#million woman march

[jamesliskutin]

▶️ Watch this reel

[fingertipsmp3]

Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only person who has a grasp on reality, or if it’s actually that I’m the only person who doesn’t have a grasp on reality

[hedgehog-moss]

Update on May 1st protests and how the french goverment handled them?

^ The May 1st protests were pretty violent esp. in Paris; two cops were set on fire (they're ok, one has 2nd degree burns), lots of destruction in city streets, and hundreds of injured protesters. The French gov is sticking to its M.O. of denying any police violence against protesters, emphasising protesters' violence and portraying it as mindless anti-democratic savagery rather than the result of their own anti-democratic policies.

There were more people protesting in the streets on Monday than at any other May Day protest in the past 20 years (by a large margin—7 to 10x more people than usual.) And the numbers are still impressive in terms of this current social movement—there were about 1.2 million people at the first protest against the pension reform in January, 900K at one of the February protests, around 1.1M on March 7 and I think 1.2M on March 23rd... We're in May and there were 800K people in the streets on Monday (using the police's probably low estimate). The first marches earlier this year were peaceful; people started destroying shit in March after the 49.3 (=the gov not letting elected representatives vote on the reform); in the following weeks we saw a brutal escalation of police violence + suppression of just about any means of non-violent protest, which results in more violence.

The vast majority of protesters are still peaceful, but in terms of providing context for the increased violence, well—people protested peacefully, peaceful protests got banned. People banged pots and pans, pots and pans got banned and confiscated. People started a petition on the National Assembly website which got a record number of signatures, the petition was closed before its deadline and ignored. MPs asked (twice!) for a national referendum on the reform to be held, their requests were denied. Electricity unionists cut power in buildings Macron was visiting, now he travels around with a portable generator. Unions tried to distribute whistles and red cards (penalty cards) to football supporters before the French Cup finale last week, so the ones who wanted could use them if Macron showed up (he ended up hiding and greeting the footballers indoors rather than publicly on the stadium lawn); the police prefecture tried banning union members from gathering outside the stadium to distribute these items (although the ban was struck down by the judiciary as it was illegal, like most bans these days...)

Confiscating saucepans was already so absurd it felt like a gratuitous fuck you, but now they're trying to prevent the distribution of pieces of red paper. Cancelling petitions that would have had no real impact anyway. Prosecuting people for insulting Macron. Arbitrarily arresting hundreds of nonviolent protesters to intimidate them out of protesting (guess who's left then?). The French gov is systematically repressing democratic or nonviolent means of making your opinion heard, and when people get more violent they're like "This is unacceptable, don't these terrorists know there are other means of expressing dissent??" Where? This week a 77-year-old man was summoned to the police station and will be forced to take a "citizenship course" for having a banner outside his house that read "Macron fuck you" (Macron on t'emmerde). Note that he would have been arrested (like the woman who was arrested at her home and spent a night in police custody for calling Macron "garbage" on Facebook) but they decided not to only because of his age.

So that's where we're at; on Monday two cops caught on fire (well, their fireproof suit did) after protesters threw a Molotov cocktail at them. (The street medic who tried to help them with their burns ended up getting shot by a cop's riot gun a few seconds later—with French police no good deed goes unpunished!) The media talked a lot more about this incident than about the fact that the cop who got most severely injured on that day (broken vertebrae) was injured by an explosive grenade that a colleague of his meant to throw at protesters (you can see it at the end of the video below). If police with all their protective gear get so badly injured by their own weapons, no wonder the worst injuries have been on the protesters' side. (nearly 600 injured protesters on May 1st, 120 severely, according to street medics.) I'm not including images of these incidents in the video but on May 1st a protester had his hand mutilated by a police grenade + a 17 year old girl was hit in the eye by a grenade fragment, may end up losing it (during the Yellow Vests protests, Macron's first attempt at repressing a social movement, 38 protesters lost an eye or a hand).

What you see in the video: cops charging the front of a march to tear a banner off people's hands then retreating and drowning the street in tear gas when protesters throw paint bombs at them (protesters have umbrellas because of police drones); at 0:30, a journalist saying "They're not even arresting him, just kicking him when he's down—they kicked him right in the face!" then police spraying with tear gas protesters who try to fend them off; at 0:46 when a protester being arrested asks a journalist if he's filming and starts reading out loud a cop's ID number, another cop shoves the journalist and throws him to the ground; at 0:54, an Irish journalist runs away from the police tear gas grenades that you hear going off, at 01:08, the incident mentioned above when a cop drops a grenade he tried to throw, which explodes in his group, breaking another cop's vertebrae. There's a lot more I'm not including, like how CNN said "there's so much tear gas in Paris, our foreign correspondent can barely breathe", how another journalist was hit by a sting-ball grenade (he was also bludgeoned on the head so hard it broke his helmet—even though cops know the people wearing helmets are journalists...), and yet another journalist who was calling out a cop for aiming at people's heads with his riot gun (which is illegal) ended up having the guy aim the riot gun at his head from 2 metres away (getting shot with this "less lethal weapon" from that distance would be lethal.)

All of these videos are from May 1st (most of them from this account monitoring police violence.)

So yeah, nonviolent protests followed by violent police repression and bans of nonviolent means of protesting result in more violent protests. The French government responds by a) pikachu surpris, b) condemning violent protesters and praising violent police to the skies, c) continuing to ban everything they can think of. Confiscating saucepans didn't work but confiscating pieces of red paper will do the trick! Let's prosecute people for bashing or burning an effigy of Macron, because banning symbolic violence always works to prevent actual violence! And this week after the May 1st protests we learnt that the gov is thinking of making street barricades illegal, because that'll definitely solve everything. It's going to be interesting for history teachers to teach students about the 1789 revolution that allowed us to take down an absolutist regime and become a republic, under a government that banned barricades because they see them as terrorist anti-republican structures.

^ Statue symbolising the French Republic (on Place de la République in Paris) dressed with a 'Macron resign' shirt by protesters on May 1st.

[rebelliousstories]

Did You Know?

Relationship: Spencer Reid x Reader

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Request: No

Warnings: Angst, Light Fluff, Allusions to Pregnancy

Word Count: 1,083

Main Masterlist: Here

Criminal Minds Masterlist: Here

Part Two: I Know Now// Part Three: Somebody Knows// Part Four: What We Know

Summary: Spencer is sent to prison and is waiting on his team to get him out. Meanwhile, his partner is there for morale support.

“It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much preforms much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.” Vincent Van Gogh

Never in a million years did she think she would be in this position. Getting a call from Emily in the middle of the night was not what she expected. But to be told that her husband is currently in federal custody and awaiting trial, that was another. But she took it as it came. There was nothing she could do for her husband except just to be there for him. She would never be able to get the image of him in handcuffs in the BAU out of her head, but she was glad she was able to hug him.

“Spence. Oh my Spence.” She hugged him over the handcuffs that were hidden with the jacket. His fingertips were just barely able to grasp on to her shirt to pull her as close as physically possible.

“Hey honey. I’m sorry you have to see me like this. How’s my mom?” He whispered into her ear. Spencer was thankful that everyone decided to keep a healthy distance as the husband and wife reunited.

“She’s good. Wondering when you’re coming home, but I am helping Cassie take care of her. I don’t care about seeing you handcuffed, sweetheart. I’m just glad I can see you and hold you.” Her reply made Spencer want to cry. He knew it was not fair to her to have to deal with this whole situation. Stepping back, she pressed a sweet kiss to his lips and tried to convey all of the lover she felt into that kiss. Pulling away completely, she watched as he accepted embraces from his teammates.

If only they knew at the time, how much of a roller coaster this was going to be. She sat on the prison bus waiting to be taken to the facility. Being able to see her husband was wonderful, except for the fact that she would be sitting across from him in a cubicle, with a sheet of glass separating them. The bus ride was bumpy, but thankfully it was over quick. Stepping off, her hair was swept away in the windy weather outside.

Walking inside the correctional facility, her eyes kept scanning the room, looking for any threats. A side effect from working for the FBI all those years ago. Now, it only served as a reminder of where she had once been, and of how her husband became that title. She walked up to the reception desk and placed her id down.

“Inmate name?” The officer asked. Her voice was devoid of any emotion.

“Spencer Reid. I’m his wife.” She supplied her name, and waited as the officer scanned a list and then her ID again.

“You’re not on the list. Next!” The officer yelled, pushing the woman off to the side. She stood there dumbfounded as she was handed back her ID, but knew better than to fight with the officer. Her body, especially her heart felt numb as she walked outside and waited for the bus to take her back to the car lot. Why was she denied access to see her husband? JJ was able to see him; so why was she not?

After the numbness wore off, rage fueled her. It kept her going all the way to the FBI headquarters where she signed in for a visitor’s pass silently. Marching her way into the BAU’s office on the sixth floor, she noticed how everyone was still there thankfully. She made her way over to JJ, who was surrounded by Tara, Matt, and Stephen.

“Hey,” JJ greeted, ”how are you doing?”

“Don’t give me that.” She snapped, leaving the agents in a state of shock. Never had she ever snapped, not even raised her voice.

“Whoa, what is going on?” The blonde woman asked, holding her hands up in surrender.

“Did you know?” Mrs. Reid growled, with her patience wearing thin.

“Did I know what? You’re not making any sense.” JJ tried to reason and de escalate the situation, but Emily and David were already out of their offices and looking out at the bullpen.

“Did you know when you went to visit Spence that he had put me on the ‘no visit’ list?” There it was. The million dollar question. JJ remained silent for a minute, but her face did the talking before her words caught up.

“Listen, you have to understand his reasons.” She tried to reach for the woman, but she slipped out of the way.

“You knew? And you didn’t tell me? I just got back from there, hoping to see my husband and check in on him. Only to be turned away at the gate. And you never told me?” Now, she was yelling. It was scary to see the former profiler turned professor yell. She spoke sternly sometimes sure, but she never raised her voice in anger.

“He wants to protect you from the inside. Spence asked us not to tell.” A slip of the tongue and now her fury was leveled to everyone.

“You all knew?” Prentiss and Rossi made their way down the stairs by this point.

“Yes, we did.” The dark haired agent said, walking along with her right hand man.

“Spencer doesn’t want you to see him like that so he asked if we would not tell you that he had put you on that list.” Emily placed her hand on the woman, and it was like her strings were cut. Rage left and was followed by intense depression. Sobs wracked her body as she crumpled to the floor. Emily tried to grab her, but Luke was the one that actually got his arms around her.

There was nothing left for her now. Everything came crashing down around her; her world was shattered. She thought about every interaction that she had ever had with Spencer. There were probably some that she was missing, but she was not blessed with his memory skills. But every major moment came to her at that time. The first time they met, their first date, when he introduced her to his mom, their proposal and wedding. Rubbing her stomach, she wondered when she would wake from this nightmare and be safe in her husband’s arms once again.

Zsa Zsa Gabor said, “To be loved is a strength. To love is a weakness.”

[rayveneyed]

cw; violence, gore, angst with a tinge of hope, god!au, power imbalance

the reputation of the war god, sukuna, casts a monstrous shadow over the land.

four arms and two heads and a gaping, snarling maw carved into his stomach — a host of violent magic at his disposal. he is the boogey-man beneath the bed, the shadow lurking around the corner, the glinting edge of cold steel. he is the pang of hunger in the stomachs of marching soldiers; the cold sweat of fear in women and children, cowering low in their homes as their village is ransacked by enemies. he is pain and adrenaline and strength, cleaved in half and sewn shoddily together. he is all of this and more, and yet you serve him.

you have never seen your patron god. you have never hoped to see him. to devote yourself to the two-faced one is to fear him. thousands of years have passed without a single sighting of him, or any god, for that matter — you are poorly prepared to stand in his presence.

and so, when the war god sukuna looms above you in the crushed remains of your home — a temple once grand, once mighty — with his coiling muscles and gargantuan size, you repeat this to yourself. a comfort of sorts.

pain and adrenaline and strength. the glinting edge of cold steel. the boogey-man beneath the bed.

to have him stand above you is enough to have your breath curdling in your throat. he eclipses you completely, his size almost indescribable — in your fear, in your grief, you can only gape up at him, teary-eyed and shivering like a kitten in the cold. your vestments have all been torn, or burned, or bloodied. this is not how you should present yourself to your god.

you shouldn’t even dare to meet his eyes. you’re simply too shaken to right your wrong.

“my lord,” you manage to greet, though most syllables catch like treacle in your throat.

you are insignificant. you realise this, in his shadow. your life is minuscule, paltry, meagre in his presence. he is a god and you are a girl, bones and veins and flesh that gives, and he may as well be obsidian. diamond, perhaps. he has seen thousands of years pass — empires rise and fall. the follies and infightings of man are entertainment; the deaths of millions are nothing but numbers lost to time.

he hums, and it’s like your brain is snapped from its shackles. you feel the blood drying against your cheek. the smell of burning flesh dizzying your mind. viscera beneath your palms. the entrails that were once your sisters give a sickening squelch, and all at once bile rises in your throat. you try to temper it, to focus on anything except your life that is crumbling to pieces around you — but the only thing to ground you is the cracked marble underfoot, cool and hard where your skin presses against it.

sukuna regards you as if you’re nothing but a speck of dust; there’s that sort of bored amusement about him, a cat batting idly at a squirming, broken-winged bird. he tilts his head, and raises a sharp, dark brow.

“woman,” he speaks, and his voice is a thousand drums beat in unison, the roar of a moving war-front. echoing and sonorous and enough to have you shivering where you sit. “it seems you are the only survivor.”

you make a sound like the wind has been punched from you.

“pity,” continues sukuna, seemingly ignoring your squeak. his gaze rises to the shattered pillars and rubble of your home, the smoking piles of fabric, the fires that rage even now. “you were minutely more valuable than cockroaches, at least.”

again, those eyes — four of them, unerringly dark — drift down to you, his brow furrowed in what you suppose might be curiosity. his lips twitch upwards in the cruel imprint of a smile. “oh? you protected yourself. how quaint.”

as if to make a point — or perhaps just to startle you — he reaches one grand hand out, and moves to flick you with a razor-sharp nail — only it never makes contact with you. you watch, wide-eyed and sick-stomached, as the air around you shimmers with a blue reflection. his finger bounces right off, though the force he first hits it with is far more gentle than his limit — the next time he flicks, seemingly finished with his demonstration, the paper-thin barrier cracks and shatters into a thousand shards, all eventually carried off by the wind. it is all too easy for him. you are once again reminded that you are nothing in comparison.

one of those monstrously large hands lunges forward, grasping your chin roughly. those sharp nails prick painfully against your cheeks. your god clearly does not care much for the blood and tears that scar you.

“i still desire some modicum of worship,” declares sukuna, glaring down at you. “i have lost 59 priestesses, and i must cull those who worked against me. you will have to do.”

a tear tickles the side of your nose as it migrates further from your eye. “yes, my lord.”

“my mercy does not strike twice,” he warns — and though his voice is so amused you have no doubt he is being truthful. “a hair out of line will see you joining your sisters.”

another sudden burn of tears. his grip on your jaw is still quite painful. “y-yes, my lord.”

silence reigns once more. the crackle of fire reminds you of the snapping of tree branches. the flicker of flames reminds you of the dances you and your sisters once performed in devotion to him, intertwining and spiralling, ceremonial swords and daggers and spears. you never would have danced had you known this fate would once befall you. you would have left this temple as soon as your girlhood ended.

sukuna tilts your head side to side, suddenly, as if to inspect you. his eyes trail from your jaw, to the curve of your cheekbone, to the roundness of fat that forms your cheek. they finish at your eyes — teary, bloodshot eyes, squinting in pain and sorrow and discomfort.

“hm,” he says, releasing you to turn on his heel. the muscles in his back ripple with each step he takes away from you, and the ground seems to tremble in time. “yes. i suppose i’ll keep you.”

he disappears through the crumbled archway, and your lungs seem to collapse. you suddenly feel very frail.

the remaining priestess of a war-hungry god. you suppose that a purpose is exactly what you need, now that your home is destroyed. now that all you have loved has been reduced to ash.

death may have been a mercy for your sisters, but should this be your last task before you join them, you can only do what you have always done: worship.

you can only hope you survive long enough to do them proud.

[jedipoodoo]

Hey! I was wondering if I could request a HunterxReader. Something where Hunter is like really possessive over reader with like another guy? Or one of his brother getting a little too close for his comfort, nothing nefarious, just lite teasing.

Thank you in advance.

Again, you’re doing amazing sweetie!

Me reading this request:

I hope you enjoy this one!

Man After Midnight (Jealous!Sergeant Hunter x Reader)

Notes: Hunter POV, The Return of The Kyle™, guy gets handsy with reader and Hunter does something about it, alcohol consumption, bar fight, 79s, feel free to check out my personal 79's Playlist here. Spoilers tagged for the gif. Y'all do not know how long it took me to find a season three gif for this one.

Whenever the squad convinced Hunter to join them at 79's, he tuned out the noises and smells to the best of his abilities. The overlapping of a million voices, all too similar to differentiate, the body odors and cologne, the pounding bass of the pop music, it could get to be too much. 

But when you asked him to join you, he couldn't say no. He was powerless to the pleading in your eyes and the joy in your smile when he finally said yes. Or it could have been how Crosshair commented on how good you looked in the new outfit you'd bought for clubbing, but he'd never admit it.

The six of you crowded into a booth at the back of the bar, farthest from the speakers. Hunter made sure that he got the seat next to you, only for Tech to remind you that it was your turn to grab the drinks from the bar. You smiled at Hunter apologetically as you tried to climb over him without bothering him too much. He had a better idea though, and gently placed his hands on your waist, easily lifting you over his legs and placing you on the outside of the booth. 

Wrecker gave a wolf-whistle at the wide-eyed look on your face, and you quickly looked away, running over to the bar as fast as you could through the crowd. 

The others were chuckling as Hunter frowned. Had he messed up? Was he too forward? He didn't consider himself a shy person, but he'd been so sure that you were sending him signals that you were interested. 

"Hmm," Crosshair hummed. 

"What is it?" Hunter sat up.

Cross smirked, "It seems our resident civilian is attracting some attention." 

Hunter quickly scanned the crowd, looking for you. Halfway between the bar and the squad's booth, drinks spilling out of your arms, you were stopped talking with a senate guard. What one of them was doing here was beyond him, but Hunter didn't like the way he was looking you up and down, and half-blocking you from the booth. He wasn't even offering to help you with the drinks. 

Hunter slammed his hands on the table to push himself out of his seat and marched over to you, shoving the guard to the side. 

"Let me help you with that," He said, taking Wrecker's boilermaker and Tech's martini from where you had kept them expertly balanced. 

"Hey, excuse me clone-" 

"You're excused," Hunter rolled his eyes at the senate guard and nodded you towards the booth, "Let's go." 

"Thank you," You said softly, but he heard it all the same. And you were smiling at him, so he hadn't totally messed up. 

The two of you handed out the drinks to their respective drinkers, and Hunter herded you back into your seat. 

"Who was that?" Wrecker asked, downing half his drink in one go. 

You shrugged, "No one in particular. I think his name was Kyle?"

Hunter huffed. He couldn't tell himself if he was annoyed or amused by this revelation. Of course the smarmy senate guard would have a name like Kyle. 

The evening carried on, Wrecker ordered more drinks, Echo found some old friends from the 212th, and Hunter could hear Tech rambling to a very interested Rodian woman who listened to him describe the nesting habits of rancors with stars in her eyes.

You, of course, were on the dance floor. You were always dancing around the Marauder, humming to yourself as you cleaned up your workspace or made the caff. Whenever Hunter saw you dancing, it felt like all was right with the world.

He spotted Kyle across the room. Hunter was surprised he'd stuck around, the senate guards typically didn't deign the clones to be good enough company to make the way across town to 79's.

But Kyle wasn't paying attention to any of the clones. His beady eyes tracked your every movement out on the dance floor. Hunter felt a rumbling in his chest, like a reek warning others to stay back. 

Kyle, of course, couldn't hear it, and even if he could, he probably would have ignored it anyway. The senate guard shouldered his way through the crowd on the dance floor, announcing his presence by placing his hands on your hips. 

Hunter heard your yelp of surprise and grit his teeth. He launched himself from the booth and marched across the room. Several startled patrons hopped out of the way when they saw the look of pure rage on his face, but all Hunter could focus on were your protests as Kyle grinned. 

"Really sweetheart, I'm just trying to give you a compliment, is all!" Kyle laughed as you flushed in embarrassment, trying to push him away. Kyle's grip tightened on you, but Hunter grabbed him by the shoulder. When Kyle turned with a smart quip, Hunter decked him across the face. 

"They said no!" He snarled, his arm out in front of you like a shield.

A few clones gave out supporting cheers as the senate's flunkie was laid out across the nearest table, but Kyle wasn't the only one present. Two more men, decidedly not clones, approached Hunter menacingly, trying to defend their friend. He saw them coming, but he had to take a hit from the first one so that the other could get close without suspecting too much. Then Hunter took the both of them with one swing. 

"Hunter!" You cried out. A crowd was gathering, and Wrecker was trying to make his way over to you and help Hunter out.

Hunter placed his hands on your shoulder, standing in between you and Kyle.

"You alright?" He asked.

"What?" 

"Look out!" Someone shouted. Hunter shielded you with his body to see the senate guards standing up.

Kyle pushed himself to his feet, though he still leaned unsteadily against the table.

"You're gonna regret that, meatdroid!" He snarled, blood dripping down his chin from a broken nose. Kyle charged towards the two of you, but Hunter stepped to the side at the last minute, catching Kyle by the collar of his dress uniform. It was tight enough already, but with Hunter gripping the fabric, Kyle had to gasped for air. Hunter swung him around and right into his would-be bodyguards.

"No fighting! No fighting!" the steward droid waved its arms, but no one was paying it much attention. Wrecker caught the three stooges by the scruff and happily carried them out the door like a mother tooka, dropping them on the veranda where they could hail a hovertaxi. 

Once he was certain that Kyle was taken care of, Hunter turned to you.

"Are you alright?" He repeated.

"Am I-?" You shook your head, "You have a black eye!" You pointed out, as if Hunter wasn't wincing every time he blinked.

"Just a scrape," He insisted.

"If I had a credit for every time-" You were too upset to even finish your thought, but you grabbed Hunter by the lip of his chestplate, pulling him over to the bar. You asked the serving droid for the medkit, and brought him back into the bathroom stalls.

"That was incredibly stupid of you. You know what kind of trouble you could get into if you hurt them too badly!" You made Hunter sit on the edge of one of the sinks so that you could treat him properly.

Hunter sighed, "Trouble seems to find me regardless of whether I do anything or not."

You fixed him with a death glare that made it clear he was better off not saying anything until you were done treating his wounds, superficial as they may be.

"Don't do that again, you hear me?" You slathered bacta over his eye, and dabbed some on the cut on his lip. Fortunately, there was one more ice pack in the poorly-stocked kit, so you snapped it in half to activate the cooling gel. 

"Sorry cyare, but I'm afraid I can't make that promise."

You froze, the ice back an inch above his eye. He could feel the air cooling around it, and gently took the ice pack from your slackened grasp, pacing it against the swelling skin.

"Hunter," You gasped, "don't say things like that. Even for me, it's not worth the risk." Your hands were shaking, so you busied them by packing up the remains of the medikit. 

Hunter grit his teeth as you turned your back to him, "You are worth every sacrifice I have made. Every shot I've taken, every nightmare that haunts me, every humiliation I've had to endure from those miserable excuses for sentient beings," He waved the ice pack in the air, trying to indicate Kyle and his flunkies.

"It's worth it," He insisted, "Just to see you smile."

He heard your heart beat faster as you swallowed the lump in your throat, and he knew he'd gone too far.

"I... I didn't know you felt that way..." You whispered.

Hunter hopped down from the sink and marched out the bathroom door. He needed a nice, stiff drink.

A couple of the other clones gave him strange looks for the eyepatch, and a few who'd seen the fight asked if he was okay. Hunter ignored them all, trying to flag down a steward droid.

"Hunter!" You shouted his name above the din of the music. He decided it was best to ignore you too.

By the time you finally made your way to him at the bartop, he was halfway through a drink he'd regret in a couple hours.

"What do you think you're doing!?" you demanded, hands on your hips.

"Having a drink, what's it look like I'm doing?" He grunted miserably.

"You can't just tell me you love me and walk away like that!"

Hunter spat out a mouthful of alcohol all over the serving droid, leaving his tongue and his nose burning from the taste.

You, however, were unperturbed by his reaction, folding your arms across your chest.

"Now are you going to ask me to dance or not?"

[tastesousweet]

⭒ the other woman

christopher sturniolo x poc!reader

summary: an angsty story of regret and selfishness told through different moments in time

warnings: alternate universe (takes place in the early 2000s bcs i’m obsessed), angst, implied sex, cigarettes, cheating (with, not on y/n)

a/n: hiiii srry for ghosting u guys again :/ i finally have motivation to write again!!! send in blurb or one shot ideas pls. unfortunately im putting tgwtt on hold for right now bc i feel writing that series takes so much out of me and i end up not enjoying anything i write. i hope u understand & im sorry to those who enjoy it! anyways i hope this is well received since it’s a bit different than my other works — lowkey tuned into my inner sally rooney bc her angst HITS . luv u baiiii

★ march 2004

there’s a vile and shameful look to you that you’re not so sure you’ve hidden well enough.

your stomach feels overweight and heavy with an extreme amount of pain bubbling and stabbing your insides whenever they decide to pop.

you clutch at the edge of the bathroom sink, staring at your figure and aching eyes (you added some dark eyeliner into your routine hoping to distract from your disdainful mood but you’re starting to think you may have drawn more attention with the dramatic look).

you suck your stained bottom lip into your mouth out of comfort or maybe a need for something to hold as you move to dig for the pack of slightly crumpled cigarettes in your small, wine-red purse.

the door handle begins to rattle unnervingly just as you spark the slim stick to life.

you comically still yourself in your exact position (bent over odd and cupping your hand around the cig as if there was any sudden wind to blow out your flame in your friend's classy bathroom).

"y/n? you in here?!"

your eyes widen first, before they eventually roll. you wave your hands around to cut through the plumes of clogged smoke in the quaint room.

“y/n!”

“someone’s in here!” you reply, taking another puff of smoke and adjusting your hair a bit in the mirror.

“you gonna open up for me?”

“ummm,” you sputter through the cigarette held in your mouth as you adjust your strapless dress with both hands in the mirror.

“y/n.”

you let out a soft groan and quickly smash the cigarette a few times against the french vanilla ceramic sink bowl, throwing what's left of it in the trash. you practically shove yourself against the tiny wall space to the side of the door as you inch it open enough for the two of you to gain a full view of each other.

you smile, “chris.”

★ december 2003

they say the holidays are worst when spent alone.

and despite having three siblings and parents who’d want nothing more than to spend their christmas eve with their son, chris has always preferred to spend the holidays with a beautiful girl — in hopes that she’d gift him the intoxicating feeling of her thighs tightly trapping his face by the end of the night.

so it’s shocking that he’s at your door step, dressed in a suave, ribbed white long sleeve, dark blue jeans, and somehow caught without one of his usual hats slouched on top of his head of fawn hair.

and it’s real fucking odd that you answer the door wearing a dress that fits you extremely well, paired with a cardigan to keep some modesty.

it’s so very weird given that chris has his girlfriend of over a year texting him another apology for abandoning their plans together to visit her family in wisconsin as you both share an intimate hug on your porch.

you try not to think it’s so unnatural for you and chris to go out for dinner, despite the fact that everyone in your small town knows he has a girlfriend who’s notably quite the opposite of you.

thank goodness chris keeps some casualty — leaving you to open your own door when climbing into his beloved truck.

★ february 2004

“okay, um, this is something you can eat and there’s, like, a million types- you like granny smith!”

“oo, apples!”

chris nods excitedly and flips to the next card, “it’s my favorite meal of the day.”

“breakfast!”

“yes, you’re perfect. alright this is casper the friendly-”

“ghost!”

“amazing! ‘kay, i’m always complaining that mine isn’t stiff enough.”

“your dick?” josh jokes.

“fuck off, josh! i’m more than capable…” chris laughs.

“gross! chris?!”

“what?! don’t make it a biggie. now hurry ‘n gimme that answer baby, please?”

“well i’m guessing it’s your mattress?!”

“you have 7 seconds!” nick says while intensely staring at the tiny hourglass.

chris gives an encouraging hand motion for her to continue on that path.

“ummm… your bed?!”

“yes! that’s what i’m talking about!” chris shoots up from his position, on the ground in front of the coffee table, and immediately picks liv up from the couch in celebration.

the group let out plenty of laughs and giggles at the fear in her eyes as she’s lifted up and down excitedly.

cassie yells out, “aw yay mom and dad!” when chris sets her down and kisses her lips.

you try to control your face. your eyes flicker over and see them smiling with their faces so close together. and it drives you a little mad that whatever chris whispered to make her burst into laughter can’t be heard from your spot across the couch, especially not when there are so many conversations going on at once.

it’s just a game. you have no right to be jealous. it’s fucking taboo.

you clear your throat and uncross your legs as you begin to leave from the leather couch, “matt and josh, you can go before me- i’m just gonna grab some water.”

★ march 2004

“smoking cigs again?” chris asks as he steps into the bathroom.

“no,” you lie, resting your hip against the edge of the counter.

he knows you’re lying but doesn’t bother to pressure the truth out of you, he’s not your father. or your boyfriend at that.

“are you doing okay?” he pauses and waits for you to acknowledge him.

you don’t.

he clears his throat, “you look beautiful in this,” he tugs your dress down showing off the cleavage you’d just got done hiding.

“‘m all good,” you answer his initial question while exaggerating a smile.

chris mindlessly nods his head and somehow gets even closer to you, to the point where you have to tilt your head just the slightest bit to make eye contact.

“can i kiss you?” he asks with a genuine glimmer of generosity in his eyes and tone; as if he wanted you to want it more than he wants it himself.

you’re silent. he holds your neck gently and raises his other hand to drag your large bottom lip downward, cooing a tease, “hmmm..?”

you whine a little to yourself — this can’t happen again.

“yes?” chris mocks a little, giving a squeeze to your neck, “say it.”

your eyes droop and suddenly the ache of pain and guilt melts down to a slush of excitement and warmth both inside and evidently outside, if the stickiness of your lace underwear says anything. you nod your head.

chris is so obsessed with your mouth, his thumb doesn't move from your bottom lip as you peek your tongue out to wet it, "yes, please." your words echo off of his lips that now practically hover yours.

even though you've used your manners you manage to deliver it as a command. and it doesn't help that you paired the sentence with your hands running up the hot skin underneath his dark shirt. his mouth hangs slightly ajar as his head nods softly once more and his eyes flicker over your pretty face.

you wait for his response before your eyes lock onto his and you pout, "i thought you wanted to kiss me, chris?"

★ december 2003

“that’s hot,” chris mumbles as he kicks his legs over eachother and stretches out on the longest part of your L - shaped, funky-green couch.

“what is?” you ask as you return to the living room, popcorn cradled in an oversized bowl against your waist.

“pamala anderson,” chris jokingly moans out, biting his bottom lip and covering his lower half with one of your fuzzy throw pillows.

“gross, you perv!” you throw a handful of popcorn at his face — that’s stretched into an adorable smile — and take a seat next to him.

“baywatch reruns are all that nbc play anymore,” you squint with a sigh, taking a swig of the cool bottle of beer chris requested before handing it to him.

“they lost the best thing to ever happen to ‘em, i’d milk that shit too.” he then takes a sip, smirking when a desperate pamala anderson begins to run in slow motion on your fuzzy box television.

“what would liv think of you drooling over some baywatch tits?”

“what would liv think of me replacing her with you for my christmas eve dinner?”

you can’t help but think that ‘replacing’ is possibly the meanest word he could have used.

he smiles and gives a soft laugh when your face doesn’t respond, “joking- don’t spaz on me now…” he rolls his eyes from you back to the screen in front of you.

you swallow and adjust your legs to sit underneath you, trying to get comfortable while remaining in your small red dress.

★ march 2004

“never again,” you remind chris and yourself as you step into your once discarded underwear.

chris nods his head a few times, replying when he finally catches his breath, “right.”

“okay,” you slip your dress back on and chris redresses himself away from you.

chris slowly comes up behind you, kissing your shoulder once and hugging you gently. you want to cry — because in any other circumstance you’d embrace this feeling. but you can’t help but feel dirty.

he whispers with his head buried in the side of your crowded neck, “you know your my best friend, right? i love you.”

and you can’t help the shivers and sobs that decide to escape from your sad, used body.

“shhhh,” he apologizes, “i’m sorry.”

★ december 2003

chris imagined having sex with you plenty of times before — figuring most guys have thought of it with all of their girl friends, at least his friends made it seem true.

though his imagination could never ever live up to your whines and the way your body effortlessly takes him as you bounce yourself on top of him.

you both knew this was a bad idea, it was bad before you ended up back at your place after dinner. chris is an admittedly horny drunk and you’re no better so sharing a few beers while sitting so close to each other was bound to backfire.

only in the morning would some ounce of guilt and regret wash over him, when he’d listen to the cheerful voicemail his unknowing girlfriend left him while he was busy with his fingers in your mouth.

★ november 2004

chris hasn’t spoken to you since you came clean to liv about your disloyalty, six months ago.

he yelled and cried at your doorstep. he told you that you ruined his entire life, that he never wants to see you again.

you convince yourself you never want to see him again, but you tend to miss him in the loneliest times. when you’re sat awake in your dark bedroom.

you still miss his voice and his face.

[mayariviolet]

𝐏𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐚 / 𝐈’𝐦 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐧.

Episode Two of First Love / Late Spring.

summary: “You believe me like a god; I'll destroy you like I am.” // “Please don’t look at me. I can see it in your eyes; he keeps looking at me. Tell me, what have you done?” //

-

Some letters that were addressed to you dated before and after Suguru defected, still in their sealed envelopes.

══════════════════

cw: f!reader x Geto, mentions of murder, blood, mental instability, swearing, suggestive themes, angst, Geto being over protective.

a/n: Hi… sorry it took me so long to update this my cousin died in March and I haven’t been the same since… Thank you all for being so patient! Also, so sorry if I forgot to tag someone on this update. My mind has been all over the place. Gonna also link the songs the titles are based on so y’all can see the vision fr. Also on Ao3.

wc: 5.9k

🏷️: @jeanboyjean @tacobellfreshavocado @r0ckst4rjk

August 2007

One week before he defected.

Dear Friend,

Do you ever think about that saying, "people are captains of their own fate?" I do. Then again, what about those who think they're "captains of their fate." Or even worse- a fully prepared fool who still gets it wrong. Where do these people end up? Were they predestined to fail?

Anyhow, I think I'm about to make a big mistake.

Well, I've been thinking about this decision for a while. In general, I've been thinking a lot. You've probably noticed my absent stares and maybe you said something in regards to how I look. But I'm having trouble remembering. If you didn't notice, I don't blame you. Even though I want you to notice. You've been going gone through a lot. But then again, so have I.

Yuki and I had a conversation that stuck with me. If you're wondering, it's not about what my kind of woman is. I'm still embarrassed that you overheard that. Even more so, I didn't give a direct answer. However, I don't think my coy, halfway glances at you gave away too much…

When you pulled Haibara away for something I can't remember now (I think you were asking me to come take a look at your door), Yuki plopped down next to me. She was spread out obnoxiously, and my eyes were too heavy to see her expression.

Thus, I was resigned to her rants and entertained some of her ideas. Somewhere in that conversation it brought to light some questions that had been rattling around my brain after what happened with Rika. I'm trying to push away those uncertainties.

I should clear the air right now- you did what you could. What happened or did not happen is not your fault. I will tell you that a million times- however many you need.

If anything, it's my fault for not being there for you. I will always be there for you. It might be in a way that doesn't make sense, but I am there nonetheless.

Sorry about making excuses and skipping our movie nights. Sleeping has been difficult. Maybe it's because you're not here. I don't want you to worry about me- but I also do at the same time. It's an odd feeling, wanting something or someone, having multiple opportunities to do something about it, and letting time slip you by either way.

As I'm writing this, I remember a conversation with your mom about how "right now time is your friend. But later, time will be your enemy."

Maybe tomorrow we can have a conversation about how I'm feeling. I always feel at ease talking to you.

I hope that feeling is mutual.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru.

Four days before he defected.

Dear Friend,

Uhm, unfortunately, our conversation did not… go well. That's putting it lightly. When I told you about my plan, the expression plastered on your face was something I would carry with me forever. It was agonizing to see you look at me with such disgust.

My chest was tightening, and I could feel you pulling at my hair sharply as you braided it before letting go. Watching you stomp out of my bedroom door through the reflection of my rickety vanity mirror, I have never felt worse in my life, but at the same time, so firm in the choice I'm making—a paradox in real time.

I didn't say it in my last letter, but I'm leaving Jujutsu Society and this bullshit mission made by people who probably need help wiping their ass.

Sorry, that last part was a little profane, but I know you agree with it. I mean, what good is there in protecting people who don't even appreciate what you do? I spent a lot of time reflecting on what happened in the last year and a half, outweighing the pros and cons. The pros obviously involved you, but the cons also involved you.

There's also the fact that I spend a lot of time sitting in my dark room- until the sun is barrelling over the horizon and seeping into my blinds. I wish you had been there during those moments. I'll think about our childhood, your birthday party, how we began writing letters, the day we got recruited to become Jujutsu sorcerers and the overwhelming optimism you had.

We had an opportunity to escape that hell hole town, and we took it without even thinking that staying there might have been less painful than leaving. Sure, we had a couple of surface-level friends, but at the end of the day, we had each other.

God, I wish that was enough.

I think about how happy people must be living in their ignorance, and I get angry again. So, I write. Primarily to you, even though I never express my frustrations. I'm infuriated that no matter what we do, how much we I excorsise curses (that, if born from my own emotions, would definitely be a Special Grade in its own right), it's not enough for those gas bags.

Yes, I might be considered one of the 'strongest,' but I don't want to be, at least, for people who don't deserve it. It's annoying, though, how you've maintained your optimism all of these years.

I shouldn't say annoying.

It's endearing how you want to nurture the world I want to burn to the ground. Well, 'burning to the ground' is a little extreme. I should say I want to make the world a better place for you and me, not those monkeys.

Emphasis on only for you and me.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru.

══════════════════

September 2007

The day he defected.

Dear Friend,

Well, what's done is done. I'm leaving today. I'd like to say that I'm going without any regrets, but I have one stupid thing sticking around my head. Yaga asked if there was anyone who might be interested in accompanying me on this mission I've been assigned. He kept glancing over my shoulder.

I didn't need to turn around to see who he was talking about. You and Satoru were doing some training or something of the sort. My fist tightened when Satoru told you a stupid joke, and you laughed.

I mean, he's not that funny…

I wasn't mad that you were laughing at his joke, obviously. I was furious because, for the first time since we were kids, I felt disconnected from my body. To be honest, I've been feeling like this for a while. Like I was floating above it all, and what I saw was a future without us, me, you.

You should know by now what I told Yaga.

I'll leave my door open with a note in the hopes you can understand. Or even better yet, come find me after this mission is done.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru.

Two and a half weeks after he defected.

Dear Friend,

Sorry I haven't written in a while. I've been preoccupied with this mission and tying up some loose ends. I'll explain later, please don't mind the blood on this letter. I didn't write for a while since I half expected to see you with flushed cheeks chasing after me.

I should've known better than to wait for you.

Alas, laying low due to tying up said loose ends is proving to be quite time-consuming. So here's a recap of what I've gotten up to:

Finished the mission (easy work)

Adopted twin girls (not easy work)

Visited our hometown

Saw my parents (not easy work)

Visited your parents (kind of easy work?)

I checked in on that grandma we used to help (unfortunately, she's sick, so my visit was brief).

I explained to my parents the predicament I've found myself in (See the part where I said 'not easy work').

Argued with my parents and then yours.

Settled into my childhood bedroom from complete exhaustion of arguing with those monkeys.

Set a plan to finish up with my loose ends…

I hope you're well. The rain is washing away any residual blood (not mine) on my things. I'll have to stop by a pharmacy to get some hydrogen peroxide to lift any stains the rain might miss.

Drink some tea, and get some sleep. If you're missing me like I am missing you, just sleep with that sweater I gave you. Although it's not me, I hope it will be enough in the meantime. In a roundabout way, it's like I'm still there holding you while you sleep, right? At least, that's how I like to think about it.

Don't worry. I'm not mad that you kept it; I always thought it looked better on you than it did on me.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru

(P.S.) My letters will be spread more from here on out. I don't want to accidentally leave anything that might make it easier for someone to find my whereabouts. That doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you. I'm always thinking about you.

══════════════════

October 2007

One month after he defected.

Dear Friend,

It feels like every time I write to you, I apologize for not saying enough. Which is funny, because that's how we I started writing letters to each other in the first place. Well, kinda. From now on, I'll keep my apologies to a minimum.

It's hard to keep track of the days that are passing, but I know that by now, Satoru has told you what I've done. It's completely necessary, by the way.

Killing my parents. Killing yours. Killing that grandmother. She was sick anyway.

I would like to think I put her out of her misery. I killed whatever remained of that god-forsaken, hell-hole town. I'll spare the details of what happened when I exterminated our my old life.

Just know that I had no remorse for killing your father and only a little for your mother. They died knowing you were okay and, unfortunately, with a smile on their face. I was surprised that they didn't immediately turn into curses. I guess you've been talking to them. Or were talking to them.

When I left that town bloodied and empty, I felt like a bird finally escaping a circus master's cage. Doing all of this will make it easier to forget. It was the closing chapter of a book I had no pleasure in reading. Please don't thank me for what I've done.

Right now, Mimiko and Nanako (the twin girls I saved during that mission) are having a hard time sleeping. I'm watching their furrowed brows and how their mouths twitch in their sleep. I guess even in their dreams, they can't rest. Sounds like someone I know knew.

In about five minutes, one of them will wake up and then another. I'll need to tend to their troubled minds soon enough. Before that happens, I will say sorry one last time. Sorry.

Knowing you, you're probably waiting up for me, probably in your room, probably waiting with Satoru, whose sweaty palms and jittery disposition betray his cool facade.

Maybe Satoru will take my absence as an opportunity to teach you about Digimon. It will be nice for you to take up another hobby. Or get into gardening again. I remember how much you wanted to start.

Eat well, get some sleep (or try to), and be kind to yourself. At least enough for both of us. Hell knows I haven't done that in a while.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru.

══════════════════

November 2007

Two months since he defected.

Dear Friend,

There was something in my last letter that I forgot to mention. It was one of the things that I told Satoru. I said that I hated righteous people- which is true to some capacity.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru.

Two and a half months after he defected.

Dear Friend,

We're getting rain again. I realized that I might be repeating the same mistakes as your monkey parents by being too proud to lease a decent place. But things are getting harder to maneuver through what little connections to jujutsu society I have without tipping off any higher-ups. Mei Mei offered me some jobs that she said 'wasn't worth her time for the money.'

I guess I'm worthless.

But money is money, and I have two daughters now. Is it possible for curses to smell even worse when the holidays come around? I suppose so- with all the lonely people without any family to celebrate with. You can't help but think that they may have isolated themselves. I don't blame them.

Long story short, I've scraped up enough money to lease a place away from the higher-ups. Should I start looking for furniture made by sorcerers? Or should I swallow my pride and just buy some mid-tier premade stuff? Second hand? But then again- there's the issue of residual curse energy. But I could always take care of that.

I'm feeling exhausted again.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru.

══════════════════

February 3rd 2008

Six months after he defected.

Dear Friend,

Maybe it's the nostalgia, maybe it's the first birthday I'm celebrating without you, but I keep reliving that weekend prior to it all. That house in Okinawa. The moon was hanging in the sky while the stars pricked the darkness, shining brightly. Sounds of waves crashing against the rocky shore, pulling whatever footprints or human error into the black abyss.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky. You insisted that Satoru get some sleep and that we take turns keeping watch. He shook his head and stupidly emphasized that he was fine. Satoru's heavily lidded expression did very little to disguise his fatigue- both of us could tell.

I was watching you, and you were watching him. I felt sick.

Satoru suggested that you get some rest first since you planned the whole trip for Rika, and you scowled before trudging over to the couch, insisting that you weren't tired. I wanted to grab your face and kiss that annoyance away, over and over again- maybe a little more. When you inevitably passed out, I glanced over to Satoru, who looked more alert now that you were asleep. It was like the task of keeping Rika alive had the same level of importance as dog sitting.

I wondered if you ever noticed. Or noticed that I've shared that same expression since we were kids.

I guess there's no use in ruminating. Today, I ran some errands, nothing major. I had a cake that Mimiko and Nanako decorated; they started calling me 'Papa Geto.' It's sweet.

I forgot to mention that while I was rearranging some furniture, a journal that I have kept since we were kids got knocked down from a bookshelf and pathetically fell on the ground. Mimiko and Nanako bolted like a feral tanuki.

I was mildly horrified at what they might have seen (before remembering that they aren't super great at reading yet, and then I relaxed slightly).

What happened next was probably worse than some scribbled preteen angst. They found the picture of us on your birthday, where I had your birthday cake all over my face. That was the first of many years when my parents bought you a birthday cake.

My girls laughed at me (why is it that when a child laughs at you, it's exponentially more mortifying than if an adult was?) but were incredibly kind to you.

After scolding them for not respecting other people's belongings (ironic given the subject matter of the photo), they apologized and asked who the 'pretty girl' in the picture was.

Embarrassment was replaced with excitement as I got to talk about you.

Anyhow, the money I've made from expelling curses prior to defecting is depleting rather quickly, so I need to come up with some plan.

Sincerely,

Suguru.

══════════════════

April 2008

Eight months since he defected.

Dear,

Dear Friend,

Spring is here, and I have taken over the former Star Plasma Vessel Church, or cult, or whatever those idiots called it. In addition to having some stable footing, there's a roof over my head that I don't have to thank some monkey landlord for giving me it. It's very cozy, to say the least. Which I think was the realtors code for 'small and borderline inhabitable.'

It'll be some time before I'm able to build a decent following, but those who decided to stay will do so for now. Mimiko and Nanako are being homeschooled for the time being- until I find a school that is okay with my standards.

I was grocery shopping the other day, and I found some green tea that you might like. Before I could even think, it was in my basket next to some sugary cereal for my girls. I was mentally shooting myself in the foot because I'm on a budget (at least for a while).

I don't even like green tea, for goodness sake. But that night, I found myself fixing two cups, one with a dollop of sweetened condensed milk and a spoonful of honey, stirred counter-clockwise. The other one was disgustingly plain, and I steeped the leaves a little too long.

I drank the plain tea, stewing in my impulsivity. The other cup was a milky brown; it was unappealing and painfully sweet, yet I found a warmth spilling over me. I must have been half asleep, but somewhere in my delirium, I thought I heard you scold me for taking a sip of your drink.

My eyes shot open immediately, and I frantically looked around the kitchen. Had some monkey snuck up on me? I shudder at the thought. But that wasn't the case. Just my mind playing tricks on me. I should get more sleep.

I hope you've been getting some, too- you need to get stronger. Anyway, I finished the rest of my tea and grabbed the other cup, which was ice cold. I poured the drink and watched it trickle down the steel sink- before crawling into bed.

I don't know why I thought that was worth mentioning.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru.

══════════════════

June 2008

Ten months since he defected.

Dear Friend,

Do you ever think about how dreams can be worse than reality? Writing that down seems silly because you know more than anyone, and considering I've held you until we fell asleep, I should know the answer. In truth, whenever I held you, I thought it would be a good opportunity to say things to you that I couldn't do while you were awake, as if these letters weren't enough!

I used to say really embarrassing things and a sadistic part of me wished you would wake up and ask me if I really meant what I said- but I digress.

It's hard to distinguish alcohol-laced dreams (brought upon by terrible dates the girls have insisted I go on) from memories. All that to say, I had a vivid dream (?) of how I think my first kiss went.

Autumn had brought about a cool night and an impulsive decision to sneak into an amusement park. We drunkenly went on this massive Ferris wheel, and you pulled out a cigarette and offered me a drag. I said no, and for some reason, we got into an argument and then sat in silence.

At some point, I thought to myself, "When will this ride stop?" then, by some miracle, it did! We sat in silence, and then I started smoking a cigarette too. Maybe because it felt cold in my dream, but the warm glow of nicotine and your body kept me warm. Then I kissed you.

Writing about this now… it's too clear to just be a dream. I hope it wasn't a dream. My youth seems so distant compared to where I am now.

The humidity is so oppressive. I feel like I'm soaking in my own sweat. It seems a little facetious to say that now. I keep recalling pockets of my adolescence. It's kind of like a gum packet you thought was empty, but when you go to dispose of it- there are actually three pieces left.

There's poetry in that somewhere, not to mansplain. Obviously.

Excuse my tangents; I'm still trying to recruit new curse users, not to mention pacifying the congregation at my Church, and my mind is so disorganized.

What's new, though?

Sincerely and with love always,

Suguru.

══════════════════

September 2008

One year since he defected.

Dear, Friend,

Dear Friend,

I went on a walk the other day. The sun was just rising above the horizon, nothing was open, and everything was quiet except for the few stragglers who had missed the last train. Some of them reeked of curses and desperation; it's enough to make a person grow a second stomach and throw it back up.

I did collect some in passing (in case I need it later), but I found no joy in helping others who can't even help themselves. This is what we sorcerers were made for, right? Cleaning up shit that's not even ours? I'm getting sidetracked again.

If you're wondering about my influence over the former Star Plasma Church- it's going okay. Slowly but surely, I'll get a more extensive following. I cannot remember if I told you this, but I have decided to promote myself as a monk. I am relying on word of mouth and exorcising curses or "performing miracles," to gain some trust.

Anyhow, if I'm going to exorcise these curses, I'll make sure to get a steady income. I am a father, after all. Hopefully, there's something else to gain from that. But I can only do this for so long. Please remind me to think of a more permanent solution.

The sun is rising again.

Sincerely and with love always,

Suguru.

(P.S.) I know you can't ever remind me of anything, really, but like always I feel a little more at ease writing this down.

══════════════════

December 2008

One year after, he defected.

Dear Friend,

Merry Christmas. Or, happy holidays. I've been keeping busy, and I hope you have been, too. Technically, this is my second Christmas / Holiday without you. It's still as weird as the first.

Actually, I don't know if it will ever get comfortable.

People say that the holidays are the worst for people like me. Exacerbated loneliness and the weather all contribute to an increase in curses. It's great money, but how useful is that?

I mean, you could have all the money in the world and still be miserable. Recently, I've started to gain traction from this stout millionaire who always seems to have a gang of curses around at all times.

We met by an unfortunate yet beneficial accident. Apparently, he's one of the few dimwits who can see curses. He's been aimlessly wandering about, trying to find someone to help, but no one believed him.

I was taking the girls to an optometrist appointment, and while I was finishing some paperwork, I overheard this screeching. Curiosity took over me, so I snuck a glance into the room behind the secretary's desk.

There was a massive commotion with several doctors trying to reassure that man I was talking about before. It turns out that he could see curses, and when no one was looking, I exorcised them for him. It was second nature to help someone so pathetic. He kept on calling me a miracle worker- insane! I guess I've been like that since I was little… However, he kept thanking me, and an idea popped into my head:

If I can get a steady number of people to pay for my miracles, I could make an obscene amount of money and have better insurance for separation from the higher-ups.

This man seems to come from money or considerable influence. Maybe he can be my test case. It's getting late now, so I should get some rest. I have to dress up as Santa for Mimiko and Nanako.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a Happy Birthday to Satoru.

Sincerely,

Suguru.

══════════════════

March 2009

Two years since he defected.

Dear Friend,

Recently, I went on a hike. It was okay and long. The ground was wet, and when I got home, I found mud everywhere. I'll tell you about the trail. It was beautiful. A murmuring stream, the wind dancing through the budding trees and a dusty rose sky. You would have loved the flowers. Whenever I see anything flourishing after a tough season, I think about you.

Despite being filled with tourists, non-sorcerers, and whatever, I was able to enjoy the sunset. Mimiko and Nanako had extra tutoring lessons, so I took advantage of the little free time I had. However, after being constantly bombarded with questions about anything and seemingly endless children's movies, the quiet that followed disturbed me.

Once I reached the end of the trail, I found myself eager to see my girls. But the hike was long, and I thought it would be a waste if I didn't stay for a minute or two. I thought it would be nice to take some pictures, so I did that before locating a place to sit. I found a wooden bench tucked underneath this wisteria tree (how it grew there is a mystery). My mind wandered aimlessly; funnily enough, I just now remembered we had that assignment due before I left.

I apologize for not doing my part. Do you think we could still submit it? Haha.

Anyways, while sitting on a bench, I overheard two people talking. It was a boring conversation, definitely not worth eavesdropping on (you'd probably say otherwise), but for whatever reason, I decided to tune into the tail end of their conversation.

One of them had been blurting out facts in order to keep a dead conversation going. Some of it was interesting, but most of them were things that they probably saw on a popsicle stick. Their friend nodded along, listening intently. This went on for a while until the one who kept spewing facts (let's call them popsicles) said something along the lines of:

"Have you ever thought about how we're a mosaic of every person we've ever met, talked to, or loved?"

Even though I don't know them (nor do I care to), that was probably the most intellectual thing they've ever said in their lives. I thought to myself and laughed.

But then I felt a sort of heaviness in my chest. The more I observed them from my peripheral, the more I could see bits and pieces of the habits they shared. How they playfully hit one another after cracking a joke, covering their mouth after saying something slightly offensive. It made me nostalgic.

On my way back down the trail, I thought about you. It was nearly dark now. I thought about how if I was a mosaic of everyone I ever loved:

"How many pieces of you make up my whole?"

"Which parts of me do you keep?"

I'm glad I'm never sending these letters; I'm probably better off not knowing these answers.

Sincerely and with love,

Suguru.

══════════════════

November 2010

Three years since he defected.

Dear Friend,

I've realized that it's not love I felt for you but obsession. It's harsh, cruel and painful to put you through that. For me, you were never home. That much is true. Which isn't to say you weren't something. You are a temple, and I am a sinner. If I were to step into the Holy Land you so graciously keep tidy, I would only desecrate it with my ideals.

Unfortunately, I do not want to bathe in the river to clean myself of these thoughts. So, I will seek refuge elsewhere. You deserve that after everything.

Sincerely,

Suguru

══════════════════

April 2015

Eight years since he defected.

Dear Friend,

I don't think I'll ever get tired of writing to you. Even though you'll never read these, it's stupid how only now have I realized what your father meant when he said it was easier to write things than to say them out loud. Time really is my enemy now. My previous letters mentioned how well Mimiko and Nanako are doing in school. I just thought I would say that again. I'm so incredibly proud of them.

Maybe by now, you have kids of your own- I know that you'll treat them with kindness rather than the contempt your father displayed. I thought about my parents again and their role in my life, but not for long.

You probably saw them as a safe place; to me, they were just there. A starting point to the inevitable destruction brought about by my existence. Did you know that I thought I could always save them? They trusted me to do so and keep you safe as well. Funny how life throws us around.

Work is exhausting, and during the slower days, I let my mind wander to the possible outcomes had I stayed at Jujutsu Tech. Would I be a teacher? Would I be a good teacher? Are we both teachers? You're a patient person- I know that you would be a good teacher. A faculty favourite. How promising would my students be? What would our daily routine be like? How often do we get to see each other in between classes? Are we still friends?

Are we together?

Are we in love?

From what I've gathered, you've taken a bit of a leave…

I'll save myself the hurt of writing the reason why. We both know, and unfortunately, I understand.

There's a storm barrelling towards the Church. Actually, they've issued a squall warning. The skies are rolling with grey plump clouds. I wish I could tell you what a squall is- it sounds dumb, but apparently, it's dangerous.

Sincerely,

Suguru.

══════════════════

September 2016

Nine years since he defected.

Dear Friend,

Allies seem to come from the most unlikely places. That man I was talking about before turned out to be a great asset. I've gotten more followers and even an assistant out of it! If you're wondering, yes, it's vital.

One thing I hate more than people who cannot use jujutsu is paperwork. It takes up so much of my time. Luckily, my secretary has been doing most of the heavy lifting now. We've been working long hours together, and to be honest, I don't mind. She's smart and beautiful. Her attitude kind of reminds me of you.

Sorry about the short letters- historically, mine have been longer than yours, but I have been planning something big that needs my attention. Not to mention, Mimiko and Nanako are entering their phase where everything I do seems to make them cringe.

Years ago, I said that children laughing at you was more mortifying than adults. I still believe that to be true; however, both cannot hold a candle to the shame and quickly depleting self-worth a couple of teenagers laughing at you but promptly saying, "Oh, it's nothing" can do.

My family is growing, not in the way yours is. Or so I've heard.

It fills me with so much joy to be surrounded by other like-minded people. People who believe that in order to obtain peace or a brief period of one- non-curse users should cease to be.

My heart is overflowing- but there's still a piece where you always will be.

Sincerely,

Suguru.

══════════════════

November 2017

Ten years since he defected.

Dear Friend,

Do you ever think about who gets to determine the natural outcome of anything? Is it fate? Is it man? I suppose it's hard to say since answers vary from person to person. I would like to think that it's around sixty percent individual choice and forty percent chance.

I mentioned years ago about a man who could see curses; well, yesterday, I killed him. His use to me finally ran its course. I do thank him for all he's done and the people he's brought to me. My plans are coming to fruition. The Higher Ups have been tracking my movements and expanding my influence. I bet you have already had a debrief on what to expect.

I could see how, on your end, I'm being irrational or unreasonable. But I argue that cleansing the world of non-sorcerers is the only solution. Ending their suffering will put an end to ours.

But God, what I would pay to hear what Yaga is saying! He's probably wearing those stupid sunglasses and cursing. Satoru has asked me to meet with him- probably to ask me, yet again, if I'm really going through with the Night Parade.

My answer remains firm: yes. He's probably going to tell me to stop and think about you.

Like I've said before and like I always tell Satoru, I always think about you. When I meet with Satoru, I'll ask him if he can pass along how I want to see you. The girls are calling me to take them out, so I'll perform my fatherly duties.

I hope you'll say yes. I need to see you at least once.

Sincerely,

Suguru.

══════════════════

December 2017

Three days before the Night Parade of 100 Demons.

Dear,

I must be some sort of pervert to believe that you would run away with me. I don't think pervert is the right word, but that's how I felt right then and there when you rejected me. In all fairness, I couldn't think appropriately after seeing you.

Then again, you must have some masochistic tendencies to agree to meet with me. Your hair looked beautiful, and the way the cigarette burning a bright cherry red hung on your cracked lips reminded me of that night on the Ferris Wheel, which, in fact, did happen.

I came across some old letters to confirm my hazy memory. When the snowflakes landed on your eyelashes, I just about melted, like when the sleepy snow makes its warm welcome for spring. The moon was casting shadows on your tired but beautiful face. You had a glow that made hearing you curse me out a tad more bearable.

But I'm rambling. You couldn't think about going to Shinjuku, right? I could never stop you, even more so now, but I can't back down. Not even for you- which I think was detrimental for us both ten years ago and now.

Seeing you standing next to Satoru, cursing at me, with his hand placed firmly on your hips with a face full of disdain, I think I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. But that's not a proper death. You should be standing next to me!

I watched you walk away in the dark night with a sense of urgency, a new purpose. You will probably fight in your own way, but please let me do this.

I'm not asking you- I am begging you to let me take care of you one last time.

You might not believe me, but everything I have done until now, all the blood I have shed, has been for you. I promise I will spare your children (to be fair, raiding the Gojo estate would be a waste of good sorcerers), but I can't make any promises for anyone else who stands in my way.

It seems contradictory, but I know what I am doing is right.

When I write to you again, it will be something you can read- in the new world, and we will have all the time in the world. No longer beholden to curses, only each other.

Sincerely and with all my love,

Suguru.

a/n: Suguru Geto. The man that you were and the man that you became. I love you either way, my beautiful raven-haired, purple-eyed princess. We’re about half way there! Thank you all for being so patient these last couple of months🤍. Also, apologies for any inconsistencies, I have tried my best to remember the details of this story wah!

══════════════════

© Please do not copy or replicate my work. Inspiration is appreciated, but credit properly! ♡

[odinsblog]

Since 2014, millions of Uyghurs, Kazakhs and other minorities have been locked up in China and subjected to torture and forced labour. Some of those freed talk about trying to rebuild their lives in neighbouring Kazakhstan.

Photography by Robin Tutenges

A Chinese course book

Saliman Yesbolat used to live in Ghulja county, Xinjiang. After she refused to denounce her Uyghur neighbours to the police, she was forced to perform the raising of the Chinese flag every Monday at dawn, and to attend Chinese lessons twice a week in the basement of her building, where she would learn the Chinese language, patriotic songs and Xi Jinping's discourses by heart. This is her exercise book.

Forced to leave China

At 65, Imam Madi Toleukhan is one of the oldest refugees in Bekbolat, Kazakhstan, where more than 100 families took shelter after fleeing the Chinese regime. 'We were richer back there. I owned a herd, but I was too afraid for my sons, my grandchildren and their future: I came to Kazakhstan to save them. I didn't want them to be the fourth generation to suffer at the hands of the Chinese government, he says.

Remembering Uyghur culture in exile

Two members of the Dolan Ensemble, a Uyghur dance troupe based in Kazakhstan, get ready before performing a traditional dance to mark 40 days since the birth of a baby. Founded in 2016, the troupe performs at festivals or private events that bring together members of the Uyghur community, some of whom have had to leave Xinjiang.

Torture, infertility and damaged genitalia

In Kazakhstan, medical care for camp survivors is poor. Most victims can barely afford to see a family doctor. Anara*, an endocrinologist in a Kazakh hospital who has examined about 50 camp survivors since 2020, noticed recurrent infertility problems among her patients. 'Men or women, many have damaged genitalia. Some told me they'd been given drugs, others said they'd been raped. As they didn't come to us right after being released from the camps, it's impossible to know what kind of drugs they were administered in Xinjiang, she says. *Not her real name

The tiger chair

Ospan* spent a year in a re-education camp. He says his mind and body were crushed by the tortures he experienced in a tiger chair - a steel apparatus with handcuffs that restrains the body in painful positions. Aged about 50, this former shepherd, who took refuge with his family in eastern Kazakhstan, is no longer fit for work. Physically wrecked and prone to headaches, he mourns the loss of his memory above all. 'I used to know a lot of songs and I loved to sing; I also knew poems by heart ... Now, I can't sing any more, I can't remember the words,' he says. *Not his real name

Broken families and imprisonment

Aikamal Rashibek saw the dreadful efficiency of the CCP's brainwashing on her husband, Kerimbek Bakytali, after he was released from a Chinese psychiatric hospital. 'He disappeared for a year. When he came back, he didn't tell me anything about what happened to him. He was highly unhinged, always nervous, and got angry whenever I asked questions. He couldn't stop repeating that he hated Kazakhstan now, and that he wanted to go back to China with the kids to give them a Chinese education, says Aikamal. They are now separated.

Missing loved ones in China’s camps

In March 2017, Miyessar Muhedamu, left, a Uyghur woman, was arrested in Xinjiang under the pretext that she had studied Arabic in Egypt when she was young. Her husband, Sadirzhan Ayupov, right, and her three children have not seen her since. Now that Miyessar has left the camp, Sadirzhan receives a short call every few months. He suspects she might have suffered abuse, yet Miyessar can’t speak freely. ‘She told me she’d been in a re-education camp, and that she’d been released. When I ask her what she went through there, she doesn’t answer,’ says Sadirzhan.

Life after fleeing China

Sent to a re-education camp in 2018 at the age of 64, Yerke* saw her health quickly deteriorate. Locked a tiny cell with dozens of other women, she almost lost the use of her legs due to the cold floor she had to lie on. She was in the camp when she learned of her son’s death: pressured by the Chinese authorities, he took his own life. After her release, Yerke fled to Kazakhstan with some family members, but two of her children remain in China. *Not her real name

Forced labour and confessions

Dina Nurdybay, 32, was arrested in Nilka county, Xinjiang, because her traditional Kazakh clothing business made her a separatist, according to the Chinese authorities. She spent 11 months between two re-education camps, a CCP school and a forced-labour sewing factory. After proving she was capable of being ‘well behaved’ and having performed a self-criticism in front of the whole village, Dina was released and managed to escape when she obtained a week’s leave to visit her ailing father in Kazakhstan.

Cultural genocide

China’s repression of ethnic minorities also involves cultural genocide. As Muslim rituals are forbidden in Xinjiang, people are trying to keep their traditions alive across borders. Here, a family is praying together in Kazakhstan after the death of one of their relatives in Xinjiang. They could not repatriate the body because the border between the two countries was closed at the time.

(continue reading)

[postitforward]

Today’s world is a difficult one. It is becoming evermore digital and can be all the lonelier for it. And with it can come anxiety in abundance. But we have someone who we think might be able to help: Jasmine Marie, CEO and Founder of black girls breathing®, who is here to explore the many big questions in this strange new world.

We will be partnering with @blackgirlsbreathing, a safe space for Black women and girls to manage their mental health and reflect on and heal their trauma through breathwork and community. They aim to offer free and accessible mental health resources to one million Black women and girls by 2025.

COVID-19 harmed us in more ways than one, and some more than others. It widened the gap of accessible mental health resources available to Black and Brown communities at the same time many in these same groups were experiencing isolation, compacted grief, and depression. Jasmine’s work is focused on providing preventative tools to combat a taxed nervous system, and black girls breathing® is here to provide free and accessible mental health resources to Black women and girls by offering not just breathwork, but a community. So if you’re a Black woman or girl, take the pledge to take one action to better your mental health by grabbing your free mental health toolkit and signing up here. And don't forget to ask her a question, and join us back here on March 27th to see her answers.

Want to learn more about @blackgirlsbreathing?

Check out their website!

Breathe with us on March 27th @12pm EDT during their Mindful Monday Breathwork for Anxiety session on Tumblr Live

Get to know black girls breathing's founder, Jasmine Marie on her Tumblr Spotlight

Take the pledge with black girls breathing®

[elfy-elf-imagines]

Lost in the Labyrinth of my Mind | Legolas Greenleaf

▹ Pairing: Legolas x Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff and Pining

▹ Words: ~4k

▹ Summary: The two times you realized you loved Legolas, and the one time you acted on it.

▹ Notes: I would like a reward, I've posted two times in a year 🙂🙃 But seriously, thank you for all the support and love in my last oneshot, you all had me giggling and twirling my hair with my feet kicked up.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Little has made sense lately.

Thrust into a world so unlike your own everything was disorienting. Now you were living in the world that closely mimicked the Middle Ages you’d only read about. The first year hidden in Imladris had felt like the morning after a jarringly realistic dream. Spots blurred your vision and you were half convinced nothing was even real. In fact, you still weren’t fully convinced this was anything more than a grand delusion. Your memory was spotty and the days passed in a haze, so maybe that's why you volunteered to join the Fellowship as a healer.

It was dangerous, you knew, but those fears were quelled with the notion that death would mean it all had been real afterall. Either you come home a hero or have a firm grasp on what’s reality, even if that’s in death. 

Dawn broke, the sun cresting high in the sky, but it was barely seen over the mountains. They seemed to close in, threatening to crush you and your companions, the falling snow ensuring your bodies would stay on the floor. There was a burn in your legs from the steep incline as the Fellowship hiked up the mountains. Even after a night of restless respite, your body still aches. You wouldn’t falter though, even as the tips of your fingers turned blue and your skin became as cold as ice. As the only woman in the company, you refused to be the one to stop first. Stubborn pride was all that kept you moving forward.

Somewhere in between the hobbits was where you found your spot in the marching order. You were content enough to slide in and out of their conversations, at least, the parts of the conversation that could be heard over the deafening wind. But even their chirper disposition seemed to wilt under the harsh weather that seemed to get worse the higher up the Fellowship got. 

Your eyes slid towards Legolas, a shining gold beacon amongst the frost. His hair was like the last rays of sunlight, the smile on his face as warming as a roaring fire. Seamlessly he weaved between the members of the Fellowship, seemingly unbothered by the snow. His footsteps were so light, he didn’t even leave a footprint in his wake. Unlike your travel companions, he seemed mostly unbothered by the pelting snow and frigid air. The cloak he wore, lighter than yours, seemed to be for show rather than practical use. 

It was obnoxious how distracting he could be. If you weren’t careful, you would stare at him for hours on end, mouth hung open like an idiot. It was humiliating, the amount of times you’d made a fool of yourself while in his presence. The teasing from Elladan and Elrohir had been endless. 

Yet as much as you’d hate to admit it, the flutter of your heart or the giddiness that puts a skip in your step were all sensations you reveled in. Always a hopeless romantic, even as previous partners tarnished your silver-plated optimism, you loved being in love. Except, you weren’t in love, you couldn’t be. And in the depths of night, while the stars hung high and all was quiet you told yourself a million things to convince yourself the crush on Legolas was surface level. You told yourself things like: 

“It was his elven heritage; you just weren’t used to seeing elves.”

“The infatuation and curiosity would dim with time.”

“Most of your life elves were fictional, and now there was one, right before you.”

Those were a few of the lines you told yourself to placate yourself when your mind wandered too close to Legolas, though it never felt very convincing. 

Legolas turned, his bright blue eyes meeting yours. They were so wide and full of wonder, it was hard to believe he was hundreds - if not a couple thousand - years old. He was so youthful and bright, not weighed down from living a million lifetimes. Nothing like his father nor the whispers that followed the King’s name in the corridors of Imladris. Legolas was soft and gentle, careful and perfectly polite to a fault. His father’s disposition may have been winter but Legolas remained the sun that melted the frigid snow. 

A smile blossomed on Legolas’ face, not a single crease appearing on his pale skin. The simple gesture made your heart rate increase to an alarming rate, knots twisting and turning in your stomach. Heat and embarrassment made your cheeks turn flush and you hoped he simply thought it was from the cold.

 You returned a smile, overtly aware of your own appearance and insecurities. You wanted him to think you were as pretty as the elves you’d lived among, but beauty was hard while caught in a snowstorm. Your eyes moved from Legolas, opting to stare at the back of Aragorn’s head, at least until the queasy feeling in your stomach went away. He was so beautiful, and kind, and wonderful, and--

‘Stop. Don’t do that.’ you scold yourself. It wasn’t worth the potential heartbreak to even consider Legolas like that. You were mortal and he was very much not, he would more than likely see you as a lost puppy than a romantic prospect. But despite yourself, you snuck one last glance at Legolas, foolishly hopeful his eyes were still locked on you. They weren’t; he was now in the front with Gandalf, idle and unaware of the turmoil a simple smile from him caused. 

A particularly strong gust of wind hit you, knocking you straight to the ground. The winds were getting fiercer and the snow heavier, how long would this continue before Galdalf admitted defeat and you turned around? 

Wet, cold snow seeped through your clothes. You tried to stand, but found it difficult in the thick layer of snow. Like a clumsy child you kicked and squirmed in an attempt to regain your dignity, but it was all for not. Then a hand appeared in your line of sight, offering your aid. You looked up, Legolas now standing before you with an outstretched hand. Without hesitation you took it, Legolas hauling you back to your feet with little to no effort. 

Even as your body was upright and stable, Legolas’ hand didn’t leave yours. His hands were rough from decades of archery training, but they seemed gentle in yours. His thumb lightly traced shapes over your skin. The action seemed subconscious as Legolas continued to look at you with that bright expression he always wore. 

“Careful my lady, we wouldn’t want you to blow away.” Despite how quiet they were, his words cut through the wind. There was a teasing glimmer in his eyes that seemed to translate to his words. 

You breathed out a laugh, careful to not stare into his eyes too long. Your cheeks became warm again, the red flush of embarrassment making its mark on you. Legolas’ head tilted to the side; concern masked the light mischief lighting up his face. 

“My lady, you must be freezing, especially after a fall into the snow. Here--” 

He didn’t give you time to respond, not that you even could. You were in a trance, enraptured the smell of cedar and bergamot as well as the heat that radiated from his body that was so close to yours. Legolas reached up to the clasp of his cloak and undid it. In a smooth motion, he took the cloak off and draped it over your body. 

“That should help keep you warm in the snow.”

 He smiled at you, sweet and gentle. His disposition was addictive, making a small grin curl on your lips. All too soon, he stepped away from you, sparring you one last glance before approaching Aragorn. Your cheeks remained warm and bright red, the rate of your heart not settling anytime soon. 

You continued to watch him animatley chat with Aragorn, unbothered by the cold even without a cloak. Subconsciously, you pulled the cloak tighter to your body, deeply inhaling his scent that lingered on the fabric. 

Practically floating, you were unaware of the knowing glances the rest of the Fellowship cast your way. All the while, you were lost in thought, trying to intellectualize each butterfly Legolas’ touch created. It was all overwhelming and you almost wanted to throw up. You were shaking and nervous; bright red from head to toe. This felt different than idle crushes and romanticization of complete strangers.

Maybe you were falling in love. 

---

The river languidly flowed, beams of soft light reflecting off the water and creating a thousand little rainbows. The river’s stream was gentle and almost lethargic, it seemed even the Earth was affected by the elves' lack of urgency in life. Lady Galadriel’s power had seeped into the very dirt and from it sprout and ethereal visages in the forest. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been this at peace. It must’ve been before your old life had been ripped from you. 

You were alone, fingertips digging into the mud as you stared at the stream. Gandalf was dead. It was a strange thing to constantly remember. At times you would forget, searching for him in the Fellowship only to remember he’d fallen in Moria. There was a pit in your stomach you weren’t familiar with. Greif didn’t feel the way you’d thought it would’ve, not at all the way it was often dramatized in the media. Instead of bright and all encompassing, it was a subtle, slow burn that would eventually swallow you whole if left untempered. 

But you didn’t know how to temper it. 

So it left a dull ache within you, painless enough you’d forget it was there until it suddenly pricked you like a sewing needle. 

But at least you could mourn without the threat of orcs looming over your head. 

“I had hoped to find you.” His voice was carried by the gentle breeze that suddenly came through the clearing. You turned your head, only slightly, just enough to see Legolas’ lithe form standing a little ways away. 

“It’s quiet,” you replied, returning your attention to the water, feeling a need to explain yourself to Legolas, even though his observation wasn���t accusatory. The ground muffled the sound of Legolas’ footsteps, only a soft thump heard with each step. He then took a seat beside you, so quiet it felt like he’d always been there. His eyes were on you, you could feel it, the way his blue eyes bore past your body and into your soul. Elves were far more perceptive than humans, and you could feel the truth to that statement in his gaze. 

“I had thought so as well. I came here our first night in Lothlorien. It made me think of you, I am pleased to see I was correct in that.” He spoke the words so effortlessly, as if he hadn’t just admitted to thinking of you. Or perhaps it was nothing to him, a passing thought in his mind of one of his friends. You didn’t want to just be a friend, but perhaps that was the category you’ll remain.

You turn your head, eye to eye with Legolas. A warm flush appeared on your cheeks, something that seemed permanent when he looked at you with those eyes. The type of wonder and softness that almost made you believe he returned your affections. Yet you didn’t linger on those fantasies for too long, not wanting to potentially be let down. You’d never been very strong in your convictions, something born during childhood that you never managed to shake.

Flighty and fearful as long as danger was near and it was always near; haunting the edges of your vision, a jumpscare waiting around every corner. The worst case scenario had always been accepted as the only plausible scenario; fiction became fact and you wouldn’t accept any other truth. Perhaps Legolas was waiting for a cue from you to make a move, but you were too much of a coward to ever do it. 

So in limbo you would stay, content enough with your friendship while secretly yearning for more. 

“And what about a calm river could make you think of me?” 

You were irrational and emotional, quick to anger and hard to forgive. If anything you were a calamitous tsunami; rough and heavy, dragging everyone in its tide. Nothing like the level headed and logical elves you’d lived around. 

“You’re both a source of peace and beauty,” he responded, a small child-like grin curling on his lips. Your mouth grew dry, brows furrowed in slight disbelief. 

‘He thought I was beautiful?’ 

The thoughts in your mind flew at a thousand miles per hour. There wasn’t one singular train of thought you could latch onto, the ability to speak taken from you. No witty comment fell from your mouth, only a wide eyed stare that suspiciously resembled a doe. 

It seemed to make Legolas falter, a light dusting of pink appearing on his cheeks. He looked away, eyes locked on the river. “I apologize, that came out wrong. I simply meant that while you are attractive, you are also a great friend and I value speaking with you.” He stuttered and stumbled over his words, trailing off at the end. And his voice… it was so prim and proper, it made a few of the butterflies in your stomach turn to dust. “The same way I value the quiet of sitting in this…spot.”

His eyes darted away from your sharpened gaze, scanning the nearby treeline. His nerves seemed suffocating, he’d suddenly become so flighty. Had you made him uncomfortable? Did he see the hearts in your eyes when you looked at him? Had it made him uncomfortable?

The thoughts made you shrink within yourself. The barest hint of hope within you smothered in insecurities and doubt as dark as midnight. Perhaps he hadn’t meant the compliment in the way you wanted. They were only kind words to ease a friend's grief, yet you managed to only hear what you wanted. 

‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

You fought against the disappointment, not allowing it to carve its place onto your face. The smile on your face was bright, but it didn't quite meet your eyes. “I’m glad we are friends.” You place your hand on his shoulder, your touch so light he nearly didn’t feel it. 

You half expected him to jump away from your touch as if it burned, but he didn’t. Instead, he met your gaze once more, and the worry muddying his eyes melted away.He gave a slight nod of the head, yet didn’t speak. 

Silence filled the clearing, and you were terrified he might hear your heart pounding against your chest. It became harder to breathe the longer the two of you stayed locked in the impromptu staring contest. The distance between you two was small, and you’d never been so close to him before. Oh god, was he getting closer? Was he leaning towards you? 

There was a slight quiver in your lips, heart slowing to a point you were afraid it wasn’t beating anymore. Palms sweaty, they clung to the blades of grass held captive in your hands. Time stopped, nothing else mattered as you prepared for his lips to touch yours.

Except…

They never did. Legolas pulled back, eyes wide in alarm. He stood, nearly stumbling backwards in his desperation to get away from you. He got to his feet and took two steps away. On the ground you remained, ripping out grass to keep from crying as you saw what you swore was regret crossing his face. 

“I should return to the Fellowship, Aragorn may require me. Until we meet again.” Legolas did an awkward half bow, scurrying away before you could so much as reply. 

Left alone, you let out a heavy breath, that was shuddered with choked sobs. Were you truly that bad he had to flee from you? The wind blew stronger this time, and you rolled your eyes. A few stray tears fell and you let them, there was no one to see you cry like a baby over a man you knew you could never have. 

You couldn’t deny it anymore, try as you might. 

Oh no, you were falling in love.

---

The panic that tore through Helm’s Deep was contagious. 

Ten thousand Uruk-hai would be marching towards you, an army that tripled what little forces the keep could muster. We needed outside help, but there wasn’t time to call for reinforcements. We’d all already be dead by the time they came. 

You tried to not let the fear show, desperate to keep your body steady despite the shaking it was plagued with. Deep breaths were forced as you attempted to keep your breath shallow and uneven. But you couldn’t deny it, even as you did anything and everything to keep your mind. 

You weren’t ready to die. 

Not today, not like this. 

It wouldn’t be swift and painless, it would be drawn out and agonizing; orcs weren’t famous for their mercy. Suffocated by a blanket of despair, you briefly considered offing yourself. There were so many twisting tunnels and a million ways for you to do it. But in the end, as you stared into the desolate eyes of the Rohirrim, you decided against it. If they could face impending doom with grace, then so could you. Yet that didn’t keep the terror from threatening to swallow you whole.

You were numb. 

Stood outside, elves and men began to line up along the wall. There were screams and shouts all around, but it was nothing but white noise in your ears. Across the crowd, your eyes met Legolas’. His lips were downturned and his eyes were tired; Legolas was just as terrified as you. 

You weren’t sure who moved first, but within a blink the two of you began to move towards one another. The crowd was thick but you shoved through them with the strength of someone twice your size. As you escaped the crowd and your hands found Leglolas’, you could finally breathe. It was a breath of fresh air after being forced underwater. 

His eyes bore into yours, his grip tight as if to assure himself you wouldn’t leave. Battle was coming, he knew that, you knew that, but the sentiment was nice. It made your heart flutter, the numbness freezing your body lifting the longer you stayed there. 

You wanted to speak, to tell him all the love confessions and speeches you’d been mentally writing and rewriting. But the ability to talk had been lost. Your mouth was dry and your throat had closed up. Instead you squeezed his hands tighter, hoping to convey everything your words couldn’t. 

His lips, pressed into a thin line, relaxed into a slight frown. His eyes were searching your face, looking for the answers to his never ending questions. You weren’t sure if he found what he was looking for, too afraid to ask in case it soiled the moment. 

It was in that moment, with your eyes connected and his hands tangled with yours, everything clicked into place. Every nagging insecurity and silly fear felt so miniscule and pointless. How much time had been wasted living in fear? 

Moments before doom and your hit with an epiphany. Your feelings weren’t as unrequited as once believed. Reflected in Legolas' shining eyes you could see the same unsurety that came with loving someone new. The constant doubts that you were wrong, not trusting your own eyes and instincts. It was never one sided, you just wish one of you had the courage to say something before this moment. 

A part of you waited for Legolas to speak, to declare everything you’d already figured out, but he never did. Rendered mute just as you were, he was silent in the midst of chaos. 

So you opted to not speak either and instead pressed your lips against his. Your lips were dry and cracked, raw from biting on them constantly. Legolas’ were much the same, yet neither of you hardly cared. His grip on you tightened as he pulled your body closer. He never wanted to let you lose and you didn’t want him to. 

The kiss was hardly romantic or anything like the sappy romance books that became your bible. His lips were rough and his grip was nearly bruising, but it made your heart burst all the same. There was no time for gentle kisses and longing eye contact under flutter lashes, the world was coming to an end. And you’d be damned if it ended without you telling Legolas you’d loved him. 

You pulled back, wide eyes staring into his eyes. A warm rush through your body, heart beat racing against your chest. Faintly, you heard Aragorn calling for the two of you; the current scenario came rushing back as time began to move normally. Majority of the army has lined up, anxiously awaiting the official start of a long dreaded war. You looked at Legolas once more, and his eyes met yours.

“I love you.” The words fell from your lips, jumbled together as you spoke to the tempo of your heartbeat. He understood them all the same, his lips curling into a melancholic sort of grin. 

“I love you.”

The moment was over, the bubble previously surrounding just the two of you bursting. The end was near.

Following the crowd, you and Legolas took your places at the wall, watching ten thousand Uruk-Hai march towards you. Yet you weren’t filled with the same icy fear and delolation. You’d been revived; dropped into icy water after a year long drought. 

Under the wall and hidden by darkness, your hand found Legolas’. He squeezed it, a reassurance and a promise. 

You would both make it out. 

And everything would be right. 

Deeply, you inhaled slowly exhaling. A single arrow bit through the darkness and landed in the chest of an Uruk-Hai. The enemy army shouted and began to charge. You lifted your blade, untangling your hands from Legolas’ as you knocked his arrow. 

The two of you would be fine. 

If only so you could hear him say the words you’ve dreamed about since your first meeting.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ 

Tags: @lunatichaotiche | @aearonnin | @emiliessketches | @vibratingbones | @moony-artnstuff | @mouseships | @ranhanabi777 | @kenobiguacamole | @ceinelee | @thranduil | @fried-potato-balloon | @samnblack | @abbiesthings | @Strangebananabatranch | @bitter--fruit | @keijibum | @im-a-muggleborn | @ollyoxenfrees | @delyeceamaitare |

[apoemaday]

So Mexicans Are Taking Jobs from Americans

by Jimmy Santiago Baca

O Yes? Do they come on horses with rifles, and say, Ese gringo, gimmee your job? And do you, gringo, take off your ring, drop your wallet into a blanket spread over the ground, and walk away?

I hear Mexicans are taking your jobs away. Do they sneak into town at night, and as you’re walking home with a whore, do they mug you, a knife at your throat, saying, I want your job? Even on TV, an asthmatic leader crawls turtle heavy, leaning on an assistant, and from a nest of wrinkles on his face, a tongue paddles through flashing waves of lightbulbs, of cameramen, rasping “They’re taking our jobs away.” Well, I’ve gone about trying to find them, asking just where the hell are these fighters.

The rifles I hear sound in the night are white farmers shooting blacks and browns whose ribs I see jutting out and starving children, I see the poor marching for a little work, I see small white farmers selling out to clean-suited farmers living in New York, who’ve never been on a farm, don’t know the look of a hoof or a the smell of a woman’s body bending all day long in fields. I see this, and I hear only a few people got all the money in this world, the rest count their pennies to buy bread and butter.

Below that cool green sea of money, millions and millions of people fight to live, search for pearls in the darkest depths of their dreams, hold their breath for years trying to cross poverty to just having something. The children are dead already. We are killing them, that is what America should be saying; on TV, in the streets, in offices, should be saying, “We aren’t giving the children a chance to live.” Mexicans are taking our jobs, they say instead. What they really say is, let them die, and the children too.

[doobydoobydoowau]

imagine this: you're the baddest bitch in the Roman Republic. you have spent the past few decades fighting, fucking and planning to take control of the known world. you've killed millions of people. you became the fucking pontifex maximus and used some guy's idea to reinvent the calendar. you were the first roman to have a terrible vacation experience in the UK. you won a civil war. your best friend likes to commission naked statues of you and stand in front of them calling you a king at parties.

it's the 15th March 44 b.c.e and life is good. the people love you and you just became a dictator for life. you leave your mansion, ignoring your wife's pleas for you to stay (venus above that woman is in love with you) and shake off the soothsayer who keeps following you around and talking about your doom (spurinna is obsessed with you). you swagger into work, sit down, and are immediately stabbed by a bunch of your coworkers. you stagger around for a bit feeling sorry for yourself, before collapsing down dead at the statue of the guy that you had that civil war against. what a way to go.

[female-malice]

In 2023, young women are tearing down posters of women taken hostage by violent male terrorists. Young women are screaming "shame on you" at a woman who is trying to free her daughter from torture.

We should all be motivated to work with real feminist movements and real peace movements. And there are movements like that. But they are not the loudest movements and they do not get the most press. The loudest movements believe inflicting emotional and psychological pain on the families of hostages is activism. The loudest movements claim words like "intersectional feminism" while twisting definitions upside down.

If you try to ask these "intersectional feminists" about the women enduring torture in captivity right now, they'll deflect.

They'll say "what about other women who suffered in the past?"

The women in captivity are suffering right now. Let's end their captivity and go from there. That's the logical thing to do. People know that. But they do not campaign to end the captivity of these women. They do not want to see or hear from these women after they're released.

When a woman experiences injustice and violence, we're supposed to "say her name," right? In a global geopolitical conflict, the voice of the public does play an active role. What if people marched in the streets carrying banners with these women's names on them? What if they had done that in early October? How would these women's fates have changed if the world marched for them?

The November ceasefire ended because Hamas refused to release the last 20 women in their captivity. If Hamas had seen the world marching under these women's names, would they have treated them better? And if they treated these women better, would they feel more confident that releasing them wouldn't politically damage their image?

Banners are big. There's room for names. Imagine 500k people marching behind a banner that says "Free Palestine Free Naama Levy." Imagine if that was the message heard around the world in early October. Millions of people did march in early October. But they did not think to bring banners with these women's names.

[alwaysonf1]

another hamilton?

Pairing: Charles LeClerc x Hamilton!OC

Genre: Slice of Life; Fluff

Word Count: 2.2k

Warning: Changes in the timeline for the sake of the story.

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note: N/A

The van rolls to a stop in a packed parking lot. And despite the buffer of the vehicle and the music playing inside of it, the noise from the stadium is loud and clear. 

“Are we late?” Alex asks.

Lewis smiles, shaking his head.

“No. We’re a little early actually.”

There are clearly more questions everyone wants to ask, but before anyone can voice them a producer opens one of the doors and beckons them out. All six of them pile out of the vehicle quickly. Despite Lewis confirming they have some time there’s still some uncertainty with how loud it is in there if the game hasn’t started yet.

At least they think it’s a game. Like the last four episodes filmed they were told where they'd be going and not who they were seeing and what the first sighting would be. Some of the guys only have one sibling or only one really comfortable with the limelight so it was easy to guess. But with Lewis all of this was beyond confusing.

The seven time champion didn’t usually involve himself in something of this level, so when he walked into the planning meeting for this thing it threw everyone off. Once they got past that the assumption was that it would be Nicolas. While the world knew of Lewis’ other siblings, they didn’t seem the type to agree to this.

Then they were given the destination of Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Daniel asked a million and one questions after that reveal and no one who had the information would give it to him. The man’s charm didn’t beat out their willingness to keep it all a secret so everyone could maintain some level of surprise. As if they didn’t have enough.

Charles is so in his own head about what the hell they’re walking into, that it takes a moment - and the shouting of his name - to notice that everyone is already several feet ahead of him. He jogs up to catch them and keeps his focus on what’s happening in the moment, there’s no need for him to anticipate too much of what could be coming next. 

They walk through the parking lot for a while and then turn down a path that puts them at what looks like the back of the venue. The area gives the weird sketchy vibes that you get from being late night at a track, even with all the sound going on.

At a door stands a Black woman who Charles imagines he’d be into if older women were his thing. When she smiles, he’s debating making an exception. She has curly dark hair tinged with gray and her shirt says Human Jukebox, which only serves to further confuse Charles and Carlos, who’s eyes meet his.

“Hello,” the woman says, her voice cheerful.

“Hey, Sherri,” Lewis says.

They both move forward and embrace each other, when they pull away, she places a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“Where are my manners? Hello, young men. I’m Sherri Jones. It's nice to meet y’all.”

There is a chorus of greetings from everyone, and they each take a turn trying to shake Sherri’s hand, only to end up being pulled into a hug. When she gets to Charles he simply goes for the hug, and it draws a laugh from her.

“Well, I’m glad y’all could make it here. We have a little time before things get started, but we should…”

Silence falls and trumpets fill the air, then drums. A flurry of other instruments join the mix and they do so seamlessly. The song isn’t one Charles can pinpoint, but it sounds good.

Sherri winces. “It seems the Jukebox is starting up. We better get in there before we have to fight for a spot to watch them play.”

It’s a marching band. 

Though this is not at all something that he’s especially familiar with, Charles has seen the wonders that are marching bands in the US. After watching Beyonce’s Coachella set, he even went through a small phase where he wanted so many of his unreleased songs to feature a similar vibe from it. But there’s a reason it’s unreleased.

Everyone files through the door and after a few twists and turns they walk through a shaded tunnel. At the end there’s a field clear as day

On the back of the shirt Charles catches a glimpse of the words ‘Mom of a Doll.’ And though he now has the answer to what the front means, he’s even more interested in finding out what the back entails.

When they emerge, the lights are a bit blinding, but he adjusts quickly. The sounds they’ve heard since arrival, become much clearer. And the packed parking lot feels not so packed when he sees the stands filled to the brim with people. 

He notes that the crowd is predominantly Black, which leads to the quick guess that this is an HBCU. Another thing he knows of, but not much about. 

What he does know is that the energy in the place is infectious and he finds his body moving along with the band. Who stands in the stands not far from where they enter. 

As they approach the benches and lawn chairs right in front of the band - put not in the stands - they seamlessly switch to a song that feels deeply familiar, but he can’t quite name.

Though he probably can’t name it because the moment they get in front of the bench, which has a reserved marker on it for them, he notices women draped in capes walking with an elegance he can’t comprehend and so in sync that all he can think about is when he watches a race back and sees them warming tires during a formation lap.

The women fill out the four rows that are unoccupied in front of the band in a staggered formation. Only one sits in the very front row, and it piques his interest.

Charles leans toward whoever is on his left and whispers yells, “What is going on?” 

“I have no idea, but I’m into it,” Daniel says.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the other drivers - minus Lewis - nodding in agreement. Lewis is actually standing a bit further up, with a wide smile, and staring intently. Charles steps forward to stand directly next to him and Sherri.

Excitement brews within him as he watches as each row shrug off the cape and take a seat in a domino effect. Their sparkly light blue outfits remind him of the leotards gymnasts wear and it’s a brow raising moment. He knows they aren’t going to do anything of that danger level in a location they’re in, but he can’t imagine what. Until his brain yet again goes back to Beychella.

Again, the band transitions to another song, also familiar to him, but all his brain power is on taking in what’s happening with Lewis. He’s not so sure he’s ever seen the man this happy or at least not in this way. Though he would be lying if he said he didn’t notice some of the same emotion in him now as when he’s congratulating Charles for being up on the podium.

That gets the brain turning as he remembers why they’re there in the first place, but out of the corner of his eye he sees movement in front of them.

Who he assumes is the leader slowly stands up and all eyes move to her, including his. Her brown skin is glowing, her long hair moves with her, and Charles can’t help but see how tall and long she looks, as well as the curves of her body. She’s beautiful and he can only see two thirds of her face because of the way an overhead light flashes in his.

The beat drops and she makes a sharp movement that sends her upper half down low at an angle and as she comes up her hands glide up her long leg. Each move after is just as sharp, but also fluid. She body rolls once, then again, before the next row joins. In unison they go through the routine and once the second time is done, she stops and takes a seat, kicking her leg high before crossing it over the other.

Again, like the domino effect the other rows go. Each performing twice before taking their seat the same way she did.

She doesn’t even look back to ensure that the last person is down before she rises again, arms floating into the air as she dances. She gives a spin, and her hips move in a way that makes it clear she’s at ease with what she’s doing. That it’s almost a second nature for her. 

Each movement is sensual, but in that way that entrances you, not makes you feel like a pervert for staring too hard. Though Charles does feel a little bit like one.

Just like before she takes a seat and as the last person takes her seat, her leg lifts a little more dramatically than the others, the music changes and so does the energy in the stadium. Yelling gets louder and Lewis is bouncing on his toes.

A more intense expression takes hold, and she starts the routine just as she had before, but when she comes up the sequence is different. It’s longer. And Charles feels himself take in the hype and looks to the others to see the same. Even Lance, who tends to be more reserved in public and on camera, like they are now.

The domino starts, but they all keep going until everyone has done it twice and then without missing a beat she switches to another routine. Though Charles is still unsure of what this is, he can tell that these aren’t connected in any way other than she’s made the choice to do it and the others are following her lead.

Each new one maintains its beauty, but something about it feels like a battle.

“Ooo, they’re going to throw the new one. I saw a little of them practicing it last week,” someone behind him says.

The leader turns her back to them, the band somehow gets louder, and then in the most intense of the routines yet she begins and this one is longer than the others. The moves aren’t complicated per se, but they're definitely the kind that you mess up just by lacking the musicality and the level of aggression that’s just right for it.

She does her run through, and all the girls join in. They all give it the same energy as she did, in fact Charles in awe of how they all ramp it up. It’s something he can’t imagine articulating. 

“You better!”

“Come on, Kayla.”

“Show them how it’s done, Dolls!”

“That’s my girl. Show out, Kierra!”

“That’s my baby!” Sherri says, drawing Charles attention.

Lewis cups his hands around his mouth. “Let’s go, Iman!”

Reality hits Charles, he once again remembers their purpose. Who they’re there to see. And while there is no indication from Sherri or Lewis who they’re screaming for, the smile that graces the one up front makes it clear. He stares at her in a way he didn’t before, and he sees the mix of Sherri and Lewis in her face. She’s her own person, but she definitely looks like both of them.

It’s the type of thing that makes someone feel like they could be knocked off their feet by it, even if it’s a little dramatic.

Lewis Hamilton has a college age little sister. One that radiates a similar energy and passion that her older brother brings to the track. One whose smile has Charles feeling some type of way, though he refuses to dwell on it.

Shock still gripping him he turns to look at the others and they’re equally gob smacked by it. And their camera man is getting every second of it. 

“He has another sister?” Carlos asks.

“That’s his sister?” From Lance.

“She’s so good. Like I don’t fully know what you’d call this, but it’s fucking good,” says Daniel.

Alex nods in agreement.

“Yes, it is,” Charles whispers.

When Charles turns his head back, he sees the cocky smirk on Lewis’ face and the pride is still their clear as day.

“Y’all haven’t seen anything yet,” he says.

There is no way to know what he means by that, partially because he turns his attention back to Iman where he yells more words of encouragement and because so does Charles. The girls wind down, and the domino is going in the opposite direction. It gets to Iman, and she throws in more body rolls then the routine calls for, earning more yelling, and then she sits, throwing her leg up, and then lowering it slowly.

Screams fill the stadium like never before and a smirk forms on her lips as she throws her hair over her shoulder. She smiles at her mother and brother, then she looks to the other drivers and winks.

It’s something they talk about during the game in a spur of the moment group chat Daniel makes that doesn’t include Lewis, for reasons that include fear of the man - despite nothing out of line being said. And a few of them gather in Charles’ hotel room with Arthur, and a couple other drivers, on Facetime to talk about it.

They’re enthralled and it’s a miracle nothing leaks.

And just like the information the drivers got, the title of the episode will be vague, but after they play the routine and the men’s reactions it says something like: Introducing Iman Hamilton. Secret Sibling and Captain of Southern University’s Dancing Dolls.

[writing-for-life]

About Love As The Catalyst For Change

Okay, so while I was going through all the panels for March Mania, I also stumbled over these ones again:

And although I’ve read it all a million times and had all these feelings before, I just need to blurt them out:

Love Is What Changes Him

It’s such a central message of The Sandman, but I feel it often gets lost in a million other things. And they’re all important, but so is this one.

Because yes, Dream went with Delirium and found Destruction (and Despair found him btw), and his Destiny was Death. And that whole Desire thing… ‘nuff said. BUT… (major spoilers ahead)

Those panels above are basically the turning point in a nutshell. No, well, the turning point is actually the moment he kisses (and then kills) Orpheus, but those panels are the essence:

He set out with Delirium in hopes to find Thessaly (the pendant Nuala wears here used to be hers, and she gave it to her when she left the Dreaming and him. And I can’t even begin to tell you how I feel about him letting Nuala keep a gift of his ex, who betrays him later by protecting the woman he hurt, and then making it the item that holds the power with which Nuala can call in her boon. One could spin that very far in all sorts of different directions).

But when he comes back after killing Orpheus, it doesn’t really matter anymore. Thessaly was the usual romanticised dream that could never be real. But he finally did find love. For his son. The unconditional kind. The one that doesn’t need anything in return because it just is. And he was loved back, if for a brief moment. But it was real, not a dream. And that love stays real (that’s why it initiates the turn, 3rd act and all that).

I’m reminded again of the words of Frank McConnell in his intro to The Kindly Ones:

“And with [killing Orpheus], Dream has entered time, choice, guilt and regret—has entered the sphere of the human.”

(Side note at this point: With all of this in mind, read Dream Hunters [again], and look at all THREE main characters—that includes the onmyōji, not just the monk and the fox.)

And it would be so easy to say, “Well, love killed him then, what’s the fucking point?” Not just the love for his son, but also the love of a maiden who called in her boon (Nuala), the love of a mother for her child (Lyta), the love of a crone for no one but herself (Thessaly).

But we all know that “change or die” was never an “either or”, because it’s an “and both”. And it’s ultimately love, in all its shapes and forms, four times over, that changed him (while it was also part of the death knell, but that’s a complicated one. In any case, it also led to change: To be(come) a new, better, kinder Dream).

Yes, call me romantic or hopeless (although I think that’s the wrong word in this context, because I feel it’s the opposite), I don’t care.

Because that story is about catharsis. And that means Dream is a vessel for our feelings. And the feelings won’t be the same if we change any of this, for better, for worse. Because truthfully: That story is about me. And you. And you.

About allowing love, of whatever kind (this is very clearly not just about romantic love), to change us. And that ultimately means letting go (of control). Just like he did.

Bleurgh, I’m crying. Catharsis 🤣