#put me down“ but also ”he roots for me and encourages me and verbalizes it“.

[uter-us]

radfem help !!

2 of my little cousins (14yrs and 15yrs) are both girls dating boys right now, and together we are coming up with a "dealbreaker list" of things they will never put up with from their bfs! and also we are including positives, like so they aren't just looking for the absence of bad things, but actual positive things

what do yall think are the most important things to add? (i put extra info in tags)

Thank you so much!!!

[blakeswritingimagines]

Dating Bonnie Gold would include:

In one word, I'd say - exciting. He's very passionate, he likes to have fun, He loves to joke around, and likes to test the limits of your patience. His personality is a mixture of sweetness and feistiness, and he's always willing to try new things. My only requirement to date me: you can't break my heart.

He's a bit protective and possessive in relationships, but he tries not to be too clingy. He likes to have his own space and time to himself, but he also wants to make sure you spend enough time together. He's not really into drama or playing games, so he's pretty straightforward when it comes to relationships. He believes in honesty, trust, and communication.

Dating him means being with someone who is open, honest, and loving. He'll always be there when you need him, and he'll do everything he can to make you happy. You can expect loyalty and commitment from me, along with plenty of laughs and adventures. he loves having fun, and he'll always keep things interesting. He doesn't take life too seriously, and he knows how to enjoy the little things.

He appreciates the finer things in life, so he'll treat you like the king/queen you are and shower you with gifts and surprises. He's a good listener and he's always willing to talk about your day, whether it was good or bad. Dating him also means being a part of his world. His family is very important to him, so you should expect to get to know them too.

A relationship with him means that you'll have someone who will always have your back, no matter what. He's that shoulder to cry on, that listening ear, that hand to hold, and that person you can count on when things get tough. Dating him means that you can count on him to be there for you through the ups and downs of life.

His work with the Peaky Blinders definitely affects the relationship. It's a dangerous and volatile business, and he often has to balance the demands of his job with the needs you also have. It's not always easy, but he tries to ensure that you feel supported and understood.

He wouldn't expect you to come to every fight, but he would definitely want you there for the biggest moments in his boxing career, when he's not training or fighting, having your support and encouragement means a lot to him. Having you in his corner is a big blessing to him.

He tries to be empathetic and reassuring, and he tries to create an open dialogue so that you can communicate about any issues that may arise. If the jealousy becomes excessive or possessive, then it's time for a more serious conversation about boundaries and expectations.

He's a very affectionate person and he loves showing you affection, whether that's verbal or physical. He likes making sure you know how he feels and he likes making you feel loved and appreciated. It's also important for him to receive affection from you because it's a way of expressing how you feel about him and your relationship.

He's a big fan of dates. He likes to come up with creative and unique ideas for dates and make them memorable. He likes to plan ahead but also likes to be spontaneous and let the night take you wherever it may be. He does try to put a lot of thought and effort into making your dates special.

He's also very protective of you. He'll always do what he can to keep you safe, whether it's from other people or dangerous situations. He's proud of his strength and his ability to stand up for himself and those he loves.

In addition to the demands of his work, he also has to consider the dynamics of being a Gypsy boy. He grew up in a world of violence and crime, and he has a deep-rooted connection to his culture and heritage. That connection can sometimes be tricky to balance with the more conventional lifestyle that you may live. He's aware and respectful of the differences between your backgrounds, and he tries to find ways to incorporate both into your relationship in a positive way.

This comes with its own set of challenges when it comes to a romantic relationship. Gypsy culture is known for its strong sense of family and the importance of tradition. In addition to that, there's also the stereotype that Gypsy men are not faithful or committed in their relationships. He's aware of these stereotypes and aims to challenge and disprove them making it clear you're the only one for him.

He's a very independent and self-sufficient person. He has his own goals and aspirations, and he doesn't depend on anyone else to meet his needs. He's strong-willed and passionate, and he doesn't let anything hold him back. Though he may appear hard on the outside, he's actually quite soft on the inside, and he has a vulnerable side that he reserves for those he loves.

He is very open-minded and versatile. He's a very social person and enjoys meeting new people and exploring different cultures. It's important to him to be accepting and open-hearted, and he's willing to try new things and step out of his comfort zone.

Dating him means experiencing the most intense and thrilling relationship you could ever imagine. He's a passionate, determined, and independent soul, and he brings out the best in everyone around him. He's not afraid of a challenge, and always pushes himself to better himself. He's loyal, trustworthy, and always there for those he loves. He's a spark of energy that ignites the fire within you.

His family is very protective of him and it's important to them that they like and get along with the person he's dating. He's very close with his family, so he cares a lot about their opinions. They can be daunting at times.

Marriage is definitely something he sees in his future. He's like a hopeless rom-com romantic, after all, and the thought of growing old with the person he loves is very appealing to him. He may not be the most traditional person, but he believes in commitment and he's ready to make the ultimate commitment. That's not to say that he's in a rush to get married-- He needs that special spark to make it last forever.

On the topic of children, he does want to have them one day. Having a family with you is a dream of his. He knows you both have plenty of time to start a family, but he knows that he can provide a loving, safe, and nurturing environment for the children. He's not sure exactly how many he wants, but there's nothing wrong with waiting.

Finally, I'd like to end by saying that he's far from a perfect person. He's flawed and makes mistakes, but I think that's what makes him real. He's not afraid to show his vulnerability and open up to the people he really trusts. He's willing to learn and grow, and he's always looking to improve himself. If you're looking for someone who's open-minded, independent, and true to himself, then he may just be the one for you.

He really enjoys intimacy and emotional connections with you. He is a very caring and sensitive person and appreciates feeling close to someone in a deeper way than just physically. He's also a very affectionate person and loves showing his love and appreciation through physical closeness.

He also enjoys various forms of pain play, such as inflicting or receiving pain as part of your play. The rush of adrenaline and the release of endorphins can be very pleasurable and satisfying. He's particularly fond of certain types of pain, like sharp or burning sensations, which can really get his motor running.

He enjoys some lighter forms of play, like gentle care and affection. He loves being told that he's loved and cherished and finds it very healing to be comforted and supported by you.

Activities like cuddling, kissing, and roleplay scenarios. Cuddling with you after a long day of work or a particularly intense session of play is a great way for him to show you how much he cares about you and how much he enjoys being close to you.

Foreplay is also essential for him – He loves taking his time building up anticipation and excitement before finally diving into full-on intercourse or other forms of sexual activity.

He loves teasing you by running his fingers lightly over your skin, whispering naughty comments in your ear, or leaving you hanging on the edge of orgasm for extended periods without letting you climax.

[casualpersonapersonpeach]

Slashers trying to comfort you when you feel insecure

Bad body image lately :( hope any of you might feel comforted by this too if you've been feeling down <3 ily.

Michael Myers:

Michael most likely would be the slasher who would have the most trouble understanding why you feel like this.

This isn't to say he wouldn't try at all. He cares about you, he's just a little confused. If you explain to him that you are having a hard time with your body image, he will begin to understand.

Michael would probably feel just a little frustrated. Only because he loves you and doesn't view you the same way you view yourself. He thinks you're the most attractive and important person ever. He will most certainly hug you.

Bubba Sawyer:

He drops everything to come to you once he sees you crying. He holds your shoulders and looks at you with concern. He's wondering if he did something wrong, maybe you're homesick.

Once you explain, he caresses your face and makes constant noises. He's complimenting you and telling you how dearly he loves you. You can tell. Bubba just wants to make you feel loved and attractive. You're special to him.

Bubba wants you to know he understands how you feel. He will keep hugging you. He will then take you outside so you can breathe and relax. He understands how exhausting this is for you.

Bo Sinclair:

Bo understands better than people may think. He may not be the most attentive or affectionate. But he's had his own insecurities so he tries to connect to you through that.

He loves you, he will try to help you in any way possible. Though he isn't too sure if he needs to leave you to give you space, or if you want his comfort. Just tell him you want him there :)

He will put his arm around your shoulder, he may not know everything to say, but he tries.

Lester Sinclair:

Lester can tell you're down. You have been trying not to tell him, you're worried you'll burden him. But as soon as he says " hey baby, please tell me what's wrong ", you can't help but cry and tell him.

He immediately tucks your head into the crook of his neck. He is running your head and is whispering comforts to you. " Baby it's okay " , " i love you ", "please let me help you".

He will ask you if it's ok to touch you. If you agree, he will get on his knees and touch every part of your body and tell you why he thinks it's perfect. He will probably compare your body to things of nature. He adores nature. Like stretch marks to flowers or roots, etc. If not, he will cuddle you too and take you for a walk to ease your mind.

Vincent Sinclair:

Vincent drops his latest wax project he has been working on as soon as you tell him about your body image issues.

Vincent really understands this. He's always felt like that too. His heart breaks. You are his love and his muse! He never wants you to feel this way.

He knows he can't take away these feelings, but he wants to help ease the pain. If you are okay with it, he will take you in front of a mirror and kiss the places you dislike most while clothed. If not, he will cuddle you and kiss your face. He's planning on making a sculpture of you, to encapsulate your beauty and to show you how he sees you.

Jason Voorhees:

Jason completely gets this too. He's used to hating himself. He also won't judge you. He may panic a little because you seem distressed.

He will pull you into his lap, caressing your head and face. How he wishes he could take this pain away from you. He will cup your chin also.

He stresses because he can't verbally comfort you. But he wishes he could telepathically tell you how he loves you. That you needn't worry. He will encourage you to sleep after, he will tuck you in and kiss your forehead.

Daniel Robitaille:

Daniel immediately can tell you don't feel happy. He will ask you what is wrong. He gives you that worrisome look.

He sits you down, you explain. He pulls you in to lean on him. He listens to you. He wipes your tears away.

He will tell you hundreds upon hundreds of reasons why he loves you, how beautiful you are to him. How you are everything to him. He hopes it helps in some way.

Brahms Heelshire:

Brahms notices you seem different lately. He's been watching you look at yourself when you look at yourself in mirrors and when you get dressed.

His heart breaks when you look at yourself and sigh. Brahms will cry when you tell him what is bothering you.

Brahms will pull you into the tightest hug he's ever given. He feels very connected to you right now, he gets it. He will set aside his needy nature to pour himself into you. He is completely here for you. He loves you so much.

Thomas Hewitt:

Thomas understands this too well. He has been battling low self esteem his entire life. He loves you, so to say he is empathetic to this is an understatement.

Thomas will probably cry when you tell him what's wrong. He thinks you're so beautiful. It makes Thomas very sad that you feel this way, he does not judge you.

He will kiss you on your head. Thomas will caress your hand while you tell him exactly how you are feeling. He will constantly be thinking about how he can help you see your own beauty.

[more-stuff-of-pi]

I’ll Fight For You

a/n: lmao i swear i’m fine, just needed good ol’ kiri to assist me in a v self-indulgent fic. also, sorry for taking forever to write something yoinks

notes: did i read through this after i wrote it? nope. we’re fucking rolling with the audacity of not even a single ounce of beta-ing. requests are open :) find my masterlist here

pairing: kirishima eijirou x fem!reader | genre: angst (w/happy ending) / hurt/comfort | warnings: abusive mother (mental/verbal), a father who doesn’t intervene | word count: 2,018

Your boyfriend was practically vibrating with nerves as he adjusted his hair in the mirror. It was artfully piled on top of his head, his dark roots making a sharp contrast against the vibrant red.

“Ei,” you smiled, “you’re gonna be fine.”

He worried his sharp teeth against his bottom lip, frowning all the while. “But what if they--?”

“They’re going to love you, Ei. Probably even more than they love me,” you joke, coming up behind Eijirou’s monstrously large form. Hero work had been both kind and harsh on him but he made it look effortlessly good. You gently slid your arms around his waist as you angled yourself so that you could still eye his reflection.

“I’m just… worried, is all.”

You cock your eyebrow. “About what, Ei?”

He incredulously meets your gaze through the mirror. “What do you mean, about what?!”

It dawns on you a little bit. “Oh, well, she’s not going to be mean to you, Ei. She knows how to play nice when it counts. And you, good sir, count.”

“That’s not as reassuring as it is worrying, you know.”

“My mother is just a little intense, babe, it’s nothing I’m not used to. Like I said, she knows how to tone it down in front of others. I’m sure tonight will be fine. I probably just exaggerate everytime I whine about her, so she’s probably not even half as bad as I make her sound,” you shrug, leaning more into Eijirou’s side.

“Baby,” he sighs, twisting a little to look directly at you, no mirror this time. His eyes are sad yet firm as if wishing you to understand that there’s no need to defend yourself with him.

You squeeze him tighter before letting go and walking to the door. “C’mon, we’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”

❁

You always forget that you don’t really ever exaggerate your mother’s behavior towards you until you’re around her again. Everything as far as introducing your boyfriend to your parents has been going incredibly smoothly. Your dad enthusiastically engaged Eijirou in hero stories, talking about Red Riot’s  most recent media appearance where he was dressed in pajamas and carrying tubs of various ice creams you both had wanted to try when he dropped everything to prevent a construction beam from falling on clueless bystanders. Only one tub of ice cream had survived and luck had it that it was your least favorite flavor combination. Your mother praised Eijirou for his success and his coupling good looks at which she winked, making your boyfriend flush both at the phrase and the uncomfortable comments your mother directed at him. You winced at that, having forgotten to prepare him for the habitual talent your mother had of sexualizing anything, especially if it would ‘embarrass’ her child.

Your mother had made off handed comments throughout the whole night that you seemed to be the only one to pick up on. Your dad might have noticed a few but, as usual, he only looked at you apologetically, never interrupting his wife to stand up for you.

As much as you loved both of your parents and as much as they had their good moments, this fucking sucked.

“--not that she’s any good with that quirk of hers, of course,” your mother snickered as she brought the glass to her lips. You had become a good actor over the years in order to avoid your mother’s bullying over your ‘sensitiveness’, but something about her dismissing your hard work always immediately dismantled whatever mask you had thrown on. To cover what you know must be a crestfallen look, you give a laugh, something that could be called half-hearted at best. Your eyes remained trained on your food. “Oh come on, Y/n, that was funny.”

You chuckled again, hoping to force some genuineness into it. “Yeah--”

“No, it wasn’t,” Eijirou immediately cuts you off, voice straining with anger. You felt your face drain of blood as you noticed how tightly he was gripping his chopsticks. He was fuming. You don’t think you’d ever seen him angry before. The thought scared you. “That was just mean.”

Your mother quirked an unimpressed, subtly pissed brow at your boyfriend. “Don’t be sensitive, Eijirou. House rules: if it’s mean but funny, it’s okay.”

“As long as you get a laugh from it, it’s okay to abuse your child?” He spits at her like venom.

Your mother sets her glass down, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard--”

You slap a hand over Eijirou’s bicep, squeezing so hard you wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up bruising. “It’s fine! Nothing I’m used to! I grew up on the ‘if it’s mean but funny’ rule, so it’s fine.”

The look he gave you was of incredulous anger. “No, it is not--!”

“Please, Ei. Please, just--,” you averted your eyes, ashamed of your own familiar defeat. “Just sit.”

Shamefully, you slide back into your seat, nervously smoothing out a napkin back onto your lap. Eijirou still stood beside you, staring daggers at your mother who effortlessly returned it. His fists were balled, the veins in his hands flexing with the effort of restraining himself. His jaw snapped shut with an audible clamp as he resolved himself to sitting back down.

Your dad clears his throat, more so than necessary as if the harder he did it, the better he could dissipate the tension. “Done, everyone?” No one answers him. He takes that as the go ahead to begin clearing dishes, desperately jumping at the opportunity to escape your mother’s impending tantrum. You loved your dad very much but, god, he was nothing if not a coward, always leaving you to fight your own battles. You don’t think you’ve ever won.

Your mother returns her cold attention to you, the ice starting to thicken and your mother’s hollow kindness starting to retreat along with her patience. “What are you even doing to help train your quirk, sweetie?”

Taken aback, you met her gaze. “W-what do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t ever see you doing anything at all to help. You do realize that training takes work, right? What does it take? It takes--,” your mother trailed off, flourishing both hands to motion for you to finish the sentence.

“Effort--”

“Effort!” She clapped with your word. “It takes effort! And I only want the best for you, sweetheart, which is why I’m just asking what you’re doing. From where I stand, it doesn’t look like you’re doing anything at all to help improve yourself! As your mother, your concerned mother, I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart.”

Your mind is reeling at her words. You so badly want to defend yourself, assert all of the effort that you have painstakingly put in-- but you are reminded of the precise way your mother is able to leech any ounce of power or confidence from you. You would think that was her quirk if you didn’t know any better. “Mom, I am putting effort in, I train almost everyday--”

“Do you really?” Her voice drips with venomous shock. “It certainly doesn’t look like you do,” she gestures vaguely at you, eyeing your body with a vulture’s gaze. “Maybe you should consider morning and night. Oh! And a diet change, too. You know, since the popular heroes have a specific look to them and I just want to make sure that you can fit that. Since it’s your dream to be a popular hero. Like I said, you have to be willing to put in the effort. Oh, sweetie, don’t look at me like that. You know the difficult position I’m in! Trying to encourage you and help you achieve your dreams while not seeming too enthusiastic. You’re putting that stress on me, sweetie, I’m only trying to help.”

It really was incredible how quickly your mother could erase any confidence you had. Normally, you would stand beaming, more than happy to assert yourself and stand up for yourself and others. All it took was a couple words from your mother, and you turned into a dog with its head down and its tail between its legs, fearful of its master.

Your gut sank and hatred swirled throughout your body for both yourself and her as you once again let her have power over you. “You’re right. Sorry, Mom--”

“Do you know where your daughter ranks as a hero?”

Stunned, you both glanced at Eijirou, having almost completely forgotten that he was there. Throughout her tirade, you had felt a tragically familiar loneliness, used to having to defend yourself when no one, not even your other family members, would. Used to always submitting and used to the shame that always accompanied your forced silence.

“What?” She spat.

“I asked if you knew your daughter’s ranking. I just was wondering, is all. It would make sense if you weren’t aware that she ranks in the top 30 since you were asking about the effort she puts in. I would think that that accomplishment -- at such a young age, too, might I add -- was evidence enough of the countless hours, blood, sweat, and tears that she has poured into this. The effort she’s painstakingly put in. You’re right that being a hero is her dream, and she’s a damn good one, too. Saved my life more than once with ‘that quirk of hers’,” he sneered bitterly. “And, on top of that, she’s so beautiful through and through that sometimes it’s all I can do to stare at her in awe. Your thinly veiled shaming of her appearance is never the result of a mother’s so-called difficult situation, only the result of your own insecurities.”

Eijirou suddenly stands, having finally had more than enough for one night. “The only gratitude I will ever have towards you is for bringing this wonderful woman into this world. I hope one day you’ll actually realize how amazing your daughter is and how proud of her you ought to be. Because I am. I am so incredibly proud of her and her accomplishments and the results of her efforts.”

“And who’s to say that I’m not proud of her, Eijirou?”

He scoffs. Eijirou, the kindest, most patient man you know, scoffs in your mother’s face. “Haven’t you ever heard that actions speak louder than words?”

Your mother gapes up at him, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. In that moment, she resembles a fish and you couldn’t be more pleased with that comparison.

“He’s right, mom.” You rise to join him. “I know you love me. I have no choice but to believe it because I think it would destroy me if I didn’t. But maybe someday I won’t constantly have to defend myself to you and you’ll accept the things I say without dismissing them. You always say you admire me most for my assertiveness but you shut me down anytime I use it to stand up for myself against you. And that makes you nothing but a hypocrite.” You stare her down, reveling in the confidence Eijirou gives you in this thing against your mother. For the first time, you are not alone as you fight this battle. For the first time, you have help. And for the first time, you feel like you’ve won. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

You take Eijirou’s hand and lead him out of the house, leaving your parents to stare after you in shock. As soon as you make it out, cold air hits you like a slap in the face that harshly wakes you from a daze.

“Holy shit, Ei, did I just stand up to my mom?”

He laughs and squeezes your hand. “It was pretty manly, too.” You laugh breathlessly, still in disbelief as you push your other fist against his arm. “And you know,” he continues, “that I’m the best judge of that.”

“That must mean a lot,” you grin, swinging your linked hands between you as you walk further from your parents’ home, feeling the fullness of a good meal and a battle won.

taglist: @samwrights, @mayaoliviee, @luluwiie​, @gigglyparker​ (i thought i would tag you since you commented on the draft that i posted of this, hope you don’t mind <3)

[waiting4inspiration]

Her Eyes VIII: It’s hard to love a Dragon

Summary: Meeting your father for the first time doesn’t go off the way you thought it would and you end up having to have to make a hard decision...

Warnings: angst, strong language, magical elements, mentions of death during child birth, small fluff, i think that’s it 

Word Count: 2,405

Her Eyes Masterlist II The Witcher Masterlist

You don’t know what it is that makes you sure that this black dragon in front of you is your father, Armen, but you can feel it deep inside you. You just know it is. Also, had this dragon not been your father, you don’t think it would have stayed around much longer after saving you and Geralt from the Magick Hunters. 

Expecting him to shift into his human form, you stare up at him as he slowly lays down to get a bit closer to you, more down on to your level. “You look just like your mother when I first met her,” your father says, his head shifting over to Geralt as he takes a step forward. 

You know dragons speak through telepathy, but you’re unsure if Geralt heard his voice too or if it was just you. “I’ve heard so much about you from my uncle. Why won’t you shift into human form?” you question, your hand dropping away from his snot as you take a small step back, hoping that it will encourage him to turn into the figure you’ve longed to see. 

Your father sighs, his head dropping as he shakes it. “I gave up that form just before you were born so that you would be born human and that it might make things easier for your mother,” he explains, but it makes you frown in confusion. “Every woman that carries a Dragon-Born dies in childbirth because the child will have some dragon feature. I thought that by giving up my human form and passing it to you, your mother might survive,” he adds, hoping that it makes sense to you. 

Looking at Geralt, his gaze turning to you, you see a kind of guilty look in his eyes. It tells you that he has indeed heard your father’s voice and he knew something that was said. Whether it is the fact that there was no saving your mother, or that not all Dragon-Borns are only born with eyes like yours, you’re not sure. “Geralt?” you whisper, urging him to confess what it is he knew and kept secret from you. 

“All Dragon-Borns have different features when they are born which makes it difficult for the mother to carry and birth them,” he starts, slowly taking a step towards you as the dragon’s head turns to him. “Features like wings, horns, claws, scales. Your father giving up his human form and passing it to you is why you will look more human than the other Dragon-Borns. But dragon in your blood-”

“Made my eyes different from everyone else,” you finish for him, your head turning from him as you think about what this city you were intending to go to will look like with people with wings, scales, and horns. They’d think you are a human until they’d see your eyes. And yet, you think you might feel like you wouldn’t belong there even if you would be surrounded by people like you. “She still died.”

Armen moves his head so that he catches your gaze, making you look up at him again. “Not because of what you are,” he whispers, moving his head closer to you. “There were other complications. I know because I was outside the city when you were born. Your uncle told me what happened, and-” He pauses for a moment, something inside you imagines that he’s smiling to himself. “He showed you to me,” he finishes, joy in his voice and he chuckles to try and makes you smile. 

But you shake your head and take a step backward. “Then you decided to leave and never have anything to do with me?”

“I couldn’t just stay in the city as a dragon.”

“No, but a visit every now and then would have been nice,” you snap at him, your hands clenching at your side as you narrow your eyes at him. “I wanted what everyone around me had. I wanted to know my father and not wander around as if I were a cursed orphanage,” you state, anger in your voice and your eyes glowing brightly with your rage. “I wanted to be taught about the magick in my veins from someone who actually knows about it, not by a mage who only knows because of a book he read. I wanted my father,” you state, turning away from him and facing Geralt. 

“And you,” you begin, pointing a finger at him and making him almost scared to say anything. “I find myself questioning how much you really know about my kind and how many more secrets you’re keeping from me,” you sneer, shaking your head in disappointment as you drop your hand and walk away, passing the charred circle in the grass from your encounter with the Hunters. 

Geralt watches you walk away, thinks your father will follow you when you disappear from their sights. When the dragon doesn’t move, Geralt takes a step forward. “Leave her to cool down,” Armen speaks to stop him, moves to stand on his feet as the Witcher looks up at him. “You’ve probably realized by now she’s a bit of a hot-head. Almost all Dragon-Borns are,” Armen chuckles, his head moving to the direction you walk off in. 

You’re safe, wherever you have gone. Both Geralt and Armen doubt that whatever’s left of the Magick Hunters are gone and won’t be coming back while the dragon has his feet on the ground. 

“I had a feeling this journey wasn’t going to be an easy one the moment I saw her. And what she is,” Geralt admits, his gaze following the dragon’s and his mind wondering about what it is you're doing to relieve your frustration. He wonders if this will hinder your plans to travel with him or if you will change your mind. 

Armen’s eyes have shifted down to the Witcher, watching him stare off in the distance after you and he knows the meaning behind the shifting on his feet. “I must ask you to let her go,” Armen whispers, his words causing Geralt’s head to snap up at him. “She belongs with people like her, not wandering around the continent where any Magick Hunter can get to her,” he adds. Geralt now knows what he means. “She’ll be safe in the mountains with the other Dragon-Borns. And even as a Witcher, I do not think you will have the strength to fight off those that want her magick. You must see the job Dormond gave you through.”

Geralt shakes his head and turns away from the dragon to walk a bit away from him. How can he do that after what happened last night? After you agreed to go with him when he asked? How can he say goodbye after all that’s happened on this journey? 

Taking a deep breath when he hears Armen shifting behind him, moving so that he can face Geralt, the Witcher closes his eyes as his jaw goes tense. “It is hard to love a Dragon. Hard, and dangerous,” Armen states with sadness in his voice. 

“She doesn’t belong in the mountains-”

“Then where does she belong?” Armen snaps at Geralt’s words, his rough tone making the Witcher turn back around to face him. “In a Kingdom where people curse her every time they see her because she is different than them? Roaming around the land as an open target for the Magick Hunters still out there? Tell me where she belongs, seeing as you know better than I, Witcher.”

There’s a growl in Armen’s voice that tells Geralt to stand down. It’s still in the Witcher’s code not to fight a dragon and he’ll take it as verbally as well as physically. So, he stands down by turning his gaze away. 

“We leave soon and won’t stop until nightfall,” the dragon speaks as he turns and heads in the direction you walked off. And there is nothing Geralt can do or say to stop that goodbye he thought he’d put off come back. 

You fall to sit on the ground, panting and resting your arms on your knees as you look up at the tree that took the brunt of your frustration. Akius taught you that when you’re angry it’s best to get rid of that energy through your powers, through fire. It was either something like conjuring and creating something with fire or you destroying something. But now, you felt like lashing out which resulted in the bark of the tree being burnt to a crisp. You won’t let the fire spread, you have enough control to prevent that from happening. 

Seeing the result of your anger and frustration makes your head drop and a deep sigh to leave your lips as you weave your fingers through your hair. You grip your roots, tug them lightly, and groan to yourself as you lift your gaze back up to the tree in front of you. 

There’s a rustle behind you making your head snap to the side and your hands drop away from your hair. You hear heavy footsteps, ones that practically make the ground shake. It can only mean that it’s your father. 

He doesn’t say anything as he walks up beside you. Instead, he looks at the burnt tree for a moment before he moves to lay down so he can be closer to your level. “This is your way of dealing with your frustrations?” he questions in a small chuckle. 

“It’s what I was taught after-” You stop, bite your lip harshly as your head drops again. “You have no idea what my life was like growing up,” you whisper as you rest your arms on your knees and link your hands together. 

Armen shifts, breathes out a long breath that you hear come from deep within his chest. “No, I don’t. But I do know what it feels like to feel so alone when you’re young,” he says, making your head lift up so you can look at him. “And what it feels like to be hated after burning down half a kingdom.”

Your eyebrows knit together and you shift in your spot at his words. Shaking your head in confusion, you look back at your hands and clenching them tightly together. “How do you know about that?” you ask, still looking up at him as he turns his gaze from the burnt tree to you. 

“Do you really think Akius was the one that thought to teach you control?” he laughs, tilting his head to the side as a small smile grows on your face at the sound of hearing him laugh. “I wasn’t always far away from you. I saw you let your anger get the better of you and burn down half the kingdom just as I saw you save a family from their burning house,” he adds, lowering his head a bit so his eyes meet with yours. 

For a moment, you thought you were looking in a mirror because of how similar his eyes are to yours. They’re basically identical. 

Blinking that thought away, you clear your throat and frown at him. “How did you…” you trail off when you stare into his eyes again. But then something happens that you can’t explain. You see yourself. It’s like you’re looking at yourself through someone else’s eyes. 

It makes a breath catch in your throat and when you blink, you’re looking back up at your father. “We share a strong connection because you are my direct descendant. I can see what you see. And you can see what I see if you learn how.”

You’re completely baffled. Here your father is, telling you things you’re pretty sure Akius never could. How much more is there behind it all? 

“How do I learn that?” you ask in a whisper, excited and yet scared at the same time for his answer. 

He makes a sound that’s like the purring of a cat. And if he was in human form, you’re sure he would be smiling at you. “I can teach you. I can teach you everything that you don’t know about being Dragon-Born,” he says, making your heart fill with a fiery joy. It’s what you’ve wanted ever since you can remember. He’s going to be the father you’ve wished for. “But, on the condition that you live with the others like you in the mountains and say goodbye to the Witcher.”

That makes your smile fall. 

It wasn’t what you planned. Maybe in the beginning you wanted to be around people like you. Maybe you wanted to walk in the streets and for once not be looked at like you’re a jester or have people whisper rude things about you. You wanted to belong somewhere, and you thought that you could have that traveling beside Geralt across the continent. 

You don’t know what to choose. Why can’t you have both? You suppose it wouldn’t do well for Geralt to have a massive black dragon giving away his position. And sometimes, Witcher’s work will lead him into big cities and kingdoms not suited for your father. Not to mention that your father might catch someone’s eye for a trophy. 

“I can’t just forget what I feel for Geralt,” you whisper as your head drops away from looking at him.

Armen understands. He knows what it’s like to have to choose between something that will do well and the one you love. He was in that position when he fell in love with your mother. He chose the one he loves, and he lost that. He doesn’t want you to know that kind of feeling; heartache. 

“I’m asking you to forget,” he softly says, standing to his feet and breathing out a loud huff that makes your head turn up to him again. “I only want what’s best for you.”

With that, he turns and walks away, back to where he came from. You look back at the charred tree, bite on your lower lip as you try to come up with a choice. It’s going to be hard and you’re not sure if you have the heart to deal with the consequences of either choice. 

Sighing heavily, you push yourself off the ground. Dusting your hands off on your thighs, you turn to follow your father and rejoin Geralt. Your choice will without a doubt hurt you and one other person. 

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[noire-pandora]

Wildflowers for @14daysdalovers​  Also on my AO3

Words:  2410

Warnings: None

Pairing: Solavellan. 

Elluin shivered, goosebumps blooming on her skin as the chilly air of the morning found a way to sneak under her leather armour and kissed her skin. She encouraged the fire in front of her to burn brighter, her magic fueling the flames. 

The morning watch found her yawning as she waited for her companions to wake up and resume their trip back to Skyhold. No matter how exciting the Emerald Graves was, she missed the castle, its corridors and the bedroom it came with. And the double bed. Sleeping in a tent, on the cool, rocky ground, with twigs stabbing her back and neck might have been fun at twenty years old, but now, at thirty-six, she appreciated a good, fluffy bed.

She learned how to enjoy the privacy of her room provided, especially when she shared the tent with Solas. His presence, his body so close to her, kept her up at night, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The thought of waking up too close to him brought butterflies in her belly.

She huffed, yanking a stick in the fire. The feelings for Solas baffled and thrilled her. She’d be a liar to say she didn’t love the subtle flirting games going on between them or his pleased look when she didn’t back out from their little verbal teasings. 

She found the words dance exhilarating, a welcome break from all the pious and polite words the rest of the people threw at her. The people who saw her as the Herald, as the Inquisitor; a being above them, a being who inspired fear and respect. And while Solas showed her nothing but respect, she noticed the thrilling spark of something else in his eyes when his gaze lingered on her face or when his fingers touched her skin, a second too long as he healed her wounds. As the days passed, she waited, convinced those subtle touches would turn into heated caressing. 

Until Wisdom died and Solas disappeared for two weeks. In those weeks, doubt gnawed at her mind. Did she imagine it? Did she invent those signs? Will he leave her with the bitter longing in her heart? Those fourteen days felt like an eternity.

When he returned, she felt the sting of the tears in the corners of her eyes. As she ran towards him, her heart smashed against her ribs, pushing her to hurry, to abandon any restraint and press her lips against his. To admonish him for leaving her alone, for forgetting to visit her in the Fade at night. But Solas’ pained expression stopped her in her tracks. His suffering reflected on his face made her understand the deepness of his sadness. The games stopped, and a distant politeness fell between them.

And now, a week after his return, the loss still affected him, the sadness tugging at the corner of his eyes.  He spoke rarely and only when absolutely necessary. He searched for solitude, and no matter how much kindness and understanding she offered, his polite but cold smile pushed her away. 

She had no idea what to do, and every time she opened her mouth to speak with him, she stumbled on her words. A nagging thought added conflict to that: jealousy. Jealousy on a spirit. She believed the connection between Solas and Wisdom might have been more than a simple friendship. 

The noise of the tent flap opening broke her trail of thoughts. Cassandra emerged from the canvas, yawning. She wore nothing but a linen gambeson; her armour still stashed carefully next to her pillow. She nodded in acknowledgement and headed towards the trees, flexing her fingers. 

Suddenly, she stopped and turned on her heels to look at Elluin. “Inquisitor, what are you doing up? This isn’t your watch but Solas',’” she turned her gaze to search for the elf, but she frowned as he was nowhere to be seen. “Where is Solas?”

Elluin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she shrieked, making her way back to Elluin. “Did you not meet with him when you woke up?”

“I did, I did. I told him he can go back to sleep since I was up, but he decided to go for a walk instead. He left an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?” Cassandra threw her hands in the air. “Anything could have happened to him in an hour. “

“Cass, Solas is a grown man,” she explained, rolling her eyes. “He travelled for years on his own. I’m sure he can take care of himself for an hour, in a forest.”

“I know, but sorrow can blind anyone. He has not been himself since he left Skyhold. I will go after him.”

“Wait, I’ll go after him,” she got up from the log she sat on. “You’re in your gambeson, and it will take you at least fifteen minutes to put your armour on. I can find him faster.”

“Are you certain about it, Inquisitor?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m in my armour already, and I can see and hear better in the forest than you. I’ll be fine,” she took a moment to stretch and yawned again. She had no idea how to find Solas, but the thought of a stroll in the forest, alone, brought a smile on her lips.

The twigs snapped under the pressure of her steps, the mix of rotten leaves and mud sticking on the soles of her shoes, hindering her movements, but she was in no hurry. Cassandra exaggerated in her worries, and she knew Solas was in no danger. He survived alone, as an elf and a mage, for more than forty years. She doubted this forest could offer any challenges to him.

The trees surrounded her, giants swaying under the gentle touch of the wind. She stared at them, muttering a small prayer for her ancestor buried under their roots. The soft whispering of the woods brought peace to her mind, all the nagging thoughts about the fate of the word forgotten for a few minutes. The music of a flowing river joined the symphony, its confident bubbling encouraging her to follow its path downstream. She walked next to it, skipping and jumping on the stones scattered on the river’s bank, allowing herself a few moments of playfulness. 

Soon, the river completed the trip, its waters feeding a small, almost oval lake. Rays of lights gleamed across the water, its surface mirroring the blue, cloudless sky. Wildflowers surrounded the lake, the diverse colours of their petals joining the green of the grass, their leaves resting under the warm touch of the sun. A sweet, floral smile tickled her nose, and she took a deep breath in, filling her lungs with their scent. Her muscles instantly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over her. 

She frowned. A crouched silhouette moved in the middle of the flower patch. Her fingers twitched, ready to release her fire magic at the smallest sight of violence. The figure rose from their position, and she sighed with relief as she recognised the person. Solas. She grinned at the image in front of her: his lean, tall figure, surrounded by multicoloured flowers, their leaves touching his legs. She made a mental note to capture the scene on paper. 

“Solas!” she shouted, her voice breaking the peace. “Over here!”

Solas jumped, turning on his heels to face her in a hurry,his face strained. He immediately relaxed at her sight. In his hand, he held a small flower bouquet, the rich colours of the wildflowers contrasting with his pale fingers. A little pang of jealousy crossed Elluin’s mind.

He made his way through the patch of flowers, his feet never stepping on them. A small smile tugged at his lips, his face relaxed and calm. Her heart skipped a beat, his beauty stopping her breath. She stared at him, hardly moving, unsure what to do next. 

“Inquisitor,” he greeted her as he eventually met her. “Did something happen?”

She shook her head to clear her mind. “No. The usual. Cassandra turned into the mother hen once more, and she sent me to search for you. She worried for your safety.” 

He chuckled. The melody of his laugh sent shudders down her spine. 

“Cassandra should not worry about my safety. I can take care of myself.”

Elluin rolled her eyes. “I told her that, but you know how she is.”

“Indeed.”

Silence shrouded them as they took in the beauty surrounding them. Elluin glanced at the flowers in his hands, curiosity nibbling at her mind. She knew he valued privacy, but she had to know who was the lucky soul to receive them. 

“I see you picked up some flowers. Who’s the lucky one?” she grinned in an attempt to ease the air between them and hoped Solas won’t notice her worry. 

He looked down at his hand, his eyebrows furrowed as if he forgot about the flowers’ existence. “Oh,” he acknowledged, raising the bouquet in front of his chest. “I gathered these for you.”

“For me?” she stuttered. “Really?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “You said you wished to make your own flower garden at Skyhold. If you cut their pods and the seed heads and let them dry on wax paper for a few weeks, you can plant them. I cannot guarantee you they will bloom, but you can give it a try.”

Elluin stared at him, a curious expression crossing her face. She opened her mouth to speak a few times, hesitating to find the right words to say. When she spoke again, amazement coloured her voice. “Solas, I talked about that once, with Blackwall, months ago. You didn’t even participate in the conversation. How did you remember it?”

He smiled. “Indeed, but I did overhear the conversation, and I have a good memory. When I stumbled upon this meadow, I imagined you would be happy to take a piece of its beauty back at Skyhold. I apologise if I made a mistake and—”

“No!” she cut him off quickly, stepping closer to him, closing the distance between them. “No, it’s not like that. I’m just surprised you remembered. I want that. I want to take them at Skyhold. Thank you,” she whispered her thanks, a faint blush spreading on her face. 

Her hands reached out to take the bouquet from his hands, their fingers brushing in the movement, but Solas hands still gripped the flower’s stems, his gaze fixed on her face. She looked back at him, forgetting how to breathe. 

“I am the one who should thank you. For your help and kindness.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Help?”

“Yes. You helped me when I needed it the most. When Wisdom was in danger.”

She sighed and looked down at her legs. “I don’t know how much I helped. I couldn’t save Wisdom. They died, and you suffered,” she laughed bitterly. “I wouldn’t call that helpful.”

His long finger gingerly touched her chin, lifting it to look in her eyes again. “Even if Wisdom died, your eagerness to help mattered more than you can imagine. I am in your debt.”

Her thumb softly stroked his knuckles. “Don’t be silly, Solas. I’m sure I’m not the only one who helped you when you need it.” 

His hand left her chin, and he shook his head. “You would be surprised. It has been so long since I could trust someone with my private matters.”

“I see,” she mumbled, unsure how to act next. This was the perfect time to let her heart confess how much he meant for her, but her legs trembled with fear. She gulped down the nod in her throat, but before she could say anything, Solas spoke again. 

“I also want to apologise to you, Inquisitor.”

His words snapped her out from her state. “Apologise? What for?”

“Varric told me how concerned you were for my safety. He said you hardly ate in those two weeks I have been away.”

Her gaze dropped to the flowers both of them held as embarrassment took over her mind. She cursed herself for allowing her feelings to become that obvious. But suddenly she frowned. No, she had every right to be worried.

“I thought you would never come back. I thought you abandoned us,” she whispered. “I thought you hated me for not saving Wisdom.”

“I thought about it,” he said, the words pushing Elluin to stare at him. It was his turn to look at the flowers they still held. “To never return to Skyhold. But then I realised you did everything you could to help, and I couldn’t abandon you right now,” he shifted his gaze back to her face. “I apologized for being away. I needed to find another reason to come back. Something to keep me steady on my feet.” 

His hands left the stems of the flowers to hover above hers, their skin barely touching. He swallowed hard and studied every line of her face as if to memorise them. 

“And?” she inquired, her voice quivering. “Did you find it?” 

Solas smiled and nodded. “I did.”

The answer brought every surrounding sound to a halt, the thudding of her heart against her chest the only noise she could hear. A faint dizziness took over her. Her instinct screamed to move, to say something, anything, but her body refused to listen. Seconds passed, but no words came to her. She saw Solas’ shoulders drop, the intense expression on his face slowly replaced with his usual, calm demeanour. His hands finally left hers and she understood the magic of the moment passed. He left her side, heading towards the forest. She slapped herself mentally for missing the perfect opportunity and the ideal location for a romantic confession. 

“We should get going, Inquisitor,” she heard Solas saying. “Before the Seeker sends a searching party to find us.”

She snorted, shaking her head, and slowly left the meadow, in no hurry to abandon its beauty. The wind caressed the colourful bouquet in her hands, and she smiled at it. She looked up to check if Solas watched her, but he slowly walked away, paying no attention to her. 

She buried her face in the bouquet, the pollen colouring the tip of her nose and her cheeks. Pure happiness took over her as she took a deep breath, the sweet, wild smell tickling her senses. It was the scent of love. The scent of his love. 

[anextraordinarymuse]

Why I think Elizabeth will choose Nathan

(AKA let’s scream about this together because apparently it’s just going to be stuck in my head until I share it)

So, there are actually two different classes of reasons why I think Elizabeth and Nathan will end up together: one that’s motivated by the characters and one that’s motivated by the editing and writing choices ( the way scenes are shot, the common themes we see in the show and even the dialogue itself). I’m going to try to talk about it all in one post, but it might get long (and I might decide to split it up, we’ll see). 

Under a read more because it gets long.

In no order, and I will forget many points I’m sure ... 

Elizabeth sought out Nathan. Granted, her initial reasons for doing so had nothing to do with romance or courtship, but I still think it’s important to note that Nathan did not seek out an acquaintance with Elizabeth. Even once they were introduced and might have occasion to speak and get to know each other, it was Elizabeth who drove that particular wagon forward. Well, and Allie since she was kind enough to get herself in trouble a few times and force them into a conversation.

Nathan and Elizabeth are presented as a united front/partners/etc very early on by giving Allie problems that require an approach from both her parent and her teacher (i.e. Nathan and Elizabeth talking to Allie about why it’s wrong to take things from the other kids). It takes almost no time for the show to demonstrate that Nathan and Elizabeth’s inherent ideals are aligned, and Elizabeth states very early on that she’s impressed by Nathan’s parenting.

Nathan and Elizabeth show each other more vulnerability very early on that we see with Elizabeth and Lucas. It’s like the second or third episode that Nathan even shows up in that he shares the story of his sister dying and him raising Allie, and it leads to a moment of vulnerability between Nathan and Elizabeth. This trend only continues from there.

Nathan is a Mountie so there’s kind of no way to avoid this, but it’s established very early that Elizabeth goes to him for help and trusts that he will fix things/find people/solve problems. But, this actually starts with Elizabeth helping Nathan find Allie on her first day of school when she doesn’t show up. So, they’re showing us that not only are these people equal partners, but that they also learn that they can trust and depend on one another pretty much from the get go. This is a big deal, especially with Elizabeth. Also, I think we know by now that she is big on trust, dependability, stability, and honor - so Nathan is bound to get her attention because he’s basically exactly what she’s drawn to. 

Nathan and Elizabeth are both basically public servants. There is a sense of duty to their professions that they share and that creates a bond between them. I think this bond is absent with Lucas and Elizabeth because Lucas is more of a business man than a public servant (which is totally fine, of course). 

Lucas (indirectly) put Elizabeth in a dangerous situation - that Nathan rescued her from. This is both a character driven and a writer’s room choice that makes me think that Elizabeth will choose Nathan, because this definitely a call back to all of the times that Jack saved Elizabeth. The situation is similar to when Elizabeth and Julie are kidnapped and Jack rides back to save them: Elizabeth and Lucas are being held at gunpoint and Nathan comes in for the rescue. I’d consider this a very deliberate choice on the writers’ part that highlights two points of interest. One is that Nathan has that hero impulse that Jack had (and that Elizabeth values and appreciates), and the other is a little more indirect and hidden. Lucas is the reason that Elizabeth was in that situation, and yet from the outside or a romantic standpoint, Lucas is the safer option because he doesn’t have a career that puts him in danger. This is an interesting  example of displayed danger vs perceived safety. 

The first man out of Lucas and Nathan to interact with little Jack is Nathan. Nathan takes notice of him in a way that is natural to someone who likes kids - he’s also the first person we see holding Jack (and Elizabeth melts faster than a plate of butter in the hot sun watching that, she’s freaking glowing when she sees that). This doesn’t mean Lucas is bad with kids or doesn’t want them, just that the writers made a conscious decision to show Nathan interacting with little Jack and highlighting that he’s also a single parent. Another score for Elizabeth and Nathan being equals and sharing things. 

Nathan and Elizabeth share some very sweet and romantically charged moments in the Christmas episode, and you know how this show likes their Christmas episodes. We not only see some shy flirting between Nathan and Elizabeth, we also see some foreshadowing of their future family when Elizabeth and Allie are telling Nathan where to put the Christmas tree and then the three of them decorating it together. 

 Elizabeth truly, genuinely doesn’t like it when Nathan is upset with her/giving her the cold shoulder/shutting her out. Her face totally gives her away. 

Elizabeth interacts with Nathan in important places: the Mountie office, her home, and the school house. Those three locations hold a lot of emotion and importance for Elizabeth, so I think it’s worth noting. At least in the case of the school house and the Mountie office, it feels natural at this point to see Elizabeth and Nathan together/interacting in those spaces. 

We’ve gotten a lot of family-centric content from the Elizabeth and Nathan relationship, and basically none from the Elizabeth and Lucas relationship. Elizabeth has a relationship with Allie outside of Nathan, but she also helps Nathan deal with Allie’s struggles and behaviors. AND, she helps Nathan with his own unresolved family issues (his anger with his father and unwillingness to believe anything good of him until Elizabeth encourages him to check out his claims of innocence). Juxtapose that with the first time that Elizabeth meets Lucas’s mom and she basically drops a bomb in Elizabeth’s lap and then asks her to keep it a secret from Lucas, which drives a wedge between Lucas and Elizabeth. 

Nathan makes inroads with Elizabeth’s friends and family (kind of without meaning to, honestly). He knows Lee and Rosemary and is friendly with them (in fact, he teams up with Lee in like episode one when they’re investigating the disappearance of Lee’s payroll, but we really see him on friendly terms with Bill. Now, again, this is somewhat unavoidable since Bill insists on doing sheriff work and Nathan’s a Mountie, but we see that Bill is also concerned with Nathan’s emotional state and reaches out to him when he needs some friendship. (I’m thinking specifically of the axe cutting scene when Nathan learns that Elizabeth is out of town with Lucas and Bill comes to chop wood with him because he knows Nathan is upset. It’s such a sweet scene). Lucas is friendly with these people too, but Nathan is literally putting down roots with the people that are important in Elizabeth’s life. Again, it might be unavoidable to some extent since Nathan is bound to create bonds with the people he’s duty bound to protect.

We get to see Nathan and Elizabeth argue. This is so important to me, and I think important to the characters and the relationship as well. Being comfortable and secure enough with one another to argue is crucial to a healthy relationship. Also worth noting here is that while they argue, they do it in a way that is not harmful (i.e. they don’t accuse or attack each other or resort to verbal jabs. They call attention to the behaviors that they don’t agree with without making it an attack on the person a la Nathan being upset with Elizabeth for running out into the storm and endangering herself, and Elizabeth calling Nathan out on shutting her out when he was jealous).

There’s more, but I’ve been working on this for longer than I want to mention, so I’m going to end it there. I might add to it later when my brain starts working again. As always, feel free to add your thoughts!

[please-return-to-villanelle]

This Is Not A Game, It’s My Life

S3E6 recap

The bitter pill of reality has been a hard one to swallow for Eve, Villanelle, Konstantin, and Carolyn over the course of this series. What this episode highlights well is that this spy-life and entanglement with the Twelve is no longer a game for anyone one, but rather a reality they are all living in whether they like it or not.

One of the ways this episode roots the characters in this newfound reality is through select color choices of the title cards and the character’s attire.

Light blue is associated with understanding and tranquility while darker blues represents knowledge, power, and seriousness. This title card is indicating that this episode will revolve around realization for the main characters while each of them uncover new information that allows them to come to terms with their realities.

Eve’s reality

The title cards in season 3 have transitioned from establishing where characters are located and are now giving insight into the psyche of the main characters.

Piss Off Forever

Forever flashes to signify that Eve is coming to terms with finally accepting the reality of her failed marriage with Niko.

It's interesting that this title card is yellow. The color yellow can symbolize optimism or cowardice. Maybe the yellow words are ironically representing the optimism with which they once viewed their relationship; but that is not the reality they find themselves in now.

This whole situation happened because neither Eve nor Niko were brave enough to express what they wanted and end their toxic relationship once and for all. The act of ending their marriage has played out like a game between the two of them. Both of them waiting for the other to make the final move to end it.

We learn that Niko is usually asleep every time Eve comes to visit. Is he avoiding her or actually unconscious? I’m thinking the former as Niko’s injuries wouldn’t equate to an unconscious state (see my other post for a medical break down if interested). Niko deliberately avoiding Eve would play homage to how the two of them are not being direct with each other. Neither of them has the courage to cut ties with each other. While it’s clear that Niko is over having Eve in his life, he doesn’t directly verbalize this to Eve until he is lying in this hospital bed after almost being murdered himself. It’s worth noting that Niko is still wearing his wedding ring in this scene, again showing that neither of them has fully let go of the other up until this point.

I told him, don’t marry her. She will make your life a great big ball ache.

This statement from Niko’s family member indicates that there was inequality in this relationship from the very start that was noticeable to people observing Niko and Eve’s relationship.

I’d also like to point out Eve’s outfit in this scene. She is wearing earth tones as she often does, which are muted and flat colors. This could signify Eve hiding her true nature, as she often does when she ties her hair back, and existing in the moment rather than living in it. I think it’s significant to this scene with Niko because she is taking this interaction and mulling it over internally while Niko makes his move to end the game.

This can’t be about the bus.

Still got it... this is the phrase used by someone playing a game, but Eve knows that this is a game Villanelle isn’t playing with her. They made that clear with the kiss.

Someone else is playing a game with Eve.

Sometimes you just need to let it win.

But Eve, ever the control freak and someone that needs to be right all the time, would not easily let someone else, let alone her own emotions as Bear alludes to, beat her at a game.

She teaches wee kinds to do roly-polies.

Eve puts two and two together that Dasha trains others to imitate and therefore was imitating Villanelle to mess with her. 

Game on, Dasha.

Before confronting Dasha directly, Eve visits Carolyn to collect intel on her opponent. She is wearing the same outfit as before but with a purple scarf

Purple combines the calm stability of blue and the fierce energy of red.

Through her wardrobe, we see Eve slowly transitioning from plain MI5 Eve that was married to Niko to the Eve that is more in tune with her own desires and feelings. She does what she wants and answers to no one.

But if it’s the Twelve Eve, does it really matter who?

I could say the same about Kenny.

This scene shows that the Twelve murdering and harming loves ones is personal to both Eve and Carolyn. Eve is homeless and jobless (does the Bitter Pill even pay her?) while Carolyn is working off the clock to find out what happened to Kenny.

Up for a game?

The title card depicts the location Barcelona in red letters. Red is the color of fire and blood, passion and strength, desire and love. With a such a passionate color choice, we would expect to see a more state of mind title card rather than a simple location. I think this is because Eve is calm and collected when she comes to see Dasha rather than overtly emotional. She is wearing a purple turtleneck to show us this.

Purple combines the calm stability of blue and the fierce energy of red.

She has found a balance and is wearing her hair is down. The real Eve Polastri has arrived and is here to end this game with Dasha.

You think you are winning. You will never win at this game. You can’t beat us, you understand?

I think this is the crux of what is happening in the overall plot with the Twelve. We have 4 people who became inveigled with this organization and are all trying to escape their ties to it. But they are all slowly realizing that dealing with the Twelve and working for the Twelve is not a game.

I know you’re working for the Twelve. I know you’re working with her.

I just love how Eve and Villanelle don’t use each other’s name when taking to other people and everyone just understands they are referring to one another. It’s as if everyone on the planet is aware of their sapphic relationship. I just love it.

She will never be loyal to you.

Eve does not view her relationship with Villanelle as a game and knows there is some thread of understanding between them. It’s the only thing she can rely on anymore and I think we will see more of that in the final 2 episodes.

In the final moment of Eve’s storyline in this episode, she plays her last move and in her purple turtleneck with her hair down she finally lets go of Niko.

End of game.

Villanelle’s Reality

Villanelle is a visual contradiction of projecting power with her wardrobe (dark blue suit and gold shoes) contrasted with her unhinged emotional state in which she is powerless to her raging emotions.

Helene’s phone conversation sets the stage for the game Villanelle is trapped in.

This exposition gives Villanelle insight into how Helene and Dasha are managing her.

At first Helene is speaking directly to her daughter. She tells her daughter what she wants to hear to placate and calm her down. Afterwards, she has a conversation with grandma who has full knowledge of her daughter’s complaints and Helene’s tone and verbiage shifts to reveal her true intentions.

She’s doing all this to get our attention.

Villanelle acts out because she seeks attention.

Put some cream on it. That’ll calm her a bit.

Give Villanelle things to make her feel better temporarily: money, houses, the illusion of freedom and control.

Its official. To Villanelle the Keeper.

Villanelle smiles and downs the entire glass of champagne in triumph. She is temporarily basking in her freedom until... she receives the post card and the illusion of power is shattered.

This is the same stuff I was doing before. This is bullshit

You bargained for what you wanted, and we are giving it to you. You’ll get all the material perks you were expecting. What more do you want?

It becomes apparent that the Keeper position Villanelle was granted was nothing more than another tool her handlers were using manipulate her with.

This made me think of Villanelle’s Roman centurion and emperor metaphor. A centurion, or foot soldier, is someone who takes orders and carries them out similarly to how assassins are told who to kill by their handlers. While the title of emperor holds power and gives the perception of being in charge, this is not always true in reality. Sometimes a political title can be nothing more than a symbol of power for the figure head of the state while the minor politicians give the orders behind the scenes. This is Villanelle the Keeper’s reality.

Villanelle is over the Twelve and seeks the only family she has left: Konstantin.

They kill you the second they realize it.

I want this.

He reveals his plan to exit the Twelve for good likely with the 6 million euros he has stolen and his daughter Irina in tow. But exiting the Twelve is no simple task.

Do you know what this means? It means you have to leave everything: the clothes, apartment, and her.

I know.

This dialogue parallels with the end of season 2 when Konstantin encouraged Villanelle to run away after killing Aaron Peele. She wasn’t ready to let go of Eve then because keeping Eve was still part of her ultimate end game. But now the game is over, and she just wants to be free and at this point in time is prepared to give up everything including Eve to get the one thing she wants: her freedom.

This is bullshit.

At the end of the episode we see Villanelle completely botch a kill and get injured in the process. Killing and watching the life drain from people’s eyes used to be something that made Villanelle feel powerful and gave her a sense of ultimate control. This is no longer the case as Villanelle comes to terms with her complete lack of autonomy and her inability to escape her emotions.

I’m done with this shit. I’m done with it, I’m leaving.

Carolyn’s Reality

Carolyn finally gets Kenny’s phone records that were being withheld by her boss Paul (confirmed plant for the Twelve). She is over this game the Twelve is playing with her as well and she decides to go straight to the source of the several in going and outgoing calls Kenny received before his demise: Konstantin.

Carolyn is also done with the game Geraldine is playing with her. She confronts her directly about the secrets held between them with regards to her involvement with Konstantin. I suspect we will get more answers to whatever is going on here in the next episode. Regardless, Carolyn is over it.

The drought can be endured but rot is an instant killer.

Konstantin’s Reality

Carolyn’s “I’m over these games” energy leads he straight to Konstantin who, judging by the title card, wishes he was free in Cuba. The color pink could symbolize love and romance. In this context, I think it is alluding the romantic history between Carolyn and Konstantin and his love for his daughter Irina.

Are you in a rush?

No, impatient.

During their car ride, he reveals that he might be Kenny’s father and while that is interesting information it is likely not a conversation that requires several phones calls to clear up. Indicating once again that Konstantin is being deceitful with everyone around him as a way to survive this game.

Interestingly, the aria Carolyn was listing to when taking to Mo about Kenny is playing in the background during the car ride. The song, Dido’s Lament, is about an apocalyptic romance between Aeneas and Dido in which one of the lovers leaves out of duty and the other is left to die (foreshadowing?). I’m wondering if this song is signifying that this is the last time Carolyn and Konstantin see each other. Much like Aeneas and Dido, these lovers leave a lot unresolved between them as they part ways.

Later on, Paul, Konstantin’s boss this season, orders Konstantin to track down the person that ordered the hit on Kruger’s wife, which we all know is Konstantin.

Game over for Konstantin.

He immediately packs his bags and goes to collect Irina. But his desire to be free does not outweigh his love for Irina as he stays behind to watch over her in the next episode after she kills her mom’s new boyfriend. Really interesting that he made sure Villanelle was ready to leave Eve behind, the woman that has her heart, but Konstantin was not willing to leave behind his daughter, the girl that has his. Perhaps Konstantin can’t imagine a reality without his daughter or maybe he has more loose ends to tie up before heading to Cuba.

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 15 (NSFW)

Read on AO3

Read chapter fourteen (NSFW)

Title: Come to Me

Words: 8300 (I... apologize greatly)

Summary: Yeah, maybe that wasn't the best decision after all...

Warnings: Bloodplay-ish, verbal abuse, humiliation, violence, light bondage.

ST Rambles: Well, well, well. With twelve minutes to midnight, I did get it up. I've been writing this thing all day (given I'd been avoiding writing it all week, buuut), and I think it works. I apologize for the length omg. Literally the longest thing I've ever written.

I didn't expect last week's response to be so... grand? I loved last week's chapter and I'm so happy y'all did too. Now, to work on next week's!

[Masterlist]

The bruising was nearly imperceptible after a week, even so you concentrated on your reflection, trying to rest Mason’s shirt over the ghosted mark splayed over your larynx. Mason’s apartment was never well lit anyway, acting as an additional cover for what had once required a skilled hand at concealer and powder. Pulling back on the shoulders of the borrowed shirt, you mussed with it until an exasperated sigh dropped your hands to your sides, a flat face staring back at you as you reluctantly surrendered after five wasted minutes of meticulous staging. Mason was always over-observant, a skill necessary for every physician, but only currently serving as a foundation to your overthinking.

“Hey, I threw your uniform in the washer while you were showering,” Mason called beyond the bathroom door. “It just finished drying. I’m gonna put it on the coffee table. Is that okay?”

Mason had always been a genuine person, always showing his affection in addition to saying it. After months of chaos, his little act of kindness warmed through your heart, a sense of home you had only ever felt when he was around. It had been so long since you’d got to spend quality time with him – gosh, it had to have been before graduation, before careers and superiors came into your lives – and it was nice having him near, feeling safe for the first time since returning to Starkiller.

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” you called back. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. How’re those clothes working for you?” His voice carried closer to the door. “I made sure they were from my pre-jacked years.”

A laugh snuck something that resembled a smile into the mirror. “Yeah, okay, Mr. Tough Guy. I’m sure your gigantic arms would shred this shirt to pieces by now.”

“Oh, so you think I have gigantic arms, huh? Why don’t you come out here and I’ll give you a ticket to the gun show?”

You shook your head in the mirror, rolling your eyes and smiling. “You are ridiculous, Mason McCarty. Sometimes I can’t remember why I’m friends with you.”

“Oh, yeah right. You know you love me.”

With one last primp at your collar, and a tug at the tied drawstrings hanging at your hips, you pulled the door open and leaned onto the threshold. Mason was doing the same, only mirrored, looking down to you, crossing his arms across his chest. He was wearing a rendition of what he’d given you, only less worn. He wasn’t wrong, though, his arms were impressive. He’d gotten bigger since you’d met with him before the Finalizer.

“I tolerate you,” you teased. “Don’t get it twisted.”

He tilted his head, his face falling into an exaggerated pout. “Is that how you speak to someone who got your favorite for dinner?”

The question made you aware of the familiar aroma that filled the room. You looked behind him, spotting the take-out bag atop the coffee table, your uniform neatly folded next to it. This was all so nice, like a sleepover, though you suspected this arrangement would last at least a week, long enough to scout out your apartment and get the locks changed.

“Fine,” you shrugged, “maybe I do love you. But only for your food.”

The two of you bumped each other’s sides and laughed your way to the couch. Mason unpacked the bag, handing you a utensil and a handful of napkins before opening the take-out containers. You curled up into the corner of the couch, resting your food between your chest and legs, facing him as he dug in with you.

“So, now that I’ve provided you with food, water, and shelter, are you ready to tell me what the hell is going on?” He took a bite, looking over at you beyond your knees.

Life had looked so different since you’d last seen him; between Kylo Ren and your career, you were nearly an entirely new person. Though, instead of wisdom you had obtained an overwhelming amount of complications in your time away from Mason. Service between Starkiller and the Finalizer was only approved on official First Order equipment; your cell reception disallowing communication through space, keeping you from seeking Mason for gossip or encouragement when you needed it most.

Chewing the last of your bite, you quickly swallowed and rested your arms. “How long have you got?”

“All night, if that’s what you need. I’m worried about you,” your name was genuine on his tongue, true concern edging his tone.

“Jeez,” you sighed. “Where do I even start?”

The confessional acted as a refresher, a reminder of just how bizarre life had gotten while away. Mason had slowed his bites after you told him about your living situation, stopping completely after you walked him through the patient seizing and bleeding out. As you described the egregious scene, you subconsciously traced your hand over your throat, as if mentioning the events that had led to your bruising would make it obvious to him. When you told him about Talia, he seemed to have a peace come over him, like knowing you had a friend away from him had been a concern in your absence. He shared in your disgust over Hux, obviously angered at how much of a show he’d made of parading you through the communal area to his office.

“You called him Armitage? To his face?” He was stunned, at this point his food was getting colder, his hunger sated by your words instead of his meal.

“I will admit that it wasn’t the best choice. But, Mason, let me tell you… it felt so good.”

His brow creased. “And he just let you off the hook? No suspension?”

Your stomach curdled, the sight of food making you sick. Setting your meal back on the counter, you took a breath. “Well, not for now, but… at some point.”

He followed suit, putting his food down and leaning in. He sat crisscross before you, his elbows resting on his knees as he listened to your explanation of the circumstances surrounding your career. His face fell as yours had when you brought up the Board of Physicians, realizing just how deep the hole you had dug yourself had become. He said nothing, only listening as you recounted last night in more detail, still shivering at the memory of the damaged door, the faded pain at your back reappearing when you mentioned the winter that was the assessment room.

“And right after you hung up, he appeared out of nowhere, like some ghost.” Robbie’s voice vividly replayed as your recounted your run-in from earlier.

“But… I thought you said he’d been demoted. Why – how was he there?” He was expressive now, angry with Robbie as you were scared.

“He wasn’t supposed to be there. He left his station because he knew the Command Shuttle had returned.” Absentmindedly, you rang your hand around your wrist, the shadow of his clutch reappearing, the violation he’d wrought overwhelming even in the dim light of Mason’s apartment.

“And where is your – what was it – your master in all of this? You’d think he’d care more about the wellbeing of the care provider he picked himself.”

Though Kylo Ren was the root cause of everything you’d just shared with Mason, you had purposely left out any detail that mentioned him; you knew it was necessary to stay with Mason, understanding that any video evidence of you coming or going to your superior’s quarters at this hour would only expedite the Board’s judgement, but you still felt unease over disregarding the commands of your master. In an effort to put him off your trail, you’d left your watch in the assessment room, hiding it in his spare uniforms and hoping he hadn’t also pulled Mason’s file. Here was where you were safe from everything – Robbie, the Board of Physicians, and the manipulation of Kylo Ren – and you kept repeating that thought, trying to drown out the blaring reminders of just how unsafe you truly were.

Mason’s inquisitions had successfully torn down your efforts not to breakdown. His face twisted into shock before yours fell into your hands, tears that had been welling up since this morning falling without will, spilling over your cupped fingers and down your wrists. Mason scooted over to you, pulling you from the couch and into his arms, your wet eyes pressed against his warm shoulder. He ran his hands up and down your heaving back, your breath shattered as sobs hiccupped through you. It was a release that your body hadn’t felt safe enough to let out, only breaking when it knew someone would be around to hold you together as the torrent decimated your outward façade of apathy.

He shushed you, one of his hands smoothing strands of hair behind your ear. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“Mason, it’s not. It’s never going to be okay again.” The words left in broken spurts of muffled sobs. “I can’t fix this. I – I did this. All of this is my fault.”

He lulled your name, pulling you closer into him, seemingly keeping your chest from shattering. “You saved him, shh. If you believe that in your heart, you have to know that you did the right thing. And the Board will see that. I promise.”

He held you, his arms an anchor, keeping you from drowning in sorrow. Time was foreign, never considering its presence as your heaving lungs fell into gasps, and then into stillness. Eventually the only sound that you were aware of was how his heart thumped in his chest, strong and even – seventy-eight beats per minute, you regarded, mindlessly counting them out of habit. When you grew tired of his pulse, you focused in on his breathing, the clear sounds of his lungs matching the tide of his chest, leading your head with him. He’d rested his chin atop the crown of your head, his index finger continuing its tracing over your ear’s helix, the gentle touch the basis for your return from crisis.

Letting the security of his touch sink in for one last moment, you sighed and pulled back, his arms permitting your journey back to self-support. He kept a hand on your hair, his thumb tracing over your temple, his fingers splaying towards the base of your skull, an additional support as your puffy eyes sought his through hazed vision. Before recently, Mason had been the only person to see you cry; he never made you feel wrong about it, always riding out the storm and sticking around to help you rebuild. And nothing had changed, his presence right now only proving just how permanent a fixture he was in your life.

“How can you promise something you have no say in?” Your words were quiet, cracking at the ends.

“We were taught to never make promises we can’t keep,” he said, the dim light casting a heavenly contour over his cheekbones. “I know that you’re going to come out of this stronger than before. You know why?”

You sniffled and swallowed, looking between his eyes. “Why, Mason?”

“You won’t have to convince the Board of your character. They’ll know. Just like I do.”

“You know me.” The words were so simple, yet they swelled in your chest as you stared back at him, your eyes falling down to his lips for the smallest fragment of a second.

“I know you.” He followed in your glance, nearly imperceptible in its speed.

In the warm light, your heart seemed to glow at this exchange. Mason did know you. And you knew him just the same. He had been your safety for so long, a physical embodiment of protection whenever you needed or wanted it. Here he was before you, an incandescent reminder of the boy you’d yearned for, but knew was too unavailable to build anything with. Now, though, there was nothing stopping you from reaching out and taking hold of the energy surging between you; there was nothing to stop you from manifesting all that you’d pined after for all those years before settling on companionship.

You brought your hand up to his, matching your fingers over his and wrapping them across his palm. There was an influx of fluttering between both of your glances, a silent inquiry of are you sure shared in the proximity. Another hand came up to grasp the other side of your face, landing with the intent of stability; his lips parted, yours following suit, and he brought your lips towards his. It felt foreign as you followed into his hands’ slow path, chin quivering as your felt the warmth of his breath brush over your mouth. With a final glance of consent, he closed his eyes.

With a swallow, you steeled yourself and let your lids fall, breath stalling as you waited for the feel of his undiscovered lips; when his forehead met yours, you searched for the intensity you’d once known for him so long ago, regarding the salient lack of want even in his nearness. This was the farthest thing from how you’d always imagined this moment before; in school, you had dreamt so often of being with Mason McCarty, imagining how it would feel to be chosen by him, to be the golden girl he’d end up with among all the others you’d witnessed leaving his dorm at all hours of the night. Something felt empty in his hold, though, like you’d grown to want more than the boy next door.

His nose pressed into your face, his lips only millimeters from yours, completely unaware of the inward turmoil consuming you as he drew ever closer. Before you could shove it all down and give in to what you had sworn you’d always wanted, the door to Mason’s residence hissed open, the sound ricocheting through the silence. For a fragment of a second, you were relieved, accepting the interruption as a way to delay confronting the lackluster of Mason’s touch. That was it, though, the fragmented moment of peace shattering when Mason’s hands tore away from your face, the rest of his body following as he flew away from you, crashing against the back wall, the collision’s volume suggesting his frame was now permanently indented behind him.

Kylo Ren stood at the threshold, masked, gloved, and fuming. One hand was held out, compressing Mason’s body and keeping him suspended; the other hand was balled at his side, gloved fingers coiled around a band of loose-hanging metal. In the fractioned second you spent analyzing him, you looked closer, noticing a red glow emanating between his fingers. It was your watch; you could hardly believe how small his hand made it appear, nearly imperceptible in the distance. It was a doomed and pointless effort to begin with, purposely leaving the tracker behind, though you’d hoped – however fruitlessly – that maybe it would have deterred him from hunting you down.

Mason struggled against the wall as you stumbled from the couch and onto the floor, your elbow slamming against the coffee table on your way down. Kylo marched forward, hand still extended, grip twisting into a fist. You heard the struggles of your friend, eyes squidged shut in pain while you rubbed your arm, listening as he fell victim to a suffocation you knew all too well. It was unclear in the chaos if the trembling you felt was your own or if Kylo Ren’s modulated growls were reverberating through the room. The footsteps drew nearer, opening your eyes and finding two black boots pointed parallel to your knees.

“It’s up to you how much he suffers.” Behind you, Mason stopped fighting for air, his lungs sucking in just enough to fuel the thrashing cries of pain that followed.

Jumpstarted by the blood-curdling shrieking, you bolted up, hopping over the couch like it was the natural thing to do, wanting to reach him as quickly as possible. His cries faltered, dying into quick pants as his body fought to find equilibrium. Unfathomable rage enraptured you, twisting your face into a snarl when you met the chrome visor behind you.

“Let him down! Stop this!” The words shredded against your throat, your face burning with new vehemence.

There was no response, at least not from your Commander; the next sound to escape Mason was inhuman, like glass getting compacted and magma getting cooled. You turned again to him, looking up to his face, finding it twisted to match the noise which shuddered your spine; his arms and legs were splayed out, sweat collecting at his collar as he suffered through a torture you were sure you’d never known.

“Why – stop! I can- please! He can’t take this! He doesn’t deserve this!”

“No, he doesn’t. I agree,” he barked, the words drowned in feigned sympathy. “This should be you.” His hand turned over, Mason screaming out with new volume behind you.

“Then stop! Please, just leave him be, whatever you want, just stop!” The only reaction your body had left was to spark seething tears, one falling over your cheek as you begged for mercy.

“Your word means nothing. This”—he waved your watch into sight— “solidified that fact.”

The endless cries ripping through the room were fraying your nerves, evaporating your wrath and replacing it with a deep, burning sense of desperation. A choked whine left you, air leaving in staccato and urgent gasps. “God,” you screamed, “please just stop. I promise! Just please, please stop this!”

“Promise,” he spit the word, it’s existence a mangled sound of putridity. “Your virtue has even less value than your word.”

The howls of pain rang on, your patience for Kylo Ren’s torment wearing thinner with every new octave of his cries. Your back was cresting with each full breath, your head spinning in mayhem as you tromped over to him and gripped onto the arm twisting into Mason. Kylo’s visor bent down to you, the reflection of your heated expression a hyphenated portrayal as you caught view of your wet cheeks, the tears frenzied instead of solemn.

“Kylo,” you whispered, “just tell me what you want and you can have it. Just, please, let him go.” The words were buried, barely audible over the injury leaving Mason’s lungs.

He considered you, staring down at your pleading expression. You squeezed his arm, your face breaking into a desperate grimace beneath his stare. He’d taken your absence as a personal attack, completely disregarding the target on your back, like you hadn’t learned not to defy him at this point. And in groveling for Mason’s relief, you accepted that no matter if you deserved to be punished for disregarding his instruction or not, this was the only way you could ensure that Mason wouldn’t end up as collateral damage.

“Please.” Your lip quivered, a tear streaking to the corner of your mouth as you shook beneath his glare.

His arm flexed beneath your fingers, a final surge of terror ripping through Mason before he collapsed to the floor. Without thinking, you clambered down towards him, brushing his hair from his face, your fingers slipping over the sweat that had amounted. “Mason, Mason?” His name escaped in breathy gulps, your heart racing harder when his eyes weren’t opening. “What did you do to him?” you roared, fingers pressing into his carotids.

“Collect your things. We’re leaving.” Kylo’s voice was apathetic, unbothered by Mason’s limp body in your hold.

His pulse was there but weak, nowhere near the high seventies like earlier. His breathing was even and equal, coming slowly. The sweat that had gathered on his back acted to shift his posture, his weight taking you with him as you rushed to protect his head from the floor on his way down. His arm fell to the side, his lips parting and his jaw falling limp with exhaustion. Your fingers were smeared in his sweat, twisted into his nape as you smoothed over his features, hoping your touch would act as a salve while he laid beneath you.

“I can’t just leave him like this,” you sniffled, a tear landing on his chin.

“You will, or he won’t leave here again.” There was no hint of threat in the statement, only truth; a promise in the harsh modulation.

You blinked, two tears falling with the movement. “I’m sorry.” His brow was sweat-laden, too, your thumb gently brushing the moisture away as your eyes blurred, so ashamed of roping him into this. With a sweep of his hair from his forehead, you pulled his arm across his chest and stood at his side to face your master.

“After you, officer,” he said, the hand holding onto your watch motioning towards the door.

Sucking your teeth, you slipped your shoes on without breaking contact with his masked glare. Even as you meandered towards the coffee table to collect your uniform, you stayed locked into him, quaking with anger with each charged step. The animosity which laid within both of you was suffocating, only breeding more hostility as you walked past him with anger-twitching eyes. Kylo placed a hand on your shoulder, his grasp eliciting a short wince as it bit a bruise beneath Mason’s charity of clothing. Before the door hissed shut, one last shriek came from the room as Kylo popped the indented metal into its original unmarked condition, your shoulders shuddering at the echoed cries of the durasteel.

“How can you treat people like they’re expendable? Like they don’t matter?” He began leading you down the hall, his boot cutting into the back of your ankle when you weren’t keeping up with his stride.

Kylo didn’t respond, only digging into your shoulder to indicate a turn. With the length of his legs, you were half-jogging to keep him from running into your feet. You didn’t know whether to keep your head down or to keep a lookout for any cameras, feeling an unease being seen like this – baggy pajamas, work shoes, damp hair – with the Commander of the First Order attached at your back.

“I didn’t disregard your request to spite you, okay? If I came to you and I got caught and it was even suggested to the Board that I was sleeping with my boss? With my Commander? That would be it. That would kill me,” you explained, cataloguing the halls he led you through.

Still no reply, only an increased pace with every new sentence, more pressure dipping into your clavicle. His grip was nearing a fracture, sweat collecting at your nape as you fought to silence the pain. In your periphery you spied the red indicator of a camera, flying out of sight as he propelled you down new halls, wider and taller as his quarters grew closer.

After one final turn, a door appeared at the end of an expansive corridor, completely alone in its existence. His fingers bit down further, the doors sliding apart at the gesture while you winced inwardly. Before you could step past the threshold, his hand unhinged and you flew past the door frame, landing with your hands braced and your knees skidding across the glossed floor.

“It seems you’ve forgotten who you work for, officer,” he said, the doors latching shut behind him. “I can have whatever I want without your offering. The only reason your friend is still breathing is so I can use him as leverage, as it appears the only way to get you to listen is to threaten what you value most.”

In your crash, your chin had collided with the floor, your teeth gnashing into the back of your tongue. As you gathered yourself off of your hands, a drop of the iron that flooded your mouth fell between your bent knees. The colloid pooled under your tongue, slithering down your throat as you sat back on your heels.

“What is so hard to understand about me not coming here?” He stepped closer as you continued to regather yourself, steps calculated and quiet.

“I understand you’re being watched. I know that your life is on the line, and for half a second I believed that you valued it”—he tore your chin up to his visor— “but that can’t be true.”

His grip led you to your feet as he stared down at you. “If you truly held any stock in your life, you would do as you’re told without question. Without doubt.”

Blood dripped over your lip and onto your chin as he anchored your jaw open, his thumb bending over your bottom teeth, depressing the tip of your tongue. “Tonight’s lesson was centered around this incorrigible mouth, but I think you need to learn the true consequences of your actions. Nothing less.”

Below, he kicked your fallen uniform to the side, walking you back so your knees gave way to the arm of the couch, your hands reaching back to support you along the black leather. A low hum left his helmet, his visor tracking over your laid-out body. “Now, to turn these into what they really are”— both of his hands took hold of your shirt collar— “rags.”

The thin fabric of Mason’s old shirt gave way to Kylo’s will like the threads had never been bound together, splitting apart down the center of your chest, past your naval, and through the bottom hem. The shredded article hung open over your abdomen, your chest tiding quickly as you watched his shoulders drag along as coarse breaths left his helmet. His knee anchored itself between your legs, his visor pointed at your face. He kept your eyes in his while his thumbs tore the tattered garment down your arms, leaving raised red trails in their forceful paths; with the fabric bunched over your wrists, the only covering left over your torso being your bra, he yanked it past your hands.

At the motion, your support gave out and your head fell against the stiff cushions. In his hectic maneuvering, once the shirt moved past your waist, his fingers gripped into the waistband of Mason’s sweatpants, their warmth leaving you with begrudging ease even as the drawstring was double knotted above your hips. The thick fabric skated past your toes, every hair on your body stick-straight as the frozen air punctuated your skin’s search for warmth. Staring down at you, the leather sticking to your shoulders, he let the shirt fall, keeping hold of your pants, turning them over as his visor pinned you in place.

“These, though, seem to possess an asset of my benefit.” Out of your view, you heard more ripping, only much shorter of a sound. Before you had time to question what his intentions were, he began wrapping the drawstring from the elastic around his gloved hand, pulling it until the opposite aglet met his palm. “Sit up.”

There was no life in his command, frozen as the atmosphere. With a swallow, noting the blood didn’t replenish itself when you did, you sat up straight, looking up to him with seething defiance. His boots echoed as he paced towards you, stopping before he passed behind. The string-wrapped hand dragged two fingers along your sternum, stopping as they tugged down on the bridge of your bra. “Take this off.”

“And if I don’t?” Your brow raised in challenge.

The hand over your chest quickly shifted its attention to your tongue, pinching it between two tight fingers, a pitiful whine leaving when it did. “This has never been a negotiation. Do as I say and maybe you’ll have use of this—” he pulled your tongue forward, scraping the undersurface with his gloved nail “—after tonight. Do we have an understanding?”

Denying your want to roll your eyes, you nodded. Though, he wasn’t pleased with this response, pinching down harder. “Use your words.”

Flames bit under your cheeks, furious with his intent to embarrass you. A heated breath fled from your nostrils. “Yeth, Commanther.”

“Hm, now do as you’re told.”

You reached behind your back, never leaving his stare as he kept hold of your tongue. The hooks popped behind you, the flat sound too loud in the silent room; the straps hung loose over your shoulders before you hunched forward to remove the rest of the garment, letting it fall between your parted knees. The leather left your tongue as he knelt down, his hands ripping your arms behind you and gathering your wrists at the base of your spine.

“Not that I can’t do this myself,” he said, voice tinged with sly, “but it’s more poetic if you’re bound by your own defiance.”

“For the hundredth time, I didn’t do it to defy you.”

He worked masterfully behind you, the string unwinding from his palm and wrapping around and between your wrists in that same pattern. “Keep talking, it’s making me eager to shut you up; making me hard with anticipation.”

The thin string grew tighter as he wound it to its end, finishing the restraint with a tight pull and a final knot. He stood again once he’d completed the task, taking grasp of your binding and pulling you up to your knees. His hand came to the back of your neck and pushed you forward, your face falling into the firm cushion as your hands struggled to protect you from the collision, finding no give in the ties. The position – face to the side, hips high, shoulders bearing your weight – offered no view of your master, only allowing you to hear his intentions.

The couch shifted behind you, your body swaying to the side as his weight shifted the cushions beneath your knees. The texture of his gloves came between the bend of your hips, your skin emblazoning at the contact. He hummed, following the low sound with a breathy, barely vocal laugh. “I could light you on fire and you’d still be dripping wet for me, wouldn’t you?”

It was a rhetorical question, one you didn’t want to answer even if it hadn’t been. A pressure came over your entrance, the friction of taut leather revealing the erection residing behind it. The sensation caught your breath, your resolve stifling a moan before he could revel in your pleasure. “Really? Nothing to say?” His hips left you, followed by the removal of one of his hands.

“Maybe this’ll make you speak up.” A cold, unyielding object stung at your entrance, your hips bucking away from it only after your core throbbed in remembrance of the weapon.

A pathetic whimper came unbidden from your throat, your face burning in embarrassment that every part of him, even those not physically attached, could draw a reaction from your body. “Did this make an impact?” The metal pushed against you, your walls simultaneously screaming for more yet clenching away from it. “Mm, it did.”

The unforgiving solidity of the weapon made you wail as Kylo pushed it into you, using his hips to nudge it forward while gripping your thigh and pulling you back along its unbroken width. Your core fluttered around the injurious girth, every muscle below your abdomen flexing in response, your breath nonexistent as your body internalized the pleasure-pain its presence incited. While he pushed it further into your center, he twisted the hilt, your walls buzzing around the scraping ridges which resided along the handle. Though you could barely register it, when his flexed knuckles met the skin of your ass, you finally breathed, taking a moment of peace before he pulled it from you.

But he didn’t, standing from behind you as your walls achingly thrummed along the stagnant object. He walked out of view, passing your head and walking further into the room. “Come to me,” he said, modulation cold once more.

A laugh of disbelief left you. “Yeah, okay. Just let me situate myself.” He was insane to think you could move like this.

“My patience is wearing thin, officer. I suggest you don’t test it more than you already have.”

This was his way at asserting his power over you, making you complete various tasks of humiliation. He knew just as well as you did that you were in no shape to move, let alone cross over to him. It was dehumanizing, and all you wanted to do was scream, to throw a Kylo Ren-sized tantrum. But by the new shadows in his voice, and how he was obvious in proving his point, you knew to release the retched sound burning over your axons would never work to your advantage.

Thinking it over for a minute, you decided to try and slide your leg down, thinking you could easily lift yourself from the sofa. As you attempted to execute the maneuver, though, you grimaced, the weapon biting into your cunt with new pain as it indented into the tissue it bludgeoned. Containing a whine, you bit your lip, face growing slick with sweat against the leather. Away from you, you heard the familiar sound of his strokes, ensuing more rage as he drew pleasure from this sight of you.

In a second attempt, you used your shoulders, rocking into the back of the couch for leverage and support. With one too-ambitious shove, you catapulted onto the floor, landing on your back, your hands aching below your weight in their awkward placement, the crossbars of the lightsaber biting into the backs of your thighs. The fall knocked the wind out of you, the frozen floor stealing your breath for ten seconds before the facilities for oxygen returned.

Behind you Kylo grunted, the sound of his gloved hand sliding over his shaft quickening. “I never knew my whore could be so graceful.”

A week ago he’d stained your body with blood, but the wrath you’d felt then couldn’t be compared to the ardent resentment he was eliciting with his blatant enjoyment of your suffering. Using them to your benefit, you pushed off of your bound hands and sat up, your back to him, taking a moment of rest before shoving against the couch and getting to your feet. The weapon shuttered your breath, your legs barely permitting movement in the presence of the intruding object. A sharp set of yelps came as you took your first step towards him, your face twisting in pain as the stride caused friction against your walls.

He'd positioned himself against the wall opposite of you, making the journey to him long and strewn out, allowing him to watch your hobbled venture as long as he wanted. You’d matched the sound correctly, watching him drag his thumb from his head and down his shaft, his back resting against the wall with infuriating nonchalance, like this was any other day for him.

“That’s it,” he said, modulation thick with need, “one step at a time, officer.”

To keep from tripping forward, you stayed close to the furniture as long as you could, legs flexing when your balance faltered. Eventually, though, there was nothing to steady yourself with, your strides shrinking in their reach as you walked in the vacant distance.

“Is this what you enjoy, huh?” you gasped, his lightsaber cutting into you as you stumbled forward. “The Commander of the First Order, so big and strong as he fucks his hand to the sight of his own nurse? Seems a bit fucked up to me.”

“Fuck, I’m going to enjoy this.” He thrust into his hand as you tripped forward once more.

“I didn’t defy you, Kylo. I was safe with Mason,” you said, closing all but a pace of distance between him and you, your legs trembling with exhaustion.

He slowed his strokes, staring into you past his visor, his breath audible through the helmet. After a long pause, his chest came down in a heavy sigh. “Kneel.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

His hand came up and twisted, the weapon shifting between your legs and causing the crossbars to shred over the sensitive tissue. Your weakened stance couldn’t tolerate the electric pain, your knees buckling beneath you, cracking against the glass-plated floor. Before any pain could leave your lungs, he rammed every thickened, throbbing inch of his cock past your teeth and down your throat; you gagged against him, a mechanical seethe leaving his mask at the hiccupped pressure.

“Finally, some peace and fucking quiet.” His hands framed the crown of your head, fingers stretching to the base of your skull and guiding you into his thrusts.

Tears sprung at your eyes, the sudden pressure shocking your sinus tracts into defense. “I get to decide when you’re defying me,” he tilted your head further back. “I decide what you deserve. And yes,” he growled, “seeing you like this, broken for me, by me, pathetic and pitiful as you obey my every command – not because you want to, but because you have to – I obsess over it, your resentful compliance to everything I say; it’s what makes your defiance so maddening.”

Your arms began to strain, the pain trickling from your shoulders down to your tailbone, his weapon shifting with every thrust, making you wince onto his cock. “Shit. This is exactly what sluts like you deserve,” he roared, voice frenzying. “Leaving me to go fuck some physician who can offer you nothing, let alone safety? Yes, you deserve this completely.” He was yelling now, the modulation garbling his words.

A hand left your head, the other gripping into your hair as drool poured down your chin and collected in the earlier dried blood. A loud crash came from behind you, the noise forcing a flinch, your core clenching around the metal, another whine leaving you, your hands throbbing as your blood attempted to bypass the cutting ties which constricted its flow. He thought you’d been with Mason. In the chaos that had entailed since, you forgot how he’d first seen you at the residence, face pressed against Mason’s, your lips so close they may as well have been touching. This was barely about your compliance and wholly about what he’d perceived as your infidelity. And even then, was it even cheating if there had been no set rules? Not that he’d ever seemed to be conscious of his double standards, but it was ridiculous for him to assume you knew this was a monogamous arrangement. The only thing he’d ever ensured you were aware of was the fact that he could have you whenever and however he wanted, never that there was any agreement of mutual exclusivity to be respected.

“And to have you – a nurse, a nobody – continually disregard everything I ask,” his voice was natural now, raw and aching without the heavy modulation , “it drives me insane; the knowledge that you truly believed he could protect you is infuriating.”

His breath was heightening, your jaw straining as he kept fast, unrelenting thrusts into your throat. The strokes were erratic, losing pattern as he began to lose himself. “Even when it’s for your benefit you still choose to defy me, fucking – fuck – fucking whore.”

He pulled out from your throat, forcing you back on your heels, the weapon tearing deeper into you at the pressure. “Never tell me you what you think you deserve,” his hand was chaotic over his shaft, nearly colliding with your face in its ferocity. His breath stalled, and he growled, teeth clenched as a spray of spit veiled over your face, hot ropes of cum to join it, collecting onto your eyelashes and debilitating your sense of sight. “This is what you fucking deserve.”

He stroked himself through his release, breath coming in fast pants, dying into slow and separated sighs. A gust of air blew your hair over your ears, and the sudden feel of gloved thumbs swiping over your face permitted your sight once more, meeting the red face of your master, but also introducing you to the shocking sight of light, glinting over the rivulets of tears which streaked over his cheeks. It was disturbing at first, processing that his red eyes were for you, realizing that your decision had actually affected him and enraged him to this extent.

He shoved his thumbs into your mouth, not registering the taste as the expression which resided over his face haunted you with its familiarity. Once more he thought you’d abandoned him. Like those months ago when you’d come home late on the Finalizer, his eyes were ignited with that same sense of desertion. He was not justified in his actions, not that he ever needed to be, but you could acknowledge that this reaction wasn’t one foreign in its nature, but the only way he knew to reassert himself.

His hands left your mouth and reached behind your back, his eyes never leaving yours as he blindly unbound you. When you fell forward, your face pressed into his chest, his hands lifted you below your thighs, your breath seething as the movements caused the jagged weapon to shift within you; he placed you on your knees, one hand unmoving to stabilize you, the other clasping over the crossbars, gearing up to rip his weapon from your core.

The hand at your thigh gripped into you as he dragged the hilt out, your breath wheezing into his chest as it left, every inch leaving an immediate emptiness in its wake. A pain-sodden tear fell from your face to his skin, a gasp leaving as he pulled out the last of it.

“Kylo,” you said into his chest.

“That’s not how you should address me,” his voice wasn’t empty, instead guarded and rasped with the ghosts of his earlier rage.

You licked your lips and placed your hands on either of his shoulders, pulling away from him as his other hand came back to support you. “Kylo,” you repeated, watching his face, aching as he looked at you with so much betrayal.

It was an impossible thing to choose how to express your sorrow while also preserving your earlier explanation of why you didn’t come to him. Though it felt unfair, you couldn’t help but feel a piece of your heart break as you looked into the shattered face of the person who had given you a purpose. Words continued to evade you, the only thoughts processing being this is your fault, this could’ve been helped, what kind of nurse abandons her patient? They burgeoned in your head, capitalizing your indecision in how to say the right words without betraying your own beliefs.

“I didn’t – I’m… I can’t,” you grunted, your thoughts clamoring your words into stuttered nonsense. “I will never abandon you.”

It seemed like the best way to get to your point, maybe not encompassing everything you needed to say, but emphasizing on the highlights. His lips parted, breath falling out before you. His eyes twitched, no response coming to him as you analyzed every tiny change, watching as the wetness which plagued his cheeks dried as time passed.

“I didn’t kiss him,” you said, realizing what else may be haunting him. Every feature on his face stopped. Bingo. “I was going to… I thought I’d want to, but…”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze drifting between your eyes and down over your lips. “But what?” It was a whispered, raspy sound, so new and surprising.

“Something’s changed. Different.” Your looked between his eyes, over his freckles, and down to his lips.

“Something’s changed.” He repeated.

And as your energy charged into his, you found yourself completely yearning for his lips to be on yours, for his hands to be in your hair, or on your face, or his touch anywhere on your body at all. That was it. It wasn’t something that had changed. It was someone. And though you knew you had felt something for him before, accepting that you’d lost the last piece of whatever it was when you left the stars that night, you never knew how focused that feeling had become until you were forced to recognize that you no longer felt that way for anyone else other than the man before you.

His hands ghosted over your curves, trickling electricity in their trails until they buzzed in place over your cheeks. He brought your face to his, his lips enrapturing yours in the kiss you didn’t know you’d been seeking. It was powerful, how his mouth moved in rhythm with yours like he knew your every thought. He began to stand; as his legs straightened, he kept his spine bent, his hands unmoving from your face. You threw your hands up to his neck, teasing the coil of hair at his nape as your thumbs traced along his jawline.

He moaned into your mouth, his tongue gliding over yours as his hands moved down your curves before he bent down and took you from the floor, prompting your legs to wrap around his waist while he walked you through his quarters. You collected the remaining tears from his cheeks, either with your thumbs or dragging them along your own face as you kissed down to him, your hands brushing through his thick hair, reveling in the closeness which flourished between you both.

Distantly, a door hissed open and shut, and before you had opened your eyes, your back was against an expansive mattress. Kylo pulled away, your neck following him as long as it could before he was too far. He kept his honey eyes focused on yours, his hands working hard to remove his outer robes and padding. Even in this small distance, your body ached for his, the seconds burning beneath your skin as your core pleaded to be filled by him. Only him.

He threw his shirt off and loosened the fasteners of his pants, letting them fall and kicking them off before he climbed back on top of you, trailing kisses up your sternum, into your breasts, and up your artery as he made his way back to your face. He whispered your name into your mouth, legs positioning himself so the head of his erection slid between your folds, a moan leaving you as the sensation sung through every vein in your body.

“Kylo,” you whispered back, legs locking over his back, fingers treading through his locks, binding him to you in their hunger.

He took your hands from his hair, pinning them above your head beneath his own. He gazed down to you, his fingers winding between yours, his eyebrows raising as a means of readying you. In response, clasping your fingers into his, lifting your face and pulling his lips down to yours. He thrust into you, sating the void his weapon had incited. A cry left your mouth, the first one that wasn’t inspired by pain, but instead by need. By want. By completeness.

The grip on your hands tightened as he pulled his hips back, a groan leaving him, the vibration of his chest buzzing through your own. The friction of his body over yours was other-worldly, feeling simultaneously familiar and new. He rocked into you, his lips falling down to your jawline, sucking new bruises in their path, feeling heavenly when his teeth would scrape against your skin with urgent want. Without saying anything, as he knew everything you felt, the Force engulfed your aching clit, never having felt as powerful as it did now, your back arching into his chest as you cried out against his hair.

Everything combined to create a sense of celestial wholeness – the smell of his sweat-damp hair, the taste of your dried blood washing from his tongue to yours, his skin igniting atop your own, the way his cock made your walls chorus with sublimity. His thrusts came faster, the Force quickening and increasing in its pressure, his hands tightening further; he had constructed your release in minutes, sending you soaring into a limitless reality only he knew how to create.

“Oh, Kylo. Kylo. Kylo, Ky…” His lips pressed against yours just as he fell in line with his own release, moans ricocheting through his mouth and yours.

The hands which strangled yours loosened, staying in place as his pulse jostled into yours, his head falling just below your chin. He stayed there, his weight bearing over you, his breath brushing over your forearm as his bare chest tided with yours. Though it seemed misplaced as only minutes ago he’d tormented you, with him now, here in his sated state, you felt a protection you’d never expected. None of this was ever planned, and even if he didn’t feel a fraction of what you felt right now, you knew you’d never willingly trade it for anything, basking in every part of himself that he offered.

Kylo took a final breath before rolling off of you, keeping one of his hands with yours momentarily as the other peeled the blankets from above his head. His arms gripped over your shoulder and pulled you against him, the sheets gliding beneath and eventually encapsulating your body to his. The breaths that fell from his parted lips blew over your hair, tickling the stray pieces which framed your face before you nuzzled into him and placed your hand on top of his chest.

“The Board doesn’t have any say over what happens to you,” he said, voice tired and absent. “I do.”

Not quite believing he even thought that was true, considering he might be using your technique of saying something in order to make it true, you didn’t feel like ruining this quintessential moment. “Okay.”

And as you lied with him, listening to his heart – sixty-one beats per minute, strong and steady – you felt your own working to heal itself, coming back together as you promised yourself – inwardly, and however hopelessly – that this wouldn’t be temporary; that this had even the slightest chance at surviving the incoming monsoon life promised. And as you kept repeating that thought, you realized that your earlier dream – the one of falling asleep in Kylo Ren’s arms – was no longer a dream at all, the reality of his strength coiled around you being what lulled you into unconsciousness.

[geekysciencemom]

The Danger of a Single Story

For the class portion of my graduate internship, we were to write a discussion essay reflecting on upon the Cultural Iceberg (infographic) and The dangers of a single story (TEDtalk video) while addressing the question, “How might we begin to reject the single story in our lives to regain Adichie's so-called "paradise"’?

Here is my discussion essay:

As a Parent Resource Coordinator, teacher, and autistic single mom to two children with multiple disabilities, it became very important to me to help families and self-advocates learn how to not only tell their story, but to tell their story with a purpose. I will always be grateful to a fellow teacher, advocate, and blogger who encouraged me to start telling my story and sharing it on various platforms. I started writing my own blog in 2012 and now have two blogs and a public Facebook page and Twitter account that are attached. One blog focuses on long posts about my family’s journey and the other focuses more on information and resources. I write to connect to others and to help them realize they are not alone.

My story is comprised of many smaller stories that I tell with a purpose. I am one of many autistic advocates that tell our stories as a collective voice with the goal of addressing misconceptions, ableism, the trauma and joys that we experience, and the need for acceptance.

People are more aware that autism exists, but there is a definite lack of understanding and acceptance. There is not one single story of an autistic person, but so often the media portrays a white, non-speaking, male child who is obsessed with one thing and is often aggressive. Only the behaviors are seen, not the roots of reasons behind those behaviors. This is the stereotype of an autistic person, the tip of the iceberg that can only be observed with no understanding of what lies beneath the water (Language & Culture Worldwide, 2020). This is why my highly verbal, monotone son was the first of us to be diagnosed at age seven, because the counselor he was seeing for depression noticed he wasn’t making eye contact. This why it took until my daughter was ten to be diagnosed and struggling with expressive language, tone of voice, and technical use of language along with my insistence that the doctors were missing something. This is why I wasn’t diagnosed until I was 36 years old after both my children were even though I am textbook autistic. As the psychologist that diagnosed me stated, I can function, but I am highly impaired. I am also very adept at masking my disability. Awareness is slow. Acceptance is even slower.

My daughter also has Bipolar Disorder. All she sees in the media is how those with Bipolar are depicted as bad, evil, and violent. She feels society views those like herself as monsters that should all go to prison. This is implicit bias held by others that she is subjected to everyday of her life (Garcia, 2020). Due to her experiences, she feels that she cannot disclose and ask for accommodations, that she has to tweak her diagnosis and instead request accommodations for depression, anxiety, and stress. Our society tends to focus on the single story of what Bipolar is instead of listening to the many stories of what Bipolar really is. To address this problem, my daughter has claimed the identity of Bipolar. She says she is Bipolar instead of stating that she has Bipolar Disorder. She doesn’t see Bipolar as an illness, but rather a life-long disability that is part of who she is. She also has claimed the identity of being autistic and not a person with autism.  

My son also has claimed the identity of being autistic, and, as I stated in my first paragraph, so do I. My autism is an intricate part of who I am. I can’t put it down like a book. I can’t point to a place in my brain and say, “That’s where my autism is!” Autism is pervasive. By taking away my autism, you take away me. This is why I identify as autistic.

As a professional, I use a mix of identity-first language and person-first language. When referring to myself or my children, I use identity-first. I honor the language preference of others and I will ask if I don’t know what a person’s language preference is. I will not insist that one language be used for all.

In order for people to be able to develop self-determination, they first have to learn how to be a self-advocate. To do this requires the understanding of their disability as well as their personal needs and wants. Students need to be taught specific language and be given a choice as to how they want to identify themselves. This is how they begin to learn to tell their story with a purpose. Perhaps when more people learn how to tell their story with a purpose, a sense of “paradise” might be found (TEDtalks, 2009).

References

Garcia, M. (2020, April 08). Why teachers must fight their own implicit biases. Retrieved from https://www.edweek.org/tm/articles/2018/07/25/why-teachers-must-fight-implicit-biases.html?cmp=cpc-goog-ew-dynamic+ads+recent+articles.

Language & Culture Worldwide. (2020, July 10). Iceberg or beacon? How the cultural iceberg guide us toward greater inclusion. Retrieved from https://languageandculture.com/iceberg-or-beacon-how-the-cultural-iceberg-guide-us-toward-greater-inclusion/.

TEDtalks. (2009, October 07). The danger of a single story | Chimamanda ngozi adichie. [Video] Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9Ihs241zeg.

[saikagerights]

A New Possession- Entry #10

Hello once again Saiino nation!

I'm back again after a few days with my next entry, this one being a whopping 1k words. It's been a while since I wrote an entry of this magnitude. It also covers a personal hc that I have a large connection to.

I had the weekend off of work, but this upcoming week is going to be rather busy, so I am not sure how that will affect my entries. There has also been a plot bunny that has cropped up in my mind. The catch is that it really doesn't have a plot, only small drabbles that revolve around one concept that I might put together into a small fic if I have enough inspiration, so be on the lookout for that.

Anyway I hope you enjoy this one!

Also available on AO3

February 8th

Sakura enjoys talking about her work overseeing the therapy center. It’s been the main focus of some of our most recent conversations. She had explained in enormous detail about the amount of work her and Ino had done to establish the center, and it shocked me that it was accomplished by only two people with very little assistance. Their personal mission to rehabilitate struggling youth had been a commendable one, as well as being something I personally connected to.

As someone who’s youth was affected by the hands of shinobi, I naturally empathize with many children who find themselves patients in the therapy center, and identify with their paths towards healing.

Especially now

Sakura had soon approached me regarding the treatment of 37 children that were once a part of ROOT’s training program, lamenting over their progress.

“We haven’t made any progress. The specialists are at their wits end.”

Sakura looked completely drained. Between lending her services at the hospital and opening the therapy center, Sakura had been difficult to reach. Ino had mentioned how much she had been working recently and how she constantly tried to “drag her ass out of her office just for a few minutes”. I couldn’t help but sympathize with her

“Well, it’s very hard to trust others when you were trained to trust no one to begin with. It will take time for them to open up, but they will eventually.” I tried to give her my most endearing smile to encourage her. She didn’t meet my eyes, but I watched a sad smile grace her face “Sai, that’s some really good advice.” Suddenly her head raised, a wild grin spread wide across her face. “Sai! You should speak to these kids! You know how to connect to their struggle, this could help them!”

The thought of counseling set panic into my mind. I’m far from being a professional. I hardly know how to speak casually with friends, how would I be able to give advice to a group of children?

How could I help these kids when I have hardly helped myself?

I tried to convey this to Sakura, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. “You would be fine. You would be accompanied by a specialist of course, so it’s not as if you’d be alone.” I wouldn’t be able to change her mind when she was so convinced.

“Please just consider it, Sai. You could really change the lives of these children.”

I couldn’t help but assume that Sakura had specifically fabricated that conversation to try and persuade me to lend my services. It’s not as if I didn’t want to help them. I am just not sure I am the right person to help them. Although I understand their pain, I don’t think it is my place to tell them how to use their newfound freedom. Sakura had also suggested that my Choujuu Giga could assist me, but I waved that idea off. I have used my ninjutsu to entertain children before, but ROOT children are not raised to be enthused by some drawings.

This afternoon, I visited the center to gauge the situation for myself. I was informed by one of the center’s hired professionals that the children were separated into two groups for their treatment. The group of children still paired with their siblings, and the group of children that had been admitted alone. They received different forms of treatment, but were kept on the same floor together. Siblings roomed together while those isolated were paired off to try and stimulate a new bond for them. I was told of one older boy that had refused this arrangement and roomed alone.

The specialist that showed me around handed me a clip board with the roster of children. It listed their approximate age, blood type, and chosen name. When they had first arrived, they were given the option to select a name for them to be addressed as. I was told that many of them selected previous code names they had once been given by Danzo-sama.

During the day, all of the children were coaxed into a large room with various amenities for them to pass the time as they awaited individual talk therapy sessions. Supposedly they were anti-social, never speaking a word to any of the therapists.  

“We aren’t even sure if they speak to each other”. The specialist guided me down the hall. I had hardly spoken a word to her, part of me wanting to listen, but another part of me trying to get a hold of my thoughts as my mind drifted in and out of focus. -but from what Haruno-senei has told me about you, it seems that there may be hope for them.”

Grabbing my attention with her words, I couldn’t contain the smile I gave her. “I hope that’s true.”

Entering the room, I suddenly felt 37 pairs of eyes trained on me as if I were a target. The gazes were intense regardless of how empty they looked. I couldn’t help but wonder if this is how I appeared to others when my allegiance was still with ROOT.

Do I still look like that?

Observing the room, the children were scattered, keeping a safe distance from each other. This of course excluded the sibling groups that were compacted together. I suddenly remembered hearing that when they had learned of ROOT’s barbaric trial, those who had nearly lost their close comrade had experienced issues with separation. They rarely were seen apart from one another.

My eyes then drifted to the children who sat alone, lost and empty without the one they knew more than anyone, even themselves. The one they once devoted their life to, but in an act of survival, had to give up that very life to appease the command of their master. Similar to me in most ways.

“Children, there is someone here who wishes to meet you.”

The voice of the specialist was gentle, but it was sharp enough to pierce the silent air. It seems my research of vocal inflection has paid off, because I had noticed how the word “children” was stressed more than the others for the benefit of reminding them that they were indeed still children.

She received no verbal response from them, but I had figured they were well aware of my presence as they were still glaring straight at me.

“This is Sai.” She gestured to me. “He was also once from ROOT like you.”

Now that more attention was brought to me, I raised my hand in greeting, cocking my head to one side and trying to smile as genuinely as possible.

Though it doesn’t really matter how convincing it was, I seriously doubted they would be capable of distinguishing it. I felt the need to swallow when I allowed my eyes to slip open and realized that there had been no noticeable reaction.

I spent the rest of my time at the center in a quiet conversation with the specialist regarding future visitation. She also apologized to me about the atmosphere, saying that it has frightened a few of the other therapists.

I’m not going to say that I was afraid of a group of children, but a certain feeling set into me then that I believed to be nervousness. Yes, the therapists and staff at the center wanted this group of children to remember how old they really are, but from experience that is very difficult to remember who you once were when it is drilled into your mind that your existence is meant for the will of another.

I lag behind my own peers in “life experience”, since most of my life was spent existing through the control of Danzo-sama rather than living. But now I can say with certainty that I have the potential to live like any other man from this point onward. And these children have a better chance than me of achieving that. They just need the proper guidance and a few good friends to help them along.

As I read this back to myself, it seems like perhaps I could be cut out for this sort of thing, but I might need a little more “life experience” before I can be more successful.

Thanks for reading! I hope you want more from this, because I will follow this up for sure. I just need some fluff in between before I can add onto it.

I personally enjoy getting to talk about ROOT because I feel like I can really get into Sai's head because of it. Alas, it is very difficult to provide information for a group that was hardly elaborated on within the source material, so all I can do is provide little bits and pieces. I think this storyline will be able to satisfy this for me. Another thing I like about this hc is that we do see Sai in Boruto successfully lending guidance to people like Sumire, that had their lives controlled by the will of ROOT. It also shows off Sai's development as a character perfectly, effectively being the reason why I like the first arc of Boruto so much.

Anyway, I hope you guys are looking forward for more, because I will give you more. I don't know what is coming up next, but I do have a bit of an idea. And as always, comments and criticism are appreciated

Until next time -Saikage

[lifesbecomings]

The email

Hi Drew— I just wanted to  clarify something and share some perspective. First off, I want to say that I understand and respect Denison’s admissions process. I reached out a few days ago to everyone just curious about the process and wanted to talk about options to continue my education, IF even possible, through Denison! With the positive feedback from everyone and your first email, and then mention, even as a slight possibility, of spring enrollment...one certainly can understand my excitement and push for more discussion and my initiative to get applied/enrolled. With that said I am still curious about steps in general. And maybe I applied as the wrong type of student.  I know there are openings still this spring, and especially in the EDUC classes (like EDUC 390), and thought "wow, maybe this is all aligning because it's meant to be."  If it is or isn't meant to be, I'm at peace with whatever the decision is or remains. But Denison will always be my first choice. I did leave in 2017 as a medical leave student, and technically I wasn't pursuing a degree through CCS, just taking classes, many students take summer classes or semesters (like if on academic suspension), and then come back and return to campus. I know usually students typically return 1-2 years, and I understand there are deadlines and I know their importance. In no way shape or form am I trying to surpass these. When I first reached out, I said I'd be happy to discuss ANY options in a return.  Others, throughout the thread, were mentioning a spring return and spring availability and how fantastic this could be. Both Karen Graves and Baker were on board in the Educ. department, where I am majoring, presumably for a spring enrollment.  Maybe it is the fact I only have art credits as transfers. Was it that they were hoping for more core class transfers? Either way, to be perfectly transparent, whatever the outcome is, I will be taking spring classes. As well as summer classes. I want to get my degree. My first choice is Denison. If there is anyway to make this a possibility still. You already know, It would be my pleasure to stay in touch, and I will happily move to Ohio and take classes back on campus in the fall. Denison holds a special place in my heart. I hope my time on campus impacted those I came into contact with, as much as they impacted me. The Briefing: Within the last 2 weeks. Literally, two weeks, a series of events occurred that made me see the potential I could have. It started with a ski lesson, we had philosophy lessons up the chairlift, and the technical skiing lessons going down the hill. It was eye opening. I realized I need to work on my patience, but It also made me realize that I don't have to do something I do not enjoy. Moreover, it made me recognize I need to stop running from what satisfies me the most, people, education, learning, and teaching. I shut myself off in 2017 to the idea of "traditional schooling". I thought, "It's not for me". " I'm not good at it".  It stuck.  That is, until January 6th 2021, when I had this ski lesson. The ski lesson in combination with my parents friend, a teacher from Brother Rice High School,  got me thinking. I was thinking and analyzing myself. My change in perspective was shocking. I needed to accept my talents and embrace them, instead of shutting them out and rejecting them. It is so funny how we sabotage ourselves.  This is the start of my story. About how I found my drive and fulfillment. Below are three personal stories I would like to share. 1.  Monkey Bars. 

There is a story my mother always would tell me growing up about my perseverance and determination. When I was very young, 4 years old, there was a set of monkey bars on the school playground. After school one day I told my mom I wanted to go across the monkey bars. The only problem...I did not know how to do them. But, I had watched other kids that day at recess. So I was determined to figure it out. We were there for 2-3 hours. I was bound and determined to do those monkey bars. I knew that was what I wanted. I had numerous failed attempts, failure after failure, my mother began to beg me to leave with her because my hands were all beaten up, blistered, and bloodied, I still kept going. I made it all the way across those monkey bars that day, and every day after. There is another story, too, a similar story about me riding a two wheeler. Same determination, different goal. Both accomplished. 

2. My Miracle.

A senior in college, to the modern western world, is still considered "young". If you're in school, attending high school or even attending university, to have a child anywhere, at any time in that mix, It is looked down upon, plain and simple.  I chose to not tell any of my peers, while I was at Denison, my fall semester, that senior year, in 2017. I kept this knowing to myself. I told my parents, and told the father/ fathers parents. Guess what was encouraged? An abortion. Whether verbally spoken (which it was) or unspoken, I knew this is what was wanted from me, wanted for me. I mean, it was, after all, the easiest thing to do. I could still finish my degree and the family could always come later in my life. So, I did just that. I went in for that appointment, at 5 weeks. 

Statistically speaking it is 99% effective. Did you know, 1:4 women will have had an abortion in their lifetime. It's neither here nor there, just an incredible statistic. I actually came back to Denison to finish out my degree after. Putting the past behind me. I enjoyed a fantastic fall break that year in Philadelphia with friends, because through Denison my Junior year, I did a "study abroad," in Philadelphia (the best experience ever. Cannot speak enough about that program! So grateful Denison is a part of the Study in Philly!) 

Anyway, after coming back from break I wasn't myself that week at school. I came home, went to a doctor's appointment. Pregnant. I was 11 weeks pregnant. 1-2 weeks away from being in my second trimester. I knew. In that instant, I was keeping him. No one else understood, at the time, my decision. I was blamed on one side, entirely, for this outcome, the father still lives in denial. This is important information in my story, as it describes where I have been, who I am and who I've become. The father isn't, and has never been involved. This is fine. It's been uncomplicated. I'm actually very lucky. Besides, I know that my son and I deserve someone 100% interested in me AND my son, not an either or situation. So once making my decision, to continue with the pregnancy, I took one day. One day to be broken hearted, to feel like it was me against the world. Later, to my surprise, I found I had a support network bigger than I could ever have imagined.

I am blessed. I am loved. "We" are so loved. But it took me that one day to realize, the easiest thing is not always the right thing. I knew honestly from the day I first found out, I wanted this baby. And my god, has it not only blessed me, but this child of mine blesses and brings joy to anyone and everyone he meets. As a biased mother would say, he truly is something special. My choosing to bring this new life into the world, is an amazing and miraculous testimony to my dedication and character. Being a mother (parent) is one of the toughest jobs in the world. 

3. My Bakery.

First, back story: I tried to take some classes at College for Creative studies in 2018. Knowing I was more than "just a mom". I've done a lot of "soul" searching and self love in my time away. I didn't reach back to Denison at this time because I was convinced traditionally schooling just must not be for me. The root of it, I later would find, was that I was somehow undeserving of it. (super messed up mental ideal). Disclaimer: I, like many, struggled with self worth. Therapy is necessary and beautiful.  Anyway, continuing---I had a hobby of sketching.  Homes and houses always intrigued me, so I picked up some classes at CCS, interior design classes. This is where I realized a hobby does not make for a career. More importantly, I remembered the promise I had made to myself, that I didn't want anyone else raising my baby boy.  I was spending 60hrs + a week on projects and classroom time, leaving him home with my parents and babysitters, a little bit at first, then, more and more. So, I pulled the plug. 

When I give of myself I want to give 100%. If I was giving my school work 100% there was none left for my son. I had to pick between the two, and clearly, without a doubt, my baby boy was the sure pick. Schooling this time round failed because It was in person, he was not in school yet, and it was not practical or logistical. I stopped in OCT of 2019. Between October and December of 2019 I went stir crazy. I was 24/7 with my son, living at my parents home still, and my mental health was on the decline. I felt trapped. I needed a way out. And thus "A Degree Above Bakery" was born. I have made over 5,000 dollars in profits from this business. I have a standing order, weekly, with Westborn Market. However, this flow, and work is at my grace.  I can shut it down, permanently, or temporarily. I can drive it forward more, or scale it back, starting tomorrow.  I was determined to find a way out and give myself some "me" time, as well as doing something I enjoyed that gave me flexible hours to work with my son present. I originally started in my own home. Operating under the cottage food law. That is, until I started to rent space in Plymouth MI from Westborn Market in April 2020.  I bake Sundays currently. 

I created and established then registered my name. I created and bought a web domain.  I have my own labels and packaging I created. Every aspect of my business I have built and created. The brand, the marketing, getting into a grocery store. My point here, being, when I think of something, I do everything in my power to try to reach my goal, whatever the road block. When I get an idea, I see it through. To the best of my ability. __________ My overarching theme is determination. You will have nothing without it. I will be respectful and understanding of any final decisions, acceptance, reinstatement, or lack thereof. If there is still a slimmer of possibility to qualify for spring semester at Denison or be considered again... It would be an honor and mean more to me than any words could begin to describe. I had to take one last shot with you all,  before seeking another institution.  Rules and regulations will be forever. I understand this, but If there is anything I can do to help enhance my application/reinstatement/case/enrollment/scenario please don't hesitate to ask. I would be honored to commit to in person class on the hill in the fall, after taking summer classes, and taking the spring classes online at Denison, I also will be able to pay, in full, for the spring tuition as well as on campus next fall/winter. I also paid in full while being on campus every year from 2013-2016. Please also hear me when I say, yes, obviously I would do whatever and help to see a successful spring enrollment, but I would be happy to transfer credits from this spring (elsewhere), and summer, to complete classes on campus in the fall.  I will stay open minded to all possibilities, as I know Denison does! 

With much respect and appreciation, and excitement,

Sarah McNaughton

[grindskull]

Shit that fucks me up #1 - Toxic Masculinity and being a “man”

Gotta have some way to organize my random thoughts here. I’m going with the obvious thing - Shit that fucks me up (STFMU). This is about me and my experiences. It is not my intention to discredit or question other human experiences. Sharing in the hopes of connecting with others who may have feel similar in their own skin. There are things here that others may define as triggers so read at your own risk (rape, abuse, and this fucking world). ---

Here is me being vulnerable.  I am putting myself out there by discussing masculinity and how I often do not identify with the larger concept of “being a man” in any positive way. You can call it toxic masculinity if you prefer. It’s acceptable shorthand for something that is just as nuanced and difficult to wade through as anything gender related.  I read this article on The Atlantic yesterday and there were some things that really resonated with me and my experience as a man/male (he/his/him). You can read it here (sorry there is a pay wall if you read more than 4 articles a month) but I will also be quoting some of the article below.  If you have time to read the article I’ll wait. It’s a bit long (many articles on The Atlantic are) and kind of academic at times. It’s okay if you don’t agree with everything in the article. Just read it.  Done? Okay let me set the stage a bit for how this shit fucks me up. ---

I’m male. I have always identified as a male/boy/man in my life. Unfortunately my experience with other males/boys/men has been mostly negative. It started at an early age when I had a hard time connecting with other boys my age. I was not interested in typical “male” interests like sports, violence, competition, and achievement. I had few (usually 1 or 2) friends at any one time and they typically had some kind of unhealthy power dynamic over me where I was subservient to my “friend” in some way.  I have some thoughts on reasons why this happened. The short version is I lived in poverty (often extreme) and I was searching for help and support in order to survive. At home I had abuse (mental, physical, verbal), drugs, addiction, and neglect. It was not a safe place to be so I did whatever I could to not be there. It was not unusual for me to eat maybe one meal during the day (typically what I could get from others at school or their home). Winter was the worst as we often did not have heat. Some of my “friends” used this as a way to hold power over me and make demands of my personality, time, and attention. Imagine finding yourself in this situation - you have to actively work to not be yourself in order to appease others for your very survival. Of course as a youth I didn’t identify it this way - my “friends” were just bossy or demanding. All of my male role models were basically assholes who did not give a fuck about anyone except themselves. This was a huge part of the 80′s zeitgeist in popular culture at the time as well. In some ways nothing has really changed. “... when asked to describe the attributes of “the ideal guy,” those same boys appeared to be harking back to 1955. Dominance. Aggression. Rugged good looks (with an emphasis on height). Sexual prowess. Stoicism. Athleticism. Wealth (at least some day).“ Under this common definition of “masculinity” I do not see myself. I am loyal, honest, caring, and sweet (to those I love). I love my body though I am non-athletic and have been most of my life. I am an attentive and talented lover but I have had very few sexual partners in my life and never saw them as moments of “conquest”. I was dirt poor most of my life but now live comfortably in my own home with my long term partner. So while not “wealthy” it is far beyond anything I could have imagined I would have in my life as a boy. Stoicism I have down. That one was easy. For me it’s just a nice way of saying “I have completely disconnected from my emotions and not having feelings or emotions is the best way to be a man”. I believed that for a very long time - it’s only in the past 2-3 years I have begun the work of breaking that down and reconnecting with my own emotions. It’s all tied up in trauma, depression, and anxiety so it takes a bit of fucking work but it’s very much worth it. If you are a man/male who thinks it is normal to not have emotions (or that emotions make you feminine/weak) please listen to me - THAT IS BULLSHIT. YOU OWE IT TO YOURSELF TO HAVE EMOTIONS.

“... young men described just one narrow route to successful masculinity. One-third said they felt compelled to suppress their feelings, to “suck it up” or “be a man” when they were sad or scared, and more than 40 percent said that when they were angry, society expected them to be combative.“

Emotions are not weakness. You are not weak for having them, feeling them, or connecting with them. There is great strength in connecting with yourself and understanding your emotions. Don’t let anyone tell you different. They are delusional at best and actively trying to harm you at worst.

“While following the conventional script may still bring social and professional rewards to boys and men, research shows that those who rigidly adhere to certain masculine norms are not only more likely to harass and bully others but to themselves be victims of verbal or physical violence. They’re more prone to binge-drinking, risky sexual behavior, and getting in car accidents. They are also less happy than other guys, with higher depression rates and fewer friends in whom they can confide.”

---

How did we get here!? Have men always been this way? What about the good ole masculinity of ye olden times? It was a simple time where men were men right? A man’s man? “According to Andrew Smiler, a psychologist who has studied the history of Western masculinity, the ideal late-19th-century man was compassionate, a caretaker, but such qualities lost favor as paid labor moved from homes to factories during industrialization. In fact, the Boy Scouts, whose creed urges its members to be loyal, friendly, courteous, and kind, was founded in 1910 in part to counter that dehumanizing trend. Smiler attributes further distortions in masculinity to a century-long backlash against women’s rights. During World War I, women proved that they could keep the economy humming on their own, and soon afterward they secured the vote. Instead of embracing gender equality, he says, the country’s leaders “doubled down” on the inalienable male right to power, emphasizing men’s supposedly more logical and less emotional nature as a prerequisite for leadership.”

Take a minute to read that and really take it in. Like many things in the US (and the world) the effects of industrialization and war shaped our current version of accepted masculinity. More specifically the leaders of this country (and leaders in other countries) used their positions of power to strengthen men and this new masculinity in our institutions. Then we were taught that this was the “right way” to “be a man”. FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

“Today many parents are unsure of how to raise a boy, what sort of masculinity to encourage in their sons. But as I learned from talking with boys themselves, the culture of adolescence, which fuses hyper-rationality with domination, sexual conquest, and a glorification of male violence, fills the void.“

Here we have the core of what I experience as a man when it comes to the current socially accepted version of masculinity and why it fucks me up. I don’t identify with any of this shit! It does not feed me. It does not make me feel fulfilled and happy. It doesn’t make the world better for anyone it simply dehumanizes us all. 

“In a classic study, adults shown a video of an infant startled by a jack-in-the-box were more likely to presume the baby was “angry” if they were first told the child was male. Mothers of young children have repeatedly been found to talk more to their girls and to employ a broader, richer emotional vocabulary with them; with their sons, again, they tend to linger on anger. As for fathers, they speak with less emotional nuance than mothers regardless of their child’s sex. Despite that, according to Judy Y. Chu, a human-biology lecturer at Stanford who conducted a study of boys from pre-K through first grade, little boys have a keen understanding of emotions and a desire for close relationships. But by age 5 or 6, they’ve learned to knock that stuff off, at least in public: to disconnect from feelings of weakness, reject friendships with girls (or take them underground, outside of school), and become more hierarchical in their behavior.“

I’m not going to get into the topic of my own father (that’s another post in this series for sure) too deeply but I will say I completely identify with these ideas. Emotional distance, only expressing anger, telling me having emotions was weak. This was reinforced societal norms throughout my youth through today. Don’t talk about your problems or feelings. Ball them up inside. Wall yourself off from the world. Connections = weakness that others will exploit. You must control every situation and hold power over others. FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

---

So when did I wake up? When did I start to see through this shit in some way? When my younger sister was born. It was really obvious to me that she was treated in a different way and expectations of her as a girl/woman were not the same as the expectations others had for me. Mostly I just saw the negatives in this. It took me time (and lots of communication and experiences with my partner and others) to recognize the root of this was more fucked up socialization. 

“Girlfriends, mothers, and in some cases sisters were the most common confidants of the boys I met. While it’s wonderful to know they have someone to talk to—and I’m sure mothers, in particular, savor the role—teaching boys that women are responsible for emotional labor, for processing men’s emotional lives in ways that would be emasculating for them to do themselves, comes at a price for both sexes. Among other things, that dependence can leave men unable to identify or express their own emotions, and ill-equipped to form caring, lasting adult relationships.”

Read this carefully. Nobody is responsible for your emotional well being but you. If you are a male/man this is especially true - females/women are not responsible for managing your emotions and your reliance on them to take care of this is a form of abuse. They are not responsible for your emotions. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN EMOTIONS.

It can be really hard to see this. It was a blind spot for me for way too long. Don’t let it be one for you. Connecting with and taking responsibility for your emotions is one of the biggest things you can do to improve yourself as a human being. If you are sad you can cry. If you are happy you can laugh. You have a wide range of emotions and they don’t all lead to frustration or anger.

“As someone who, by virtue of my sex, has always had permission to weep, I didn’t initially understand this. Only after multiple interviews did I realize that when boys confided in me about crying—or, even more so, when they teared up right in front of me—they were taking a risk, trusting me with something private and precious: evidence of vulnerability, or a desire for it.“

---

Okay so putting aside all of the reinforcement we get from our parents and institutions and our lack of emotional vulnerability why do we all buy into this dumb shit? Who convinced us all this is what masculinity is? And why do we listen?

“What the longtime sportswriter Robert Lipsyte calls “jock culture” (or what the boys I talked with more often referred to as “bro culture”) is the dark underbelly of male-dominated enclaves, whether or not they formally involve athletics: all-boys’ schools, fraternity houses, Wall Street, Silicon Valley, Hollywood, the military. Even as such groups promote bonding, even as they preach honor, pride, and integrity, they tend to condition young men to treat anyone who is not “on the team” as the enemy (the only women who ordinarily make the cut are blood relatives— bros before hos!), justifying any hostility toward them. Loyalty is paramount, and masculinity is habitually established through misogynist language and homophobia.”

Sounds familiar right guys? Don’t kid yourself. This is what being a man looks like in almost all situations in which we feel “safe” to express our self right? You are either with us or against us. Anything different or anyone questioning this behavior must be “othered” as they are clearly not “on the team”. FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

This was my entire experience as a youth. As someone who did not fit into this group (nor wanted to) I was immediately “othered” and deemed a “pussy” or “fag��� or “homo” or “weirdo”. My friend group reflected this - mostly others who also were “not on the team” like women, gays and lesbians, and men who also did not identify with this version of masculinity. Which just made it easier to group us all together and identify us as the enemy. 

“Just because some young men now draw the line at referring to someone who is openly gay as a fag doesn’t mean, by the way, that gay men (or men with traits that read as gay) are suddenly safe. If anything, the gay guys I met were more conscious of the rules of manhood than their straight peers were. They had to be—and because of that, they were like spies in the house of hypermasculinity.” Without the ability to connect with and express my emotions I often reacted in anger. I started fights. I got violent (with words and writing mostly). I returned this “othering” and treated them all as the enemy. I had other reasons for this (being abused by men as a boy) but at the crux of the issue I had no trust for men. This helped me connect with women and my gay friends as they also experienced this distrust in similar (and different) ways. 

Years later I found myself in a job where I managed a group of men (100 or more at any time) working as a team (video game industry) and totally unable to connect with any of them as a human let alone a man. It was at this time that I realized this was a problem beyond my own experiences and when I started to understand my own participation in this system. 

I tried to question things as they came up. I tried to hear my teammates and help them navigate this murky sea of masculinity to find their own place in it. Most people didn’t want to participate. They learned to keep their mouth shut if I was within earshot of their typical “bro talk”. They learned to act differently around me so as not to incur my wrath (using my anger and position of power to punish them for being sexist, racist, or intolerant). I felt powerful and I tricked myself into thinking I was making a difference. I was wrong. 

---

“Recently, Pascoe turned her attention to no homo, a phrase that gained traction in the 1990s. She sifted through more than 1,000 tweets, primarily by young men, that included the phrase. Most were expressing a positive emotion, sometimes as innocuous as “I love chocolate ice cream, #nohomo” or “I loved the movie The Day After Tomorrow, #nohomo.” “A lot of times they were saying things like ‘I miss you’ to a friend or ‘We should hang out soon,’ ” she said. “Just normal expressions of joy or connection.” No homo is a form of inoculation against insults from other guys, Pascoe concluded, a “shield that allows boys to be fully human.”

It wasn’t long before my “making a difference” spread into our hiring, training, and management of the team. I brought in women who wanted to work in the game industry. I tried to shut down any of the bro culture bullshit that came up and used it as an opportunity to teach other men why it was fucked up. It worked for some (maybe 5-6 people out of hundreds) but the majority either quit or tried to get me fired. Most did not change their behavior in any way. 

The women said they knew what they were getting into. I don’t believe they knew what it was like to actually be in the middle of the situation. I assume women in the military probably have a lot of experience like this. In short - it’s fucking toxic and disgusting. Like other males/men they too have to fall in line and “become one of the boys” or risk being antagonized and ostracized for being “different”. It’s Lord of the Flies. It’s fucking mob mentality. It’s masculinity at it’s absolute worst. And this was in a “progressive” creative city working for a small company with a woman CEO. Men simply don’t give a fuck and it’s almost always easier to go with the flow. FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

My first experience with a trans individual in a work setting occurred was while I was managing this team. One of our long term employees made the transition and I had to watch how they were treated by the “bros’. Jokes were made, memes were shared, snickering and fucked up behavior was rampant. I had to talk to, discipline, and fire many individuals. These were men I thought were “on the team” and working to be good examples of masculinity. I should have known that was just part of the act - their way of surviving and showing subservience to me as a man in a position of power over them. My trust was further eroded in masculinity. 

Putting yourself over others is not power. It is dehumanization and it stems from hate. We can be different without being better or worse than someone else regardless of who they are. Not everything has to be a competition. It took me way too long to undo the damage done to me by these ideal of toxic masculinity. You can do it too - you just have to start today. 

---

Beyond the negative effects this version of masculinity has on us as males/men it also fucks up our interaction with women and sexual partners and it’s certainly done so to me. I’m actively working on unfucking my fucking and aware that many of my heterosexual ideals of sex stem from the same shit I have been actively fighting against most of my life. Connecting emotionally with your sexual partner takes things to a completely different level.

“It’s not like I imagined boys would gush about making sweet, sweet love to the ladies, but why was their language so weaponized ? The answer, I came to believe, was that locker-room talk isn’t about sex at all, which is why guys were ashamed to discuss it openly with me. The (often clearly exaggerated) stories boys tell are really about power: using aggression toward women to connect and to validate one another as heterosexual, or to claim top spots in the adolescent sexual hierarchy. Dismissing that as “banter” denies the ways that language can desensitize—abrade boys’ ability to see girls as people deserving of respect and dignity in sexual encounters.”  

This is the first thing that comes to my mind when I hear the term “rape culture”. As men we are taught that to be masculine is to claim “wins” in sexual conquest. Sex is property and we can collect it. Even if it’s with our long term partners or spouses. Ever tried talking to men about this? Ever questioned others on how it’s fucked up? You probably heard about how it’s all in jest. Just a joke! I’m just joking!  “When called out, boys typically claim that they thought they were just being “funny.” And in a way that makes sense—when left unexamined, such “humor” may seem like an extension of the gross-out comedy of childhood. Little boys are famous for their fart jokes, booger jokes, poop jokes. It’s how they test boundaries, understand the human body, gain a little cred among their peers. But, as can happen with sports, their glee in that can both enable and camouflage sexism. The boy who, at age 10, asks his friends the difference between a dead baby and a bowling ball may or may not find it equally uproarious, at 16, to share what a woman and a bowling ball have in common (you can Google it). He may or may not post ever-escalating “jokes” about women, or African Americans, or homosexuals, or disabled people on a group Snapchat. He may or may not send “funny” texts to friends about “girls who need to be raped,” or think it’s hysterical to surprise a buddy with a meme in which a woman is being gagged by a penis, her mascara mixed with her tears. He may or may not, at 18, scrawl the names of his hookups on a wall in his all-male dorm, as part of a year-long competition to see who can “pull” the most. Perfectly nice, bright, polite boys I interviewed had done one or another of these things.”

Let me be clear in case you are confused. This shit isn’t funny. Laughing at other people’s misfortune is a long standing human tradition yes - and it still dehumanizes everyone involved. That doesn’t make me laugh but maybe you are still amused? Why?

“At the most disturbing end of the continuum, “funny” and “hilarious” become a defense against charges of sexual harassment or assault. To cite just one example, a boy from Steubenville, Ohio, was captured on video joking about the repeated violation of an unconscious girl at a party by a couple of high-school football players. “She is so raped,” he said, laughing. “They raped her quicker than Mike Tyson.” When someone off camera suggested that rape wasn’t funny, he retorted, “It isn’t funny—it’s hilarious!”

The classic toxic masculinity force field present in my life has been the “just joking” phrase with the ultimate no consequence phrase “it’s hilarious!”. Say something you don’t want to manage the consequences for? Just a joke! People still question you or your morals after saying some heinous shit? No.. it’s cool... it’s hilarious! You just gotta laugh! FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

“Hilarious” is another way, under the pretext of horseplay or group bonding, that boys learn to disregard others’ feelings as well as their own. “Hilarious” is a haven, offering distance when something is inappropriate, confusing, depressing, unnerving, or horrifying; when something defies boys’ ethics. It allows them to subvert a more compassionate response that could be read as unmasculine—and makes sexism and misogyny feel transgressive rather than supportive of an age-old status quo. Boys may know when something is wrong; they may even know that true manhood—or maybe just common decency—compels them to speak up. Yet, too often, they fear that if they do, they’ll be marginalized or, worse, themselves become the target of derision from other boys. Masculinity, then, becomes not only about what boys do say, but about what they don’t—or won’t, or can’t—say, even when they wish they could. The psychologists Dan Kindlon and Michael Thompson, the authors of Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys, have pointed out that silence in the face of cruelty or sexism is how too many boys become men. 

I feel like I may have already gone too far into this dark hole of shit that fucks me up around toxic masculinity. I hope I didn’t lose you. I hope you have questions and thoughts about how this impacts your life. Perhaps ways that you make a change today to fight against this bullshit. You may be asking yourself “what can we do!?” At the end of the day its up to males/men to change this culture. It’s not about self-hate or self-abuse. We gotta name this and own it. We need more men to step up and say ‘It doesn’t have to be like this”. Our collective mental health requires us to be more flexible and connected to ourselves and emotions. We need to find ways to deal with our anger, frustration, and desires in ways that don’t hurt ourselves and others. We need to teach ourselves (especially youth) that it isn’t enough to only talk about things we shouldn’t (and hopefully won’t) do. 

If this shit fucks you too you can do something about it. Start with yourself. Question these things when they come up. And not only when you feel “safe” to do so. Do it consistently in ways that are non-confrontational (they will probably lead to confrontations with most men anyway - sorry). Be okay with not always “winning’ in these situations. You’ll be surprised who you might connect with in the process. Hopefully one of those people will be yourself. 

[womenintranslation]

Women in Amerindian Literature: an essay by Elisa Taber

(Image: armadillo carving, a handicraft of the Mbya Guaraní, the indigenous community the poet Alba Eiragi Duarte belongs to.)

Women writing in indigenous languages in Latin America are working to both decolonize hegemonic feminism and to counter systematic linguistic censorship. Their poetic discourse posits that women’s rights do not need to be individualistic but communal and that national identity needs to be multicultural. It is not why but how they write, and the range of languages they use, that makes their writings impossible to group together under the label “indigenous literature.” The Mixe writer and linguist Yasnaya Elena Aguilar Gil has rejected the standard binary imposed on literary production in indigenous languages in Mexico, “I have yet to find a common trait that justifies that a literature written in such distinct languages and that belongs to eleven disparate linguistic families shares any grammatical features or poetic devices that, together, can be contrasted to Spanish.” (“(Is There) An Indigenous Literature?”) The distinctiveness of each indigenous language and culture must be respected and the conception of a ‘minority’ literary category that homogenizes them must be questioned.

Those eager to discover linguistic, cosmological, and poetic diversity should read the work of the following contemporary women writers: Natalia Toledo and Irma Pineda, Zapotec poets; Ruperta Bautista Vázquez and Marga Beatriz Aguilar Montejo, Maya Tsotsil and Maya Yucatec poets, respectively; Liliana Ancalao and Faumelisa Manquepillán, Mapuche poets; Lucila Lema Otavalo and Eugenia Carlos Ríos, Quechua poets; Alba Eiragi Duarte and Susy Delgado, Mbya Guaraní and Jopara poets, respectively.

The community of Latin American writers and academics studying Amerindian poetry–especially Violeta Percia and Juan G. Sánchez Martínez–have generously shared with me the work of these contemporary women writers. I encourage readers to visit Sánchez Martínez’s multilingual digital collaborative anthology platform, Siwar Mayu. The digital nature of this anthology shows that, as Walter Ong posits, it is electronic, rather than print, media that makes visible the transgressions writing inflects on transcribed orality. The auditory and visual performance components of oral literature are rendered through multimedia; i.e. the translated text is accompanied by recordings and illustrations. A lyrical, fictional, or non-fictional piece is published in the original indigenous language as well as in Spanish and English, together with an illustration by an indigenous artist and an essay by an indigenous academic reflecting on the work’s literary value. The result, which is not simply the transcription but the multi-sequential and multisensory translation of oral literature, calls forth a secondary orality.

The poetry of these Zapotec, Maya, Mapuche, Quechua, and Guaraní poets present distinct modes of production, lyrical devices, and linguistic features that are jointly defiant of their Western counterparts. Their collections live between Spanish and an endangered indigenous language. They are crafted and distributed orally; transcription is a secondary and sometimes unnecessary step. Many are self-published in print or online, via social media. Language loses its weight this way; it becomes ephemeral, alterable, it ceases to belong to one person. However, the content is firmly rooted in the soil, sometimes focused on the quotidian–specifically, the act of boiling a potato–and other times on the metaphysical– specifically, the distance between life and death bridged by another conception of corporeality within time and space. I believe this poetry is excluded from the national canon of each country these poets belong to precisely because there is so much complexity encrypted in its apparent simplicity.

In this post I will introduce the poetry of the Paraguayan poet, Alba Eiragi Duarte, who writes in Mbya Guaraní (which is distinct from Jopara, a variant of Spanish-inflected Guaraní) and will discuss how her work is excluded by a definition of national literature so narrow that it has no place for indigenous poetries. Eiragi Duarte has introduced, illustrated, and self-published her collection Ñe'ẽ yvoty, ñe'e poty (Our Earth and Our Mother), writing bilingually in Spanish and Mbya Guaraní. The first section consists of sixteen of her own poems. The language and content are simple. The poems address ontological subjects: what it takes to survive, to cook, sleep, and work. Or what it means to be alive: the passing of the seasons, the transition from dawn to dusk, the birth and death of loved ones. The lines are short but read as sentences, almost like instructions. The language is formal and distant until speech erupts, In “Pore’ỹ” (The Absence), the third person narration shifts to the first with the lines

Che kérape rohecha,

che páype rohechase

che membymi porãite

I see you in my dreams and

when I wake, I wish to see you,

my daughter, my life.

Emotion is unmediated yet counters nostalgia with a sense of what is real now: her daughter is deceased and the narrator, alive. There is nothing mythical about these poems, if myth is defined as the attribution of human intentionality to the inexplicable or meaningless.

In her last poem, “Che Rata” (My Fire), day dawns, the narrator lights a fire and sets a sweet potato, a mandioca, and a kettle atop it. The poem ends with the lines, “che rata ikatupyry, / ombojy ha’uva’erã” (fire is vital, / it cooks food). Life appears to be as simple as waking. Regaining this clarity is a task that is as complex for the reader as it is for the author. The poet refuses to be distracted by the superfluous and encourages the reader to do the same. Alba Eiragi Duarte is, above all, an ethical poet. There is a circularity in each text that is intrinsic to the author’s conception of life and poetry: what is simple is complex and what is complex is simple. She has no need to resort to complex metafictional device to underscore this paradox.

In the second section, titled “Mombe’u añeteguaite Avá Ruguái rehegua” (The True Story of Avá Ruguái), Eiragi Duarte retells a religious myth. (In Guaraní Avá means man and ruguái, armadillo.) Avá Ruguái is like a man, but is more solitary, agile, and cruel. When men hunting in the jungle enter too deep to return before nightfall, he puts them to sleep and kills, quarters, and skins them. The poet recounts the story of the man who kills Avá Ruguái because Ruguái has killed his brother. In one scene, the narrator squats in the scrubland, watching Avá Ruguái lift his sleeping brother by the nape of his neck. There is something cinematic about the specificity with which corporeality in space is described. Time is ambiguous but the events that are recounted seem to occur in the span of one night.

The wilderness—its flora and fauna—is heightened by the descriptions and accompanying illustrations. It is as though the quebracho and palm trees witness the events as the readers do. Behind a low stand of thorn bushes, a man lies stiffly on the ground. The tips of his feet point right. He wears a dark shirt and light pants. His silhouette is delineated by the darkest line in the drawing. His eyes and mouth are lightly sketched, they fade into the white paper. He grips his hand over his abdomen. He seems dead, not asleep. Another man stands over him with a bow in his hands and a sack full of arrows on his back. Palm trees lean left and right in the background. The rigidity and lack of expression of the human figures is in stark contrast to the ornamentation and movement of the bushes and trees. The book’s illustrations underscore people’s inflexibility towards the elements of nature, which in turn adapt to them. The narrative shows the retribution of nature, embodied by Avá Ruguái, to the transgressions of humans.

Eiragi Duarte recites these poems and stories, transcribed on illustrated placards, to children in rural schools across Paraguay. This educational program counters the loss of knowledge of the Mbya Guaraní language and of sacred narratives. She comes from an oral or mnemonic tradition in which authorship is not individual but communal. The poet compensates for the transgressions writing inflects on transcribed orality by combining her poetry with stories that have been passed down to her and by illustrating both on the placards.

She aspires to create a national Paraguayan literature that is multilingual and multicultural. Yet her poetry is intrinsically untranslatable unless the conception of literature broadens to include her manifesto of social ecology. In the introduction to the book she not only posits an equality between genders but also between human beings and nature. By conceiving of human rights and authorship in a communal sense, and at the same time blurring the distinction between the social and ecological, she forces readers to regard the parts of a whole as distinct yet interconnected in new ways. Behind the apparent simplicity of these poems and stories lies a true reconception of reality and how it is rendered in fiction and poetry.

The term literature must be challenged because it reduces these verbally organized materials to a variant further developed by literate cultures. With respect to sacred narratives, the term authorship must shift from an individual to a communal definition. The narratives do not belong to the ones reciting them—they only author a version—but rather to the millenary indigenous cultures the reciters belong to. The history of the transcription and translation into Spanish of poetry from indigenous languages since the conquest has three stages. The first was carried out by missionaries; the second, by social scientists, specifically linguists and anthropologists; and the third, by writers.

I have featured the work of Alba Eiragi Duarte in this post because it speaks to the literary properties of the text, rather than exclusively to its cultural or linguistic aspects. She shows that the culture or language is not so much in danger of extinction as it is at risk of voluntarily subjugating itself through national aspirations to westernization. She also proposes that her translations are parallel versions of the original. It is only by challenging the terms “literature and authorship” that the national as well as the continental canon will be broadened to include indigenous poetry. Failing that, its lyrics will continue to circulate orally as common knowledge, but without validation as artistic works in their own right, not folkloric artifacts.

—Elisa Taber

Works Cited

Aguilar Gil, Yasnaya Elena. “(Is There) an Indigenous Literature?” Translated by Gloria E. Chacón. Diálogo, vol. 19, no. 1, Spring 2016, pp. 157-159. (Original article in Spanish published in March 2015 in Letras libres (https://www.letraslibres.com/mexico-espana/libros/literatura-indigena).

[karkatvantasistrans]

Be Jade, one year into your journey

You are now Jade Harley.

There is something your ship keeps coming into contact with out here.

There aren’t dream bubbles, per se, or any other passing ships, but there is…static. Patches of which you run though, in the din of quiet during your hours alone, where you can hear the conversations, feel them, filling up your thoughts and flickering along the few screens pinned across your room, then they are gone.

The moments after they go are too lonely to stand.

[You can also read this fanfic chapter on my ao3, here!]

Rose: Indulge in embarrassingly domestic shenanigans

Easing yourselves into the midnight hours, you and Kanaya are lazily taking in the calming sensory hum of the TV you’ve both parked yourselves in front of. Her head on your shoulder and your arm wrapped lazily around her wrist, she watches the monochrome humans from your film repertoire moving across the screen. She rarely drinks with you, but an uncharacteristic glass of wine is perched in her hand, falling absentmindedly from side to side as she stares down the vaseline-smooth face of the female lead.

“I don’t understand the central conflict of this movie,” she confesses, unashamed, un-self conscious, hair on the back of her head shifting gently along your chest as she speaks.

“If the human protagonist is "barren” I’d assume she was devoid of organs, is the central horror at her persistent existence? What’s the meaning of her being killed so early?“ Her fingers wind idly around a strand of your hair as she keeps her eyes focused on the screen, trying to absorb it through the few translation errors.

"In a sense, you’re not wrong, actually,” You muse, the sip from your glass staying somewhat reasonable as you mull over the concept. Picture childlessness hollowing someone out, trace the etymology along its roots as far as your mind can see,

“It means she can’t have children.” You clarify, and watch the top of Kanaya’s head for signs of shock. When all you receive is a dutiful “hmm”, you can’t resist the urge to up the ante, if only just a little.

“Humans grow their children inside their bodies, you know.”

This elicits a much more entertaining response, as Kanaya hums an “ah” before abruptly launching herself up beside you.

“You’re serious about this?” You feel a shit-eating grin light up your face.

“Ah! I can’t believe we never covered this before!” You laugh, hand finding your collarbone as her face shifts into contemplative horror.

“I sort-of thought you had me beat on the grim horrors of our respective societies! The birds and bees may as well be alternian demons, hm?” Her face shifts to visibly frustrated as you take another light sip, smiling at her over the rim of your glass.

“It’s interesting in a way, actually, how these things come together – oh, but that might be a bad example,” as you catch yourself about to tap her stomach, “so I won’t tie too many things together. Just, imagine you had to carry around the contents of those pails in your stomach! Our children don’t have quite as many feet, but they’re still very much alive inside, able to move and interact with the inside of you – it’s almost like a cocoon, actually! Just carried around with you wherever you go for, what’s the equivalent? A third of a sweep? I can’t believe you didn’t know this! Ecto-siblings notwithstanding, all humans are grown inside a human body. Doesn’t that add up to some of the most sublime body horror you’ve ever considered?” Prideful, grinning, your glass sloshes around dangerously as you explain the most exciting fundamentals of motherhood to her. The look she returns to you is bemused.

“I know you’re not joking about this, you’re showing your hand far too much for this to be an act,” she smiles, thumb hitting the corner of your grin softly.

“But if your hope is to overwhelm me with this revelation, I have to tell you that we have discussed this before, if only in passing.”

“Ah, how unfortunate. Although there’s plenty of detail we could delve into if you’re invested in a pairing of historical horror with our movie night.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have a particularly gratifying response,” Her tone is apologetic as she throws you a soft small, eyebrows hitched up towards her hairline.

“After all, you were barely reactive when I shared our planet’s history of lusii implantation with you. I’d hoped trolls piloting their lusii from the confines of their skin might be at least somewhat tantalizing when I shared it with you.”

A jolt, excited, runs through your stomach. You don’t remember that conversation at all. If there’s some genetic experimentation of that level in Alternian history, you cant wait to –

Hold on.

“Kanaya…I don’t suppose you would be fucking with me, would you?”

The smile she gives you is electric.

“You are an absolute specimen of shitbastardry.” You cajole, thumb running sentimentally over her lip, onto her jaw.

“I knew I hadn’t told you that before.”

Her laugh is bright, sending a flicker of feeling over your chest, and you bury your head into her lap.

When she bends down, the you feel the smile on her lips as it plays into your own. You taste the warm joy of her face and of her arms around you and wonder, just once, if a storm always has to come after the calm.

Be Kanaya Maryam

Curiosity gets the best of you after the third week.

Shifting behind you as you walk, your skirt’s cool embrace on your calves reminds you with each step: this is a form of betrayal.

There is a sharp clatter, a booming note in the air, and a rip of green through the air as soon as you enter. Dave’s chest is heaving above him, electric smile playing over Terezi’s fangs as the corners of Dave’s mouth betray the ghost of enjoyment stirring in his shaking frame. He bounces, quick, back onto his feet as he narrowly avoids a clap of energy from Vriska’s corner of the room. Karkat’s eyes register you, only for a moment, as he darts behind Dave in the opposite direction, hand lightly sitting over the small of his back.

You try to sink, inconspicuous, into the least hectic corner of the block as you watch the arching lights and colours split through the air. Light, Time and Mind dye the room a sharp lilac before the rip of Blood pulls over the ceiling, cooling the energy under the metal rafters. You can taste the energy in the room, the ripping muscle and slap of sweat prickling over your tongue, so you dutifully close your mouth.

Terezi blurs over your eyes, cane slapping the backs of Karkat’s legs as they join, arms crossed over one another as their fraymotif spirals out of them, hemophobic harmony roaring over their heads and colliding, loudly, with the back wall. Karkat’s aspect shoots up your nose, over your tonsils, into the skin beneath your molars, as you watch Vriska spinning webs of light at his and Terezi’s feet. Terezi’s cane deflects it deftly while Karkat ops to absorb the psychic buckshot. Vriska’s training model has stayed the same, predictably, with the leftmost wall serving as a stand-in for your future assailants while your meteor mates take turns trying to disrupt each others’ concentration. It’s evolved, however, in terms of co-ordination and power. You are surprised to see the ease with which Dave hunches down in front of Vriska, palm to the floor, as their combined efforts shoot up and down the wall, pulling it in and out of its own history until its least fortunate iteration is exposed. Dave’s contribution falters for only a moment as he blocks a wave of green peeling towards Vriska’s shoulder. The complimenting attack on Dave is re-routed, predictably, by luck alone.

A stray bolt of energy ricochets off the wall by your head, and Karkat catches himself before he verbalizes an apology.

Vriska doesn’t need to hear it to know it, though.

Lucky, lucky.

“Kanaya!” She sings, and the shot of energy by your head is fully intentional on the second iteration.

“Oh. Hey.” Is Dave’s subdued contribution. Terezi waves deliriously, excitement still bouncing over her face.

“Come to re-join the winning team?” Vriska flashes her teeth, hugged tight on both sides by smearing blue lipstick. Her hair clings, wet, over her face as he grins through her ragged breaths, lightly shaking arms.

“Separate approaches to practicing don’t make us enemies, Vriska.” You remind her, eyebrow pulling upwards to communicate your immediate impatience. She willfully ignores it, places it on a long list of social cues she refuses to be bogged down by.

“Exactly! So what’s the harm in getting a little practice time in with both team leaders? Nothing wrong with co-ordinating training strategies!”

“I just came to watch.” Your feet, all of a sudden, feel comically stubborn in their planted spot on the ground.

“You won’t know what you’re even watching if you won’t get in the thick of it! You should be happy I’m encouraging your meddlesomeness for once, this is right up your alley, Maryam!” The hand she slaps onto yiur shoulder is a little too eager, a lot too forceful. Dave’s frown at her back is subtle, but present.

You realize, belatedly, that Karkat and Terezi do not look at each other outside the thick of battle, as Vriska’s hand curls around your wrist.

“Come on, Kanaya, it would mean a lot to us if we could see what you were working on with Lalonde!” Her eyebrows fly upwards, your heart sings. The next note she speaks is low: only for you,

“I promise I trust Rose’s careful guidance. I just want to see how you’re doing.”

But the show of her leaning into your neck is for everyone,

“…Alright,” you concede, Vriska too hot on your neck, too urgent to put up resistances against any longer. The feeling when she pulls back again, triumphant, is all too familiar.

All too red.

=>

Your feet planted firmly in the center of the room, you feel the need to clear your throat before whipping your entirely non-verbal attack at the wall before you.

Your palms and fingertips hum as the walls around you glisten under the beam of your skin. Dave’s attacks are precise, but un-malicious as they hit your sides, glancing off and downwards as your aspect fills the space of their intended targets. The sphere encasing you sends a rumble over your skin with each spark, and you are only vaguely aware of the way the wall flexes under its own mass. Dave’s time powers are capable of restoring the space, as you all have seen countless times at this point, but the growl of the harbinger’s crescendo twists fear into your core nonetheless. It’s a motif you hadn’t been able to practice with Rose, and the relentless use of your other powers echoes in the back of your mind as the new precedent for your expulsion of energy.

The room vibrates around you, metal sheets and fastens swelling, until a deadly quiet slips over your heads.

Dave almost misses the moment when it flies apart.

Running the wall back through echelons of time, Dave stands, legs baring down under him as he calculates, spins his hands, rewinds flying chunks of metal careening towards his matesprit’s face. Vriska cackles distantly and you’re sure you hear the click of her phone’s camera behind you. You pull your influence up and under Dave’s, the element pulsing under your palms as you heal the space, restore it back to its essential nature. Dave’s shoulders are rattling around his ears as he pulls air in through his open mouth, exhaling with a quake of pressure. You can feel the uneven lighting on your face, morphing over you in kaleidoscopic splotches.

“…Holy shit, Kanaya.” Is Dave’s conclusion after witnessing your contribution. The hand he claps onto your shoulder is still lightly vibrating as he adds, “That was fucking crazy.”

The smile you return is as self-effacing as you can manage, and Vriska and Terezi bound towards you with an energy you could only describe as jubilant. Karkat tries and fails not to look horrified.

“I knew we could trust you to bring something exciting back with you! I’m always telling these two,” she gestures wildly towards Karkat and Terezi, “that their lack of god tiering doesn’t mean they can half-ass their contributions! And if this isn’t proof of that, I don’t know what is!”

You hear Dave protest, lightly, that they never argued that point with her. She pretends not to hear him.

“Now,” she says, grin cemented to her face through every syllable,

“Let’s find out if you can actually keep up with us.”

=>

There is some running and dodging involved when you first hit the floor in your re-integration to group training. Vriska, unsurprisingly, focuses most of her efforts on disrupting you as your feet launch you forward, sideways among the chaos of the group. It takes only a moment for you to remember the rhythm, the feel of this group dynamic, and you disrupt the space beside her just enough to make her stumble. Her laugh echoes across the room as she singes the bottom of Dave’s cape with a hot flash of light, and his is the pair of eyes yours meets first across the floor.

His path towards you is deliberate, complex, as he zig-zags across the field of colour and into the space beside you. You are already bracing yourself, setting your shoulders as he loops behind you, unsure reassurance of his hand softly on your neck. The space-time convulsion of the wall is tidier than your solitary initiative, and Dave’s weeks of practice give him the foresight to counter the onslaught of incoming attacks that you miss. Only one burst of colour gets through – Karkat’s – and it grazes over your cheek as you focus with Dave on spinning you immobile adversary into a junction of time and space where it was the most vulnerable, the least safe to inhabit. You stop only when the foundation starts to shake.

When Vriska lines her eyes up with yours later, her hand lacks the nervous professionalism of Dave’s, snaking over your back with calculated closeness. What rockets through your body isn’t black this time, but crimson, and you only feel the guilt hours later in your room: in soft, gentle waves.

Be Past Rose

You are twelve when she gets in her second car crash.

Shaken, bandage over nose, but fundamentally undisturbed, she sits with her friends in the living room once she’s finally discharged from the hospital. She regales them over coffee, or tea, it isn’t important; the important thing is the fact that she has a slight slur to her speech, one more trip to the “powder room” than necessary, as she tells them all how scary, how unexpected it was, when she was driving routinely along and that driver came out of nowhere. They are nodding along, sympathetic and persecutory on her behalf, and they are buying it.

They are buying the idea that your sole guardian cares whether she lives or dies.

Be Jade Harley

You are now Jade Harley, and it is one month into your airship journey.

Your friends have just exploded.

You are limited in extremes as far as what you can do on this airship, what actions you can take affecting the alpha timelines, but you are desperate, and you are alone, and you are soaking, saturated, sodden down the front of your dress with tears.

Wet, wet, wet.

It takes a lot of communication through space, expanding and contracting forces only barely registering as “physical” for you to interact with your abandoned timeline. But it still glows in the distance behind you, your exit a fresh wound still festering on the horizon.

You taste blood on your teeth when you finally reach the span of your phone’s radius back just far enough.

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

-̸̡̻̲̣̫̓̓͂̍͋̽̔̈͐̈́͌͒͘͝-̷̢̢̥͍̬̖̞̣͕̝̯̥̟̭̇̃ ̶̰͖̲̖͔̙̙͖̝̋̇̈́ ̵͈̫̳͉͉̱̥̳̺͉̩͍̬̆̕j̶̨̙̥͖͓͎̯̜̹͕͋̅̇̔͛̓̈́͒̇̅̂̽̕͝á̶̡̱̝̗̟̐̑̈́d̷̨̨̘̩̝̣̙͉̖̖̳̗̼̆͑ě̸̤̐̽͒̅̍̌̏̉͌͒̅͠͝ͅ ̶̡̧̡̛͕͖͓͉̤̥̗̱͓̳͊̇̇͂͂̋̉̑̕̚ͅh̸̡̧̬̻͕͕͓̭̲̥̾̐͗͊͗ã̵̢̧̠̱̱̻̗͈̺̞̭̦͕̎͊̈͒̏̀̆̏͘̕̚͝ṛ̴̯̰̭̙͎̼̏̀̓̊̈́̽̃͗̈̾͑͝l̵̢͓͔̬̫̯̋͐͒̐͌̌͛̔̊̓͑͠ė̵̬͚̲̼͎͈̙̑̾̂͘ͅỳ̸̧̯͎̤͓̣̪̣̝͉͉̾͌̆͘͘͜ ̷̢̨͓̫̦̙͈͎͔̩̲͓́̎͜began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 0̶̧͖̪̼͓̯͇̩͐̀̽͘0̵͙̗̓͂̿͋͒̿:̵̢̪̠͍̺̈̈́͛̊0̶̧̳̹̩͓͍͕̺̼̩͍͆͒͜0̸̡̫̥̹̞̠͍̽̒ --

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

GG: rose!̷̮̙̤͈͊̅̒͋̈́̏͛̋̏͋!!

GG: rose i can’t h̴̞̳͌̀̀͛̐̍̑̂̂͋͘̚̚͜a̸̡̨̭̖͈̦͔̻̅̂̾͗̉̓́̆͗̔̍͘n̷̡͓̺̣͇̻͙̲̤͚̱̭̑̀d̸̡̢͈̯̺̦͎͕͕̻̩̐̅le this

GG: i can’t handle being alone for 3̵̫͇̤͕͍̘̪͚̜̠̮̤͙̉̇͐̅͘ fucking years

TT: What?

TT: Jade?

GG: i can’t handle it Rose

GG: daveş̶͈̝̙̳̘̥̜̱͊͒̽̆̈́̑̀̓̌̈́̈́̈́̅͗͘p̵̮̲̠̪͇̬̥̺͈̝͎͚̔̑̆̔̆͂̄̿r̸̨̢̛̲̞̫̙͍̜̎̄̇̃͋̓̆ǐ̵͖̲̼͔̫͕͇͙̙̐t̵̨̧̢̙̘͕͙̯͇̲̬͙͆̊̒̐͗̓͐̊͌̿̔͒̈͠ę̵̲̯̣͓̜͉̪͚͙̣͓̗̭͙̔̅ and john

GG: they just fucking exploded

GG: god i can’t

GG: i can’t be here alone!!!

TT: I don’t know how you can reach me Jade.

TT: But I’m here as long as you still can.

GG: rose I can s̸̡̡̩̩̱̔̽̚till s̷̞̳̣̟̱̱͎͊̽̎̎̿̒̑̇̚͘̚̚͜͜͝͝m̸̨̛̬͓͉͙͓͕̤̯͎͆̃̉̓̽ell them

GG: the whole planet

GG: just like that

GG: i̸̤̤̒̕t̷͓̱͈̐'̴̤̪̈s̸̫͆ ̴̯͍̩͆̃̀g̵͔͊̂̕ȏ̶͓̯̜ṇ̶͕͂́ḙ̸̜̍̕

GG: they’re ģ̷̛̞͚͒̑̽͑͒̈́̓̓̅̂̎̂̕͘̚ö̶̧̢̢̨̧͚̼̩͓̝̣̰̰̦̦̩͕̜̘̭͎̤̭̫̭͉̗̪̟̽͛͛̀͌̈́̇̅̎͂̊̅͒n̸̛̬̭̬̤̝͇̹͇͈͇̜͖̭̦̟͉̠̪̖͎̯̬̺͙̈́̉̇͆͌͛̈́̏̅̄̿̀̾̏͛̾͗̕͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅë̶̡̥̩͎̜̜̫̠̮͖̦̯̪̺́̓̆̃̉̉͛̏̈́̇͊̆̆̓̾̽͂̋͆̽̅̚͝͠

GG: I’m not going to fucking make this

GG: 3 fucking years

GG: i c̷̞͇̠̋a̸̡͓͙̓̚n’t

TT: Yes you can, Jade.

TT: You can.

TT: Not because it’s something any human could reasonably do.

TT: But for the alpha timeline to succeed, I know we need you.

TT: A jade, somewhere, needs to survive for the timeline to bear fruit.

TT:And I’d like it to be this one.

TT: So I can see you again.

GG: fuck!!!

GG: rose this is impossible

GG: it hurts s̴o̵ ̵m̴̡͙̈́̿̂û̶͎̥̒̍̃c̷̟̳̼̻̎̿͘h̵̲͇̗͆͘

GG: i’m so tired

GG: i’m tired of all of this h̸̭̬̫̟̳͓͉̟͈͛͌̏̓̐ą̸̡̥̦̯̳̪̞̫̫̮̠̘̝̖͇͍̯̠̠̗͕͙͖͎̮̱͙͇̩̱̙͙̭̳̝̟͓̯̳̈̋̈́͂̽̾̾̈́͘͠ͅp̴̢̡̡̨̛̭̟̹̲̗͓͉̱̜̙͉̗̹͓͎̩̺̞̘̹̖͕̜̰͙͎͓̘͚͖̳̀̽̄͗͗̒͐̆̄̃͆̄̏̇̀͠p̶̧̢̨͚̱͚̩͓͔͈̞̻̙͇̤͉̭̰̲̤̪͈͓͈̝͓͙̒̉̈́͋̽͆̑̆̎͐̾̈́̈́̏̆͂͒͋̏̋̐͋̏̔̂̀͐̚̕͘͘͝͝ë̵̡̨̞̜̼̙̱̺̲͓͇̪̯̭͈͚̫̱̘͇̜̺̼̻̜̪̦͚̤̻̞͈̭͕̝͗̌͗̀̈̑̆͝͝ͅn̸̨̥̩̟̟̂̋͐͂̎̓͊͐͆̔͐͐͊̐͋̐̈́͒̃̋͂̽͆̉̈̐̉̌̆̚̚̕͠͝͝i̸̛̬͔͓̔̉͗̄͛͑̐͂̎̒̎̎̂̈́̿̊̔̓̅̀̎͛̇̉̏̋̐̒͆̍̃̈́̈͂̃̚͘̕͠͝n̸̨̢̧̫̝̫̩̹̘̗͖̝͈͔̫̆͑g̸̢̩̳͔̼̻̱̪̺̪̓̌̊̈́͒͌̍̽̀͗̈͗̃̑̊̓̈͂̽͒̏̎͐̓̓̽̈͌͋̔̕̚͝͠͝ͅ

GG: we don’t fucking deserve this

TT: I know we don’t.

TT: Just.

TT: Please don’t be ashamed of anything you have to do to survive.

TT: We won’t judge you when we see you again. I promise.

TT: Okay?

GG: ok -̶̜̱̥̔̃͛̋͛̀͂̊̚͘+̶̨̳͉̻͑̄͂̚͘̚͝͝

GG: i love ÿ̸̨͚̖̦̝̀͌̃̔̄̊͂̍̍̂̑̂̍͗̆̊̚̕͝͝ou rose

The space between the words, between you and the timeline, is agonizing while you wait.

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

TT: I love you too, Jade.

TT: I’m so sorry this had to happen.

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

-̸̡̛͈̟̮̫͚̝̊̇̉̇̔̋͠͠͝-̶̖͎̼͚̖͕̣̩̉̈́͘ ̶̫̯̰͖̗̹̙̻̌͂͒̉̌̉̋͂͛͜J̸̧̤͙̹̪̑͐͋̕ͅǎ̸̡͓̜̔͂̂̑͘d̵̥͋͊̍̕e̷̢͍̦̦͈͆̆̿̕̕͝͠ ̴̧̯͍͇̏̃͜H̶̘͖̗̦̰̞̆̉̽̌͆a̸͙̿̄͑͜͝r̶̛̪̈̐͘͜l̸̛̳̩͇̪͔̩̠̺͇͆͌͂̈́̅͜͝ȩ̵̨̢̛̹̱̞̗̳̝̊͂͐̅̇̀̅͜y̶͉̥͍̥̲̎̿̐̒̅͋̃̕͜ ̸̨͉̄̎̏̓̒͘͝͠c̶͔͍̺̊̈ę̴͙͎̺͇̦̮̠̉̅̾̓̈ạ̴̢̢̘̹̮̣͍̠̖̇̄̇́̿̊͑͊͠s̴̖̜̤͚̈́̒͛̚͝e̵̢͉͖̥̬͕͆̈́͌̆̄̓͝d̵̛̲̀̄̌̅̎͐͐̊͜ ̷̨̙͚̈́̔͊̽͋͆p̷̡̻͎̰̫̝̣̺̫̣̿̽͂͆͂̍̐̕͠e̷͖̠̗̥̱͋̉̐̈́ͅş̸͓̤̙͈̆͑̍̎̈́͐͊̏͝ẗ̴͓͇̠̩̦̭́̿̀͌ȅ̸͍͇̗̟̼͉͆r̶̢̛͖̜̩͑̐̑͗̊͒͋̚i̵̱̯̣̔̄̎̔̽͗͘͘̕n̷̹̙̪͖͑ĝ̶̭͓̟̥͚͆͜ ̶̠̪̫̣̈̄̿̈̀͆̎̓͠t̵͍̱͔̙̝̣̼̓͑͌ȅ̶̲̥̞̆͂̈̚n̶̯̗̻̙̗̫̺̏̾t̸̨̻̳͛͗å̶̼̰̊̈́̄̕͝c̸͍͙̝̣̔̋̄̄̅̔ļ̷̥̥͙̜͉̦̤͍͎̈́̑̈́͌̎̌ë̵̲̣̞̤̪͔̼̗̞́Ţ̸͔̩͒́̔̌́͠ḩ̴̙̺̘̞̠͒̔͌͆̌̂͊͆̕e̷̡̢̨͖̣͙̳͍̚r̸̪̹̍̄͌̍ă̷̢̘̜̩͆͋̐́̋̕͝͝p̶̡͊̅͛͒̌̋̃͜͝͝ĭ̴͖͍̖͉̈́̒̚͜ͅs̴̘̫͎͈̯̠͋͂̀̈̉͝ͅẗ̸̳̥̕̚ ̶̛̣̗̥̈̌͐̂̽a̷͔̜͖̟͈̽̆̃̐̈́͒t̴̛̻̯͎͍̝̤͊͊̿̄̅̑͂͜ ̸̨̯̳͖̙̔̒̉̈́̈́̽͘͜0̶̡̠͖̩̳̝̟̺̓͒͝0̵̜̼̱̗̯̅͑̃͛̑͠:̶̟͉͚̻͛̋͋̾͠%̵̝̂̇͜&̸̢͚͔̹̞̘̩͗̉̈́̑̇͆͜-̸̨̛̯͉̃͛̒̕͘͝-̸͍̰̈̏̓́́

-̵̷̸̸̵̶̵̷̸̸̵̸̸̵̵̷̵̶̷̷̶̸̶̴̷̴̴̴̵̵̶̸̵̶̶̸̴̷̶̷̸̴̵̶̴̸̶̵̵̵̶̷̴̴̴̶̷̶̡̛͈̟̮̫͚̝̊̇̉̇̔̋͠͠͝-̷̷̸̶̸̷̴̸̷̴̸̸̸̷̵̷̴̸̶̸̴̴̴̴̵̸̸̶̶̷̸̴̵̸̴̴̴̶̵̴̖͎̼͚̖͕̣̩̉̈́͘ ̷̶̵̶̴̶̷̶̴̶̸̶̶̸̷̶̷̸̶̷̸̷̶̸̶̵̸̶̷̷̴̵̶̵̸̶̷̶̵̸̵̶̶̸̸̸̶̸̴̴̷̷̶̶̴̶̵̵̵̴̷̫̯̰͖̗̹̙̻̌͂͒̉̌̉̋͂͛͜J̵̴̶̸̸̸̵̸̵̷̷̶̵̶̷̵̶̶̸̷̶̵̶̸̴̷̷̸̸̵̴̷̸̷̵̴̸̧̤͙̹̪̑͐͋̕ͅǎ̶̶̴̸̶̶̶̴̶̵̸̷̶̷̵̷̸̸̶̸̷̷̸̵̴̵̸̸̵̷̶̸̶̵̸̷̸̡͓̜̔͂̂̑͘d̸̵̷̵̸̷̴̸̵̷̷̷̴̴̴̸̸̸̶̸̷̴̥͋͊̍̕ ̷e̴̶̵̷̸̵̸̵̷̶̸̷̸̴̸̷̷̶̴̵̷̵̵̵̶̸̴̴̸̷̴̴̴̸̵̸̵̶̸̸̴̵̶̢͍̦̦͈͆̆̿̕̕͝͠ ̸̷̴̴̶̶̷̷̷̶̸̵̴̶̵̷̷̶̸̷̷̵̸̴̴̷̷̵̧̯͍͇̏̃͜H̶̸̵̶̷̸̷̵̸̵̴̶̸̶̷̵̴̷̷̵̵̸̶̴̸̵̶̵̷̴̶̴̵̴̷̸̸̴̸̷̘͖̗̦̰̞̆̉̽̌͆a̶̷̴̸̴̶̶̶̴̷̵̵̵̶̸̸̵̴̵̴̴̵̴̷̵̸̶̶͙̿̄͑͜͝r̷̷̷̶̴̶̵̶̶̶̵̷̸̶̸̷̵̶̸̸̵̵̶̵̸̶̸̶̸̸̸̛̪̈̐͘͜l̶̵̷̸̵̵̶̴̶̵̸̴̴̶̴̸̷̷̶̴̷̶̸̷̵̸̴̸̶̶̶̵̷̴̴̶̶̶̷̴̴̶̸̸̷̸̷̴̶̶̴̶̵̶̷̴̴̸̷̵̴̛̳̩͇̪͔̩̠̺͇͆͌͂̈́̅͜͝ȩ̴̵̸̵̴̸̸̴̶̵̸̵̴̷̷̴̵̵̴̶̵̶̶̷̵̷̴̴̵̵̵̸̷̵̴̸̷̶̸̶̷̵̴̷̵̵̵̸̸̸̸̸̷̵̵̵̵̶̷̶̷̨̢̛̹̱̞̗̳̝̊͂͐̅̇̀̅͜ ̷-̸y̴̴̸̶̴̸̸̸̴̷̷̷̶̷̶̴̵̵̶̷̵̶̸̷̸̸̴̷̴̶̴̴̵̵̵̵̸̴̸̴̵̴̴̶̴̶̶̷̵̸̷̵͉̥͍̥̲̎̿̐̒̅͋̃̕͜ ̸̴̴̸̴̷̴̷̴̴̴̶̶̷̸̸̵̷̴̸̷̷̷̴̶̵̶̸̴̸̴̵̸̴̸̷̶̨͉̄̎̏̓̒͘͝͠c̶̴̶̶̴̸̴̵̸̸̷̷̶̴̴̶̵̵̸̷̸̸͔͍̺̊̈ę̴̸̴̴̶̵̷̷̶̶̸̴̷̸̵̸̴̶̵̶̶̷̴̴̷̸̷̶̶̴̷̷̷̷̵̸̴̶̴̶̴̸̴̸̸̷͙͎̺͇̦̮̠̉̅̾̓̈ạ̸̸̴̴̴̴̶̵̵̷̴̸̷̴̷̴̸̵̵̸̴̷̷̴̸̴̶̴̶̶̴̴̷̶̵̴̷̴̷̵̵̵̶̷̶̷̶̴̸̶̸̵̸̷̸̷̴̸̷̷̴̴̸̸̴̴̸̢̢̘̹̮̣͍̠̖̇̄̇́̿̊͑͊͠s̷̸̸̴̶̵̶̶̸̷̷̶̵̶̸̴̵̴̴̴̷̶̸̷̸̶̶̶̸̸̶̴̵̴̖̜̤͚̈́̒͛̚͝e̵̶̶̵̷̸̴̸̷̶̵̵̴̶̶̶̵̵̷̸̴̶̵̸̷̵̷̸̴̸̶̶̶̷̵̷̸̴̷̵̷̷̷̷̶̷̢͉͖̥̬͕͆̈́͌̆̄̓͝d̵̴̶̵̵̴̷̶̶̶̷̴̴̸̴̵̴̴̸̶̴̶̵̶̸̴̸̵̴̴̴̸̷̵̷̴̸̶̸̶̛̲̀̄̌̅̎͐͐̊͜ ̴̶̸̷̶̸̷̵̴̷̸̸̵̵̵̵̸̷̸̷̸̸̴̸̷̵̸̴̴̷̵̴̴̴̨̙͚̈́̔͊̽͋͆p̸̸̶̷̸̶̸̷̷̸̶̸̷̵̵̴̸̸̸̵̸̵̶̶̵̸̸̶̶̴̴̶̵̵̸̴̸̸̴̵̸̴̸̴̴̶̸̴̴̷̴̷̴̷̵̸̷̴̵̴̶̷̷̷̸̵̵̡̻͎̰̫̝̣̺̫̣̿̽͂͆͂̍̐̕͠e̸̷̵̷̵̴̷̸̴̴̷̴̷̸̶̴̵̸̶̵̷̵̷̶̶̸̴̶̷̷̸̸̷̶̵̶̷͖̠̗̥̱͋̉̐̈́ͅ-̸-̸ş̵̶̴̸̵̸̴̸̴̴̶̶̷̷̶̴̸̸̴̴̷̸̴̷̷̸̴̶̴̷̵̵̸̴̷̷̵̶̴̴̶̷̸̸̶̶̸̵̷͓̤̙͈̆͑̍̎̈́͐͊̏͝ẗ̸̵̶̴̵̷̶̸̵̶̷̴̶̷̷̶̸̴̵̴̸̵̴̷̵̴̸̵̸̷̸̸̵̶̸̶̷͓͇̠̩̦̭́̿̀͌ȅ̸̵̶̸̴̴̶̷̶̷̷̴̸̸̶̷̵̴̸̶̵̷̷̸̶̷̷̵̵̸̷̷̶̶͍͇̗̟̼͉͆r̶̸̸̶̸̴̴̶̷̵̶̵̷̵̵̸̸̷̷̸̶̶̸̷̷̶̸̵̶̸̴̸̴̵̸̴̵̵̶̵̴̴̵̷̶̸̢̛͖̜̩͑̐̑͗̊͒͋̚i̸̸̶̵̴̷̷̵̷̷̔��̷̷̴̷̴̴̸̶̶̷̴̶̸̶̷̷̵̴̸̵̷̵̶̷̵̴̷̴̷̸̶̵̵̱̯̣̎̔̽͗͘͘̕n̶̵̶̷̸̴̸̷̷̶̵̴̵̷̵̶̴̴̴̶̴̸̹̙̪͖͑ĝ̷̶̴̶̸̵̵̷̶̸̵̴̶̸̷̵̴̶̴̸̵̸̷̶̵̴̴̸̶̴̵̭͓̟̥͚͆͜ ̴̶̵̶̸̵̷̶̸̶̵̷̶̶̷̷̶̸̵̷̵̷̷̸̵̸̶̶̶̵̷̸̴̵̸̶̵̵̶̶̶̸̵̶̵̴̸̷̶̠̪̫̣̈̄̿̈̀͆̎̓͠t̴̵̴̵̷̵̷̷̴̴̶̴̷̶̵̵̴̶̶̴̴̸̸̷̵̷̷̷̴̷̸̶̵̸̷̷̷͍̱͔̙̝̣̼̓͑͌ȅ̴̴̵̶̴̸̸̴̸̶̸̷̴̶̶̸̴̸̶̸̸̵̸̴̷̸̵̸̷̴̸̲̥̞̆͂̈̚n̷̸̴̶̷̸̶̶̶̴̵̴̵̶̷̸̴̸̵̷̴̶̵̶̵̴̴̶̵̸̷̶̸̴̯̗̻̙̗̫̺̏̾t̸̸̴̸̷̴̷̶̶̶̷̴̴̴̴̴̶̴̷̵̶̸̨̻̳͛͗-̵å̷̴̶̶̴̸̸̴̴̷̸̴̴̷̷̷̴̵̸̷̴̸̵̶̵̸̶̸̸̴̵̵̶̸̼̰̊̈́̄̕͝c̸̸̴̸̷̷̶̶̵̶̵̷̵̶̷̵̷̴̶̴̷̴̶̵̴̵̴̸̴̴̷̵̸̴̷̵̵̶̶̷͍͙̝̣̔̋̄̄̅̔ļ̵̵̴̷̸̴̶̶̷̷̸̵̵̸̸̸̷̴̵̵̴̷̵̵̷̸̶̷̷̵̶̴̶̷̸̷̴̸̸̶̷̵̵̴̶̵̴̴̸̴̷̷̵̷̵̶̵̷̥̥͙̜͉̦̤͍͎̈́̑̈́͌̎̌ë̴̷̴̵̶̸̸̵̵̵̵̴̶̸̴̷̴̷̴̶̸̶̸̴̶̷̶̶̷̶̷̶̶̶̸̴̸̲̣̞̤̪͔̼̗̞́Ţ̴̴̶̸̷̴̵̸̶̷̷̴̸̵̷̵̷̸̷̵̵̵̸̶̸̷̶̸̸̸̸̴̵̵͔̩͒́̔̌́͠ḩ̶̵̸̴̴̷̸̷̸̶̷̷̸̵̶̸̸̵̸̵̴̸̴̶̶̶̶̷̷̸̶̷̵̴̸̴̶̵̷̶̴̷̵̵̵̸̸̷̷̶̵̶̙̺̘̞̠͒̔͌͆̌̂͊͆̕e̴̵̷̷̴̶̵̵̴̵̸̴̵̴̶̵̵̵̵̵̶̶̸̴̵̴̷̴̸̶̶̴̴̴̡̢̨͖̣͙̳͍̚r̵̸̴̸̶̵̸̶̸̷̸̶̸̷̴̵̵̴̸̸̵̶̷̴̸̪̹̍̄͌̍ă̸̵̵̷̵̶̵̷̴̴̴̶̶̸̵̷̷̶̸̷̵̶̵̵̸̵̷̷̴̴̵̸̶̵̸̷̴̸̴̴̸̷̴̸̶̷̢̘̜̩͆͋̐́̋̕͝͝^̶p̸̶̴̶̴̸̸̷̷̶̵̵̴̵̵̵̴̶̶̷̵̵̷̶̴̶̵̸̶̷̴̵̵̶̶̷̶̷̷̵̡͊̅͛͒̌̋̃͜͝͝ĭ̸̶̸̴̶̷̸̴̶̸̵̷̶̵̸̶̷̸̸̷̵̶̴̴̵̸̴̴̷̷̷̸̴̶̴̵̶͖͍̖͉̈́̒̚͜ͅs̴̷̴̴̶̷̵̸̷̷̴̷̸̵̸̷̴̴̸̸̸̴̷̸̷̶̷̶̵̵̷̶̸̴̸̴̴̴̴̶̸̵̶̸̴̷̘̫͎͈̯̠͋͂̀̈̉͝ͅẗ̴̴̵̸̸̷̶̵̴̷̷̸̴̴̷̷̶̶̸̴̴̷̳̥̕̚ ̸̴̷̶̴̵̴̷̷̴̴̷̸̸̶̸̵̸̶̶̵̷̴̵̵̴̷̴̷̶̸̷̵̶̵̷̵̛̣̗̥̈̌͐̂̽a̵̴̶̷̷̵̶̸̶̸̵̷̴̶̶̵̵̷̵̵̸̷̶̵̵̶̴̸̶̵̶̴̵̵̷̵̷̴̵̵̶̸̷͔̜͖̟͈̽̆̃̐̈́͒t̶̵̸̴̶̴̵̴̶̴̷̸̴̸̴̷̶̸̸̴̶̸̵̸̷̴̷̷̸̸̵̴̷̵̶̶̵̶̵̵̸̶̷̴̴̵̴̸̷̸̵̷̛̻̯͎͍̝̤͊͊̿̄̅̑͂͜-̶ ̵̴̶̸̸̷̷̵̸̴̵̴̸̶̵̵̴̵̸̴̸̵̶̴̵̸̷̷̸̸̴̵̴̶̵̶̴̶̶̷̷̶̸̶̸̶̸̷̵̨̯̳͖̙̔̒̉̈́̈́̽͘͜0̶̶̴̶̸̴̸̵̷̴̵̶̷̵̴̸̷̷̵̴̷̸̷̶̶̶̷̶̴̵̸̴̸̷̸̶̶̶̵̶̡̠͖̩̳̝̟̺̓͒͝0̵̴̸̵̵̶̸̷̷̵̷̵̵̶̴̷̶̶̴̶̴̷̸̴̴̶̸̷̷̷̵̶̷̶̸̸̸̵̷̷̜̼̱̗̯̅͑̃͛̑͠:̴̵̷̶̷̴̸̵̷̷̵̸̴̸̴̸̵̶̷̶̸̴̸̷̴̶̶̶̶̴̴̵̵̴̟͉͚̻͛̋͋̾͠%̸̴̷̵̶̴̸̶̴̴̵̶̵̵̸̴̶̵̸̝̂̇͜&̸̶̸̸̶̵̷̸̵̶̵̷̴̴̸̶̶̸̵̶̴̷̵̷̶̸̴̵̵̸̵̴̴̷̶̷̴̵̶̵̸̷̷̴̷̷̶̷̶̢͚͔̹̞̘̩͗̉̈́̑̇͆͜-̴̴̵̸̴̶̷̶̷̴̴̶̸̶̴̴̶̸̷̸̵̴̴̶̵̷̸̶̷̸̵̸̵̸̴̴̴̸̷̷̨̛̯͉̃͛̒̕͘͝-̴̶̸̸̷̶̴̸̵̸̸̸̵̶̵̵̸̶̶̶̵̵̴̸̵̶̶̴͍̰̈̏̓́́

s̷̰̻̟͇̼͍̳̪̗̠̰̘̻͉̫͉̙̜̒̅̿́̄̆̊t̸͈̑͗͛͘e̷͔̟̘͚̜̚͜ŗ̵̛̳̀͊̇̂̈́͊͋̾̏͒̕͠͠į̸̢͖͎͓̙͇͓̽̉̆̅͂̐̓̀͛͆͗ͅṋ̸̆̈́̓̅̄̃̏̾̅̇̽̽͐͊̒͂̏͠ĝ̸̲̭̙̯͇̳̬͎̜̥̰̩̫̙̺͔͈͙ ̶̧̡̧̛̫̙͔̦̱̬͓̩̜̰̩̳̻̜̆̀́̅̒̑̄̄̊͑͗͘̚͜t̵͔̬͖̯̞̞̗̗͎̳̳̖͙́͒̋̓̑͑̚ͅȩ̶̢̲̥̮̘̭̱̰͖̙̹͙̙͕̤̞͐̉̓̊͂̓̾́͗̿̒̊̌̃̇̕͜͝͠n̶̢̦͖̺͕̖̻͖̤̩̥̍̋͂̐͒̋̂͌̈́͒͂͗͛͘͝͝t̸̰̅̃̒-̵̗̭̬̎͆̌̎̐͝a̸̧̡͕͓̠̱̼͖̣̞̫̣̻̖̲̎̅͑͗̔̒͆͜c̷̡͎̩͉̬͚̯͚̬̯̫̪̈́̇͐͋̿̆̋̇̓́̎̕l̴̨̡͓̬͕͓͙͇̥͇̫̞̬̭̭̦̐͊͗̓͊̾̓̅̃̄͊̈́͘͠e̵̳̯̫̦̖̺̣̺̠̰͍̣̝͕̰̜͗̋̊̃͛̉͗́̽̂̂͌̕ͅT̸̢̧̧̮̲̟͍̙͎̲͉̦̯̏͆̀h̵̨̨̩͙̺̗͖̯͙̜̘͚͓̲̝̜̔̊͂̓̊̏͝ȩ̷̧̳̜̬͙͎̖̙̩̲̹̃̆̑̎̆̇͜͝ͅȑ̶̨̥̮̝̙̗̿̏͑͒̈̄͋̅̕̕͝a̸̧̨̭̰̠͖͈̖̠̤̖̘̖̯̣͊́͜^̶̢̥͎̪͓̲̙͇͎̖͖̯̯͕̰̗̑͌͜͝p̷̧̞̖̭̯̺̝̦̩̭̹̫̚͜͝i̶̧̟͓̿͋̎̾͛̉͂̾͊̈́̄͗s̸̻̣̞͖̖̾̆t̴͉̞͖̹̥̿͌͌͂̊͛̎͆̃͘͜͝͝ ̵̡̧̻͚̣͇̰̰͓̗̻̻͔̎͊̊ͅa̸̧̨̡̛̛̩̥̜̭̖͂̈́̄̍͗̑͗̍̈́̊t̷̨̥͙͕̞̲̟̦̫̐̏ͅ-̶̨̢̨̡̛̝̥͎͇͖̖̹̻͆̑̔͊̃̿͘͘͝ͅ ̶̠̼̺͔̘̗̬̑͗̈́̈̒͋͐̿͌̾̀͒̽̈́̍̇0̵̢͇͙̤͇̱̤̘̩̼̯̜̻̤̳̮͛̈̐̈̈́̀̈̈́͘͜0̵̡̬͉͙̭̟̔͒̋̿̾̋͆͐͐̃̈́̄̈́͘̚:̸̨̧̺̹͍̖͙̦̥̭̼̥̫̀̏̎̌̑̌̐͐̚͜͝%̵̻̺͉̈́̅̓̽̿͘&̶̡̖̪̯͍̪̮̽̿̋̈́̈́͆̕͘͝-̷̞̘̹̹̼͎͓̹͕͉̟͚͇̿̓̋́̓̎̽̈́̍͂̈̕̕͝͝͝-̷̡̦͇̝̣͓̱͔̮͓̺̍̄̏̓͋̈́͐͐͗͊̂͗̉͗̓ͅ

Ť̵̢̢̨̛̙̦̖̺̘̭̱̠̭̟̘̥̘͍̥̘̄̓͗̔̽͂̿̃̂̔̐̽̊̈́̋͛́̀̄̊̉͒͒̋͆̏̊͐̓͒͐̓̅̎̎̀̽̆̈́͘̚͘͘̚̕̕͜͝͝ẖ̸͈͕̞̞̹̓̅͆̃̽̑̒̿̎̍́̉͂̂̉̋̈́̈͋͆̍͆̽̿̍̑͊̈́̊̈́̃͐̍̆̚͘̕̚͜͠͠͝͠e̶̢̢̧̨̛͕͕̞̞̥̪̱̺̥̙̳̲̗̪̖͉̩̬̠̼̗͇͎̦̟͎͕͉̖̲̝̠̖̞̱̱̤̟͋̐̎̈́̄̎͋̉̑̈̌̉̄̑̏͛͑̎̎́͂͠ͅr̵̢̢̡̡̛̦̞̤̜͗͐͑̆̄̽͆̿̂͒̆͗̍̿̊̆̽̒̏̎̆̆̉̏̌̓̉́̋̚͘̚͝͝͠à̴̢̧̨̨̡̡̛̛͇̮̣̬̖̗͖̻͍̗̠̝̟̲̤̳͖͎̠̲͎͓̰͓̙̹̼͚̱͚͓͚̝̜̻̻̙̙͕̼̮̩͖̭̙͊̒̆̎͂̾̐̈́̎̓̄̇͑̈́̈́͆̿̄̾̃͗̿̏̑̒̑̔͆̉̊̔͘̚̚̚͘͘͠͝p̵̡̧̢̡̛̟̯͓̹̮̥̖̻̳̞̦̜̟̱̝͖̪͙͖̱̰̰̦̗͕̺̖̘̂͂͊̎̿̀̍͑͛̾̈́́́͋̒̃͆͐̅̍̂̍̎̊͊̎̔͂̿̑͂̂͋̒̌͆̇̓̆̿̎̌́̉̋͌̍̽̔̇́͗̌͂̆̍́̕͘̚͘͝͝͠͝͠í̷̢̢̢̨̧̧̡̜̝͍̤͍̪̖̭̥̩̜͈̬̖̣̭̜̗͉̙͕͔̥̗̥̼͙͈̞̮͔͔͙̲̩͔͕̮̼̮̦̦̝̭̱̩̜̗̞̥̺͇̭̂̈́̌͊̿̈͗͌̑͐̓͗̾̈́́̉͊̇͋̑̎̈́͘̕̕͜͜͜͝͝͠ͅͅͅteš̵̢̛̞̪̖̗̲͉͎͉̖̻̝͚͇̯̘̙͓̠͖̬͕̖̤̤̟͕̰̦̹̠̣̘̣̼̹̗̣̉͒̈́̉͆͂̔̈́̃͛͊̈́͋̾͛̄͂̐͆͑̋̌̓̏̍̎͋̌̈̐̎̄̎̈́̊̏̄̎̏͒͐̎̋̈̅̇̕̚͜͜͠͠͠͠ț̵̡̡̢̟͖̬̌̈́̃̿͑̓̂̿́͐̾̑͆̉̌̄̓́͆̈́̂̀̈́̏̿̔̇͜͝-̸̷̶̸̶̶̸̵̷̶̷̸̶̶̶̶̨̨̢̢̧̨̢̛̛͓͙̠̩͉̪̘̩͎͓̻͙͍͔̳͓̪͔͇͈̟͚̼̲̩͚̯͖͖̟͇̣̹͍̼̥̘̪̦̜̜̱̼̟̦͉̰̭̻͓͍̫̦͖̫̜̮̹̙̠̺̗͕̰͇̯͈͙͉͈͈̣͔̯͉̲̼͒̃̈́̑̆̌͐̈́̈́͗͒̓͆͛̓̾̊̎̇̂̈́͛̐̇̇̌͊̿̒͐̿̔͆͑̃͒̓̿̿̏͗̆̈́͐̅͑͌͌̽̉͒̾̉̐̄̓̑̌̌͌̍̚̕̚̚͘̕͘͝͠ͅͅͅ/̶̵̵̵̶̴̵̷̷̸̸̡̧̧̡̧̡̨̧̧̨̧̡̢̢̛̛̛̘͉͎̙̞͓͉͓̣̣̙̱̳̪̝̙͎͎̗̱̪̖͎̝̬̼͙̫̩̫̘̣͔̼̖͕̟̮̮̹̰͉̘͚͓̬̠̹̝̙̯̼̱̀͐̾̈́̈̋̏̓͐͊̄̒̀͌͒͊̈́̈́͒̓͆̐͑͌̽͑̀̌̔̑́͛̊̀̈́͒́̏̂͊̽̈́̐́͐͑̊̈́̕͘̕̚̚͜͝͝͠ͅ\̶̵̷̶̷̸̡̡̭̦̯̯̖̤̫̣̬͕͖̙͉͍͈͙͉̽̇̅̄̿̂̿̅̀̃̌̐̚̚̚̚͘͘͝͝͝

+̴̸̷̶̸̸̷̴̵̶̸̴̸̶̸̴̸̸̶̷̸̨̡̢̢̡̨̡̧̡̢̢̡̧̡̛̙͙̻̬̳͚̗̠̭͚̖͍̩̺̥̳̯̙̗̙̝̟͙̺̱͙̣̪̫̣̤̗̬͇͍̠͍͕͈̦̭̺̟͇̟̣͈̰̗͙͍̩̗̩͉̻̗̬̯̯͍̤͈̻̤̣͚̼̱̙̼̮̦͍̬̲̞̳̫̳̪̭̦͉̦̪̝̺̲̪͓̤͍͙͙̬̬̠̾̏́̉͗̍̈́̈́̀̈́́͒̽̊̑̈́͐̊͒̄̓̅̃̈́̑̈́̓̂͌̽̓̆̅̽̓͋̅̒̍͌͆̆͑̈̓͋̏̐̃̄̊̂͂͗͑̂̈́̓̐͆̄́͂̽̒̎̂͗́͐̅̄̈́̑̏̒̿̔̏̍͑̎̆͗̎̿͊̐̅͛̐̂͘̚̕͜͜͜͜͠͝ͅͅͅ|̶̴̴̵̷̸̶̷̷̶̷̶̴̷̷̷̸̴̧̢̢̧̛̛͕̤̪̫͈̖̘̺̱̳͓͍͍̱͈͇̺̖̫̖̯͎̜̳̲̞͙͇̹̣̯̰̹͎̙̭͎̝̜̭̤͍͔͈̤͓̤͖̬̙̱͍̠̳̼̱͉̲͖͕̖̼̰̩̫̜͍̬̬̦̞̹̲̞͕̮͖̜̈́̾̑̄̇̓̇̅͒̈́̇̀̈̐̂̄̏̃̂̈́̓̀̋́̇̈̄͋́͊͛̔̍̓͋͛̄̄̉̈́̓̎͗̏̍̆͐̎̍̊̾̅̏̓͛͒̈́̎̎̀̓̆̒͛̎̅́̽͂́̃͑̉́̊́̊̎̒̃̌͆̆́͑́̒͑̂͛̉̾̔͛̍͆͋̇͒̈́̇͑̃͐̐̐̑̍̃̐̚̕̚͘̕̚͜͠͝͠͠ͅͅ/̷̶̶̶̷̴̷̵̶̨̢̡̧̢̡̛̹̙͚͉̣̳͚̥̤͓̭̼͚͓̯̞̗̪̟̟̞̟̠͇̬͉͇̦̣̻͕͎̝̼̻̩̬͍͕͍̣̳̯̙͖̝̉̈́̓̃͛̃͊̀̋̃͐́̐̈́̾͆̔̈́̈́͒̓̈́̔̽̌̔̃͆̆͒̃̈́̆̇̎̽̊̓̽̓̽̋͌̄̍̿̕̕̚͜͜͠͝͠͠ͅ\̶̵̸̸̶̸̴̷̷̸̵̶̵̴̸̶̵̵̵̵̧̢̨̧̢̡̧̛̛͚̼̮͎̮̯̗̲̲̠̖͓͇̤͕̬̖̰͇̯̼̝̭̬̳͈̪̩̜͖̲͇̗̬̣̩̹̝̙͍̜͈̤̩͖͇̱͔̫̣̙̼͍̩͕̯̯̞͍̬̤̼͍̳̯̹͍͈͔͙̠̼̥̮̯̯̪̼̬̟̩̫̖͆̃́͗̔̊͆̂̽̊̓͑̓͋͌̓̋͊͂̎̿͋̊̏̓̈̓͛͑́̽̃̀̈́̽͛̿̅͛͑̊̽̾̄̿̍̓͑̂̃̍͑̏̒̾̉̆͊͑̇̽̊̄́͆̓̆͑̌̿͂͋̏̇͛̉̔̃̿̏͗͑̂̒̐͒̈́̌̽͌͌̏͗͗̚͘̚̕̕̚̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅ|̴̶̶̶̵̸̵̶̷̵̧̡̧̨̟̬̪̭͚̞͇͉͍͇̣̹̲͈̲̖̞̹̤̠̥̥̜̫͙̗̙͈̬̫͇̝͔͎̟̹̠̮͌͛͑̅͒̇̄̏̽͆̂̿̿̑̈̃̇̂̐̔̆̒̈́̉̐͊̿̏͆͛̓͆̂́͒̏̈̃́̃͆͐͛͂̚̕͜͝͝^̸̴̴̶̵̷̸̷̵̵̷̨̧̢̧̨̢̨̧̛͙̦͓̻̳̫̘̞̺̺̠͍͉̭͉͖̗͉̼̳̖̲̹̝̫̳̟͖͇̼̗̼̘̘̜͖̣̲͚̺̤̭̞͓͈͙̝͇̬͐́̔̈̉̎̆̈́̃̈́͊͂̅̓͗̏͑̂̑̀̈́͗͛̏̾̂̈́̈́͛͂̏̏̾̂̅͛̏͑̄̂͋̏̾̾̿̐͌̔̍̂̄̈́͌̓̊͒̃̽̇͑̋͘̕͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅ_̷̵̴̵̴̴̸̷̡̨͈̜̗͎̩̖̗̖̠͓̗̹̠̭̗͎͈̟̺̫̹̝̝͕̟̦͕̣̯͕̠͍͉̮͚̳̩͚̮̲̜̤͍̲̫̓̋̒͗͗͆̔͛̓͌̉͋̍̃̐̎́̇̈̅͌͌̇̓͒͠ͅ-̴̶̶̷̵̴̴̴̸̶̴̨̨̧̢̨̧̛͈͙͍͎̬̪͎̺̩̰̣̝̯͉͚̯̪̼̬̪̤͔̳̥̫̪̙̬̰̰͔͖̬̜̪͇̜͓̲̙͍̗̟͖̟̱̭͉̯͚̖͉͙̣̟͈̞̮̣͖̤̟̥̭͎͔̬̞̃͋̾̃́͆̃̄̈́̑̈́̆̐̎̓̈̄̾͒̈́̓̍̐̃̂̔̓͊̃͊̏̌͛̄͊̈́̔͊̄̆̇͋̽̋͗̌̍͊̈́̌̆̃̿͛͘̕̕̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͝+̸̷̷̸̵̸̵̸̧̧̡̧̛̩̙̪̻̰̬̟̟̭̹̘̭̱͙̭̳̘̠̗̳̞̫͕̟̦̖̟̥͕͈̲͂̉̆̄̎̋̊̒̎̂̉̂̍̽̾̂̒͆͊̃͊̈́̆̑̉̅̎̓̐̕͘͝͠͝ͅ

-̵̦̩͉̳̯̩͊

Buffered by a year on both sides, you are the only one she speaks these three words to.

You scream when you see your popped blood vessels in the mirror.

[all-hail-the-witcher]

Maybe you could write something with Jack in it? Like when Race and Albert first started training him or something?

I give you, the story of how jack met race and al

all other spies under #spy boys or theres a master list also

______

ship: I mean jojo is there does that count

warnings: Giant Palm Trees

editing: I think the freak no

words: 1029 yeee

______

To put it simply, Jack was scared.

Here he was, just having got out of training - as in, just passed the test a mere 8 hours ago - and was now standing in the middle of a foreign city called San Francisco, about to meet the agents who were going to be field training him. According to the little research he had done on the plane ride, these two were undoubtedly some of the best in the industry, but he was still highly apprehensive.

“Well,” he said to himself, looking up at the building through the bustling crowd of the commuter hour. “How bad could it possibly be?” And with that he squared his shoulders, hoisted up his single duffle bag and backpack and strode into the brick face building with all of the fake confidence he could muster.

But no amount of fake confidence could have prepared him for the spectacle that he walked in to.

“Al, how many times have I told you that just because we have a palm tree growing in the entryway does not mean that you are allowed to climb it! It’s part of a very advanced scientific experiment that is growing a certain type of chlorophyll that is going to be used in a revolutionary message sending system! And Race! You are by no means supposed to be encouraging him!”

Jack stood with his mouth agape as he took in the scene before him.

There were two young men, one with blonde hair and one with reddish hair, both with impeccable climbing skills  - perhaps custodians based on their blue outfits and giant keyrings fastened to their belts - attempting to scale a palm tree that was centered in the front atrium while a man in rumpled blue dress pants, a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a loosened green tie chased stood with his arms crossed at the base of the tree yelling mildly threatening insults at them.

Jack was rooted in place, unable to tear his eyes from the utter level of tomfoolery on display in front of him. Part of him wanted to join in but he somehow had the slightest feeling that somehow climbing a palm tree with two idiots would probably get him tossed out on the spot.

Just as he was about to turn to find a secretary to point him in the direction of the Director’s office, there was a loud shout from the direction of the palm tree.

“Hey Jorgie! Isn’t that our guy?”

Jack’s head snapped up to see the blonde pointing at, of all things and people, himself. He stared back in confusion, pointing to himself uncertainly. “Me?” he called somewhat shyly.

“I don’t know, is your name Jack Kelly?”

Jack nodded slowly, trying to piece together how these two custodians knew his name.

Instead of offering a verbal response, the redhead let go of the tree, causing Jack to halt his breath as the man in question vaulted away from the tree, flipping in a perfect arc and landing on the ground a few feet in front of Jack, who stepped back in shock. “Albert Dasilva, at your service,” he bowed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think-”

Jack was cut off by the blonde landing in a low crouch next to his friend. “Al, you know you’re not supposed to be doing flips for another two weeks, or climbing trees, or even walking without assistance, remember? You really need to learn how to take care of yourself or else I’m going to-”

“Shhh, Race!” Albert scolded, kicking him in the shins. “Not in front of our intern! We agreed we were going to make a good impression!”

The blonde, or, Race, looked up as of seeing Jack in front of him for the first time. “Racetrack Higgins, the one and only,” he curtsied - which struck Jack as odd, he really needed to get away from these people - before continuing, “sorry about that its just that Albo here is an idiot and-”

Race found himself cut off once again, this time by the man in the rumpled dress shirt and pants. “Jorgelino Josephino De La Guerra,” he said, sticking out his hand and Jack shook it hesitantly. “Interim Director of the San Francisco FBI.”

“Jack Kelly. I’m looking for a Cat and Rapunzel? They’re supposed to train me.”

“Ah, I believe you don’t have far to search,” he said with a wink. “A bit of advice, learn how to tune out excessive curse words. And I hope you have common sense because you won’t be learning it from them.” Then he turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

“Um,” Jack looked at the two custodians. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

“Ah, JoJo is a sweetheart, he just didn’t wanna steal our thunder,” Albert said. “I’m Rapunzel and this is my partner, Cat.”

Jack felt his mouth drop open slightly in shock. “You’re not- you’re not custodians?”

Race threw back his head and laughed. “Noooo, me and cleaning supplies don’t mix after the Great Toilet Bowl Scandal Of 2014. This was just from our mission earlier. I’m Race and this is Albo.”

“Elbow?” Jack didn’t think he’d heard right.

“No silly,” Race laughed while Albert suppressed a smirk. “Albo, like short for Albert.”

“Oh.” Jack fidgeted with his bag, feeling entirely stupid. He’d just embarrassed himself in front of two of the best field agents in the country.

Albert must have noticed because he offered Jack a smile. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I think Elbow is cool. I’m gonna make it my new code name.”

Jack felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Suddenly he missed Crutchie a lot less. Being with these two crazy idiots who climbed palm trees dressed as custodians might be good for him. Maybe he’d even make some friends out of it.

Almost as if he had read his mind, Race wound his arm around Jack’s shoulders, guiding him through the atrium. “Come my young padawan. You have much to learn.”

And they knew Star Wars? This was going to be amazing, Jack could already tell.

______

JACK IS A CUTE LITTLE NERD I LOVE HIM

also yeah al was injured again fite me

jojo is everything and I love him but someone needs to get al and race away from him

if anyone else has 13 days of spies ideas lmk

taglist and stuff hmu if you want a yeet

tag list@fairly-awkward-trashcan@well-the-kids-do-too@racetrackcook@bouncyscreamingnewsboys@ughwaitwhat@aw-jus-let-em-try@ben-cook-can-cook@the-woild-is-my-what-now@tommy-s-s0cks@voice-foundshoe-lost@galaxy-trees13@stopthe-presses@ridin-in-style@pinecovewoods@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing@bencookisagod@be-more-chill-evan-hansen@hellasoulless@stellar-alpaca@saxoph-ella@smolcanadiankid@disney-princess-sized@the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog@insane-tomato@spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn@have-we-got-news-for-you@thatfancyclam@myidkwhatmynameisblog@legoflambwrites@that-one-newskid@not-a-scab@albertdasillva

@entschuldigung-bitches

@thebroadwayaesthetic

@tea-and-theater

@thomasbeingthomas

@seasickdolphin

@auspicioustarantula

@newsies-of-ny

@mrs-higgins

@sunshine-e-cigarettes

@spot-me50-papes

@satafe-cafe

@papesdontsellthemselves

@king-of-new-yoirk

@deathcast-s