seeing stars, like ascending to heaven and drilling bullets in all those winged dicks’ heads. It was like getting high and beaten up at the same time and he wasn’t ashamed to say that he loved it.

He placed his open mouth in the crook of her neck to stifle a moan and at that moment he felt Katya’s ragged breathing against his hand and when he looked up he swore she was a vision.

And as his thrusts got more frantic, he felt her orgasm drawing closer at the speed of light, her warm walls fluttering around him as he started to twitch inside her.

He removed his hand from her mouth and grabbed her butt to secure her even more against him so that he could thrust in better and deeper.

And, Jesus Christ, when she opened her eyes and moaned at him, almost begging to make her orgasm hurry up, he came like a teenager at his first time and he had to bite his tongue to keep quiet. And as he spilled himself inside her, she panted once before going breathless, tugging at his hair and pushing her head back as she came around him and clenched down and made him see stars again.

He panted against her skin just as she panted against his and he let his thrusts get slower and sloppier as he rode out their orgasms.

He had just pulled out and was helping Katya stand with one arm while with his free hand he put himself back into his pants when Tolya’s voice froze them both in their place.

“It’s time for us to leave,” he announced. “If you’re done there, that is,” he added with a chuckle.

“Yeah, coming,” Vlad grunted, zipping his pants back up as Katya fixed his shirt and buttoned it. “Way to ruin the post-orgasm bliss,” he cussed, switching his attention back to Katya.

She let out a short and breathless laugh, her knees still trembling. “We still have tomorrow, Volya,” she reminded him, getting closer to kiss him. And then, maybe realizing that for the first time that evening, she gasped and her eyes opened in shock. “I don’t have my panties on!”

“And?”

“Your stupid cum is gonna run down my legs,” she gasped again, slapping his shoulder. “It will stain the dress and people will notice!”

“Let them,” Vlad shrugged his shoulders, snaking an arm around her waist and moving to reach his brother. “They’ll know not to touch next time.”

Translation of the Russian sentence at the beginning: “Love is like the wind: you don’t see it, but you feel it”.

As always, feedback is Always very appreciated :)

TAGS (to be added/removed shoot me an ask) (if your name is like this it’s because I couldn’t tag you, I’m sorry)

Everything: @selldraug @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892 @toomanyfandoms96 @mblaqgi

Also tagging (if it’s okay--I thought you might be interested) @sweetvengeancee @theranskahovs @brobachev

[howyoutalktostrangers]

So,

I’ve decided to publish another story from my manuscript.

This one’s called “Post-funeral”, and the main character is named Joel Bishop. He’s a friend of my main characters Paisley Troutman and Neil Solomon, and in this story his older brother has just committed suicide after running for political office in Garibaldi. It’s the 10th story in Whatever you’re on, I want some.

It’s raw.

The Literary Goon

Post-funeral

by Will Johnson

FIRST WE swallowed bitter shards of MDMA, spent hours slip-sliding over each other’s bodies giddy and feverish. I’d been staying at my brother’s mansion with my ex-girlfriend Kylie, up in Garibaldi, for nearly two weeks. We wandered the streets shirtless, dove into foggy backyard pools that didn’t belong to us. We did blow off the toilet tank. We sipped mushroom tea, pinkies erect, then watched Jurassic Park while we waited, dopily dragging on cigarettes and ashing on the freshly installed carpet. We smoked salvia and hash, hot-knifed thumb smudges of tar-black ooze. We were doing okay, food-wise: salmon steaks, cheese-drowned Tostitos, frozen blueberries. We drank Black Label and Bailey’s-infused coffee. Some days we binged on Chinese food and pizza; more often we wandered the linoleum barefoot and mind-fucked, sniffling and twitching, having forgotten what hunger feels like.

And whenever we got bored we circled the neighbourhood spearing my brother’s campaign signs onto unsuspecting people’s lawns, just to fuck with them. Vote for Joshua Bishop, indeed. 

One night Kylie fled. I careened along shadowed boulevards in my brother’s minivan just after 3 a.m., wearing sweatpants and a pair of Santa Claus slippers, chain-smoking cigarettes to keep my headspace level. The night dew-misted my forearm hair from the open window. When my headlights slashed across a lawn three blocks over I glimpsed Kylie under an expansive, shadowed oak with thick, threatening arms. She was curled fetal, wearing red bikini bottoms, dollar store flip flops and my Garibaldi Elementary GRAD OF 2004 hoodie. As I lugged her limply off the grass a dog-walker in a peacoat paused on the sidewalk.

“She had a little too much to drink,” I explained. “We’re all good here.”

“And who are you to her, exactly?” he asked, cell phone palmed. “It looks like she needs some assistance.”

“We’re fine, honestly. I’m just taking her home.”

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

Kylie moaned in my arms as I lift-shoved her into the passenger seat. Her legs slackly dangled towards the concrete as I gathered up her feet and slammed the door shut behind her. Peacoat man flapped his arms, distressed and honking.

“If you fuck with me,” I said. “I’ll kill your little dog and drink its blood.”

I don’t remember what he said after that, but I do remember the electric surge of hatred that blood-dumped through my veins. This man’s banal existence, his uncomplicated morality, the look of fearful revulsion on his face—all of these offended some feral version of myself I’d unleashed during those weeks. I battered my chest, squeezing out wild tears, and roared in his face until he retreated with his little dog yipping.

Kylie wore a thick-padded bra with metal crescents scooping under each fleshy handful. She whined as I undressed her, paranoid of the oil-like substance pooling on the walls and overflowing into the living room ceiling. I worked my fingers under each goose-pimpled boob, inhaled her chest glister. Kylie wasn’t mine exclusively, but our experiences were our own. I took her earlobe in my mouth, her weight supported in my arms, and worked it with my tongue like a soother. We’d tired of our porn-inspired routines and were finding creative ways to exploit each other’s bodies lazily, gluttonously. A tweaked nipple on mushrooms is like a chest-explosion, while a firmly gripped dick on acid can change your life. Cheek to arm pit, sole to shin, elbow to pelvic bone, we chest-banged and hugged, childlike, in the trenches of our sweat-soiled blankets.

Then we slept.  

Sometimes I get brain whispers from my former self, little buried guilt yelps from the Christian kid I used to be. He’s horrified. Kylie struggles to believe I used to be religious, that I used to keep a prayer journal, that I was once scandalized by swear words. She can’t visualize it, can’t reconcile it with the version of me that she knows: a hipster rich kid with no moral code to speak of. She can’t understand that it’s all the same impulse, that God is nothing more than the Drug of all Drugs, that the hardest thing I ever had to kick was Christianity. Driving by St. Catherine’s I’ve got multi-year histories flashing across my vision. Our youth pastor Trent Stonehouse sings at the front of the sanctuary, takes kids on missions trips to Tijuana and Brazil and the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver, and then there’s all the kids I knew—Amber, Turner, Paisley, Neil and Ty—they’re all memory-cached, worshipping with the Agape Soldiers onstage while I sway awkward in the pews and try to figure out how come I’m the only one who does’t seem to feel it. Sure, I’ve felt the Holy Spirit before—or at least I believed I felt it at the time—and I’ve been one of those ultra-pious kids seizing on the ground, overcome as the Church Moms lay blankets over our God-blissed teenage bodies. Slain in the spirit.

But spiritual awakenings wear off. Slowly, one day after the next, I felt the emotional intensity drain. Outside the context of the St. Catherine’s sanctuary all the meaning dribbled out until I had to go back, soul-hungry, for more. Being a disciple of Christ meant living this special type of life, meant elevating yourself from the mundanity. At Camp Evergreen, around the campfire, we sang “Jesus, I am yours” and two hours later Rachel Peachland gave me a hand job behind the girl’s cabin line, a frantic and gasp-filled spectacle in the shadows. I was a little perv, shame-soaked but undeterred, obsessed with girls but convinced that every lustful thought was a freshly disgusting sin, something to beg forgiveness for. Do you know how exhausting it is to be ashamed all the time? To spend your life hearing how sinful and hopeless you are without Jesus?

Turner used to say the whole point of grace is you don’t need to feel guilt, that God’s already forgiven you before you even dream up our next transgression.

But who said we need to be forgiven at all?

“If you could go back and be Christian again, would you do it?” Kylie asked, morning squinting in my brother’s bed, her voice grumbly from sixteen hours of sleep. I gripped sleepily at my dick while urine hammered into the shower drain.

“I think about that every day.”

“And?”

“Are we talking like a lobotomy-type solution here? Like would I have to give up part of my brain?”

“No, just say you believed again.”

“The thing is, to make that happen I’d have to give it up.”

“What?”

“My doubt. My fucking reason. I’d have to give up my whole personality.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Yes necessarily. Unless God fucking prances in here and goes ‘hey, Joel, I’m fucking real’, this shit isn’t going to happen.”

I slump into her lap. Kylie was born in a Burmese orphanage, got adopted by white Canadians. Didn’t find that out until three months into our thing, when I met her crazy Mom. She kept all that to herself, and I understood why. People project shit, put labels on you. Who wants to be the starving kid from one of those World Vision commercials? She didn’t want pity; she just wanted to be Kylie.

I liked her way more than I realized.

“But what if the thing with Trent never happened?”

“It wasn’t about him. I stopped going to St. Catherine’s way before all that shit in Mexico, before any of those other guys.”

“Do you think he raped anyone you know? Like anyone in the youth group?”

“Fuck, what’s gotten into you?”

“I’m just so curious. I’ve never met someone who knew a real child molester.”

“You talk like it’s a movie star or something.”

“Or a serial killer.”

“So what do you think? Do you think he was doing like pervy, Catholic-style shit?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“But what do you think?”

“I mean they say he molested this Mexican kid, right? Or two of them? That’s why he got arrested originally, in Tijuana. But they never came up with any Canadian victims.”

“Who’s they?”

“Investigators or whatever. He was down there for eleven years years, and it’s kind of like why press charges and do all that work if he’s not even in Garibaldi?”

“Shit.”

“But eventually they figure he’ll be back, right? I mean, the Mexicans can’t keep him forever.”

“When is that going to be?”

“The system’s so corrupt down there. Guilty til proven innocent, all that.”

“Turner told me he got letters.”

“From Trent?”

“Yeah, a while back he was telling me stories about Trent. He told me the letter said ‘you can’t turn your back on God’ and ‘don’t let this be an excuse to lose your faith’, all this shit.”

“Are you serious?”

“From prison he was giving him a sermon!”

“Fuck.”

“I mean, we were smoking a joint but I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth. Wasn’t he like Trent’s little favourite? Do you think it was him Trent messed with?”

I’ve considered that plenty of times, but it’s different to say out loud.

“Trent had a weird thing with Paisley Troutman, one of the girls in the worship band. People were gossiping about that for years.”

“But doesn’t he fuck little boys?”

“Yeah, but maybe he’s just like a non-discriminating deviant, right? Just raping whoever, wherever. Dudes’ fucking evil.”

“I heard there’s some people that think he’s still innocent.”

I light a cigarette, roll across the bed and go looking for blow.

“I’m not one of them,” I say.

Kylie sat cross-legged and hungover in the minivan’s passenger seat, reorganizing her purse while we descended the Sea to Sky. Cliffs draped with steel netting loomed to our left. To the right was nothing but open, cloudless sky. The road slalomed along the mountain slope, twist-rising and falling just as quickly. Ocean air swirled around us. A grey thumb of stone emerged in the distance, thrusted up hitchhiker-style, with a few stubborn bushes defiantly alive atop it’s wind-blasted summit forty feet above the road.

The mansions along the highway—stilted and gleaming in the trees—reflected the Pacific’s blue glow from giant mirrored windows. These were the people in my brother’s voting district, who had proudly displayed his campaign signs so they would be visible for commuters passing through the construction progress below. Vote for Joshua Bishop.

No more.

“The last shit we got from Turner was dirty,” Kylie mumbled. “Fucking weak.”

“That wasn’t his regular guy.”

“Says him.”

A bored, sunburned teenager wearing a Solomon Development Ltd. uniform waved us off the highway, past some pylons and orange fencing, and towards the razed shoulder currently being paved. Steamrollers grumbled a few kilometres further on, while in front of us six men guided a crane-suspended concrete median into place. I parked beside a line of trucks facing oceanward, overlooking Howe Sound, and texted Turner. Within a few minutes he appeared, knuckle-rapping the window, and Kylie unlocked the sliding door behind her.

“You two’ve been voracious lately,” Turner said. “You’re outpacing my coworkers, even.”

Kylie ignored him, sullen.

“I’ve got five hundred here, that’s two for last time and three for now,” I said.

“And you’ve got time for a couple lines now?”

An ice-blue sky populated with drifting gulls appeared as I took my first hit. Their beak-tips were dolloped with bright red. I thumbed a nostril for leverage, snorted with all my might, and sucked back. It filled me like sunlight. Wave-crests built frothing and burst into chaos amidst the rocks below.

“That feels better, huh?” said Turner. “I’m gonna fire through my afternoon.”

“I don’t know how you do this dip-shit job, man.”

“Whatever.”

“I would feel like one of those historical Chinese guys they used to dynamite the tunnels, you know? Like some expendable pawn they use for the hard labour. A slave they can just blow up whenever they feel like.”

“Yeah, so what’s your fucking job, Bishop?”

Kylie dabbed residue on her gums, sucking her finger. The world continued outside our windshield, introduced a dangling silhouette to our view-scape. It took me a moment to take this character in: parachuting past with some magical floating canopy, he was trailing an unfurled sign that read NO OLYMPICS ON STOLEN NATIVE LAND while filming with a camera strapped to his wrist. He was wearing those stupid shoes with individual toes, the ones rich men wear, and spandex head to toe—like some gravity-defying ninja spirit. I almost laughed.

How long had he prepared for this moment? What did he imagine he would see, hanging suspended and superior over us? The afternoon wind carried him sideways, tilting.

“Look at that piece of shit,” said Turner. “Look at him flying high.”

On the way back to town, Kylie asked if we could swing by her friend Lauren’s place. She lived in one of the new townhouses by the highway, Garibaldi Estates, on the fifth floor.

“This bitch owes me like a hundred bucks,” Kylie said as we rode the elevator up. “She’s always doing shit like this, and I can’t let her get away with it. You know what I mean?”

I shrugged.

The hallway hung silent following Kylie’s door-battering, but after a minute or two the door rattled and opened. A girl wearing a short pink bathrobe leaned into view, her bed-shagged hair streaked a similar hue. Her eyes were half-closed.

“Uh huh,” she said.

“You gonna let us inside?” Kylie asked.

“I’ll come out’n talk,” she said, pained.

I pretended to ignore them while they argued in the hallway, and watched as a dishevelled crow shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the roof, its talons clicking, just outside the window. Kylie paced shouting while Lauren listened bored with her beautiful brown legs.

Eventually Kylie turned back to me, exasperated. “Let’s go, Joel.”

Once we got back on to the Juan de Fuca Hill she held out her palm, two chalky pills cradled in the creases.

“This is supposed to be boss stuff. It’s K. She didn’t have any cash.”

How can I capture that moment? Kylie halfway-swivelled against the seatbelt, her forehead salmon pink from the sun and her white palm-skin outstretched. The grassy bluffs leading up towards the towering dominance of Mount Garibaldi were stretched out behind her, floating and blurred, while within the carpeted boundaries of our little vehicle we were safety-bathed by the air conditioning. I swallowed the pill. We hurtled towards our future.

“Will you put some more signs up with me later?” I asked. “After?”

“Of course.”

“There’s still so many, babe.”

“We can put up as many as you want, babe.”

Sixteen years old I thumb-dabbed my goggles, donkey-kicking, my headphones tucked under my swim cap. The finals heat for the 100 butterfly at provincial championships, and I was the one standing in front of Lane 4. Ty was there, Sketch and Neil too. I spat air, flailed, my feet splashing on the tiles. I expected to win my whole life, always anticipated easy victory—what does that say about me? I had this daily suspicion that I was a little more interesting than everyone else, a little more talented. My brother Josh was the same way, and all during the campaign I wonder if he had any idea how wrong things could go, how easily his future would evaporate. Vote for Joshua Bishop. I can see his temp’s bemused face, the self-satisfied sneer, as he ruined my family’s life with every fucking word he spoke. As soon as my brother’s news went public, our family scattered into our own grief trajectories, none of us sure how to handle the sudden scrutiny. And before we could decide whether we forgave him, before we could prove to him that being a part of the Bishop family means more than some sex scandal, some political campaign, before my father could even talk to him, he was gone. The ocean will take us all, I figure, but we were left with his body, shower-dangling, at his mansion in Garibaldi. That house! White carpets like cat fur underfoot. This is where I belonged, not slave-waging away in Vancouver.

Underwater is where I feel best, dolphin-kicking streamlined. Life made sense at 16, when my evening revolved around 58 seconds of frenzied exertion. Fuck real life and the future and the present moment too because I’m suspended mid-dive, dripping, while around me the bleachers erupt with cheering. Ice-wind slashes my cheekbones and stings my eyes shut.

Rotting clumps of mown grass collected on my boots as I worked my way up the St. Catherine’s lawn, past the youth trailer in the parking lot, up towards the stained glass window at the apex of the sanctuary. As kids we played this game called Gestapo where the youth leaders would chase us through the streets of Garibaldi with flashlights while we raced from Diefenbaker Park to the safety of the church. I scanned the treeline for spectators, but I was alone. I was thinking about this thing Turner once told me, about how we’re all just energy morphing from one form to the next. In reality, he was the first one to ditch on Jesus. He was braver than I was, less scared of the social consequences, or maybe he was just more honest.

“When I die and go to Heaven, I’m going to walk into the throne room of God and I’ll have three simple words for him: what the fuck?” Turner told me, perched in the Sky Train window, when I asked him about why he wasn’t coming to church anymore.

“If you had kids, what could they do to stop you from loving them?” he asked me.

“Nothing, I guess.”

“So why are we worshipping a deity who routinely condemns whole swaths of society to Hell? It’s so fucking arbitrary, Bishop! You’re born in India, you’re fucked. You’re born in China, you’re fucked. But if you’re a white Christian dude, everything will be fine and you’ll be a happy little saved boy.”

I didn’t know what to say then, and I still don’t now.

“A God like that doesn’t deserve my love.”

The way Turner talked, he didn’t miss religion. He didn’t miss understanding everything, having that communal reassurance. He liked to be an outlier, a rebel, a heathen.

“You can’t spend your whole life pretending,” Turner said. “Sooner or later you have to admit we wasted our teenage years on a medieval crock of bullshit.”

All that meaning, all those years of prayer, all that struggling and learning—for what? I speared the first campaign sign firmly beside St. Catherine’s front entrance, another one beneath its stained glass, and the final one at the top of their hilly lawn. My brother’s plastic face smiling from each one. Then I sat, butt-damp in the grass, and lit a cigarette. My brother was 33 years old when he died, the same age they nailed Jesus to a fucking cross, but he wasn’t dying for any reason. He didn’t get to close his eyes knowing he’d made some huge sacrifice, knowing that he left the world a better place than when he arrived. My brother died tormented and hopeless, kicking against the porcelain, and who deserves that? How come he got hand-picked for that fate? I felt personally robbed of decades of experience, of the chance to see his face wrinkle, his voice change, his hair go white like Dad’s.

“I really wanted to believe in You,” I told the looming, dark church. “If I had a choice, I’d still be here. You know that.”

I couldn’t believe I was praying. I was still high.

“If there’s something more to this, something I’m missing…I guess what I’m saying is if you’re going to keep me around, You’re going to have to do something.”

I sat there quiet, wondering what God could do, short of flashing across the sky in all His radiance, to convince me of His presence. I heard this quote once, attributed to a 16th century hymn writer: “a God comprehended is not God”. If that’s true, then why even attempt to grasp the mystery? Why call out to Him, why pray, why devote yourself to a deity who can’t (or won’t) respond? When I was a kid I used to make little faith bargains, sending mental requests for God to manipulate the circumstances around me. (“If you really exist, make that kid put something in the garbage can as he walks by.”) Sometimes it even worked. It was like having an Almighty, imaginary friend. But now I’m an adult, a real person, I’ve read fucking Nietzsche. I won’t be so easy to convince. A warm feeling in my chest won’t be enough, a whispered voice deep in my psyche was completely inadequate. I needed something tangible, a Burning Bush-style sign, and I would accept nothing short of a miracle. Maybe my brother could bound out of one of his election signs, let me know this was all an elaborate dream sequence, or maybe Trent would materialize in front of me and explain what happened down in Mexico all those years ago. He’ll tell me our youth group’s implosion was part of some larger, mystical scheme, that St. Catherine’s has some continued role to play in my life. 

Or what? An angel! A demon! Anything. These sorts of visions end up in sermons and heartfelt testimonies, in parables. These experiences alter people’s entire lives, give them purpose and direction. Why not me? Why couldn’t I, just once, be allowed a glimpse of something beyond all this? Why couldn’t I be the one with the faith, the one who understands the light while everyone else stands in the dark?

“Will You speak to me?” I said, my voice trembling. “Are You there?”

[thenosebleeders-blog]

Depressive Episodes 19/11/17

Jesus Christ, depressive episodes hit you like a fucking tidal wave. You brush them off for a week or two. You think, I'm just sad! My period’s probably due! God forbid if it actually is because it only amplifies the depression even more. You sit there thinking, nah, I'm only suicidal because of hormones - yeah because that’s normal you dickhead. Then it continues on for a week, then the next. It flat out fucks you up for months.

It’s ridiculous how easily these episodes sneak up (much like the Prozac Nation gif at the start of this post - gradually then suddenly) - but once they’ve hit it’s unbearable. You can’t get any work done because the sheer thought of it makes you want to cry and hurt yourself. You feel useless, tired, a complete burden. Every slight difficulty leads to the same solution. Slight issue > what am I going to do? > there’s no good solution to this whatsoever > I should kill myself. That cycle continues on until the episode ends. It’s ruthless. The negative cycle of thinking is addictive, it becomes too comfortable. You think - why even bother breaking out of this cycle, this is who I am. This is my natural way of being! Everyone that is happy is oblivious and stupid and has their priorities in the wrong order. No, you dictating mess of a mental illness - you are the fuck up. Everyone else is what you should be.

People without mental illness can’t understand it. “But why do you want to stay like this? You should be working to make yourself better!”. Yeah okay, prick, be a bit more understanding. Mental illness is very similar to being an addict. It’s just being stuck in a cycle of negative thoughts rather than a cycle of taking heroin or coke. There’s an ignorance towards substance abuse and mental illness both, so there’s no point me explaining. If you’re dead set on thinking addicts are lazy and mentally ill people are faking it, you’re not gonna change your mind because of me.

The cultural misunderstanding of mental illness is disgusting. The amount of people you hear describing depression as a trend, or saying that young people can’t be depressed because they’ve experience no hardship is absolutely ridiculous. I wish for just one or two weeks those people would fully experience depression, anxiety, bipolar, anything. They wouldn’t be able to cope. I think a lot of the ignorance comes from a lack of education during school. All they ever taught us was to look out if your friends seemed sad or overly anxious (even when most people try to hide their mental illness due to shame and social stigma). They rarely covered anything other than depression and anxiety, too. People say they want to get rid of the taboo with mental illness, but I think if you’d have mentioned bipolar or schizophrenia to one of the teachers at my school assemblies they’d have had a seizure. Why even bother trying to educate us if you know nothing about the subject and you’re terrified of giving us the whole story? 

Even so, schools have no fucking right acting like they care about mental health with the amount of pressure they put on students. “Students, we really care about your mental health, we promise. However, if you don’t complete this one bit of homework, or don’t revise for this exam, you will fail at school and you won’t get a job. You will end up homeless and dead in a ditch”. Thanks for that great message school - I'll make sure to remember that completing work is better than valuing my own mental health. If society wants to see suicide rates decreasing maybe they should start funding mental health care more (hint hint tories) and promoting the idea that your mental health is more important than work.

[starkillersbae]

personal

hay tumblr, I know I don’t usually post on here, but jesus christ, the only thing I can think to do is try and get some of this out somewhere. 

Im so tired. Tired doesn’t even cover what im feeling right now. I feel like i’m over full with all these bottled up uncomfortable emotions that you can’t just spill out in to the streets because its so toxic, so you just have to carry it inside you. But my body can only hold so much of it, so my seams start to show and things spill out in little sloshes and dripping puddles. Just enough that it hits the people around you but never gives you any relief because nothing is better.  I tried to vent it out like opening the flood gates, but jesus, the third time around I figure I’m just a bad caller with the hotlines. I was trying to find out the cheapest funeral options, and better yet how to write in to a will for my parents that they ought to just burn me in a cardboard box to save the expense. My mom isn’t the grave yard type, so why take out a loan for a rock no one will visit and I won’t even use?  Figured it was kind of a shitty line of thinking and searched a suicide hotline.  I knew I was all manic energy, my heart couldn’t stop racing and my brain was scrambling in every direction because every direction I turned was painful, leaving no place to settle, and no steady stream of thought to prevail.  So I called and got Charlie.  Charlie wanted to find a solution to everything I said. If you don’t like your job get a new one. You can’t because of school, then drop out of school. You can’t drop out of school because of loans, then get a job that pays for your loans. You can’t get a job that pays for your loans without school, so go to school.  We chased eachother in circles, I could tell he was frustrated, he wasn’t trained to handle this, he was trained to hand me numbers for nice local charities that might help me pay the bills to keep the lights on, but he told me himself, he couldn’t help me. I know you wanted to make my day easier Charlie and had best intentions, but I wanted death for reasons that didn’t include needing free day care, or the catholic charity that might help with my bills. I needed a light to give me a reason to pay the bills, but paying them wouldn’t give me that light.  I’m sorry Charlie, I wasn’t the call you wanted or needed, and none of your phone numbers were what I wanted or needed either.  Next I got ‘Unimaginative’ on 7cups. I know 7cups isn’t a suicide prevention line, but I needed someone to listen to maybe ease the pressure off an ever growing weight. Unimaginative wasn’t trained either and told me so his third message to me, and it became clear enough english wasn’t his first language, or else he simply didn’t wish to hear a single thing I said.  I disconnected the chat when the only bright side he could come up with to my life after 30 minutes of talking was that I must be pretty if my work put me infront of people.  I could laugh. I tear myself apart with needles and knives on all the soft sensitive overly fat places I wish gentle hands would touch. But I know there isn’t one out there who would be subjugated to me for life, so I read love stories on my phone screen at night, and when the jeans and bras come off after work, I rip apart the body parts that no one will ever get to see.  So a day passed and it got worse. I figured one more try to release.  I got Grace.  I hoped you’d be a saving Grace, or atleast a woman who wouldn’t break me down to body parts in the most unimaginative of ways.  Instead I cried to you and said I didn’t understand what the point in living was anymore. Of 7 billion people crowded on this earth, how could I have any worth, how could anything I do have worth?  You told me God with a capital ‘G’ loves every single person on earth and has a special plan for us all.  I didn’t want to argue and outright state I didn’t believe in a divine plan or a creator who molded each and every special little soul in the palm of his cosmic hand and set us down with a plan full of love and hope.  I believe in a cosmos full of more stars than humans. I am less than a grain of sand. So why bother?  We walked in metaphysical loops, it was clear you knew I didn’t believe but were sure God with a capital ‘G’ and divine love would save me from what I really want, a quiet return to earth and nothingness as my cells break apart in to new materials.  So round and round we went untill you told me you couldn’t help me. I needed therapy and you wished me the best, but you had an internal light and couldn’t understand why I didn’t have the same. I feel like I’m screaming for help, I’m scratching at the walls and howling and pounding and tearing at this lock box that is my psyche. But no one wants to open that box, no one has anything that could fill it.  I just want it all to stop, and maybe I feel better now or at least I will now that i’ve spilled this all outside of my seams, but whats left now? I’m so fucking tired. 

[buggerjagger646]

nobody is going to like this and i just dont care at all.

alright.

im gonna rant

because my head hurts and maybe this will make it a little less terrible. 

How very not buddhist of me, but fuck you “fat acceptance” or “mental health acceptance”. fuck. you.

allow me to introduce myself in a way that makes me cringe at my very core, for this is the way that so many talk about themselves these days and i find it fucking deplorable to define yourself not by the content of your character or the achievements which you have brought to yourself, but instead these fucking bullshit words which hold little to no meaning of who YOU are. fuck that. but for the sake of the argument of this rant, ive been seeing a therapist for several months after what i can only think of as a fairly serious break and im being monitored for some variation of depression and suicidal whatever, and also for anorexia, apparently.

to the “accept my mental illness” bullshit - screw off. just screw off. it was suggested at my most recent session that i might need to enter a hospital facility for the apparent severity of my thoughts. i have to go to a long, pain in the ass diagnostic session in a couple of weeks to see if theyre going to medicate me, and that session was very difficult to get because hey apparently very few prescribing mental doctors who take my insurance deal with people who have eating issues. so fuck that first of all. 

“accept my mental illness, i dont need to see a therapist.” go to hell, quite frankly. i force myself to be honest with my therapist. i keep a stupid log of my “emotion states” because she asks me to even though i think is ridiculous. i read and listen to many psychological figures and ideas and force my own self to do everything i can to try to figure out some way to get around all of this. fuck you and your “accept me as i am because i dont want to/am too scared to do any real work for my own wellbeing”. fuck you. get fucking help, do some fucking work, get the hell over yourself for the love of everything. stop moaning and telling ME, ME who is working herself raw to figure out what the hell to do, that you dont have to do the same damn work as me. get off it. get yourself together, damnit. do some damn work. 

moving along, 

“fat acceptance” can fuck. the hell. off. right off. so far off that i never have to see that bullshit again in my life. they weigh me once per month at my doctor. the doctor who i had to sit in front of like a little kid and admit that i was barely eating and watch THAT look. you dont know THAT look unless you know THAT look. the doctor who i was given the (appropriate) ultimatum of ‘go to the doctor to be sure youre not dying or we cannot continue’ by the therapist i already mentioned. i just happened to find and like the one who had a specialization in eating disorders. lucky me. i keep a food journal on and off where i have to describe my feelings around what im eating. and when i hand them off i get to watch her get that little look of repressed concern, going ‘this cant be all that there is’. they primarily consist of the feeling “i hate this” and “im forcing this down my throat and i feel terrible”.

so fuck your fat acceptance. dont give me bullshit about “glandular” this and “hereditary” that. the overwhelming majority of you who are fat are so because your food intake is complete and total shit and entirely more than it should be, and you dont fucking care. or, frankly, youre lazy. and dont sass me, ive had a number of fat people admit to me directly that they are too fucking lazy to learn to cook or to cook for themselves or to eat within healthful bounds.

fuck. you. 

you know what? if you want to destroy your body and your general well being and youre somehow content there, fucking go for it. but dont fucking demand that i accept the fact that youre too stubborn or lazy to do well for yourself. fuck you. if i have to shove food into my mouth and i have to be fucking uncomfortable and i have to fucking deal with this, fuck you, you can fix your diet and stop being an ass. and for the record, anyone who is pushing this shit for children is absolutely, sickeningly, deplorable. children should not be fat. they have every metabolic and physical reason to not be fat unless their jackass parents are too ignorant or arrogant to do something. and yes, thats fucking child abuse. if your kid is fat, its almost certain that you are doing something wrong and you need to either seek assistance or have some kind of repercussion. fuck up your life if you must but dont try to bring kids into this. 

fuck you. if i have to force myself to eat, if i have to make myself be honest with what not eating does to me, then you assholes should be held to the same accountability. you know that the food you eat is shit and/or too plentiful. you KNOW it. dont give me this shit about “fat acceptance”. get your shit together and learn how to accept yourself and you might find that in most cases, youre well aware that youre fucking killing your body and you really dont actually like it. if anorexia is an eating disorder, then most of the overeating is so as well. your relationship with food is just as unhealthy as mine is, stop fucking lying to yourself because youre too lazy to be honest and to find the better solutions. 

fuck your acceptance bullshit. 

almost no one knows whats broken in me right now and im damn well going to fucking keep it that way. because i will be fucking damned if i am going to be defined by this shit as opposed to the things that i have done or will do or the person who i am or my long thought and pondered ideas. and even better, ive been completely betrayed by one person i trusted with this information of me who was so enamored with these labels. and ill tell you, it certainly hasnt helped my view of these label lovers. 

get over yourselves. figure yourselves out, give therapists something to do. if youve got problems, fucking address them. if you want something, fucking go and do the work for it. you dont get things just because you think that you somehow deserve them. work for it. and be someone worthy of what you want. dont be a weak little cowering barely person who demands things from people to try to fulfill something youre not willing to work for. and jesus fucking christ, dont just sit there being broken and insist that we have to take you as you are broken or accept your delusions.

i force myself to eat. i work my mind in circles trying to figure out how to be in a better mind. you “accept me” people are so full of shit i can barely stand it.