#no one should ever feel ashamed for addiction in and of itself and you cannot change my mind

[mrsmarlasinger]

He felt incredibly guilty and ashamed for falling away from the Church, you say? What kind of teachings could've possibly caused that

[gotnofucks]

To Sin in Love

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader x Sam Wilson

Summary: You’re forced to choose between the man who owns your heart and the one who owns your soul.

Words: 3.5k

Warning: Smut, language, mentions of hell and demons, 18+ ONLY

A/N: You can imagine Lucifer to look like however you please. I have no specific one in mind.  Special shoutout to my babe @donutloverxo​ for beta reading this hot mess and just being my rock.

Hell seemed to breath fresher when his face appeared before you. Swimming in the dark surface of the water from where you spied on him, a smile tugged at your lips. He was exiting the gym, t-shirt damp with sweat and you wished you could smell his musk. The way he walked with purpose towards his destination had you imagining how he’d walked towards you with a predatory look in his eyes.

For months you’d spied on this gorgeous man from miles under the surface and yet feeling so close to him. His grief had called out to you, drawn you into his aura of pain and regret. As a demon, you didn’t feel pity, but Sam Wilson had you feeling more than that. He had you falling in love.

So engrossed were you in looking at him, you didn’t notice your master enter until his warmth met your back. A large scaly hand came around you, holding you close. You leaned back into him, resting your head on his massive chest. Those who said the Devil didn’t have a heart lied, you could hear it beating under your ear, strong and assuring.

“I’ve seen you torture sinners without a frown, and yet here you’re melting for a mere mortal. I taught you better than that my sweet.” Lucifer whispered in your ear, pressing soft kisses along your neck. You moaned, titling your head to give him better access.

“Master” You breathily whispered, “you aren’t being fair.”

Lucifer chuckled, his hands wandering until they cupped your tits and squeezed, the very best of sin from the lord of sinners. You turned your face to look at him, admiring the beauty that had once been in heaven. Hell was worth every bit of pain if you only got to see him this close and feel his hands over your body.

“I am not being fair? I find you lusting after this mortal man while you very well know you belong to me. Why must you hurt me so, my sweet?”

Raising a hand to his face, you caressed it, savoring the tickle of his stubble against your palm. Your Lord was the most gorgeous being you’d ever seen, and yet your immortal heart cried out for Sam Wilson.

“Have you ever wanted to repent Master?” You asked softly, leaning in to kiss his lips. Lucifer groaned in your mouth, turning you around so you straddled him, his arms around you.

“I am the Devil, my sweet, Hell is my repentance. I watered the ground of my kingdom from the blood that seeped from my torn wings. Ascending to Heaven is no more my fantasy, especially not with you in my arms.”

Tears glittered in your eyes, a heat burning in your core that rivaled the very inferno you were born in. Pulling your master close, you kissed his eyes in reverence before whispering against his lips. “He makes me want to repent My Lord. I look at him and I taste absolution.”

Lucifer kissed you, his tongue slithering in your mouth and tangling with yours in a dance as ancient as him. His hands found your ass, squeezing you closer and grinding against the soft mound that lay between your legs.

“And what about me, my sweet? What do you want to do when you look at me?” He asked, his sharp fangs biting into your lips until you bled in his mouth. You shared the taste of your blood with him, finding peace in this place of sorrows where he ruled with a cruel smirk. Why would someone prefer Heaven over the freedom that Hell offered? Would anyone want to be high above if they knew how beautiful your master was, carrying a piece of that heaven into Hell itself with his presence?

“You make me want to kneel Master. I look at you and I want to worship you.” You said, love for him evident in your eyes. “You own my devotion My Lord, and he owns my heart.”

Fingers that were stained with your blood traced your cheek softly, his deep eyes that had seen eons pass by look at you with adoration. You were your master’s favorite, his most treasured demon. Nobody touched you but him, his possessiveness ripping apart every being that ever laid eyes on you. But he would never hurt Sam, he would never draw the blood of a man who owned so much of you.

“I fear you’ll forget me my sweet. If I let you free to go to him, would you ever come back?” Lucifer asked, holding your gaze steady with his. A tear forged a river down your face, his fingers quickly wiping it away.

“Master, you only need to ask, and I will stay. I was born for you, and if you shall please, I’ll die here at your feet.” You promised him. “But I cannot stop yearning for him. He is mine as I am yours.”

He looked at you for a long time before picking you up with him, carrying you over to your bed that had only ever had him as a companion. Lowering himself over your body, he striped you of your garb, touching your body with almost as much devotion as you did to him. He eased into you, the heat of your union steaming the air that rang with your soft whimpers.

“If he ever hurt you, I’ll torture him myself.” Lucifer vowed, capturing your lips that were stretched into a beaming smile. You allowed yourself to merge into one with your master once more, for you doubted you’d feel him like this again. The world was cruel like that, forcing you to chose between the one who owned your soul and the one who owned your heart.

“You wouldn’t have to master. You trained me well.” You said, arching your back as he hit the special spot inside you. “He will cherish me as you have done, I know it to be true.”

Lucifer nodded, visibly struggling with letting you go. His hips thrust wildly, lips murmuring in an ancient language of how you were his light in darkness before you both shattered together, falling into sinful bliss for the last time together. Covered in his spent and heat, you hid your tears in his neck. Even in hell, love was pure and never a sin.

Sam said that you’d been created specially to lead him into temptation and damn him. You would only smile and kiss him, never telling him how true his words were. Only, he would never be sent to your home. Sam Wilson did not belong in the fiery fires of Hell, no matter how deliciously they had burnt.

“You should be ashamed of yourself Mr. Wilson” You joked, cupping his face and leaning close to steal a kiss. “Leaving your training in the middle to fornicate with your girlfriend. Where is your sense of propriety?”

Sam laughed, pushing you onto your back on the couch, catching your giggles in his eager mouth. “You shouldn’t have sent me those pics darling. You know I am addicted to you.”

Your eyes twinkled in love for him, pulling him over you excitedly. Your relationship with him had been nothing short of a dream, his presence in your life completing you. When Lucifer had let you out on Earth, you’d wondered for one fearful moment if Sam would ever love you like you did to him. But it seemed his ageless soul had searched yours for just as long, for you clicked from the moment you met.

You’d been looking for him, navigating the crowded land of the mortals when Sam literally flew by you. His wings outstretched, Redwing hovering a few above, he chased after a man with vengeance in his eyes. Seeing him like that, you were convinced he had to be some sort of an angel for never had you felt so alive as you did then, breathing the same air as him.

As you saw him disappear, you ran after him, heart beating with excitement at finally meeting the man who’d owned you without even knowing you exist. Turning the corner, you saw him on the ground, grappling with the other man for a small pendrive. You had not planned to step in but seeing your man grunt in pain when he was punched, you launched into the battle with a cry, pouncing on the bastard who dare hurt your love.

“Die you dickface!” You screamed, pulling on his hair and delivering a kick into his side. He cried out, struggling in your hold. His mortal strength was laughably unmatched to yours and with a flick of your fingers, you twisted his wrist until you heard a crack. One conk to the head and he’d be down on his way to Hell where your Master would greet him, knowing how to deal with such asswipes.

“Hey! Hey, come off. I have orders not to kill!” Sam said, and then he touched you. He wrapped a hand around your arm and pulled you away, dragging you into himself and off the target he was chasing. The moment you felt his touch, tingles shot up and down your spine, liquid fire curling in your veins until you burnt only for him. The target lay forgotten on the ground, clutching his broken wrist as you and Sam gazed at each other.

His mouth parted slightly, fingers still digging into your flesh. You could see his eyes widen and then dilate, a similar heat simmering in them. He gulped, reluctantly releasing you from his hold but not moving away, trying not to blink as if afraid you’d disappear the moment he did.

“Have we met before?” He asked softly, tilting his head to the side. The brown in his eyes melted like chocolate, and you wanted to step closer to feel his touch again. You’d never met and yet you seemed to recognize each other. Something older than human memories had etched your face in his heart.

You shook your head, stray hair dancing beside your face as you did so. He blinked, shaking himself from his trance before lowering down to pick up the pendrive and calling in backup to arrest the target. His eyes kept drifting back to yours, confused and curious.

“Who are you?” He asked. You told him your name, shivering when it passed from his lips like a love chant. “You got strength in those arms. CIA?”

His voice was deep, and you wanted to know how it would sound right beside your ear, out of breath.

“I don’t work for the government. They don’t handle power well.” You said. Sam smiled at your words, looking around as three agents approached him, cuffing the target and patting his back.

“My name is Sam Wilson.” He said, offering you a hand that you eagerly shook. “Would you care for a cup of coffee? I may know a team of people who handle power just fine.”

“Hey, where’d you go?” Sam asked, his lips trailing down from your shoulder to your neckline. You come back to the present, catching the back of his neck and allowing him access to your breast, moaning when he sucked them from over your clothes. You’d been brought together by fate, of that you were sure, never parting ways since the day you met.

“Was thinking about you.” You replied, shimming out of your shirt and salivating at his naked torso. He was beautiful, his body glowing in the sunlight that peaked in like a voyeur through the blinds to witness your tryst.

“What about me?” He asked, smoothening his hands over you. Your skin heated under his touch, a desperate craving in your core to be filled by him overpowering your senses. You moaned his name and asked him to take you, quietly sobbing when you felt his tongue against your moist center.

“Sam, please. I feel empty.” You cried, hips raising as a finger eased into your channel and rubbed against your spongy walls. He smirked against you, sucking on your clit and tasting your juices that he said were like his own communion. No wonder he fell for a demon, uttering the filthiest things from those lips that made you quiver.

“Tell me, what were you thinking of.” He prompted, teasing you further. You writhed under him, holding his head with your thighs, and clutching the edge of the couch. He was grinning at your desire, loving as you made a mess for him. You cursed, eyes closing as you gave into his ministrations, coming apart into his mouth and crying out his name.

His slight beard that had taken him months to grow left a delicious burn on your skin, and soon his lips met yours, his breath carrying your scent. You lifted your hips eagerly to his, begging him with your eyes to take you, to own your body and make you his again. Greedily kissing you, he entered you with a practiced thrust, moaning at how snug you were. When Sam fucked you, he lost himself in your body to find his soul.

“Look at me.” You said, forcing his lust blown gaze to yours. He panted hard, grabbing your hips for support as he pushed into you, your bodies merging together like perfect puzzle pieces. You wondered again how this utterly beautiful man could be yours, how a damned soul like yours could belong to one as bright as his.

“What were you thinking of darling?” He asked again, biting your shoulder to leave a mark.

“About how much I love you.” You finally said, surprising him by flipping him over and taking the reins. You rode him out, taking him deeper and deeper until you were sure he was in your womb, feeling right at home. “I have loved you since before we met, believe it or not.”

Sam took your hand that rested on his chest and placed a sweet kiss on it, laying back as you lazily fucked him into a pile of gooey mess.

“I believe you baby” He said, pulling you into a soft kiss. “I feel like I’ve loved you my whole life.”

Tears gathered in your eyes, your hips moving faster as his words registered in your heart. Your love was complete and reciprocated, your life finding its meaning in him. Oh, how you loved him and his gap-toothed smile. His eyes that lit up when you danced together and played pranks on his friends.

“You are my heart Sam Wilson” You whispered in your ancient language, surrendering to him and the pleasure of your body.

Your dream suddenly turned hot, and it was then you realized you were back home. The room you had spent centuries in was still the same, your stuff kept together like a shrine to your memories. You wandered in, touching everything as nostalgia welled in your heart. Reaching your bed, you smoothed out the creases in the velvet sheets, smiling at the smell of your master there.

“Welcome home, my sweet.”

There he was, as regal and beautiful as ever. Looking at him, you knew he was meant to rule hell, for someone like him could never be happy serving at the feet of another.

“Master” You said breathlessly, wanting to crawl on your knees to him. But before you could, he flew to you and took you in his arms, his wings opening wide and curling around your body, enveloping you. A sob lodged in your throat, for you had never thought you’d ever feel him again. You met his eyes that seemed misty like yours and when he kissed your forehead, you let a tear escape.

“Oh, my sweet, how I’ve missed you. Hell seemed to have lost its fire without you. My hearth seems cold in your absence.” Lucifer said, nuzzling his nose in your neck. You held him close, running a hand through his hair that had grown longer.

He pulled away to kiss both your cheeks, his beautiful visage soothing the burn in your heart you didn’t know you have. Fate has been cruel, separating you from one man you love to be with the other. You raised your head up to receive his lips, but that kiss didn’t come.

“No, my sweet,” He sadly said, stroking your face gently, “You and I both you we can never share that intimacy again.”

Your heart broke at the rejection, a frown crumbing your face into one of despair that Lucifer was quick to kiss away.

“Oh no, that is not what I meant.” He assured. “I have loved you since you were born. If I am the soul of Hell, you are its heart. But now your heart belongs to someone else, does it not? Nobody knows better than the Devil that you must not abandon that which you seek. My need for freedom led me here, and you need for love led you to the man who could return it the way you deserve. Do not sully that by presenting yourself to me, not when I would love you just as much without the succor of your body.”

It was then you realized, standing in the palace of the damned with the Devil, that love came in various ways. Here was your master, who loved you deep enough to let you go, defying all nature that had made him a villain. He was greedy and jealous, the sinner whose pride led him to fall. But that fallen angel had raised you here, had loved you as purely as god did to his children. How harshly had the world judged this being, and how strongly have you loved him, that you didn’t want to leave.

“Master” You begged, clutching his collar and holding on tight. “Do not let me go. You still own me, as does he. Can I not belong to the both of you, equally?”

Lucifer smiled, a content look in his gaze. He sat down on the ground, taking you into his lap and rocking you like a babe. “My sweet, you will always belong to me. Love is infinite, and you can divide it between people and yet it wouldn’t lessen. But I summoned you back here to give you a boon, for I see far into your future.”

You stared at him in confusion, hugging him tight. He smelled like the dirt of graveyard after rain, death and rebirth combined into one. He took a section of your hair, running a hand through it until the few strands in there turned gray. Your heart beat faster, a new vulnerability coursing in your blood that had you feeling fear for the first time in your life.

“Master, what have you done?” You asked.

“That man you love lives a limited life my sweet. I promised you to not damn him into this place of tortures, and if I cannot bring him in as a demon, I must make you a mortal like him. Grow old together, find your happiness. When the time shall come for your body to retire, the fates shall merge you as one and see where to deliver you.”

A storm of emotions rushed through your heart, longing and pain and love and sin. You leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, feeling his presence settle in your bones.

“And you master? Would I ever see you again?” You asked, voice cracking. Lucifer smiled, removing the black ring from his finger and pressing it in your palm. He rested his forehead on yours, lips curved in a small smile.

“I will stay down here and try to repent my sweet, so that one day I may join you too. If there ever was someone who could redeem the Devil, it is you.” He whispered.

You laid in his arms, cocooned in his presence until you woke up in your bed next morning cuddled up to Sam, clutching the ring Lucifer had given you.

Sam had always been pretty, but today he was just beautiful. His eyes sparkled like precious gems, a reassuring metal hand on his shoulder telling him to keep it together. He couldn’t believe it but when he held your hand, it felt real. A black ring sat on his hand, a matching one in yours.

“Could you both wait until the reception is over to eye fuck each other?” Bucky joked, but he kissed your cheek and hugged you, pushing you into your now husband.

“I have waited a lifetime to be his, I guess I will be okay with a few more hours.” You said to Bucky, but your eyes were trained on your man. He was yours, wearing your mark. You both were together in spirit and body, and your love seemed to have tripled in size.

“We have forever to go darling, don’t we?” Sam said, kissing you softly.

You nodded, entwining your hands and running a finger over his ring. You had a forever, and you would wait a forever more for the other part of your soul.

[giftofshewbread]

The Infrastructure (Good vs Evil)

 By Robert Campbell      Published on: August 8, 2021

Hello folks, I think it’s time for another article about things that concern me regarding what’s going on in America. I don’t write regularly because other writers have covered many important topics, and I don’t need to repeat them. But as I look at America, I see the face of it changing right before my eyes. It does not have that American greatness as before; the light is dimming daily. Why is that?

We are a Christian nation, or are we now? We have been weakened over the years, and now we cannot even fight back. Has the infrastructure been rebuilt so that we cannot fight back without destroying it?

I have always wanted to understand more of what the Bible meant that “good will become evil, and evil will become good.” How does that look? I can see it from afar, but how does one see it today?

There was a day when evil was hidden; it kept itself hidden so as not to alarm the people of its deception. It would not show itself, or we would fight it back. There was a time that we were ashamed to even be around those doing wrong.

Christians were the mainframe of what was right in this country and abroad. We were proud to be a part of a nation that worshiped God daily. Traveling the world helping others was part of our nature as a country. We did it, not for our glory, but for the glory of God. God blessed us with everything we needed, and we were the envy of every country on earth.

Whether they believed in God or not, our founding fathers had morals from a higher standard than themselves. From the very beginning when, yes, the white man set foot in this country, God used them to create, second to none, the best country that ever was and that ever will be.

If men today were like men of yesterday, we would be better off today as a country. But men today are weak and pathetic; they act like women, emotionally vulnerable. They have fallen prey to the women just like Adam did in the garden; men have bitten the apple. Eve bought the lie in the garden, and women today are repeating it over and over again. Men decided to turn over their responsibility to the weaker vessel (the women). Men of all walks of life are addicted to women; they have put the women before God and Jesus our Lord and Saviour.

The children are led by weakness instead of strength, and they grow up without any morals and values. Just look around you at our children today. The parents are too busy getting their stuff, and the children are left home to fend for themselves. We send them to the public schools where they get indoctrinated, and the parents are clueless about what is being taught to them.

The infrastructure has been changed. How did this happen, how did this begin to change?

We Christians bought the lie; we decided to allow evil to get a foot in the door. We allowed evil to tell us it was alright to let the Godless rule over us. The churches were the first to go under the onslaught of evil; just look around you.

To this day, we are still slaughtering innocent children in the womb (Black women are responsible for one-third of babies to date slaughtered in the womb), and the so-called preachers (not all, but most), even the good ones, are not speaking on it. They’re too afraid they might lose their people and money and the most important of all, their parking space up front.

The men of the church allowed women to become preachers knowing God is against it. Women were not designed to rule over men; it’s out of order.

Even in our country, we have allowed women to rule over us in government – mayors, senators, etc. Just look around you. We now have a vice president that is a woman (Kamala Harris), and she is clueless on what to do under pressure. And we also have a president that is not in good health; we know that he is showing signs of Dementia. The liberals do not care that this man is sick; they only are concerned with power.

There is no love among liberal Democrats, and it seems to be the same with the so-called conservative Republicans. They will do whatever the cost to gain wealth and power and to control you.

Joe Biden’s wife “Jill” has no love for her husband; she has allowed him to make a fool of himself in front of the world—all for the sake of fame and power. Even Biden’s family could care less about him; as long as they get what they want, they will use the president to their advantage.

They are using the president to get their godless agenda done. We all know that this election was stolen from Donald Trump, and we saw before our eyes the weakness of righteous men and women who did nothing to stop it. We watched the liberals put their plan in action and still did nothing to stop it. Our senators and congressmen did nothing to stop this thievery from taking place. All because of fear and retribution. In other words, they were cowards. And most of them hated” Donald Trump.” They hated him because he was arrogant and bragged, and he called them out.

Even preachers will tell you that God did not like his arrogance. But folks, Donald Trump was always that way. He was a real man, not afraid to tell it like it was. God could care less about his arrogance; God put him there for a reason.

But the infrastructure has been changed. We no longer have strong men to lead a country; we gave it over to the women to lead us. Even conservative women have no business ruling over a man. Even “Candice Owens” is trying to rule over men. Men are saying that she will make a good leader. She claims that men should go back home and lead their families, yet she will not go home and raise her newborn child. Her husband will allow her to run around the country saying a whole lot of nothing. Her Ego is off the charts; she bought the lie, just like “Eve” did in the garden.

Evil is now the new good, and folks from all walks of life are falling for it. At first, it was subtle, and now it does not care because it is now in our infrastructure. Evil is now in the forefront and looks like good; it’s an imitation, not real. Commercials have turned evil into good and blatantly puts it in your face. There is no more shame in showing two men in bed together representing a family over children or having men calling themselves women (transgender) to compete in women’s sports. It’s in our infrastructure now, hard to reverse.

What was logical is now all emotion, now mainly from the men who are more emotional than the women.

The white man has become so weakened that he cannot even fight back because he has a bullseye on his back. The white man is so hated because he represents power in this country. He represents good in America; he works the hardest to build, not destroy.

Black men were destroyed a long time ago through “Welfare and Civil Rights.” The black man bought the lie that he needed help from the government; that he could not succeed in life without their help. Liberals and Godless folks told Blacks that racism was the cause for them not getting ahead in America. Slavery was so long ago that it is not even worth a conversation. It’s in the past, but blacks today believe it is still relevant.

The infrastructure has been changed. Even the conservatives believe in the lie. Evil is now good, and good is now evil; you cannot see the difference.

This pandemic was a set-up from the very beginning to weaken America and destroy Donald Trump. Liberals could not allow Donald Trump to succeed in “Making America Great Again.” That would hinder their plan for control over the masses. It would stop them from making billions and billions of dollars. The pharmaceutical companies are making billions over this fake pandemic, and the mind-numbed robots follow every government and media instruction even though they know it’s a lie. They follow suit because of fear. They have fear because the no-good pastors, senators, governors, and mayors tell them so.

Satan, in reality, has sold us fear, the true enemy. Even today, people are still wearing a mask, knowing that it will not stop a virus. But they wear the mask because of fear and doubt; it makes them feel secure and comfortable. After they dress for the morning and get ready to go out, they grab their smartphone and mask; they won’t leave home without it. It is fashionable now to have one on.

Even after a year, folks will still wear the mask, thinking that the virus will somehow float through the air and magically stop and not go through the paper mask. And the most striking part is that I see more blacks wearing the mask than anyone else, all because they were told to do so.

Remember the yellow star (patch) in the days of Nazi Germany that the Jews were forced to wear? It’s no different today. The vaccine is a set-up, a trial run of what is coming.

There is nothing in the vaccine that will stop the virus; it is all smoke and mirrors. Folks believe that by taking the vaccine, they will not get the virus, so they go running gladly to the nearest facility and get their miracle drug, all supplied freely from their government.

Fear and anger run rampant today, and blacks are leading the way to America’s destruction, leading the way in everything wrong in this nation today. They go around with hate in their heart for the white man; they hate everyone, including themselves. They do not believe in God. Instead, they would go around and support an organization like “BLM,” believing that the ten, perhaps 11 blacks killed by white police officers was a racist act. Yet blacks are killing each other daily in the hundreds.

The infrastructure has been changed. This is happening to all races of people; the spirit of evil is the same throughout.

White men, you need to stand up and tell the truth; be not afraid. America, will not change until you men of all races stand up.

God is waiting on men; He is waiting on righteous men to do the right thing, but the infrastructure of America is not the same any longer. It has been destroyed to allow evil to reign, and it is hard even to find one righteous man or woman to fight back. Most have bought the lie.

Churches today are just as dangerous as the women’s womb; you may not come out alive. Preachers sound just like the world today; they give you no hope. They will follow Jesus as long as it goes along with the world and keeping their stuff.

People cannot afford to be without their Smartphone or Google; that’s their new god; it gives them everything they need. Just look around you; they pray to their phone every five to ten minutes without hesitation. It goes everywhere with them; they will go back 10 miles from home to get their phone when they are a mile away from work.

God no longer leads America in people’s lives; Satan has given them a new false god to follow and worship. Satan has made a lie look like the truth and the truth to look like a lie.

Men of all races that are true believers in Jesus Christ must get their courage back. After all, it took one man like Donald Trump to change the world; God used him like he used men from old to get his agenda done. God is looking for a few good men and women to have no fear, and we can begin to move mountains. All is not lost if we now turn around and stand up, and you, that’s right, you white men must lead the way.

We cannot rely on the women to do it for us; it’s not in them to do so. Women cannot fix a man’s problem; we fix women’s problems; that’s our job.

America’s light is almost out, but we did not have to let it come to this; all we had to do is have no fear and trust in God. Now is the time to take America back. The godless liberals think they are winning but are digging a deep hole for themselves. God will, in time, judge them harshly, and I’m afraid good Christians will go down with them. All because they bought the lie.

God is the master of all, and he will let you decide on good or evil; he will give you ample warnings. We have read and re-read Bible, and we still don’t get it.

The word of God is in our hearts from the beginning. For those who have kept up the good fight, God will honor you with his blessings. He will see you through this just as he has taken care of me. I’m here to tell you that God will not forsake you or leave you, even though it seems the bleakest. Our roughest trials are just trials to make you stronger through turbulent times. God is here and now, and he did not give us Jesus for anything. He gave us Jesus for everything. Look to him, and you will get through this.

You must forgive your enemies and love them anyway.

America, it is up to you. We must always pray for Israel; if not for them, there would be no us.

I’m a Christian American Republican who happens to be black.

Make America Great Again.

[useless12sstuff]

Short stories #3

. 3 Above and Beyond

Trudging through the woods, I try to place the majority of my weight on my makeshift cane. Squinting my eyes, I try to keep sight of my path. The moon is of barely any help. If I had known it would be dark I would've snuck out a torch. Pulling my coat tighter around myself and wishing, not for the first time, that I should've worn something warmer above my hospital gown. I buried my nose in my scarf and yet, the crisp air still burned down my lungs. If my cigarettes don't kill me first, the cold certainly will. 'You shouldn't be here', the guilty part of my brain whispered. I squashed that thought down just like the leaves under my feet. Silly Linda, I scoff. She thought she could keep me in the ward by locking the door. Well look now, I jumped out the window. Well the pangs in my leg are almost making me regret. Almost. Oh whatever. To hell with Linda and her false pretenses. She can act sweet and coy all she likes but I know she wants me dead. Not more than I do but it is a mutual sentiment that is reciprocated. She's far too young anyway. A bit naive and very gullible. Very overconfident too but she is under the assumption that she's being 'smart' and 'sharp' and that an old, miserable midget like me won't be able to see right through her. An absolute fool. I despise it here.

I hobble my way to my usual spot, a clearing somewhere in the middle of the woods. The crescent moon stares down at me, as if judging. Sitting down on a tree stump while catching my breath, I pull out a pack of cigarettes that Linda missed and a lighter from my coat pocket. A cold draft rushed and rustled the trees and I held my coat tighter, shivering badly. With numb hands I light a cigarette and hold the lighter close, the tiny flame giving me a semblance of warmth. Sigh. I wouldn't want the fluid to run out. I pocketed it, closed my eyes and enjoyed my cigarette. Deep inhale and then exhale. Inhale and exhale. Finally, some peace and quiet….

…. Which did not last longer than twenty minutes. A sharp, whip like crack sobered me up and I opened my eyes to a terrifying sight. A creature with four faces, more than a hundred wings, taller than the trees, so huge that I can't distinguish the sky from its body. The moon is nowhere in sight. His whole body consists of uncountable eyes and tongues. What on God's green earth is this!? I can't move. Why am I not moving? Its hellish eyes stared me down. The cigarette I was holding had long fallen. I am a stone, glued to one place. I can't tear my eyes off this- this creature. All too soon, it descends and shifts into a shape more recognizable. A man. Dressed in a pure white robe, inky hair curled in every direction, skin the color of rich soil and piercing charcoal eyes, this man would stand out among any crowd. I must be hallucinating. Are cigarettes supposed to make you hallucinate?

"What kind of alien are you?" I asked in a quivering voice.

The man blinked. Then blinked again. Then stared at me long enough to make me wish I hadn't spoken.

"What kind do you think I am?" he smoothly replies, evading my question.

"A shape-shifting one."

He folds his hands neatly behind his back and doesn't reply.

"And who would you introduce yourself as?" he asks. I have a distinct feeling that he's humouring me. Like a cat who caught a canary.

"I, well, I-uhm-I fancy myself a student." I stuttered out. He doesn't need to know where I am from.

"A student of?"

"Life."

The alien smirked. An uncomfortable silence surrounds us, uncomfortable for me atleast. I feel weaker. Sweat beads at my eyebrows. This alien's presence has a weight that is taking a toll on me.

With nothing to do, I whip out another cigarette. I finished smoking it. Then I pull out a second, then a third, then a fourth.

"How long have you been smoking?" the alien asks suddenly.

"A few decades." I say, lighting another cigarette. A hush falls again.

"How do you speak our language?" I inquired, anything to keep the oppressive silence at bay.

"I've been here before."

"Oh?" I ask, hoping for an elaboration.

"Yes."

None came.

"What is it like?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Your planet. What is it like?"

"It is a human's dream come true. You can have whatever your heart desires. Food, clothing, land, companions. It is eternal peace-"

"Sounds like heaven." I interrupted.

The alien's lips quirked.

"Something of that sort. It can be very beautiful or very terrible depending on the person."

"Why so?"

"Would you wish for good things to happen to evil people?"

"No. Not at all."

"My point exactly."

"What is evil anyway? Is evil caused by a difficult life?You know, I've always wondered."

The alien calmly looks back at me.

"Have you had a sorrowful life?" he asks, a curious gleam in his eyes.

"Sorrowful?" I scoff. "I can barely recognize myself in the mirror anymore. A saying goes 'Let a man walk the halls of sorrow. Whatever comes out, can it be called a man anymore?' " I asked.

"Sorrow is either growth or wasted potential if you have not learned. Power on the other hand, man cannot be trusted with power. It is too corrupting." the alien argues.

"I'll have to politely disagree. Power in itself is not corrupt. Power attracts those who are corruptible. Those who took the wrong lessons from their sorrows."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You have become a cynic only because you felt your life was difficult. Your cigarette is proof enough. It kills you, yet, you stick to it. Doesn't that make you just like them?"

"You are not a human. You don't, and maybe, will never, understand the delicate intricacy of addiction. I am not defending myself. I am ashamed but leaving it is no easy task."

The alien hummed," If you believe so. You are quite a melancholic person." he says, matter of fact.

"So I've been told." I smiled self deprecatingly, "Look at me, debating about ideologies with an alien."

The alien smirked, as if he was in on a joke I wasn't. Strange.

I cleared my throat. It felt itchy. Must've been the cigarettes.

"Anyway,how does your planet deal with 'evil' people."

"You need not worry your head over it. Our, ah, justice system is very fair."

"Oh. Where is it located? Your planet that is."

"Not here. It is somewhere above all the galaxies."

That most certainly piqued my interest. I have wished for death on my worst days but on my best days, I've always been a curious bug, too curious for my own good. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Why are you here?" I finally cave in to my curiosity.

The alien side eyes me and replies, "I'm here to take one person home with me. Forever."

A thrill raced up my spine and anticipation settled in my bones. I licked my frozen, chapped lips. Perhaps I am being selfish. I spent my entire life looking for an escape, an escape from everything, my depression, my poverty, my disease, that hospital and its disinfectant smelling wards, Linda, this wretched world. That is an artist's curse. Escapism, they say, is an art too and I am anything but unacquainted to art. I always wondered about what was beyond, a place where no man had stepped. The golden threads of time, weaved into the fine fabric of the universe, permitted this opportunity to occur in front of me. I will take it even if my hands bleed.

I have no family that left, nobody who loves me. I'm bitter and alone. I deserve to be selfish for once in my life. To take a big leap, a risk. Yes, I will.

"Take me with you." I begged. "Please."

"Why should I?" the alien replied, staring right in my soul.

"You came for me. I know. If you didn't you wouldn't have landed here." I say, hopefully.

"And if I say that is false? What else would you offer?“

"I can offer you beauty and art. I can create for you."

"We have many of those."

"There will ever only be one like me. Just like there is only one artist like them. Themselves only."

Silence enveloped us again while rejection stung my chest again.

"Allow me to prove myself." I plead.

The alien looked at me, questioning.

"Look in my mind, see all that there is." I say determinedly. And I let him in my mind, let him see the world through my eyes and feel what I felt. I let him see my arts, my music, my poetry, my paintings that I crafted lovingly with my aged hands. I let him see what a human sees, something I know that he had never witnessed. Then I revealed my sorrows. Hopefully humanity would appeal to it.

With a pull he left my head. My eyes burned and I felt a blood vessel burst. I dry heaved on the dead ground but the nausea still lingered. I am glad I was seated or my knees would've buckled and I would've been an undignified heap on the floor. All the while the alien just stared and stared. I am getting sick of his staring too.

Once again, I broke the silence.

"I will paint your skies," I continue, hesitantly, "and your buildings and walls. I will write for the children and even for the old. Just please, take me. I'm exhausted ."

My eyes burned again, unshed tears waiting for release. I avert my eyes and let out a sigh. I feel heavy and my shoulders slump. Unexplainable exhaustion overcomes me and my temperature keeps rising, beads of sweat rolling down my face.

"If," he began,then stopped. It was the first time in our entire conversation that I saw him hesitate.

"If," he continued, "if I were to ask you to scream your wish at me, what would you fear more; your echo or my answer? “

"My echo", I reply instantaneously.

"Why?"

"Because it would mean you have declined."

"Hmm. Recite a poem for me."

I gave a shaky, hopeful smiled and offered him my words:

My river by the oak tree

has turned molten gold again,

as the glowing orb of light and life surrenders to the sapphire sky.

The cotton clouds float in shy, pink circles

While the rush of the river awakens a memory I had long forgotten,

When this same tree once bore luscious flowers,

Their scent wafting lazily into the cool breeze,

While I sat and reminisced about the possibility of other lives in the universe,

Under the wrinkled, silver moon.

Silence hugged us again while the impact of my weakened voice lingered in the air.

"Do you believe in other lives? Aliens and such?" he questioned.

"Yes I do, I mean you are here so that confirms it too."

"You are a funny one. No one has ever mistaken me for an alien." it grinned, crooked, as if a gesture it wasn't familiar with.

My body went cold and tremors shook it to its feeble core, my breath coming out in shallow pants. My eyes shut down of their own accord. The entity then spoke with a voice that might have held the weight of a thousand suns,

"Beyond the stars we go."

[polar-stars]

4th of a 5 part ask of @smokeprincess24

Shigeo Eizan

👹 How does you OC act around different people and how does their personality change to match the environment they’re in? How do they act with: friends, family, strangers, children or their lover(s)?

Answered Already (in very long manner, haha)

🍅 How easily is your OC embarassed? What subjects make them flush and why? What event has made your OC the most embarassed they’ve ever been?

It honestly depends a lot on who he’s talking to. People who Shigeo has a more intimate relationships with and who just know him really well have a much greater chance to embarrass him than complete strangers have. In the end, he’s very calculating and keeps his composure excellently, but there’s no real need for that around people he’s legit close to. 

Shigeo is another candidate who thinks that discussing sexual topics publicly is very inappropriate, so that’s one thing. Given that, as Etsuya’s and Nene’s son, the Tsun-Genes certainly run through his veins any of the people closer to him bringing up Chieko and his relationship to her can lead to him flustering as well. 

What truly, TRULY never fails to embarrass him is being asked to sing. He thinks singing is….so, so embarrassing and he will flush after the first word ngl. Unless he's drunk. Then he honestly sings half his sentences. 

💥 Are there any emotions your OC doesn’t know how to deal with, doesn’t understand or hates having to feel? Any reason behind this?

Ahaha

So there’s one emotion that Shigeo is, one could say, terrified of. And it’s Fear itself. Shigeo is kind off afraid of being afraid. More about that later in the story but welp, he has certainly experienced the feeling of being scared in the past and he decided he never wants to feel like that again in a sense. 

Then there’s also sadness. I think I’ve said plenty of times already that something rather unfortunate happened in Shigeo’s childhood and the memories haunt him to this day. It can certainly spoil his mood and bring his spirit’s down, yet Shigeo swallows it down and locks up his everlasting unhappiness up in himself. He does not want to feel sad as he believes it makes him weak and vulnerable and that’s the last thing he wants to be (because weak and vulnerable have more reason to be afraid, easy as that). He also never ever cries.

There’s also a bit of more positive emotions that he’s inexperienced with and it confuses him when he feels them. Something that he genuinely cannot really grasp is what exactly his emotions for Chieko are actually. At first it really was just about getting her to be his assistance but he ended up getting much fonder of her than he planned?? Like this was not his intention? Shigeo never really pictured himself “falling in love”. He thinks that true love is rare in the world he lives in and that his father got insanely lucky. Shigeo always pictured himself in some loveless marriage arranged by his grandparents, once they’ll eventually grow tired of his single life...So when he starts actually gaining feels for little Chieko, he really does not know how to deal for quite some time. 

🏀 Does your OC have any skills that people wouldn’t expect them to have? Do they have a hobby or pass time that others would consider strange or weird? How did they learn this particular skill or pick up this hobby?

Shigeo is a man of many talents but a lot of them are not all too surprising to most people. However given the fact that he thinks singing is the most embarrassing thing ever and therefore does not often do so…Not many know that he can sing pretty well actually. 

Funfact but he knows how to do the "Charleston". He knows plenty of dances which his grandaunt insisted on teaching him (and also Masashi and Kei) for all sort-off social events that await one in high-society; however most of them are ballroom dances. He asked his grandaunt to teach him the "Charleston" as a child mainly because of his love for Jazz-Music, so yeah. (Further Funfact but Suzume knows the "Charleston" as well actually ahshd)

⭐ Does your OC like to sleep alone or do they enjoy sharing their bed? Have they been to any sleepovers? Have they ever been camping? What did they think of the experiences if so?

There was never much of a need for Shigeo and his brothers to share a bed when they were younger since the fam is rich, however they still tended to do so whenever they were on vacation somewhere a lot of times. It was mainly for comfort-reasons as the three could snuggle at each other while Nene sung them into sleep with her infamous lullabies (as I said plenty of times already: lullaby-mom). 

When he's a teen he's very much used to sleeping alone in his huge bed and doesn't really believes that he needs someone there. However it is when he actually gets with a certain girl and starts sharing a bed with her that he A LOT of comfort from her presence and her clinginess and finds it very soothing. You see….Shigeo sleeps terribly. He goes very late to bed and rises the most early. He gets frequently tortured by nightmares and awakes a lot in the middle of the night in sweat. However he finds these things getting rarer and rarer once he sleeps with someone he cares about. 

🍏 When your OC says “I had a bad day” what does that tend to mean? Is it really as bad as they’re saying or are they being a bit dramatic?

Honestly Shigeo uses "I had a bad day" more as a way to unsettle his underlings. He often says that he's in a bad mood or something when he's annoyed (because of an E10 meeting or so) and his underlings are about to report about a task he's been giving to them. It's basically a warning "I had a bad day, so you better have good news for me". 

When he really feels greatly and terribly upset he won't talk about that.

🐉 How religious is your OC? Do they pray to any god(s) or do they not believe in that kind of stuff? What is their view of religion in general? Where do they believe people go when they die? If your OC is not religious why not and what do they believe in otherwise?

Despite all of Nene's efforts to raise a bit of enthusiasm for the Shinto-beliefs in her son, Shigeo grew into a proud atheist with a rather cynical view on religion but it's, surprisingly, not something he would use to insult someone with. 

💧 What is something from your OC’s past they’re the most ashamed of and why? What is something they’re really proud of? And lastly what is something in their past that could make them shake with dread?

The major event that tremendously affected Shigeo is something he never wants to think about again, but as I said…given that he never really got any closure from it because he's kind off just trying to ignore that it happened…that major event still haunts him to this day and yeah, if he would be confronted with the people who hurt him back then he'd most likely freeze and feel panic spreading in him. 

What he's the most prideful over so far is the fact that he was named as successor of his father as CEO of the consulting-family that the Eizan family runs at an astonishingly young age and despite the fact that he's not the first-born son. It's ultimately  due to the fact how he showed a lot of understanding in the field of business and consulting from an early age on.

🐟 What was your OC like as a baby? What were they like as a child? A teenager? An adult? How do you think they’ll develop ten years into their future? Twenty years? Will they live to old age?

Shigeo already showed himself to be the least loud one out of his brothers as a baby. He was honestly rather relaxing and rarely inconvenienced his parents while they were doing their work. He slept a lot. However he liked to grab things A GREAT TON. Specifically all kinds of shiny things. He was very, very fascinated by his father's golden Rolex and would often reach out for it ahdhd. He was also rather clingy towards Masashi and often started crying when he was picked up and carried away from his brother. 

As a child, Shigeo already showed a lot of intelligence early on as well as a healthy dose of mischief and wit. He truly gave the numerous babysitters tasked to watch after the disaster-sibs hell. He was always a little bigheaded and definitely spoiled but ultimately happy and he still had his sweet sides to him. However sometime along the way in his childhood something should happen that would have a massive, massive effect on him and taint his world-view into an insanely cynical one. 

As a teen, Shigeo would grow into a person with an obsession for power and a concerning lack off empathy. He's a very talented guy and very smart, yet he uses all of these talents for so many bad things. He's pretty charismatic and eloquent but snobby and downright manipulative as well. There's only very few people he actually genuinely care for, but if anyone ever hurt them? He will go truly berserk. 

When he eventually grows into an adult, Shigeo will have learned the error of his ways. While smugness and a certain dose of cynicism will ultimately remain part of his personality, he won't be downright malicious anymore and just be more softer. 

🍇 Does your OC have any bad habits? Does your OC have any addictions like smoking or drinking? How did they fall into these habits and why? 

haha yeah: Ignoring that he has emotions, ignoring that he's able of becoming sick because he wants to work, sometimes forgetting to eat because he's so busy, drinking coffee after coffee, going out without a scarf because "it doesn't match his outfit”…..

If it wasn't mainly for his mom Nene but also Masashi to some extent and also Kiyoko and Moe…Shigeo would possibly be dead already.

He drinks on the parties that the 114th is so famous for but it's honestly hard to get him truly drunk. 

🔮What does your OC think is their best trait. What is actually their best trait? What about their flaws? Are they one to admit these flaws or do they like to pretend they’re perfect?

He, himself, would name his intelligence as his best trait without blinking an eye. However it's really hard to truly name his best trait because so many of his traits are two sides of a coin. But in the end I settled on his loyalty. I know it's weird to name "loyalty" as the best trait for someone who backstabbed so many people that it could make any love-rival in some cheap TV-drama blush but like…When Shigeo backstabs people he normally does plan to do so from the very beginning on. However if Shigeo truly, truly, TRULY cares for someone….he won't EVER downright betray them. 

When it comes to flaws Shigeo has so many that its hard to pick ahdhd but I suppose the most fatal one is the fact how he just pretends that his trauma from childhood days never happened instead off working through that? Because that's ultimately why he is the way he is. 

🌸 What’s a sentence that would make your OC’s day better? One that would make them laugh? One that would make their day worse? Why? What words would you have to say to them to completely ruin their day?

Answered already. 

🌷 How much effort does your OC put into their looks? Do they care much about how they’re dressed or what their hair looks like or are they not bothered? Could they be considered a snob or a slob?

Shigeo is a snob. He's a fucking diva. 

Shigeo takes quite the pride in his fashion-sense (and mind you, he's not a fashion-disaster like Etsuya is) and he would refuse to wear anything that he would consider unfashionable or cheap. He only wears big brands in the end and also has a pretty formal (and very monochrome) style but it's all very fancy in his eyes. He also takes a lot of time styling his hair in the end and like, even wears cologne. He's also certainly not above commenting on other guy's fashion sense and how it's terrible. 

He also can't stand it if you ruffle his hair or something or splash water in his face…basically anything that could ruin his hairstyle. 

❤️ What inspired you to make this OC? How long have you had them? How have they changed in the time you’ve been developing them?

I said it already but at first I planned to have Nene paired with Kuga in my Next Gen Fic. But then Eizan threw Nene's phone through half the train and I just went "How romantic". I don't know, I just thought that Nene and Etsuya could have an interesting and cute dynamic and I could rather quickly envision them as parents in a sense? So yeah, I ended up deciding on Nene and Etsuya as a pair instead. 

Shigeo's basic concept was basically "Eizan but with Nene's coldness". So in the beginning, he was actually a lot more thuggish, graceless and generally more like Eizan although he lacked the temper-aspect from beginning on. 

However it was when I started to consider Nene's possible parenting-style more that Shigeo began to change a little. I thought that Nene wouldn't like her children to cuss and that thought alone ended up shaping Shigeo into a much more mannerly person than Eizan was portrayed as. Shigeo ultimately not much of a brute anymore and I'd say the "Faux Affably Evil"-Trope is more pronounced in Shigeo than it was in Eizan (at least I’m trying to do that), which is also a result off the fact that Shigeo can keep his cool A TON better and he won't really develop a kind off relationship to Kimiko that Eizan had with Soma. I think the German Dub also indirectly influenced me in shaping Shigeo being real ovo;; Eizan's voice in the German Dub really puts the emphasis on the arrogance of his character and he gets…so insanely sassy at times? (It's beautiful) And I think that had a bit off an effect in how VAIN I ended up making Shigeo. 

🧡 What traits of your own do you see in this OC? Are they a little bit self-inserty? Don’t be shy, we all put parts of ourselves into the creations we love!

You know this was not really by intention because I only recently realized just how badly this is present in my own persona but…Shigeo's tendency to swallow his bad feelings down and never talk about his emotions e v e r is something that I can VERY, VERY much relate to. It's for different reasons and I am ultimately not an asshole because of it (I am a doormat because of it) but yeah. 

Other than that, it's mostly little things. Shigeo's deep love for New York City is something that's taken mainly from me (I've been to NYC twice and fell in love ashdod) but it's also for another, secret reason actually. 

💚 Are you writing anything with this OC or planning on writing anything for them? Do you rp with them or are they just for fun to mess around with?

I always have plans for ShigeChi so yeet. One is that I want to write from his side a bit more, since I tend to dive more into Chieko’s feelings ovo;;

💗 Ramble a bit about this character!

Shigeo can be a bit off a challenge to write because…I have like zero sass and wit to myself which he's supposed to have. But he's still so, so much fun for me in the end. He's really one of the character I've been the proudest over so far and I'm just !! Glad I created him I suppose (Even though he causes suffering). And I can't wait to complete his individual story in SnKimiko!

He’s fun on his own but he’s also really strong in character interactions for me, from being the Friend That No One Likes in the Quartett of Friendship and Magic to being the third-wheel of arguing in the relationship with his brothers...its all gonna be fun for me. 

[punainenpuolukka]

Oh, the Thing with the Ghosts, the Boys, and the Car?

Now that season 15 premiere is airing tomorrow, which I realized merely a week ago, I thought I’d like to celebrate it somehow, since the show that has meant so much to me and so many others is finally coming to an end. As a form of celebration I thought I’d like to take this unique opportunity to discuss Supernatural in general, what it has meant to me, and maybe tell a funny story or two that are at least somewhat related to Supernatural. And because Supernatural itself is so long, I decided to make this a longer series as well, each part focusing on a different topic with various levels of depth since there’s only so much I have to say some things. At the moment I have four or five topics in mind (or 12 after I started making an actual list and like half of them have great potential), and at the time of publishing Part 1 I have written three of them. The parts will be in no particular order and most have little to no connection with one another, I think. I try to keep them light and funny but since I myself am neither of those things, some might get a bit bleak. Also, I try to avoid making too many awkward confessions or rants and if I can’t avoid them, I’ll try extra hard to be funny or at least give the parts moderately entertaining titles because I’m moderately entertaining, and I just realized that awkward confessions would probably be the funniest thing I could possibly write. 

I’d also like to apologize that the first part got so bloated. Turns out, I have more things to say about Sam than I thought.

Part 1. Much Ado about Sam – I’ve had some problems but now I’m over them, I guess

Now hear me out, I like Sam Winchester. I like him very much exactly for the same reasons as everyone else likes him: he’s a good man who has had to fight tooth and nail, often quite literally, to be a good man, and to keep trying to be that good man when it would be easier to not be. Sure, sometimes he falters, sometimes he falls very far, but he chooses time and time again to be the good man we want him to be. Sam’s arguably the best at trying to be that good man; he has sacrificed everything from his life, his sanity, his freedom to his family and loved ones. And if he wasn’t ready to sacrifice them they were taken from him anyway. The whole universe has basically beaten him to the ground over and over again and he still stands up and continues to fight the good fight. He and his family have carried the world on their shoulders for so long the thought that it is not their responsibility is inconceivable. Gotta admire that tenacity. 

Sam is also kind and compassionate and understands like no other what it’s like to be the Other, and he can’t help but relate with those who have been othered like him. He wants to believe in the inner goodness of others and give second chances because he himself has gotten multiple chances to be and do better, and someone has always believed in the good within him. Alternatively, he can also be the meanest, scariest motherfucker ever if he needs to be, and in those moments he is so cold and cruel that you can hardly believe he’s the same person. And I haven’t even written how hardworking and intelligent he is or what an amazing hunter he is, a true living legend (who has admittedly been dead multiple times but who’s counting anyway, he’s alive now). 

Frankly, Sam is awesome. So why on earth wouldn’t someone like him?

Well, I can explain, I say as I really don’t know how to explain why I have had problems liking Sam. Or more accurately, I have occasionally had to make an effort to actively like Sam, especially during the early seasons, though since Supernatural is so long ‘early season’ can in my mind mean anything up till the very last few seasons. Before I continue, I feel like I should clarify that I have never hated or even disliked Sam, but he has certainly made me sad and disappointed in him because of all those previously presented reasons. I know he can be better and I wish him to be happy, even for just a while. Sometimes he just ticks as neutral. And when such a multifaceted character like Sam is ‘neutral’ there is a problem somewhere.

The thing is, and I'm aware how extremely silly this is, but there are some unfortunate coincidences concerning Sam that my weird brain interprets to his detriment. For instance, Sam was born May 2nd 1983 and my own brother was born May 3rd 1984, which somehow cosmically connects the two of them in my barely functioning brain, and no matter what I do I can’t stop thinking about them in relation to each other (as in when I think about Sam, my brain goes: “... and my brother, he’s almost the same age, so he belongs to this thought, right?” or when the discussion is about Sam’s birthday my brain immediately goes: “... and my brother’s the next day that’s important, just year and a day apart, can’t believe it”). However, my brother and Sam have nothing in common outside that year and two days of age difference (i believe 1984 was a leap year), and you know, one of them isn’t real.  So, due to some awkward and partially fictional dates, my brain is somehow convinced that Sam is automatically less than (my big brother, a real person who should not be compared to a fictional person with the suckiest life imaginable), and when someone is less than, that means I can’t like them, at least not as much as I feel I should, right? But until my brain gets past that people have birthdays, every day in fact, and that it has no significance whatsoever, I have to live with this weird coincidence (and my brain chimes: “... my friend’s birthday is November 2nd, that’s impor – “ no, just stop). 

If the last one was silly to the extreme, then the next one’s heavy: the demon blood issue. I understand that the whole deal with Sam drinking demon blood is a blatant allegory of substance abuse and drug addiction, and it’s a low point for him as a character on purpose, but it’s still difficult to watch, and even harder to talk about. I don’t want to talk about it at all. I don’t want to think about it all. Anytime anyone brings up the demon blood drinking and the powers Sam got from it (or the powers he had before that) I become irrationally angry and just shut down. I’m not upset that the demon blood thing happened, I’m upset that it was brought up in the first place and that there’s still some people after all this time who long for the days Sam was portrayed with such exceptional, raw, and frightful power. And here is where I disagree: to me Sam as himself, as the human that he is, is the gold standard. I don’t miss him having powers because all I can truly remember of that time is how it almost cost him his humanity. It was his lowest point in a time that was only getting progressively worse even without him spiraling into addiction. And then we saw how all for nothing it was. All that demon blood couldn’t keep Lucifer at bay, and for a brief moment all was lost. But in the end it was shown that Sam could only win as himself. So I don’t miss Sam’s powers or the demon blood drinking. It happened, it’s in the past, Sam is better now. Sam is better because he beat his addiction, he is better because he doesn’t need the powers to save lives or be the best hunter he could be, and he is better because with that whole thing behind him, he is better at being himself. I mean, there’s lots of bad things ahead of him, like the soullessness, the trials, the angel possession...you know what show you’re watching, I don’t have to do a recap. But Sam gets past all of them too, so not only is he coping with what is thrust his way, admittedly not always particularly well, he is allowed to get better. And very recently, but again, I have no concept of time when it comes to this show, Sam has started to let go of that cursed codependency that has plagued the show from the very beginning and allowed himself to get better and be better at being just himself. There’s finally light at the end of the tunnel.

I feel like I cannot press this enough, but to me Sam has been the very best for the last few seasons. When I think about him, it feels like I can finally breathe properly after my chest has been squeezed for years. The relief I felt after being anxious about him for so long came to me so gradually that I didn’t even realize there was a change until what had previously felt right suddenly felt wrong, and I realized I had grown accustomed to that feeling so I just assumed it was right when in fact it was not. And through the relief that I didn’t have to worry about Sam constantly came what at the time felt like a revelation: Sam is amazing, I like Sam and have liked him the whole time but for some reason thought that I couldn’t. It just snuck up and hit me on the head with same force that Sam gets hit with all the time (seriously, what’s up with his skull). I even felt ashamed when I thought I didn’t like him, which seems silly, but I know this fandom, people have had issues with other fans for much less.

In conclusion, despite the silly and heavy reservations I have had about Sam, he is made of awesome, and only through time have I understood how wonderful he is and how my capability to relate to him is so intrinsically connected to the worry for his safety that it had nearly incapacitated me from liking him. Not until I realized how that constant worrying had affected me and kept me from truly appreciating both him and the whole show, could I finally see what I really thought of Sam. Regardless, I’m excited for what will happen to Sam in the last season. I want him to beat the odds one last time, I want him to get to keep the family he still has left, and I want him to get all the things he deserves. And he deserves so much.

[werevulvi]

I didn't have the best waking up last evening, after having been asleep all yesterday. Just a few minutes after I woke up my intrusive sexual thoughts of men hit me again, which led to me masturbating twice, feeling worse after the first time and even worse after the second time. It gets me so horny to think about how much it would hurt, mentally and physically; to be raped again, brutally. To be humiliated and used again. Thinking about that turns me on and I hate it. It's shallow, intense but superficial arousal that leaves me feeling empty right after. Sad, gross, humiliated and empty. Like my own mind is laughing at me how I struggle and fail.

I'm not making myself accessible to men anymore, and I think that in itself is making my brain stir up like this. That I no longer pursue men for sex. It makes me feel like my own mind is punishing me for acting upon self-care. Do I not want to get better? Perhaps a part of me is enjoying the suffering and pain, that old familiar sting, and has trouble letting go; doesn't want to let go. And that makes it even harder to figure out what to do about this mess. How did I stop all my self-harming methods? That might give me ideas even though this isn't exactly the same. It's similar in the sense it's kind of an unhealthy habit that I keep doing even though it makes me miserable. All of them I stopped doing around 2015-2016. With cutting the main thing that made me stop was how ashamed I felt about new cuts, that I felt a need to hide them and that I couldn't talk about it at all with anyone cause they'd just get worried about me, confuse it for suicide attempts and I hated that. The backlash/after-effects of it were no longer worth the relief. I wanted to do it less and less frequently, until eventually I didn't want to do it all, and quit it. With the drinking, what made me resume a healthy way of casual drinking was basically the same as with the cutting: the backlash/after-effects were no longer worth the relief. In this case it was the hangovers and the financial expense, and how dysfunctional it made me socially when I was constantly drunk daytime for normal every day stuff. With my eating disorder, I guess it was the same reason yet again: not worth it. It just made me feel even more powerless, if anything. It was my peak of powerlessness. When I had been yo-yoing around the same weight for around a year, not able to get past it and lose more weight, I kinda just had enough of it. I realised then how absolutely useless it was and that is wasn't worth it to wreck my mind for something so superficial, and gradually I changed my body ideal to a more healthy one. Eventually all of my symptoms of eating disorder went away. What else... oh yeah, my pill-popping. Meaning over-dosing on my prescribed medications in order to get some kind of rush, excess sleep and/or death. I think with that I mostly just quit it cause I had already quit the other methods and it simply wasn't appealing anymore. Although on extremely rare occasions I still do it, only for the rush reason. Like at least a year between occasions, and not with anything dangerous. So I don't count it as self-harm anymore.

So... I think that's all methods I can think of right now. There was probably more but that doesn't matter. It seems it was pretty much the same reason for why I quit all of those: that eventually the backlash or side-effects of the habits bothered me more than the relief/rush excited me or drew me towards it. Kinda like weighing pros and cons and eventually the cons outweighed the pros to such a degree I was put off by the habit enough to actually want to quit it. The thrill wasn't even alluring anymore when I looked at all those cons.

I guess I haven't yet reached that point with my intrusive fantasies. Not saying I in some kind of direct sense actually want them popping up or sticking around, but I think I at least indirectly "invite" them to come and stay. Like I reap their toxic seeds, knowing I'll suffer from it. It feels very similar to that "pain and reward" system like how it was with my old self-harm methods that I just described.

Meaning it kinda goes like this vicious cycle: 1.) random nasty fantasy pops up 2.) I get grossed out and scared 3.) I get turned on by it 4.) I try to resist cause it's still nasty but kinda know I can't 5.) I give into to it and masturbate 6.) I cum and get release but then feel like crap.

That I hold onto them because I get some kind of thrill out of it despite hating it, also reminds me of my past self-harming. And I think they keep coming back because I give into them, and cause I take that reward.

It does take some courage to even just say that in some sense I do want them around, that in some way I do enjoy feeling hurt and aroused by their presense. That there is some excitement attached to the process of being grossed out and scared by those brutal images in my mind, and allowing myself to be turned on by them and masturbating to that fear. It makes no sense that I wish to be raped again, and by men that I'm not even attracted to... but perhaps that makes it extra horrible which makes me want it even more.

I'm extremely repulsed by penis, even just imagining one in a non-sexual context make me shudder. It's like the last thing I wanna think about. Yet I do. Repeatedly. That's why I see there's an essence of self-harm in that thought- and masturbation process. It's alluring BECAUSE it grosses me out and scares me. Just like a blade to my skin did, or 200 pills with a bottle of vodka, not knowing if I'd wake up from it. Oh yeah, I'm traumatised alright. I stopped self-harming, actively, but I'm still self-destructive to my core. Perhaps I'm seeking my limit, what is my breaking point. My greatest fear has become my drug. Because I experienced it once, and it damaged me. For less damaged people I think this is comparable to getting a thrill out of watching horror movies. But do I really want it in reality? To get raped again. Hard question to answer, but I'll try. Yeah... I want it so badly I've even spent years seeking it out in real life. But whenever I've been sexually abused again after that, literally because I sought out to be, I freaked out and really did not like that. Some other times that happened I was really quite despondent and didn't have much of an emotional reaction at all, until months later, and then freaked out. So no, I don't think I really genuinely want that. What I want is closure, but my mind is acting like a broken record, not getting that you can't actually kill fire with fire. Or in my case, pain with pain.

But now that I've stopped seeking it out, because I don't want the harm anymore and I love myself too much to put myself through that again, if I can possibly avoid it... my mind has gotten rampant in forcing it upon me mentally instead. Perhaps those intrusive thoughts are like a withdrawal symptom from coming off a drug. But it's not a physical addiction, so just giving it time won't help.

It stems absolutely directly from my traumas. Because those intrusive fantasies are pretty much a bi-product of my many years of having tried to repeat the rape I went through as a teen, and is also connected to the sexual assault in my childhood that led me to become addicted to masturbation, and now having stopped that behaviour cold turkey... aggrevated something within me. Something that still wants to repeat the rape but cannot get the thrill of that dangerous game anymore. And it got so aggrevated that it's almost constantly throwing those nasty images and scenarios at me now, out of what feels like pure desperation.

I think in order to get rid of them, I must first completely, and actively not want them around anymore. Not even want the thrill they bring, I mean. Cause that's how I got rid of my former addictions and self-harm methods. I think I'm willing to wait and work towards that even if it means sickening myself with those intrusive thoughts deliberately until I've properly had enough of it. Cause it's so very effective to get rid of a habit once I literally no longer want the rush or relief from it anymore. Exhaust myself with it. Like that's how I can maintain drinking moderately after years of on and off alcoholism. Cause I'm still so put off by the idea of being constantly drunk and everything that comes with it that I can't even make myself do it.

So I mean... I don't want to stop masturbating completely either, so abstinence is not exactly an option with this, and should not have to be. But that means I can't really actively do much about it. Except I can try "indulging" in it to the point it's far, far, far beyond sickening to me. That could trigger a "no longer interested" response. Cause I have to get uninterested in the reward aspect of it, and that's the tricky part. Since the reward aspect is orgasm, that's tricky, but not impossible. Because I know I literally get different kinds of orgasms when it's from something I actually, genuinely enjoy. Like fantasies of healthy sex with a sexy woman. So because I already can differentiate the kind of orgasms that makes me feel bad from the kind that makes me feel good, I'm already well on my way to sort out this mess. Meaning I could come to a point where I no longer want that "bad-feeling" kind of orgasms, no matter how tempting, cause I can still get the "good-feeling" ones.

This was a good analysis. It taught me some new things about those intrusive thoughts and gave me ideas on what I could do about them: treat them like quitting a self-harm habit. Me being a lesbian doesn't really have anything to do with it, except it makes it relatively easier in the sense I don't actually have to ever figure out ways to have healthy sex with men, which I can't cause I don't have that attraction. And I think maybe quitting men entirely is easier than re-training my interactions with them would be, had I been straight. It seems my interactions with other women sexually is untouched by my traumas and has always been healthy and good. Perhaps that's both because I was never traumatised by another woman, and because I'm inexperienced, it has remained a clean slate.

I feel like that's extremely valuable, and ironically I probably actually have my internalised homophobia to thank for that. It kept me from ruining my genuine attraction with self-destructive sex, pretty much kept it safe from harm until I was ready to release and explore it in ways that are good for me. My self-hate which made me suppress my attraction to women... protected it from being harmed by my traumas?! Wow... just wow. I always believed something good will come out of everything that's generally bad, but... this is kind of amazing. And very relieving, comforting. Everything happens for a reason.

[cameronomicon]

Becoming Robin

I’m standing at the top of a carpeted staircase in the house where I spent my earliest years. The long sunlight of a Texas morning pours in through a window high above me, and I have shit my diaper. I’ve done something bad, and I know it. I’m in tears and I’m ashamed. This is my first memory, and it’s the moment that I become Robin.  

“I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this,” I said to my brother, “and I don’t think I could tell many people without getting a negative reaction. But I’ve thought many times that it would be better if she were dead.”

I was talking about my mother, from whom both my brother and I are estranged. The ebb and flow of rapid deterioration and chronic decay that lasted the better part of two decades has forced us to remove our alcoholic mother from our lives. It’s an act of self-preservation she has often labeled as cruel. 

Everyone, it should be noted, is guilty of this cruelty. My mother, the great victim that she is, has cast the rest of the players in her life’s story as irredeemable villains who took advantage of her, set her up for failure, or outright betrayed her. This is after the countless half-hearted attempts at sobriety, the multiple treatment centers, the interventions, the third, fourth, and fifth chances. Those who have loved my mother have given her much. And it should always be noted in the same breath that she has also given much to those she has loved. But through the insane cataract of her disease, she now sees only villains. She has become twisted by resentment and fear, anger and self-pity. I think this must be a survival mechanism of her own, to reframe the narrative as “Robin vs the world” or else she might not be able to find the strength to wake up every morning in a reality where everyone she loved is gone. We are all of us, as it happens, just waiting this thing out now.

Robin stalks the perimeter of our lives like a predator just beyond the throw of the campfire’s light. We know she’s there, we’ve seen evidence, but she moves unseen the in darkness and shadows. She is a hungry ghost, as Gabor Maté would say. She haunts our lives, the ghost of who and what she once was, her unknowable but undeniable existence emanating from the howling void at her core. 

It would be better if she were dead. Then at least we would know where she was and what she was doing instead of dreading the infrequent but crushing calls from strangers, nurses, EMTs. And it would be over. That would be better. 

*

It’s impossible for me to separate myself from Robin, because I am her. Like my mother I have a passion and talent for the arts, and I share in her very dark but brilliant sense of humor. I am quite intelligent but fragile, and proud to a fault. I am aloof to the point of seeming arrogant, and insecure to the point of self-destruction. I hold others at arms length for far longer than necessary, but those I allow into my heart I hold there incredible fierceness, just like her. 

Most obviously, we share in disease: I am an alcoholic just like her. I’m also a drug addict, having been addicted to nicotine, prescription amphetamines, and cannabis. Some of these things I used together, and towards what I hope is the end of my own history of alcoholism, I was regularly mixing alcohol, benzos, and weed. I drank in the morning to silence the shakes. I could hardly eat. I felt like I was dying. In fact, I spent most of 2018 thinking about my own death, and wishing I had the courage to bring it about. A few times, in my booze-fueled despair, I held a knife to my wrists. I thought about buying a gun. I believed I was doomed, and there was no point in delaying the inevitable. 

This had all happened before, in the early 2000s, when I went to rehab for the first time, and then lived in a halfway house, and sank to unprecedented depths before finally resurfacing to join the world again. And since then I had been coasting in relationship and lifestyle which permitted and encouraged daily alcohol use, until that itself met its inevitable and cataclysmic end. And then I climbed into a time machine back to 2005 and began to self-destruct once more.

And it is impossible for me to not compare the sorry state of my decline with that which I have found my mother in many times. Her passed out on the floor of her apartment was me passed out in a doorway outside. Her vomiting in public and the deterioration of her physical appearance were my own. Her leaving friends and loved ones baffled, heartbroken, and confused was the look of bewildered pain on the face of my friend Stephanie when she came to my apartment to help me get to rehab this past summer. The anger and white hot resentment churning at the core of her engine spun its revolutions within me as well. I have seen her claw her way back from the edge of total defeat in brilliant and heartbreaking flashes of sobriety, only to let the people of this world fail her and give her the excuse she was desperate for to try her hand at drinking again. I have been there, too. 

I think that, ultimately, I am lucky that I came to learn my truth at a young age. Even when still active in my addiction, I knew. My ex-wife knew. There’s no way to arrive at a conclusion other than “I am an alcoholic” after going through everything I’ve been through and to still have been a daily drinker. This is where my mom and I begin to differ. 

Along with lacking her tireless ambition, her work ethic, raw talent and the many, many successes she achieved by my age, one other major thing sets us apart: my mother has always denied that she is just like me. She has never admitted she is an alcoholic. 

*

“No human being is empty or deficient at the core,” Dr. Maté writes, “but many live as if they were and experience themselves primarily that way. Attempting to obliterate the sense of deficiency and emptiness that is the core state of any addict is like laboring to fill in a canyon with shovelfuls of dust.”

Something that my therapist told me, that I had never realized before, is that human beings aren’t born with shame. That’s why little kids are so free and charmingly weird, untethered by the conventions adults place on them. Kids learn shame. They are taught to feel it. Shame isn’t the same thing as feeling guilt, shame is something much more insidious, something that can eat away at a person’s sense of self. Shame is not feeling bad about what you’ve done, but about who you are, is I think how my therapist distilled it. Shame is my first memory. That’s how my story begins.

And I can point back to feelings of shame, and trying to erase or cope with shame or any other strong emotion, as a core motivation for my drinking and substance abuse. That is my original damage, the flaw in my life’s marble.

The writers of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous say “bottles were just a symbol” when describing their malady. And I agree. If I hadn’t found alcohol first, and if it hadn’t done for me what I desperately craved—the silencing of my inner dialogue, the obliteration of my self-hatred and insecurities, the soothing of pain and freeing of emotion and desire, that utter freedom to feel and to destroy feeling—then I would have found something else to do the job. Hell, Adderall did that, too.

When I say that my first memory at the top of the stairs is when I became Robin, it’s because I believe that there’s also something missing in my mom, some perceived void as Dr. Maté said, that is at the core of everything she is and has become. I believe there was a fundamental ruination, perhaps similar or entirely different from my own, that snapped off a part of her brain that she’s been scrambling to find, fix, or obliterate the memory of ever since. I believe that she stood at the top of her own staircase and sustained her own mortal wound. She has been laboring to fill in her own canyon with dust, yet cannot see the futility of the effort.

I don’t remember much of what my mom told me about her childhood, other than my Nana made sloppy Joes and her older sister was a bully about two things: The Rolling Stones (mom was a Beatles fan) and Star Trek (mom liked Star Wars). Knowing what I do now about my mom—and myself—I would not be surprised if she chose these diametrically opposed favorites just to needle her sister. But my takeaway now from this lack of knowledge, and the fact that we were never particularly close with either her family or my father’s, is that the damage she experienced lies somewhere therein. Something happened to her in childhood that formed her: some great pressure exerted upon her formed the diamond of her unbreakable will, and ultimately, the poison in her heart. 

She had some moment in which she became Cameron, which she never could have recognized at the time. She may not remember it, and she would certainly deny that anything like this could have had such an effect on her. But I believe strongly in my heart it was there. 

Of course, I may be wrong about all of this. I’m not an expert on addiction, I’m just a drunk like Robin. But I’ve gotten honest and looked deeply at myself and that itself has tremendous value; I’ve held up the mirror, and in it I’ve seen my mother there looking back at me: a little girl in Arlington, Texas, crying. Afraid. Ashamed, even. I would hug her if I could, and tell her everything will be ok. That no matter what happens, she is loved, and she is enough. 

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

Hi~ Could I request for angst fic for Zen attacked by his antifans? MC finds him while walking on the street (rides her car idk) and saves him and takes him to the hospital. Zen starts thinking again that he is ugly because of his injuries but MC there for him and comforts him?

Sasaengs are genuinely scary! I imagine anti fans are even worse :/

This fic contains references to gore and hospitals

Also I got pretty into this storyline lmao.

His Fortune

His face is his fortune. A long time ago, with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and cigarettes in his pocket, that was all he knew for certain. Whoever made him so beautiful surely had a plan. At the time, it filled him with confidence, though now the memory is bittersweet.

He no longer remembers what he looked like before, only that the bandages itch with something unfamiliar underneath. Every time that he wakes in the middle of the night, nose itching or wounds aching, all he can think about are chrysalises and moths. He has taken the journey in completely the wrong order; a fact that leaves him demanding painkillers in the middle of the night.

It happened at a fan signing, that much he remembers clearly. He posed for photographs with adoring fans, signed every fragment of merchandise laid before him and tired himself out so thoroughly that he completely ignored his manager’s warnings and stepped out to smoke a cigarette. Only the day before he had promised to quit, for fear that the habit might tarnish his vocals. He wishes now that he had not succumbed to the addiction quite as quickly.

He wasn’t surprised when a strange woman interrupted him, much less when she reached into her purse with shaking hands. He almost feels ashamed now at how quickly he believed her to be a fan in search of her phone camera; the past few hours eroding any awareness of himself or his surroundings.

He doesn’t remember very much of what happened afterwards, which the doctors reassure him is common in victims of traumatic experiences. Zen knows that he should feel better, but instead he feels pathetic. He cannot even bring himself to face the RFA or his manager, instead refusing visitors and drawing the curtain shut. 

They tell him that with a number of skin grafts, the scarring will be minimal, though it comes as no comfort. No matter how skilled the surgeon, he will never look the same. It almost seems ridiculous to him now how much money he spent on face masks and lotions for fear of damage to his skin. 

Before he realises it, he is changing the topic at the prospect of pressing charges. The damage is already done regardless of whether she faces justice and in a way he doesn’t blame her. The more he thinks of his prior arrogance, the more he hates himself as well. 

For the first time in his life, he is content to stay in the hospital and away from the outside world. He doesn’t want to see the aftermath; doesn’t want to accept it as anything more than a bad dream. He refuses any mirror they hand to him; the subtle expressions of shock and repulsion on the nurses as they change his bandages enough of a preview. 

It’s after the third surgery that a reporter creeps into his room. Zen used to love posing for photographs, but his immediate reaction to their camera is to hide. He spends the rest of the day trembling, imagining how quickly the pictures and headlines will spread. He knows that he will have to leave the hospital eventually and he wonders if he’ll have any fans left by then. Beautiful idols are a dime a dozen and it will be easy to fall through the cracks.

He becomes obsessed with the incident, furious at himself that Lovely Zen died in that alley and even the memory is stolen from him. He remembers how good that last cigarette was on his senses; the shy expression of the girl who attacked. He remembers her shoes and every pin on her purse, but nothing about the moment she advanced with a razor. The fact that it was even a razor to damage his face so terribly is something he had to be told afterwards. Zen scours his memory, desperate for anything that might jog his imagination and cursing every blank.

It’s as a last resort that he asks to speak to the girl who saved him. He has heard about her bravery and desperation to help, though remembers nothing about her intervention. All he knows about her is that she is a fan, overwhelmed by the number of guests at the meet and greet. The police told him that her screams for help saved his life, but her voice is unfamiliar as she speaks through the curtain.

“I already explained everything to the police,” she says. “I’m not sure what more I could possibly tell you.”

“Anything,” he pleads. “Everything. Something to jog my memory.”

“Well…when I got there, you were already…” She says, hesitant to speak of the gorier details. “Well you were on the floor.”

“Go on.”

“And she was standing over you. She,” the girl takes a deep breath, “well she blamed you for getting a movie role. Her favorite actor also auditioned, though never made it through.”

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense.

“What happened next?”

“I screamed for help. Your manager was already looking for you, so it wasn’t long before you went to the hospital.”

“I see.”

Zen leans back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. He expected to feel some kind of recognition, but she might as well be reading to him from a book.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning to dismiss her, only for her to break him off mid sentence.

“I…um…well…I’m sorry that this happened to you,” she stammers, her chair screeching against the floor as she stands up. He sees her silhouette on the other side of the curtain, bowing her head before turning to leave.

He asks her back several times between operations, always talking behind a curtain and thinking of new questions to ask. It is strangely comforting to know that one fan still exists, regardless of any other. He sings to her once, forgetting half of the words, though earning a round of applause as a result. He learns her name, her job and favourite drama  

Only on her fourth visit does he ask about his fan forums. It took her a while to grow used to him and relax in his company, confident enough to speak frankly. She has only ever been brutally honest, if exceedingly polite, and he fears her silence speaks for itself.

“It’s okay,” he says after listening to her stumble over her words for almost a minute. “I understand.”

And he does understand. His fans would almost certainly have been shocked at first-angry and frightened over what had happened to him. It had probably been a popular topic for those first few weeks. But the real world was busy and even his most devoted fans had other interests. It was only natural for the chaos to die out eventually.

“I’m sorry,” she says and he frowns at her silhouette. She always apologises, for the stabbing, for his marred face. She apologises for it all, even when her involvement is minimal or nonexistent. 

“If you keep saying sorry like that, I’m going to think you’re insincere,” he jokes, though it leaves her genuinely upset.

“I’m sorry,” she pleads, voice breaking into sobs, “I’m sorry that some of them are shallow like that. But if all they cared about were your looks, then they were never your fan to begin with!”

He considers her words long after she leaves; thinking back to his first fans and those he knows well. Jaehee has praised him on his looks more than once, but his passion far more. He may not be able to remember the attack, but he does remember the first time he was ever recognised by an incredibly nervous fan, who after five minutes and several failed attempts at conversation, begged him to star in more productions.

After the final surgery and his bandages are properly removed, he invites her to his room for one, last time. They’ve developed a strange bond in their multiple meetings and even if he cannot return to the stage, he is happy to have had her there when it mattered most.

He wants her to be the first to see him when he breaks out of the chrysalis, ready to start anew. He doesn’t know who he’s going to be or what will become of Lovely Zen, but he remains hopeful that she will be able to reassure him.

Only after he has refused several hand mirrors does it occur to him that this will not only be the first time she has seen his face after the accident, but it will be his first time seeing her in general. He built her up in his imagination without realising; a girl with a pretty face and worn sneakers.

Only when he finally sees her does he realise how wrong he was. She isn’t pretty; she’s beautiful.

“What do you think?” He says, averting his eyes from her in an attempt to stop staring. 

She reaches out her hands and he guides them to his face, smiling as she traces her fingertips over the skin-one of her only ways of seeing the world.

“I don’t have a point of reference,” she says, eyes blindly darting around the room, “but I think you’re going to be fine.”

He doesn’t remember the accident. He doesn’t remember anything beyond the fan reaching into her purse. He doesn’t even remember the moment he was saved. 

As she sees him with her fingers, though, he remembers the moment he decided to be an actor; to use every skill at his disposal to make people happy. It was never about his face and, for what seems like the millionth time since his arrival in the hospital, wishes he could only go back in time to speak to his younger self. He’s spent weeks in defeated silence wishing he had only listened to his manager instead of taking a cigarette break; wishing he had been more suspicious of the girl who attacked him. This time, though, he wishes he could speak to the version of himself who scratched at the bandages and closed himself away from the world.

His future is uncertain and there’s every chance that Lovely Zen the Knight died in that alley, but he cannot find it in himself to mourn anymore. Lovely Zen had only ever been a fiction; a persona to embody his ideas about the world. He understands now that ideas never really die; they evolve and mature and become something new, spreading their wings further and further with every renewal. 

[princebxte-blog]

Chapter 7 || Je suis Bête.

It took a few years for me to understand a bit more about what it was that I actually am. No, I was not stuck as a monste’s appearance permanently. But I am however, a monster. I l earned over time, that whatever happened the night I was essentially killed I gave this entity the permission and privilege to have partial access to me. They owned half of my soul-- meaning they could alter my appearance, my mind anything. Whenever or however they so wish—. Anything This is the Alter. I’ve learned the correlation to what gives it control, and that is my emotion—if I were to get too fervent with my emotions. Lose control of despair, anger or anything remotely negative that I felt. If I felt it strong enough, I would find myself in an excruciatingly painful transformation. Because of this I can feel this thing speak to me. Change and push me. Make me do things on impulse that I otherwise would dare not do. This alter feeds into whatever anxiety I have. It may purposefully taunt me in a mirror, give me savage nightmares in my sleep on purpose to make me transform--- Even call my name out haunting me when I might be alone in a place that is secluded It will always try to get this rise from me, so that it may take over. And when it does, there is nothing to stop it from causing more chaos so that my anger and rage might fuel it further. HUNT. MURDER. CAUSE MISCHIEF TO ME TO MAKE ME PURPOSEFULLY UPSET -- This is why I cannot allow myself to get too close to anyone. For fear of seriously hurting them, and not even knowing I had done so until it is too late. This is why I try my best to remain as mild mannered and distant as possible. My habitsto keep this creature at bay may be somewhat off-putting for those that find me doing them, and as a prince people tend to think that my addictions to drinking at early hours, or being alone most of the time is going to be my downfall. As if they even know what sort of downfall I have. As if I am not so passionate about my life or the things I love. Who truly wishes to be alone? Not I Not I… But as Prince, protector of those whom I deeply care for My Kingdom--- It is my duty to keep them safe, and to do what is in their best interst. Simply, so I do not hurt anyone. As far as my condition I did actually have a dream once (or twice), this Alter came to me with a most fearsome nightmare—telling me about my curse. The terms and conditions are a jumble, I’ve had to push myself to awaken half way so that I might write it down, only to find the papers torn to shreds by morning… It wants me to know the rules, and yet it doesn’t want me to remember so that if I break them it can gain control. This is a dangerous game that I play. But according to what it has said in my sleep, I have always kept this information--- I had apparently known this creature for many years as a small voice. The part of me that looked for comfort when I was abused. The ten years I remained alone, this thing had somehow manifested or became attached to me. Like a parasite After my death it was all that was left to give me the strength and power I needed to obtain life once more. Strange how these things appear. But for all I know this thing has found that my most agonizing portions of my life, were the parts of being a Beast. Forget my sexual abuse as a child, or the belittlement… And to remind me, it will take on this appearance. There are times where I am in control of my humanity when I become the monster and there are other times where I black out and this Alter rules me. There have been times where I managed to lose all control of my actions, but still remain somewhat lucid, and trapped—watching myself say and do things I would never even dream of saying or doing. But no one ulatimately knows what I am. This thing wants that to change, and I can feel it growing stronger day after day-- These nightmares I have give me clues at to what it is I am actually dealing with, I believe I remember hearing it say that it will keep me alive and well for as long as it is strong. As long as it can feed off my powerful, negative emotions—it will thrive, and thus make me thrive. I have no weakness-- In the last few years I attempted to test this Beast’s message. This was I am…. An abomination. I wanted to know what it exactly meant as live and well. Slitting my wrists, putting my own dagger into my chest, pulling the trigger of a musket that was fastened in my mouth—drowning, throwing myself from high grounds… It is terrible I am ashamed But none have succeeded in ruining me, or destroying this thing that I am. In the last few years I have never suffered from any ache or pain, As a child and through my years as a Beast I would sometimes get pneumonia from the damp conditions—every year around February or Novebmer…. But not once since have I ever gotten sick. Doctors occasionally come to check up on me, they have told me that my pulse is alarmingly quick, and my body temperature is obscenely high. I should have brain damage… I conclude that the reasons my heart rate is so fast, is that it burns away any virus that might attach itself to me, and that it also keeps my physique in prime condition. This Alter This thing has me lying to everyone, and myself. I am not real. I am not a human—I don’t really belong here, I should be punished. I should be in Hell. But this – This curse is a Hell I could never wish it on my worst enemy. The consequences of selling ones soul, is their humanity, their control—it is everything. You may think I am a bit too much, that is fine… I don’t get sick, I can’t die, I forget the power of my own strength, my body stays in prime condition But it all came with a price, and that was me. Some may consider this a type of power, but I consider it an act against God. Sometimes I wonder where the seam is between me and this entity, because there are times where I lash out..and my strength is too great to comprehend, and my voice Is a combination of something that is not me yet still sounds like it came from my body. Who am i? What is becoming of me? I am losing my mind. I fear. & To make matters worse, and far more stressful. My life as a prince never ceases to slow down. I learned more about my duties as a prince, and was made Crowned Prince of Francesince that night, my life has changed greatly, still it contains loneliness. But I deserve it. I do my best not to let a quiet room get the best of me. I will enjoy a drink, the sting of whiskey has become a wholesome flavor to me—and some music I write. I resort to playing fortepiano, or looking into atlases, planning my next journey. Since Belle, I began a trading business. My Uncle was of course the head of the Navy, he owns the entire port of Monaco, to which I made a deal and managed to afford a few ships. Since this, I’ve gone on personal journeys through the oceans. Taking pleasure in the adventure and risk.

C O U R A N T

I am catching up on my duties as a prince, learning what it means. Trying to be there for the people, even if I don’t necessarily have to. Sometimes I see a glimpse of Belle when I go through the village, but I look away. I need to keep my emotions in check. A single sneeze could cause me to change-- A single look at the woman I still love could too This is my life now. Learning about this curse, using my trading as a means to go around the world, and find out if other individuals might suffer what I suffer—get away from my past life And try to make a lonely life, a quality one—despite my deserving of it.