#self-destruction isn’t contained no matter how you may hide it

[sincerely-sofie]

There’s something unique about the pain of someone you love following in a trail you blazed through suffering, turning themself into a mirror of just how self-destructive you once were. There’s a wretched irony in how they teach you firsthand the pain your friends and family felt as you burned yourself up.

Now you know what it’s like to watch a lamb immolate itself. You can only watch as it dismisses your concerns with lies of how well it is— how completely, utterly, and perfectly fine everything is. You can only watch. You can only remember that you were a lamb just years before, and you taught this one exactly how to martyr itself by your example.

Anyhoo, hey elder siblings, how’s your day going?

[b-hardys]

final girl.

falcon and the winter soldier has me on my marvel bullshit ... pairing: bucky x reader (partially oc, I don't think there is anything too oc in here but I could be wrong. contains references of being alongside bucky with hydra, that’s probably the most oc element). part one of ??? let's see how fatws goes. spoiler-ish ... I'd recommend watching the episode first! + not proofread! @eusuntgroot <33

The world Post-Blip was so hideously confusing. And even more so, when the past eighty or so years of your life had been spent frozen like prematurely bought meat and only thawed out to commit heinous crimes - solo or with the only other pardoned war criminal that you knew. And when your only connection to your past self is through research into obituaries, that pardoned war criminal can seem like the only other person that truly understands you.

The lines between this connection remaining healthy and constructive and tumbling down to something tumultuous and concerning occasionally blurred, but the two were blindly none-the-wiser. For two previous highly intelligent weapons of mass destruction, they were quite dense … and stubborn if you asked Sam (do ask Sam).

The emotional dependence between the two, while encouraged by her therapist, was an ever-growing weight upon the pair's shoulders, an itch they could not help but scratch. But, it wasn’t (and isn’t) all existential thoughts and passing comments about growing independence through the growth of their pseudo-partner to their therapists.

The pardon and lack of wanted media attention about the pair (what government wants to rehash the unveiling of the institute that was supposed to be protecting them … was fully infiltrated by a terrorist organisation?), this insane idea of normality was their present issue.

“You’re free…” Bucky couldn’t believe the insinuation. Free to do what? Toss and turn over the mere thought that individuals' relatives live their day to day lives, tormented by the what if’s and the mystery surrounding their deaths, that he caused. Free to roam throughout this Post-Blip world? Well, the Government regulated therapy that currently needs to be in-person to assess whether he is a risk to the public would most likely negate that idea.

Free to date? Free to be happy? Free to live alone in an apartment with a bed so soft it was almost sickening to lay on? Bucky found himself so troubled by the notion of his freedom … making amends was the current plan but what happens when there is nothing to amend? His body clock is stuck in his thirties (he thinks) and these people all age like regular human beings.

One thing Bucky knew for certain was that he was free to roam the streets of Brooklyn at two am. He could convince himself that he was aimlessly wandering, but by now the path he is taking should be burned into the pavement.

She’d moved close by. Her only tie to any community was and is him. Not to make anything strange, they had definitely spoken about it beforehand. The invitation from Maria Hill to stay in some sterile facility, while convenient, felt too much like confinement. Like regulated surveillance, an overseeing eye … whether she meant it like that, or not.

It was the minor details that mattered. The knock that was so specific to Bucky, she always knew it was him. The devilish details of the doormat she had purchased at some bodega that laid out front of her door (the italic ‘leave’ always brought a sliver of a smile to his face), or how he just knew that when he eventually entered the tiny apartment he would be bombarded by greenery and miscellaneous throw blankets adorning the furniture - a habit developed in Romania, their four walls had been so drab to hide out in, but the minor details that she sprinkled around trying to obtain some semblance of normality, even in private, lingered.

The concoction of chemicals and conditioning that they endured, as much as they tried to ignore them, did enhance day to day life. Bucky could hear the pitter-patter of her footsteps as she sluggishly made her way to her front door. While the journey may be small, the exhaustion can increase the time it takes to even check the time on your phone.

“Can’t sleep?” Her voice … like an orchestra at their finest. Smooth, and so soft, even after years of unspeakable, relentless breakage, these moments between the two remain so soft.

“Can you?” He supposes, pardoned and civilian life had enhanced some sort of personality that must’ve lingered from the before. And she had no issue rolling her eyes and scoffing at his sarcasm, and occasional pessimism.

She’d clearly rolled out of bed to come open the door. The guilt was gnawing at him, had she been getting some sleep? At least an hour uninterrupted before the horror had decided to rear its hideous head. The nightmares paralysed her originally. She could spend days retracted in on herself. A shell of who she had blossomed into. Lying there staring out the bay window … just blank. Empty.

Her hands reached out to caress his face, fingers delicately brushing over the apparent darkness under his eyes. It was unspoken, the care that they felt for one another. This unrelenting instinct to protect, to nurture the other. He felt as if he was existing outside himself. How could someone like him be caressed so delicately, be led so quietly through her personal space to the bed only elevated by shipping palettes.

Shedding the excess clothing he had only thrown on to ‘walk around’ (who was he kidding, he knew where he was going), he let himself focus on her. The sweater slightly too large for her frame, the pyjama pants that had caricatures of frogs adorning them, at first glance you wouldn’t believe that the former Slice had even existed. That her draws had false bottoms that still hid knives.

They fell into such comfortable silence, the sound of the humidifier humming in the background filling the space. They moved on autopilot, Bucky to ‘his’ side of the bed while she climbed back up on the mound of pillows she had created on her mattress that felt like a rock. The two glanced at each other in passing, no bashful blushing cheeks but just, content. They slot so easily across from one another, a sliver of space between them as they closed their eyes, pinkies reaching out towards the other.

It was this comfort that grounded the two. The world Post-Blip so far, was overwhelming, overstimulating … interesting. But this unspoken connection between the two was grounding. And they would most definitely need it. The two retired, pardoned assassins had no idea of what was on the horizon, what was lying in waiting for the two to, maybe, get a night of uninterrupted sleep. How tragic.

[sweetwatersong]

take up the torch rating: g characters: Natasha Romanoff & Clint Barton warnings: none

The red in her ledger is spread out across a hundred books, tucked into a thousand poems. The truth of her past is broken into fragments to make sure in her next life she remembers. To make sure she is ready.

In the snow, in the quiet, one librarian has gathered them all. It's time to wake up again

AO3 link

.

She stands poised on the edge of the sidewalk, fingers cold where they are gripped around her phone. The text from her roommate apologizing for leaving her stranded in the sudden storm hangs unread on her lock screen.

"God damn it." Her lips bite off the edges of the words cleanly, precise like scalpels, shining and steel like surgical tools. She cannot control the storm, cannot control the roads, but she can control this much. She's always been good at controlling herself.

The librarian stays tucked into the entryway, shoulders braced under his dark jacket, while the wind scatters drifts higher than her knees across the parking lot and the bus stop that will be empty for hours to come.

"Come back inside," he tells her when the snowflakes begin to catch in the curls of her red hair, collecting and running like ice down the nape of her neck.

Slowly, flushed with anger and dismay, she does.

-

“These look interesting." She surveys the books piled up on the librarian's desk, his hands caressing each like an old friend. Her interest had been piqued by the age of the volumes and their variety. If there was a pattern she couldn't guess it off-hand; it seemed a jumble of titles and subjects that can have no possible connection. Budapest, Children's and Household Tales, The Art of Dramatic Writing. Her own hands are small on the bindings as she glances through them, hovering over surnames and covers with care but not recognition. “Why do you have them?”

"Because they have something in common,” he replies quietly. There's an air of expectation that makes the skin between her shoulder blades prickle. "Since we’ve got time to kill until the snowplows can dig out my car, why don’t you see if you can figure it out?”

"Is that a challenge?" She asks him, amused and intrigued all at once. The tea cup sitting beside her, the grad school homework tucked into her backpack, the slouch of his knit sweater; there is something comforting about them, how they are a solid presence in a world where nor'easters can spin up in minutes, can sweep in from thin air.

He raises a single eyebrow, his answer clear in the quirk of his lips.

 Of course.

She considers the stacks, weighing Russian Fairy Tales in her hand as the reassuring air of the library wraps itself around her shoulders and warms her, grounds her.

There are worst ways to pass a few hours, and besides. This feels familiar, this feels expected, like she's been waiting for this all of her twenty-six years of life. It doesn't make sense, but it does, and she opens the first book to its title page.

-

"Clint," she gasps, the word a stone and anchor on her tongue even as her fingers dig into the desk. There are hands on hers, gripping her wrists, keeping her upright, but as soon as she opens her eyes the librarian pulls away and steps back, holding his hands out to show he means her no harm.

Natasha chokes on a throat gone dry with winter's cold, swallows a laugh too bitter and weak to be let out, because it's Clint. There's never been a life in which he truly meant her harm, and if he ever did he would need to catch her at a worse point than remembering her oath to the Torch. Remembering her life - lives - life?

It's too much, the memories swirling and jostling in the eaves of her mind for space, for order.  She drags her focus onto the books scattered in front of her, staring desperately at the black and white print as her mind struggles to contain itself. Herself. Her. It's always been her. All of this is her.

Like the snow falling outside everything finally settles, soft and quiet, as the memories imprinted in the book fall into place.

"Did you find yourself?" Clint asks when she's calmed. His voice is intent and hopeful and not quite right, off enough that another laugh dies on her lips when she looks, truly looks at him. It's his face, his hands, his shoulders under the thick sweater. But there's an emptiness in the corners of his mouth where his self-deprecating humor should be hiding. There's a lack of lines on his face from the ever-present awareness of his surroundings and its threats. There aren't any shadows to his gaze. It's Clint and it's not.

She wonders if she would have that same sense of unsettling déjà vu if she were to take out the IDs in her backpack and thumb through them, looking at the girl who had been Natasha Romanoff until she woke up.

Until she was woken up.

"Yes."

Relief passes over his face, unmistakable and endearing, even as this not-Clint relaxes.

"Then it's possible. Then you did it."

"Clint," she starts to say and cuts off, another girl's loose cardigan hanging off her shoulders, a pea-coat she has never purchased chafing her neck. He sits down in his chair, slumps against the back of it with gratitude and ease. "Have you?" Natasha asks instead, already seeing another table full of books in her mind's eye, Robin Hood and The Far Side and Lord of the Rings opened to let his memories out.

But he hesitates, stills, shakes his head slowly.

"I can't find the books."

How can you know, Natasha wants to ask, how can you say what books are the ones you need? And yet the multitude of tomes in front of her is reply enough, the torch on their bindings a flame in the night; a promise against the destruction that is coming.

"Doesn’t matter," he continues, dismissing himself in a way that makes her sick to her heart. "You're back. You're going to be okay."

Natasha swallows, lips tasting of a chap-stick she's never used before, and all the words fall to ashes in her mouth.

-

There is no set pattern to their wakings, scattered as they are across the millennia, but there is always a rhythm that feels like the truth. For the two of them it is as simple as the Hawk waking the Spider, as forever standing side by side to help the Torch of Alexandria rage against the darkness. It's the first life where he hasn't remembered before her, though. In the long stretch of her memories it feels like a tenuous foothold. Like a moment where one misstep will lose him forever.

Like last time they may have saved enough of humanity, and yet not enough of his memories.

"How did you know?" She asks in the pale blue glow before dawn, the night air cutting through her coat. He shrugs.

"I don't know. I just knew they told your story. It was scattered, yeah, just bits and pieces stashed here and there. Maybe the authors didn't know what they were doing, or maybe they always meant to bring you back. But when I started reading, I knew what I was looking for, and I kept looking until I found you."

How, Natasha wants to know, fingers curling into fists, when your own story isn't here, when you could have no memory of who I am to you? But this not-Clint is standing by the door, her backpack in his calloused hands and a lopsided touch to his lips, and the answers to her questions will not come.

She has looked, hunting volumes through the university library with nothing more than a vague sense of rightness for what is needed this time around, and despite all her efforts she has no more than a dozen books. If he's right, if they didn't write down enough of his story to make it complete in this era, if the memories she needs were excised or lost and never replaced -

"I'll find you," she promises softly, taking the backpack from his hands with its burden of books she won't let out of her sight. He nods in that rocking motion she knows so well, amused and knowing and already two steps ahead in the game, but this isn't a game.

He's never been a game to her.

"I'm okay," Clint tells her, without alien inflections, with that heart-wrenching voice. "I am, 'Tasha."

When Natasha freezes, from more than the cold on the wind or the snow, he cups her face and runs his thumb over her cheekbone.

"Stay safe," he whispers, and vanishes back beneath the surface of a stranger.

She leaves with her mind and her soul intact, snow catching in her hair as she makes her way to the waiting Uber, and in the curve of her heart there is a fire that has never died.

-

Ten months later she arrives with the first winter storm, a satchel full of priceless books slung over one shoulder, to look up into a face both familiar and strange.

"I found you," Natasha says, triumphant and fierce, and steps inside.

[logicalbookthief]

ʌ: for clown movie

^: comfort after a nightmare

Wow this took a lot longer than I thought, I apologize! Work has been blegh lately and my writer’s block was strong. Nevertheless, I thank you for the prompt and hope you enjoy!

It’s a sort of sequel to my fic “Placebo” that isn’t necessary to read before this but would definitely help. All you really need to know is that it takes place in a universe where Eddie is Carrie White’s cousin and has the same telekinetic powers. 

*

*

"I'm not afraid." 

For once, it’s the truth. Eddie has never felt more powerful than he does here, among the ruins of It’s hiding place, where It lurked for centuries, millennia, gnawing on the bones of children, biding its time for the day It would feed again. The memory of this place terrified him for years-- even when he couldn’t remember, the fear was embedded in his mind. 

Now it’s shattering under the strength of Eddie’s will, destroyed by the sheer force of his mind, and the feeling is-- he can’t describe--

The weak, shriveled form of the clown tries to rally. Eddie squares his jaw, focuses on pinning It down, harder, merciless, refusing to give an inch. "I’m not afraid,” he repeats, the taste of blood in his mouth, hot as it slips down his face. “Not of you." 

The clown laughs-- it’s a raspy, death rattle. Still, Eddie tenses, a sense of doubt creeping past the smolder of anger, the self-righteous flaring through his whole body. 

"Even now I can feel it, that delicious reek of fear,” It smirks, a lopsided grimace turned smug. “Not of me, no. I already know what you are.” 

Gulping, Eddie falters. Only for a moment, the flare dousing to a mere spark. 

"I’ve always known,” It croaks, hoarse and almost unheard above the sound of the cavern as it crumbles. “But do they know, Eddie?” 

Carrie, her hair a tangled mass of flames, her dress a flowing wave of red. Her eyes are nearly electric, a frenzied flash of light that-- and, suddenly, Eddie’s staring at a reflection of himself, manic and panting, bathed in the blood of his tormentor.

“Do they know what you are?”

Eddie springs up, dislodging the sheets curled around his body, gasping for the air caught in his throat. His heart jackhammers against his ribcage, trying to claw out from under the heavy weight atop his chest.

Beside of him in bed, Richie stirs with a low, drowsy groan. Ridiculously long legs disentangle under the blanket. He’s amazed they manage to fit together most nights, what with how much of Richie there is to fit, and how Eddie tends to sprawl if not contained by his boyfriend's octopus-like embrace.

His boyfriend. Now there’s a word he never thought he’d be able to use sincerely. However, there’s no mistaking the realness of Richie as he shifts closer in search of Eddie, even in his half-asleep state.  

"Eds?" he calls in that scratchy voice reserved for the early hours of the morning. Frankly, a freshly-woken Richie is a sight to behold. Even as kids waking up in the Denbroughs’ den, Eddie’s guilty pleasure was waking before his best friend so as to catch a glimpse of Richie as he roused. 

With his glasses askew, his tousled hair a mess, his mouth slightly parted in the memory of a snore. As an adult, the sight’s no less appealing -- if anything, that half-lidded gaze staggers him more, now that he’s aware of the soft, unguarded affection that lingers behind it.

"You okay?" Richie persists, squinting without his glasses.

"Mhm," Eddie replies, muffled by his fingers as they scrub at his face, clearing the remnants of the nightmare.

Unconvinced, Richie struggles into a sitting position. Propped against the headboard, he sizes up Eddie far too easily for someone who can barely see. "Bad dream?" 

Too exhausted to form an answer, Eddie slumps backwards, colliding with Richie’s chest. Flush against each other, he can hear Richie’s breath stutter over the shell of his ear. Six months since Eddie moved in to Richie’s sunny LA apartment, the Derry hospital discharge band still around his wrist and Bev’s divorce lawyer saved to his phone, and sometimes they forget that this is allowed -- this closeness. This idea they can finally have what they want and not be hurt by it, by anyone.

Loving Richie is muscle memory, so natural it may as well be encoded in his DNA. Knowing that he has Richie, and can love Richie freely without hiding who he is, well-- that’s still a wonder, no matter how often Richie whispers the words against his skin. 

Eddie knows this, not only in his mind but in his heart, and yet... He’s perplexed. Besides the Losers, he’s never known a love without conditions. A love that wasn’t dependent on his willingness, his obedience. It’s easy with Richie and harder for the same reason. 

Once it registers that he’s got an lapful of a boyfriend, Richie winds an arm around Eddie and crushes him to the broad expanse of his chest. Hooks his chin over his shoulder and nuzzles his cheek like an over-excited dog. 

“Baby, you’re kind of warm,” he murmurs, two-days worth of stubble scraping fondly over Eddie’s cheek.

The attention sends a shiver down his spine, but it ends in a shudder as Eddie remembers the heat of the flames as they licked his face, smoke curling into his lungs. Was it his face -- or hers? -- the fire a distant heat compared to the warm blood soaking her dress, her clothes, eyes listless as they carnage rages around her, the destruction she -- or he, was it him? -- the cavern collapsing around him as It huffed out its last, dismal breath--

His lungs expand, vainly searching for space to breathe. Eddie wriggles out of Richie’s hold, trying to hide the desperate beat of his pulse. “Fucking California heat,” he mumbles, evasively. “Has me all.. Sweaty.”

New York contains many, many years worth of bad memories, but if there’s one thing he misses, it’s the cold nights. Though if he had to choose between the lonely dark of the guestroom where he slept instead of aside his wife or the comfort of Richie’s bed -- well, that’s hardly even a question.

“Did you wanna, ah..."  Flummoxed, Richie wavers over his next words. "Talk?"

It's a song and dance they've done before. A sliver of guilt pierces Eddie through the shields he’s barricaded around this particular issue. How many times has he startled awake and dragged Richie out of sleep -- and then, to add insult to injury, decline the invitation to talk?  

After Richie barred his soul and revealed the initials he carved into the Kissing Bridge, despite the threat of bullies and rejection, it seems hypocritical to keeps his darkest secrets under lock and key. 

Not for the first time, Eddie aches for his pills. He’s kicked the habit, endured the worst of the withdrawal, bears the occasional migraine with no complaint. But in moments like these the urge is almost too much to ignore. 

You’ll feel better, Dr. Silas cajoles, a venomous promise in his ear. Don’t you want to be normal?

It triggers a memory-- the pills in his palm, his mouth parted to swallow, but the desperation of Richie’s screams, the horror in the eyes of his friends. No, Eddie snaps. Of course he wants to be normal. Wants to have a normal life with his boyfriend. 

But he wants it to be real. No more placebos.

"Oh-kay. If you’re sure," Richie sounds uncertain, but he’s unwilling to cross the boundaries Eddie has firmly set. Eddie falls a little bit more in love with him for that. "Then it’s back to bed with you, guvnah!”

Usually the British voice anywhere near the vicinity of their bed drew a protest from Eddie -- it catches in his throat when Richie him swings him flat on his back, the bulk of his body sprawled between Eddie’s legs. He blushes to the roots of his hair, clutching at the wide expanse of Richie’s shoulders, fingers digging into soft skin and the tendons of muscle underneath. 

If he scowls, it’s a dismal attempt to hide how hopelessly turned on he is by every aspect of this ridiculous man.

"Otherwise, you'll be bitchy as fuck for the flight tomorrow.” His sigh blows against Eddie's hair. "And you know how much that turns me on."

Eddie sputters.

"God, you ever travel for upwards of six hours with a boner? Would not recommend, 0/10."

"Rich!" he scolds, which is hard to do when you're spasming with laughter.

"Unless," Richie continues, slyly, "Eds, you minx. You want to join the Mile-High club with me?"

"Richie," Eddie coughs, truly on his way to a ruptured lung. Hopelessly fond as he orders, "Shut up and go to sleep."

He waits until the chuckles peter out, eventually replaced by soft, even breaths. Carefully, Eddie twists out of Richie’s embrace. The soles of his slippers drag along the carpet as he shuffles to the kitchen.

The piles of dishes Richie convinced him to leave for later in favor of more amorous activities -- and to be perfectly honest, Eddie was easy to convince -- sits in the sink. Picking up the dish soap, Eddie figures he may as well be proactive in his insomnia.

Aunt Margaret used to say, Idle hands are the devil’s playthings. It was maybe the single coherent, non-hateful advice she ever gave. 

He’s halfway through the mess and elbow deep in sudsy water when Richie wanders in, stretching. “I thought we had an agreement,” he yawns. “Whoever isn’t accosted by trauma-fueled nightmares gets to make breakfast.”

Ducking his head around a smile, Eddie shrugs. “Too restless to sleep. The thought of you forgetting to pack underwear on this trip haunted my dreams.”

"Ooh, say that again," Richie moans, slotting their hips together from behind. Despite his playful tone, Eddie feels the half-stir of morning wood. "Slower this time."

Eddie shoves playfully at his chin. "Seriously," he huffs. "Our flight's only in a couple of hours and I know you haven't finished packing!"

"Our flight's in eight hours," Richie points out, which is met by a dubious eyebrow raise. "That is plenty of--"

"How many pairs of underwear do you currently have in your suitcase?"

There’s a long, unconscionable pause. 

"Fuck!" Richie snaps his fingers. "Knew there was something I forgot."

One of those rare instances where he isn't joking.

"You're pushing me toward an asthma attack," Eddie deadpans. "Please go pack."

Richie leaves a wet, slobbering kiss on his cheek that Eddie only half-pretends to hate. “Anything you say, darling."

Once he’s gone, Eddie can focus at the task at hand. He glances sidelong at a coffee mug that’s slightly out of reach. Retrieving it isn’t a hassle so much as an inconvenience, since his hands are damp with dishwater and the closest rag is across the room. 

You could do it another way, reminds the quiet voice in back of his head that Eddie’s spent the last twenty-years trying to suppress. Long before that, really. Since the day his mother told him what his cousin-- what Eddie was. 

Do you know what you are?

Eddie bristles. Fuck that clown. Fuck the idea that It has any lingering sway over his life. His mother, too. And those doctors, all those doctors and their tests, their experiments, their pills. Nobody can choose for him anymore. He’s in control of his life. 

Despite this conviction, Eddie dawdles. Strains his ears. He can hear Richie clunking around in their bedroom, a safe distance away. I’m alone, he thinks bracingly. I’m alone, so there’s no harm in...

He shuts his eyes, concentrating. The mug rattles, as though gently prodded by an unseen force. Slowly, carefully, Eddie relinquishes the vice-like grip of the leash wrapped tight around his mind, bit by bit. 

The mug slides along the counter, until it hovers over the edge. It does not fall. Eddie feels a prick of satisfaction tingle at the base of his neck.

I’m not afraid, Eddie thinks with a rush of spite. Remembering his dream, the clown’s laughter a fresh in his memory, he pushes the mug faster. I am not--

"Hey, Eds, did you-?"

The mug smashes against the ground, shattering. Pieces fly out, scattering across the floor. All sharp edges.

"Shit!" Eddie panics. "Don't step over here, the shards–"

Hastily, he reaches for a handful of glass, as if cleaning up the evidence will hide what he’s done.

What were you thinking, you freak? You could've hurt him or--

"Eddie.” That’s Richie's voice calling to him, soft and urgent. 

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'll--” He’s babbling, the words choked, constricted, while sweat pools at the base of his neck and his hands shake with the effort to shove it all down, deep, deep down where nobody can see-- 

"Eddie!" Richie shouts. His face comes into focus near inches from his, eyes, wild with worry. "Calm down, it's okay. It's okay, see? Just a stupid mess.”

A mess you made, Eddie thinks viciously. Now he's seen, he's seen and he'll run, he'll leave, because you're a–

"C'mon, Eds,” Richie murmurs, both a plea and a demand. Trembling fingers tangle with his own, the bite of Richie’s knuckles as he presses their palms against his ribcage steadying Eddie in the present. “You've got to breathe for me.”

Only then does Eddie realize how rapidly it’s rising, and how difficult it is to inhale. Buoyed by the constant stream of Richie’s assurances, Eddie begins to count his breaths, focuses on the movement of his and Richie’s hands as he breathes once twice, in and out. He judges his success by the tightness of Richie’s frown. 

"Sorry," Eddie croaks once he can speak again. It feels as if the shards are lodged in his throat.

"Don't apologize," says Richie, a furrow nestling between his brows. He keeps his tone level, likely more worried than he lets on, but the lack of panic is what’s grounding Eddie and he’s appreciates it more than words will convey. "Do you need me to-- What do you need?”

Eddie shakes his head. Tears prick at his eyes and he bites down on the tide of pleas that threaten to overwhelm him. You, I need you. I need you not to leave me once you figure out what I am.

"You know I don't care if you use your Matilda whammy." Richie makes a show of squinting his eyes. Eddie chokes on a stilted laugh. Richie seems to sag in relief 

"It doesn’t change a thing for me,” he reminds, nudging Eddie softly. “You understand, right?" 

Eddie swallows, thickly. He doesn't trust his voice, so he nods, the reply burrowed into Richie's chest. He kisses his clavicle once, twice in gratitude.

"What were you going to ask before?"

"Uh," Richie hedges. "Do you know where all my clean underwear is?"

Again, Eddie laughs. Helplessly. "Fucking Christ, Rich, I told you: a man needs more than seven pairs of underwear."

"I resent that. I have more," Richie sniffs. "They're just not as sexy as my gluteus maximoose pair. Which, as you know, I reserve for all special occasions."

"You're fucking ridiculous, is what you are," Eddie chuckles. "I'll fold the laundry after I clean this up."

"Let me do that,” Richie insists, shooing him toward the bedroom. “You can shower first.”

Chewing his lip, Eddie hesitates.

"Are you wearing shoes?" Richie gestures impatiently at his moccasins. "Alright... Just be careful with the glass."

“Like you were?” Catching Eddie by the wrist, Richie frowns down at his palm. A thin slice below his thumb, the blood a steady ooze. 

"Oh," says Eddie, woozily. The prick of pain didn't even register. "I'll go, um. Wash this in the bathroom."

He ignores the feeling of Richie’s eyes on his back as he hustles the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He’s ignored a lot of things, lately. 

The familiar yet nameless numbers on the cellphone he ultimately chucked. The decreasing amount of frantic calls from his ex-wife. The urge to tell Richie and the Losers every awful truth Eddie’s spent his entire adult life burying so deep that not even he has to confront it, ever.

At the sink, Eddie avoids his own reflection. Under the spray of water, the blood washes off effortlessly. As if it never happened. Wash your hands, Eddie. Like a good boy. His mother always repeated the order, ad nauseam. Like if he scrubbed hard enough, it would be as if the all the dirty, unclean parts of him she feared had never existed. 

For all her lies, Eddie wishes it was that easy. 

[satonthelotuspier]

I wrote a continuation for a prompt XueXiao bodyguard/idol fic here (please heed the warnings on this one).

Modern AU, there will be one or two more parts, I broke it down to keep me focussed to finish it, as I’m trying to get rid of some of my WIPs before I leap into the zillion xicheng ideas I live with constantly.

CW: It’s a little spicy. Fic begins under cut.

Chapter 2 - What Happens In Paris Doesn’t Stay In Paris

Xue Yang rolled over at the gentle shake to his shoulder. He would have groaned or complained but the slight, unfamiliar aches and pains made him bite his tongue.

He was no doubt going to get into trouble anyway but he didn’t want to draw attention to the fact he was a little sore.

Still, he could put it off no longer, and he opened his eyes.

Xiao Xingchen had woken him because their room service breakfast order had arrived.

“I left you for a while, but if you sleep any longer we’re going to miss the entire day” he said, and Xue Yang made a noise of agreement, his focus on the selection of warm, freshly baked pastries on the tray.

“May I have one of those, please?” he asked hopefully, holding his hand out.

Xiao Xingchen clicked his tongue, “I’m pretty sure they’re for sensible people, and not for dummies who possess the self-preservation instincts of a lemming” nevertheless he was handed a croissant which he fell upon with his usual zeal. Xiao Xingchen had never seen a croissant devoured so thoroughly; normally they showered flaky pastry everywhere yet not even a single fleck escaped Xue Yang. It was a talent.

“I can be sensible” Xue Yang told him eyeing up the tray again, “I can try at least”

“Then why the ever-loving fuck would you not tell me you were a virgin?” that did get Xue Yang’s attention, and his eyes flew up to meet Xiao Xingchen’s.

“Firstly, I would have thought my crappy attempt at a kiss in the nightclub would be indication enough I had no experience with kissing even, let alone sex” he could feel a flush beginning to form on his face. “Secondly, perhaps you shouldn’t believe the gossip you read everywhere”

Xiao Xingchen clicked his tongue again and removed the plate from Xue Yang’s eyeline, who whined like a scolded puppy. “Even if you discount the rumours of promiscuity that still wouldn’t exclude you from having any sexual experience at all. You are so focussed on self-destruction it boggles my mind”

“That’s not it” Xue Yang denied hotly, “I’m not, just what 23 year old wants to admit he’s never done it before?”

“So saving face is more important than not getting hurt...”

Honestly despite his initial urge to agree he could tell it would just piss Xiao Xingchen off, so he looked down at the bed in exaggerated contrition.

“You didn’t even have to claim virginity, you could have just said you’d never done anal before; we could have even kept it to non-penetrative, if only you’d used your brain there was so much else we could have done, or more precautions I could have taken” he knocked Xue Yang on the forehead with the heel of his palm gently.

“I wanted it. And it wouldn’t have mattered how gentle you were, the first time is likely going to be uncomfortable. I know you’re having a great time calling me an idiot but I’m not totally stupid, I did read up on it. And it’s not like after the discomfort wore off I didn’t enjoy the hell out of it. You’re talking like I didn’t tell you and you dry fucked me”

Xiao Xingchen caught hold of his chin, fingers digging into Xue Yang’s cheeks softly, “Honestly, this mouth of yours just doesn’t stop, does it?”

Xue Yang’s breath caught, “You could do something about it” he invited, his lashes sweeping down to hide the expression in his eyes.

“I could” Xiao Xingchen agreed, leaning in. At the last moment he pulled back and  instead of his lips he pressed a pastry to Xue Yang’s.

Xue Yang certainly wasn’t annoyed, he merely sank his teeth into it immediately; staking his claim.

“I’m not even mad” Xue Yang shrugged as he finished off the sweet, then made a dive for the plate containing the rest.

***

Xue Yang was a man of many contradictions. Not least the one that despite the effort it took to get him out of bed in a morning once he was up and running he didn’t stop.

Xue Yang dragged Xiao Xingchen the length and breadth of Paris, cramming more into a single day of sightseeing than the other would have ever thought possible. They ended it with dinner at a restaurant that served local cuisine, then took a walk over the Pont Neuf. They paused on the famous bridge to take a few more snaps and a quick video for Xue Yang’s social media accounts, as per Jin Guangyao’s orders, then walked on.

It was like a fantasy, this, a stolen moment in time. They’d have to return to China soon, and Xiao Xingchen would be assigned to another client and then that was probably that, right?

At least he’d have memories.

“What’s wrong?” Xiao Xingchen asked. They’d walked in silence for a while and he’d noticed Xue Yang had withdrawn into his head.

Xue Yang stopped and rested his hips against the bridge wall.

“I’m just wondering how long until you’re cleared to go back on duty” he pondered aloud, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets and looking across at the walling on the other side of the road.

“Probably at my doctor’s appointment next week” Xiao Xingchen told him, and Xue Yang nodded; hiding his disappointment was something life had taught him to be good at.

“Cool. I bet you’re going stir crazy, right?” Xue Yang didn’t have it in him to raise his eyes as he made the comment.

“This last few days haven’t been so bad, there have been one or two distractions”

At the comment Xue Yang did look up at Xiao Xingchen, and with a cocky grin he really didn’t feel; the mainstay of his public persona, he added, “Lets go back to the hotel, and we’ll try distractions three and four”

Xiao Xingchen rolled his eyes.

Xue Yang pushed himself off of the wall, and walked on, “We only have a few days left, right? No time to waste”

“Xue Yang-” Xiao Xingchen caught his arm and held him still, “-what do you think this is? Why do you think I’m here with you right now?”

“How should I know? You were bored while on sick leave? Or horny? You knew I had feelings for you and thought I’d be a cert to put out? I’m sorry if you were expecting me to be experienced, it can’t be as much fun as you were hoping, right? Enthusiasm doesn’t count for as much as skill in sex, I guess” it was obviously time for the talk and it made Xue Yang nervous, so he couldn’t help his response; he babbled.

Xue Yang winced as Xiao Xingchen’s fingers tightened on his arm in response, “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“You’re hurting me” he said sharply. It didn’t really hurt, but Xue Yang still felt the need to complain, unsure why Xiao Xingchen was suddenly so angry with him. It sparked his temper, but he tamped it down.

“I want to knock some sense into your thick head, think yourself lucky” Xiao Xingchen responded, but his hand did loosen it’s grip. “If it was for sex do you think for even a second I’d get involved with someone like you?”

Ouch. Fair, but still ouch.

Xue Yang opened his mouth to respond. It was an attitude he was more than used to, but because this time it came from the man he loved, it stung. He had thought Xiao Xingchen might have been starting to see a little beyond the trash, bad boy image the press and the industry painted of him.

Yes, he had a vile temper, yes he had acted out over the years, and yes, every tabloid reported on it, twisted it and manipulated it to make him appear so much worse. But he wasn’t that awful a person to know in real life, was he?

He felt his quicksilver temper flare in response to the proverbial slap across the face Xiao Xingchen had just given him, “No need to keep reminding me what cursed goods I am, thanks. I can open a newspaper at home any day of the week if I need my self-worth lowering any further”

Xiao Xingchen looked surprised, and dropped Xue Yang’s arm, “What? That isn’t what I said” he was about to expand upon that when they both heard the scream. It was automatic; they set off running in the direction the sound had come from.

“Are you stupid?” Xiao Xingchen demanded of the younger man, who kept ahead of him as they ran.

“Yeah, completely” he agreed.

They ran on, and found a woman, who had fallen to the ground. She was struggling with a man who tried to drag her upright. Her purse was thrown to one side.

Xue Yang reacted without thinking, he grabbed the man’s wrist in a death grip, trying to put enough pressure on so that he’d let the woman go.

He did, and swung at Xue Yang, but Xue Yang had paid attention in self-defence classes, he blocked the fist and kicked out at the man’s knee to put him down.

He fell to one knee, shouting at Xue Yang in French, but Xiao Xingchen was there, putting him into an arm lock and signalling Xue Yang, who pulled the toggles out of his hoodie to allow Xiao Xingchen to bind him.

The next few hours where a whirlwind of activity, if that activity was waiting. They waited with the woman for the police and ambulance to arrive, and waited at the police station for the translator (neither their French nor English was fluent enough for more than touristy purposes), then waited while their statements were prepared for them to sign, and waited for their ID checks to be run.

***

It was the early hours of the morning before they made it back to their hotel room, and Xue Yang just wanted to climb into bed and sleep. He began shedding outer clothes and shoes as soon as they made it through the door, only to yelp as he was unexpectedly grabbed and pushed onto the cushions of the sofa.

“Let me repeat again, are you fucking stupid?” the addition of the curse indicated how angry Xiao Xingchen was with him. That he held on to the anger beneath his calm demeanour for the last few hours was quite impressive, really.

“So what, I should have just let him carry on?” Xue Yang looked up at the other with an unhappy frown.

“I was there. Which one of us is trained for this kind of thing, Xue Yang? Honestly, you boggle my brain, I cannot even begin to understand this level of self-destruction, you’re just not going to be happy until you get yourself seriously injured or killed. are you?” he demanded, and Xue Yang’s scowl deepened.

“You’re injured, Xiao Xingchen” he used the same tone as the other had on his name, “And I’m not a child, I’ve taken self-defence lessons, I knew what I was doing”

Xiao Xingchen pulled back and pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’m completely out of ideas on how to get through to you, you just won’t listen. Go to bed, Xue Yang”

What the fuck?

“I’m a damn adult, Xiao Xingchen, stop treating me like I’m your stupid kid. You’re not my dad. You’re not even my bodyguard anymore, remember? We were equals out there on that street”

“None of that changes the fact I’m the one with hand to hand combat training, or that I’m no longer injured. He could have had a knife, you didn’t risk assess.

“If a pilot on a plane passed out and the choice for who to take over was between you or the guy with flight training, would you be dumb enough to jump in front of the controls?” Xiao Xingchen shook his head at Xue Yang’s lack of answer, because of course what Xiao Xingchen said was sensible, and he didn’t really have an argument for it.

“I’m going to shower” Xiao Xingchen left him to it, and Xue Yang sulked, as was his wont.

***

The next morning they were woken by the buzzing of Xue Yang’s mobile on the cabinet.

He made a noise of protest, then froze as he realised Xiao Xingchen was pressed against his back with one arm around his waist. When they had gone to bed earlier that morning they had occupied separate sides, with the proverbial Great Wall between them.

He suddenly didn’t want to disturb the peace and considered ignoring the phone buzzing on the side. But when it stopped, then began ringing again, he realised it was pointless.

“Get it, I’ll order some breakfast” a soft kiss was pressed sleepily against his shoulder-blade, then the other moved away.

He wasn’t particularly feeling very charitable to whoever was on the other end of that call.

He should have guessed it was Jin Guangyao, though. Who else would call him with such urgency when he was on the other side of the world?

“Xue Yang, can’t you keep yourself out of trouble for even a week? You’re five thousand miles away and still causing me a headache”

“What? What did I do now?”

“Your little theatrics saving the woman last night. Someone managed to catch a video and put it online hailing you as a hero. Except now Chinese tabloids are catching hold of it”

“And claiming it’s a set up, or I was the attacker, or some other crazy story to paint me in the worst possible light?”

“Pretty much” Jin Guangyao agreed, “Couldn’t you have kept a low profile?”

“I didn’t exactly plan it out, we just reacted. What would you have wanted me to do? You know I can’t win, if I’d done nothing I’d have been the piece of shit who stood by and let a woman be attacked and did nothing”

There was a click of the tongue from the other, who knew too well that would have been the case.

“If it helps, the French local media are painting you as a hero”

“Maybe I should learn French properly and move my career here” Xue Yang mocked, rolling onto his back. Xiao Xingchen had left the door to the rest of the suite open and he could just see the other from where he lay on the bed as he stood over the hotel’s telephone extension. He was a sight worth watching, elegant, handsome, and as hard as nails when he needed to be.

“Are you listening, Xue Yang?” he was pulled back from his thoughts with a jolt at the other’s sharp question.

“No, what did you say?” he could hear Jin Guangyao’s eye roll from here.

“I said you’re going to be inundated with local press. Do you want me to ask A-Qing to change your flights to earlier ones?”

He bit his lip, and glanced back at Xiao Xingchen, who was still in the living area of the suite to give Xue Yang privacy, checking his own phone.

It would be a shame; he’d looked forward to a few more days of no responsibilities and,  honestly, more sex.

They hadn’t spoken about what would happen when they went back to China, whether that was the end, and this was just a holiday fling, or whether they’d try and sneak in the occasional liaison when their schedules allowed in the future.

But really, it would be a nightmare to be trapped here by the media.

“Xue Yang?”

“Yeah, ask her to let me know when the new flights are” he huffed a breath out, and sat up.

“Right. And Xue Yang?” there was a final question in his voice.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need to tell you to keep away from PDA when you get back, do I?”

“No, I know” he hung up, tapped his phone against his chin once, twice, then tossed it onto the bed and got up.

He walked out to the living area, and Xiao Xingchen turned to look at him.

“Everything OK?”

“No, I’ve had to move the flights forward, but never mind that right now, we’re on borrowed time here” he caught Xiao Xingchen’s wrist and tugged him in the direction of the bedroom. “I still owe you distractions three and four. I want you to teach me how to blow you”

***

Xiao Xingchen had been philosophical about their holiday being cut short, of course in his profession he was used to changing schedules of the rich and famous, but whether he was annoyed like Xue Yang was, or not, he hid it well.

Their flights had been booked for first thing the next morning, and now, 12 hours later they were preparing to disembark.

“Are you alright?” Xiao Xingchen asked him, noticing he’d gone quiet the last few hours.

Xue Yang nodded, forced a smile, “I’ll have two bodyguards if the press are there” he made light, “A-Qing says the new security Jin Guangyao found is, and I quote, ‘hot’”

Xiao Xingchen’s hand wrapped around the nape of his neck and squeezed a little, teasingly, “I hope not too hot” he said.

“Aren’t you getting jealous a little too soon?” Xue Yang mocked, “We don’t know what the new security looks like, we only have A-Qing’s opinion so far”

Once they had disembarked they made their way through passport control, baggage claim and customs and were walking through the general arrivals area, when they both spotted A-Qing, who stood next to a giant.

She waved furiously, like they’d ever be able to miss them with Mr Tall and Hot stood next to her.

Well, A-Qing hadn’t been wrong about the new guy in that regard.

“Zichen!” Xiao Xingchen exclaimed in delight as they approached the pair.

[kismetconstellations]

For the author asks - 14, 16, 17, and 22!

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14. What’s the one word you can never spell/use properly, no matter how hard you try?

Whatever the reason, I always struggle with the spelling of “necessary”, and “exercise” when I’m fully engrossed in my writing. I need a moment to remember how many cs are in “necessary”, and where you put the c in “exercise”.  =__=‘

16. What is your best piece of advice for writing angst scenes?

First and foremost, I would say that it’s very important to try to make the characters’ reactions and responses to the angst feel organic and true to their established personalities. If a character is typically closed off, for example, stoic or very skilled at hiding their emotions behind a mask, I would have them crumble little by little. Lips trembling. Jaw and/or fists clenching. Eyes misting, voice breaking when they speak, forced laughter broken off as it transforms into a sob.

If they’re sensitive and feel things very deeply, perhaps the emotions manifest as physical symptoms. Stomachaches, nausea, shaking, the sensation of their heart cleaved open and bleeding out in their chest, or frozen solid, numbed by the sheer shock of what has happened. 

Maybe they’re in denial and teeter on the verge of hysteria when whatever has happened is brought up in front of, to, or around them. Or they lash out and break things, or push everyone away. Or, if they’ve previously demonstrated risk-taking or self-destructive behavior, you could have them spiral- at your own discretion. Please don’t trigger or upset yourself if you can avoid it. 

And, on a minor note, excessive crying, wailing, and sobbing can take a reader out of the situation if it isn’t something the character in question would realistically do. Men, for example, don’t tend to wail, while a woman in severe distress might. I would have a character collapse into shuddering, full-body sobs only if whatever is occurring or has transpired has left them completely devastated and the only thing they are able to do in that moment is unleash their anguish and despair in quaking, heaving cries, perhaps while falling to their knees as any remaining strength leaves their body. 

Second, drawing from your own personal experiences, where applicable and safe- I can’t stress this enough. Please don’t hurt yourself for the sake of any creative medium- can be a major foundation in a successful and realistic angst scene/story. Fanfiction is the one place where it’s okay to project yourself and your feelings and even your traumas onto someone else- within reason- as long as writing it out proves cathartic and helps you to heal and process what you’ve been through. 

Just be sure to tag things correctly and warn for any potentially triggering content when necessary. 

17. What is your best piece of advice for writing hurt/comfort scenes?

Take everything I suggested for angst, and now think about what personally makes you feel safe and comforted after you’ve been through a heart wrenching or traumatic ordeal. 

Is it a tight hug? A hand tenderly caressing your scalp, fingers dragging slowly, gently through your hair? Circles rubbed into your back or a soft squeeze at the nape of your neck?

Is it being wrapped in a warm, soft blanket and sipping hot chocolate or soup prepared for you by a loved one, and reveling in their closeness and company as they hold you close and assure you that you’re “safe now”? 

Is it the catharsis of a shoulder, neck, or chest to cry into when you’ve broken down after putting on a brave face and hiding your grief and pain for so long? 

Maybe it’s a hot bath or shower and a lover washing your hair as they hum softly, their presence both grounding and reassuring that you’re still here, that, no matter how dark and terrible things seem, now, you can heal and your lover will be beside you every step of the way. 

Or, a beloved pet nudging your hand with their nose, or jumping up on the bed or sofa and curling up beside you for cuddles, their fur soft and body warm and safe against you. 

Perhaps you’d like someone to pick you up when you’re hurt and carefully clean and bandage your wounds, a mixture of concern and dismay in their eyes and the set of their brow if you have hurt yourself, or barely contained righteous fury- because they don’t want to scare you, or make you believe that you’re the one they’re angry at- evident in every movement if someone else is responsible.

Again, projecting your wants and desires onto a character, especially in this context, is more than welcome, because it gives the comfort following the hurt a sense of realism. And, when you add to it with input from all five senses, touch, sight, scent, taste, hearing, you paint a picture that may even offer comfort to your reader, as well. ( ´͈ ◡ `͈ )

22. What is your best piece of advice for writing fluff scenes?

If you picture a cute, sweet, and/or romantic scenario for the characters you’re working with, and your heart wells with a warm swell of pure, goopy giddiness, you’ve nailed it. ❤

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Thank you very much for asking! I hope that this advice proves useful to anyone out there who may need it. 

[kkintle]

Into the Woods: A Five Act Journey Into Story by John Yorke; Quotes

There’s no doubt that for many those rules help. Friedrich Engels put it pithily: ‘Freedom is the recognition of necessity.’

‘You need the eye, the hand and the heart,’ proclaims the ancient Chinese proverb. ‘Two won’t do.’

Delacroix countered the fear of knowledge succinctly: ‘First learn to be a craftsman; it won’t keep you from being a genius.’

We are capable of entering any kind of head. David Edgar justified his play about the Nazi architect Albert Speer by saying: ‘The awful truth – and it is awful, in both senses of the word – is that the response most great drama asks of us is neither “yes please” nor “no thanks” but “you too?”. Or, in the cold light of dawn, “there but for the grace of God go I”.’

As Peter Brook writes in The Empty Space, ‘In the theatre the slate is wiped clean all the time.’ Drama is a test-bed on which we can test and confront our darkest impulses under laboratory conditions; where we can experience the desires without having to confront the consequences. Drama enables us to peer into the soul, not of the person who has driven his father out onto the heath, but the person who has wanted to.

Our favourite characters are the ones who, at some silent level, embody what we all want for ourselves: the good, the bad and ugly too.

‘The more successful the villain, the more successful the picture.’

‘Somebody’s got to want something, something’s got to be standing in their way of getting it. You do that and you’ll have a scene.’

‘Tell me what you want,’ said Anton Chekhov, ‘and I will tell you what manner of man you are.’

Cops want to catch the killer, doctors want to heal their patient; in truth it doesn’t actually matter what the object is, its importance is bestowed by those in pursuit.

What a character thinks is good for them is often at odds with what actually is. This conflict, as we shall see, appears to be one of the fundamental tenets of structure, because it embodies the battle between external and internal desire.

Characters then should not always get what they want, but should – if they deserve it – get what they need. That need, or flaw, is almost always present at the beginning of the film. The want, however, cannot become clear until after the inciting incident.

The crisis occurs when the hero’s final dilemma is crystallized, the moment they are faced with the most important question of the story – just what kind of person are they? Finding themselves in a seemingly inescapable hole, the protagonist is presented with a choice.

So the inciting incident provokes the question ‘What will happen’ and the climax (or obligatory act) declares – ‘this’.

As Shakespearean scholar Jan Kott noted before him, ‘Ancient Tragedy is loss of life, modern Tragedy is loss of purpose’.

‘good’ is a relative concept

Change is the bedrock of life and consequently the bedrock of narrative.

THE ROADMAP OF CHANGE ACT 1 No knowledge Growing knowledge Awakening ACT 2 Doubt Overcoming reluctance Acceptance ACT 3 Experimenting with knowledge MIDPOINT – KEY KNOWLEDGE Experimenting post-knowledge ACT 4 Doubt Growing reluctance Regression ACT 5 Reawakening Re-acceptance Total mastery

A well-designed midpoint has a risk/reward ratio: a character gains something vital, but in doing so ramps up the jeopardy around them.

JOURNEY THERE; JOURNEY BACK

All stories at some level are about a search for the truth of the subject they are exploring. Just as the act of perception involves seeking out the ‘truth’ of the thing perceived, so storytelling mimics that process. The ‘truth’ of the story, then, lies at the midpoint. The protagonist’s action at this point will be to overcome that obstacle, assimilate that truth and begin the journey back – the journey to understand the implications of what that ‘truth’ really means.

Stories are built from acts, acts are built from scenes and scenes are built from even smaller units called beats. All these units are constructed in three parts: fractal versions of the three-act whole. Just as a story will contain a set-up, an inciting incident, a crisis, a climax and a resolution, so will acts and so will scenes.

‘Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.’ Alfred Hitchcock  

Screenwriting is showing not telling; structure is the presentation of images in such a way an audience are forced to work out the relationship between them. Stanton had stumbled upon what is known amongst film theoreticians as the ‘Kuleshov Effect’.

I want to get an abortion, but my boyfriend and I are having trouble conceiving. American comedian Sarah Silverman’s joke is built on a classic subversion of expectation. But take a look at any joke, or any scene in any drama: the juxtaposition of opposites, verbal or visual or both, is the central plank not just of showing rather than telling, but of all humour, all narrative. Something, confronted with its opposite, makes us recast our notion of that ‘something’ again.

Everyone customizes, consciously or not, everything they do.

Every decision we make or action we perform when confronted with an obstacle is a choice that reveals – through action – our personality. In every scene, remember, a protagonist is presented with a mini crisis, and must make a choice as to how to surmount it. Meeting with a subversion of expectation – a blow to their established plans – a character must choose a new course of action. In doing so they reveal a little bit more of who they are.

as F. Scott Fitzgerald put it, ‘The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.’

It was Kenneth Tynan who said ‘a neurosis is a secret you don’t know you’re keeping’.

The less back-story a character has, the more readily an audience is able to identify with them – the more we can see they’re like us and not like someone else. We may want to know more, but it’s the not knowing that keeps us watching. It allows us to fully experience the journey ourselves and actively join in the process in which a character pursues their goal, their flaw is subsumed into their façade, their need into their want, and the goal of all drama is achieved – a rich, complex, three-dimensional character appears in front of our eyes.

The three most important functions of dialogue – characterization, exposition and subtext – are all, as we shall see, products of character desire.

Good dialogue conveys how a character wants to be seen while betraying the flaws they want to hide.

Grammar, vocabulary, syntax, rhythm, sentence length, jargon or slang – when combined in a particular way, they all allow us to understand who a person is. Change one and the character changes. Dialogue isn’t just about what someone says; how they choose to say it is important too.

Exposition works when it’s a tool a character uses to achieve their desire. If this desire is confronted with opposition, conflict is generated and exposition becomes invisible. The greater the conflict, the less visible the exposition.

Silence of the Lambs screenwriter Ted Tally put the art of writing dialogue succinctly: ‘What’s important is not the emotion they’re playing but the emotion they’re trying to conceal.’

So masked desire is the main source of subtext.

Georg Simmel, the nineteenth-century sociologist, put it rather eloquently: ‘All we communicate to another individual by means of words or perhaps in another fashion – even the most subjective, impulsive, intimate matters – is a selection from that psychological-real whole whose absolutely exact report … would drive everybody into the insane asylum.’

‘No description is as difficult as the description of self.’

We watch stories not just to awaken our eyes to reality but to make reality bearable as well. Truth without hope is as unbearable as hope without truth.

Out of our quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. - W. B. Yeats

the idea that ‘we crash into each other just to feel something’.

McGovern believed neither of the two arguments, but he’d mastered a very important principle: that whatever you believe should be tested to destruction.

As Andrew Stanton says, ‘You often hear the term “You should have something to say in a story” but that doesn’t always mean a message. It means truth, some value that you yourself as a storyteller believe in, and then through the course of the story are able to debate that truth. Try to prove it wrong. Test it to its limits.’

There is much to learn from the game of chess, whose individual engagements are all part of one long engagement seeking a condition not of adversity or conflict or defeat or even victory, but of the harmony underlying all.

Javed Akhtar, the co-writer of Sholay, the most successful Indian movie of all time, made a shrewd observation: You must have seen children playing with a string and a pebble. They tie a string and the pebble and they start swinging it over their head. And slowly they keep loosening the string, and it makes bigger and bigger circles. Now this pebble is the revolt from the tradition, it wants to move away … The string is the tradition, the continuity. It’s holding it. But if you break the string the pebble will fall. If you remove the pebble the string cannot go that far. This tension of tradition and revolt against the tradition … are in a way contradictory, but as a matter of fact [are] a synthesis. You will always find a synthesis of tradition and revolt from tradition together in any good art.

just why fairy tales hover on the edges of cruelty; it’s about how ‘baddies’ are the products of inner conflict 

‘All of us are potential villains,’ the legendary Disney animators Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnston once remarked. ‘If we are pushed far enough, pressured beyond our breaking point, our self-preservation system takes over and we are capable of terrible villainy.’

Storytelling, then, is the dramatization of the process of knowledge assimilation.

Like much that is briefly fashionable, it didn’t survive because it had nothing meaningful to say. A greater test of worth must be whether a work lasts for more than a generation.

an observation from Robert Hughes: ‘The basic project of art is always to make the world whole and comprehensible, to restore it to us in all its glory and its occasional nastiness, not through argument but through feeling, and then to close the gap between you and everything that is not you, and in this way pass from feeling to meaning.’

‘Art consists of limitation. The most beautiful part of every picture is the frame.’ G. K. Chesterton   

[pilfered-words]

Game of Kings reread

I’ve been slowly making my way through the Lymond books since I got them 3 weeks ago. I’m not sure what’s up with the speed, normally I tear my way through books without stopping. Maybe it’s because they’re dense books? But it’s not the first time I’ve read them. I think I’m paying more attention than I did previously, though. Paper books tend to have that effect on me.

I’ve been liveblogging on discord as I read. The biggest problem with liveblogging, of course, is that the most fascinating and captivating parts are the parts where you least want to put the book down to comment on it; the other problem is that lots of it comes out incoherent, in exclamation marks and exasperated sighs.  Nonetheless, my liveblog of GoK is under the cut. (Queen’s Play is coming - I finished it earlier today. I make no promises about anything else.)

Part One: The Play for Jonathan Crouch

with every word I read I remember more about this book :P

the dialect is killing me a little or not dialect, the reference density:

it was better than a front seat at the Widdy-Hill the day after the Assizes

...I remember there was something up with the messenger that Lymond really wanted to make sure got to the English commander, but I sure don't remember what.

the third was a stranger, a young man, tied to his horse and wild about it

Hi Will.

civility's nearly as dull as sobriety

...

We're only poor scoundrels - vagabonds - scraps of society; unlettered and untaught

...of course you are

"Why did you decide to join me?" "Why....?" "Word of three letters. "

Lymond you're a dick Will you're an idiot

I don't mind what crimes I commit, as long as they've got a sensible purpose. Wanton injury and destruction, of course, are just juvenile.

Will, you're what, sixteen?

(I need to stop quoting multiple things from every page, at this rate I won't get far)

He's going to be a naughty, naughty rogue like you and me

pffff

-----------

Every word of this book is gold:

I used to know a number of women who would be all the better for a fate plus mal que morte.

...I’d say it’s not funny, but it kind of is.

Francis Crawford of Lymond, famous outlaw wanted in several countries, being adorable with the four-year-old Mary Queen of Scots:

Note: Richard is always right about practical matters He's outshined by his brother, because his brother is all protagonisty, but he's far from stupid. Especially when Francis isn't actively trying to mislead him.

Will Scott, no Don't do the thing Lymond expressly told you not to do [Will: does the thing Lymond expressly told him not to do.]

The entire papingo sequence is not very quotable, but it's so good.

Truth's nothing but falsehood with the edges sharpened up, and ill-tempered at that: no repair, no retraction, no possible going back once it's out

God Francis, that's... Amazingly cynical for such a beautiful statement

Lymond has taken three months to kill all the years of my childhood

:( :( :( Richard needs a hug Alternately he needs his brother to stop being a dick And I don't know which of the two is more unlikely

Gideon Somerville! Already being excellent.

a well-balanced, mature woman of nineteen

pfff. poor Mariotta

"Oh, well. Everyone else has suave, cosmopolitan sheep: why not us? The Millers at Hepple have a ewe that’s been to Kelso three times, and they’ve never been farther than Ford in their lives.” Kate peered absently into the farm pond, and clucked again. “Thoughtless creatures. They’ve forgotten the fish."

This gets quoted lots, but that’s because it’s great.

I love you Kate:

Excuse me, but are you the bad company young Mr. Scott has got into?

...oh

Richard no Now is a bad time to imitate your brother Mariotta no

[There follows a lacuna in the record. Will’s betrayal - the capture - the scene with Christian and the chains - the escape - Christian’s captivity - the Somervilles - the fight between the brothers - Hexham, the messenger, and Lymond’s wound - it is hard to take notes when events flow so quickly, and every word is precious. We resume with Richard taking care of the brother he means, still at this time, to take to judgement.]

I made one mistake. Who doesn’t? But I despised men who accepted their fate. I shaped mine twenty times and had it broken twenty times in my hands. Of course it left me deformed and unserviceable, defective and dangerous to associate with.… But what in God’s name has happened to charity? … Self-interest guides me like the next man but not invariably; not all the time. I use compassion more than you do; I have loyalties and I keep by them; I serve honesty in a crooked way, but as best I can; and I don’t plague my debtors or even make them aware of their debt.… Why is it so impossible to trust me?

God. This book.

Yep. Listen to your brother sometimes.

Kate <3 <3 <3

And then - the trial scene

This is not a trial

Lol.

God.

Feeling for one's country is not usually considered as a freestanding riddle in ethics

that patriotism speech...  (the rest of it is here.)

And then the end.

Book 1 is more self-contained than the others, I think. Most of the threads that were picked up have been tied off; the knots may come undone later on, but they are firmly tied for now. Lymond is free, and restored to his family; Will is reconciled with his father; Richard and Mariotta have made peace; Mary is safely sent to France; and even Johnnie Bullo’s con is exposed. 

We see already Lymond being a leader, apparently effortlessly inspiring loyalty. We see, too, that he already finds it intolerable when others sacrifice for him because of that loyalty. He is, of course, already magnificently sarcastic, already a master at hiding his every feeling, already able to find anyone’s weak spots within two sentences, already a master manipulator. And we see already how that self-possession and sarcasm infuriates people, how much they want to see it stripped away and to see the genuine feeling beneath. 

It’s a feeling shared by the reader. Our favorite parts are the ones where the inhuman self-composure slips and we get a glimpse of sincerity. Thus far, this only comes in words and gestures; we get no privileged insight into Lymond’s thoughts. We know much more about Richard’s, Mariotta’s, and Will Scott’s. In later books, we get Lymond’s POV outright, though never for very long, and mostly when he is injured in body and spirit; for now we get only:

In a lifetime of empty rooms, this was another.

Then there was a whisper of silk, a perfume half remembered, a humane, quizzical, intuitive presence; and a wild relief that deluged the tired and passionate mind. 

Sybilla was there. She saw her son’s eyes, and flung open her arms.

[wickednerdery]

Title: FrostBitten: Cracks in the Ice Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Marvel Pairing/character: Loki x Reader (& Jotun!OC) Rating: Mature Summary: “The real you.” Notes: This is a series/multi-chapter fic - Masterlist Here. Ulfr is a Frost Giant, more clearly so than Loki, and “played” by Lee Pace. This piece is two sections, one with Ulfr and the other with the reader and Loki. The whole thing in general is dark, this one’s mostly just angst and violence though…For consistency and length it gets a “Read More”.

Ulfr freezes his door, his room, to a thickness that assures privacy from all, save perhaps Loki. He growls irritation seeing Tia’s body still on the bed; he forgot about her. Lacking his usual patience he simply opens a window wide and tosses her out. Her frozen form smashes upon landing...interesting, but there’s no time for experiments or play just now.

Settling into an overstuffed chair Ulfr works to relax, to clear his mind. It proves more difficult than usual as his mind returns over and over to you. Your interest, your sundae, your delight at his ice wolf, your body...he growls a heady mix of jealousy and arousal in the memory of Loki forcing you to suck him off.

Fucking Loki.

He shakes it away; he’s gotten so far, he gets closer every day, he can’t let one little Midgardian derail everything. He can’t let Loki’s childish games get to him. Deep breath in, slow exhale...

At his best he’s still little more than intermediate in his magic skills beyond the ice-based that come naturally to his people. It takes focus, a clear mind, as eyes fade shut - deep breaths in, slow exhales - and the second layers of magic flow across the room. These hide not just body, but mind and heart.

The world refracts, mirrors, around him and he becomes his true self. As fascinating as the dimension is, Ulfr never feels fully comfortable in it - needing the other to pull him in and out, it’s far too close to the containment rooms of SHIELD for his comfort. More so when the other isn’t there to greet him, like now.

He would say they’re partners, even if only in this task, but that’s still no where near accurate. They neither like nor trust one another and do not share the same goal in the end. Another world, another opportunity, they could just as easily be enemies in battle.

“Have difficultly?” His deep voice announces the sorcerer’s existence on this plane.

Ulfr’s lips curl slightly as he looks for the man. “At least I’m here in full.”

Strange appears before him, cloak billowing in attempts to intimidate. “I’m here.”

“And I’m ready.”

The moment you’re left alone you scramble to redress and return to your own quarters. With chair firmly under doorknob you run to the bathroom to vomit. You brush teeth, even attempt to clean out the taste of him with soap, before throwing up once more then showering.

It’s no use. You can still taste, feel, Loki all the way down your throat. You can sense him in the pit of your stomach and swimming through your veins. It’s like he’s entered your core. It isn’t even the act this time - distasteful as it was - it’s the feeling of being a pawn. That Loki might not even be attracted to you, but thinks Ulfr is and that alone is enough to degrade you.

You look in the mirror, examine sallow and bruised skin, thinning face, and force a deep breath through raw throat. He will not break you. Not for his pleasure, not for another’s pain. Not for anything. You have to be stronger, learn more. Find a weakness, a way to his humanity. If Thor had it, if Ulfr does, so does Loki...no matter how deep it’s buried under sadistic acts and frosty blue eyes.

As the hours pass you force yourself to think on your interactions with the god. Each one. In detail. His peacocking destruction of the city...the sadistic, preening, delight of your first night...the angry disregard afterwards...the playing gentleness of the bath...the events of this morning. Every one a display, every one a tableau of... Your mind falls to the terrible, haunting, ice in Loki’s gaze and the way it counters the bloody red warmth of Ulfr’s…

“Did you truly believe your pathetic attempts at keeping me out would work?” Loki’s voice breaks your thoughts so that you jump. He gives a malicious chuckle as he stands at the end of the bed, over you, as you sit. “I suppose I could admire it...” he slinks around to the side. “The tenacity of it.”

This time you stay in the center, focus on him, refusing to show on your face the fear given away in pounding heart and shaking body.

“Of course, I could also consider it a great disrespect to your king.” Eyes shine their blue at the veiled threat. “Everything is mine. Your room, your bed, you. It’s all mine and I’ll not be denied it.” He flashes an image of himself in full armor, horned helmet, scepter in hand.

You lean back, but do not actually move away. “I know, my king.” You play in.

The vision fades; Loki returns to more regal dressings, pleasantness on his face. “You’re learning.”

“Of course, your majesty.” You smile softly. “Though, I confess, I have much to learn still.”

“Naturally.”

“May I ask a question, my king?”

“Very well.” He’s too cocky to be wary.

“...Why are you doing this?” Loki tilts his head in puzzlement, but lips show amusement; you press on to clarify. “Not taking over Earth, not ruling, I...I get that, I suppose. I mean...this.”

“What?”

“This.” You stress the word, continue. “You’re not a fool, you understand our cultures and you know you’re hurting people. I can see you enjoying it. But...why?”

“I am a god.” Loki insists.

“Gods aren’t sadistic.”

He chuckles. “Clearly you haven’t done enough research.”

“We haven’t offended you.”

His amusement is fading. “You’re getting close to it.”

“Please, your majesty, I merely want to understand.” You get up on knees. “I could supplicate myself and I think...I think you’d treat me worse. Certainly not better.”

He says nothing, only examines you.

“I would think you’d have an easier time getting loyal, truly loyal, followers with kindness. But you just...” The blue in his eyes seems to fade briefly, you swear they go green. “Hurt. Degrade. Why?” You move closer to him cautiously. “I know there’s a good king, a good man, in you Loki...”

Eyes go greener still as the god looks off somewhere you can’t reach, fathom, his face losing all fierceness, all confidence. His face, stature, change...he looks like a lost boy, unsure where he is, what he should do. It’s more haunting a look than he nastiest one could ever be.

“It’s okay...” you whisper, shift closer still. You’re getting through; whatever his guards, his walls, you can see the cracks in the small quiver of his lower lip.

What you can’t see is what’s beyond those cracks. Those memories buried in the darkest parts of him. That pain - searing, cracking, throbbing, burning - dug so far into him it’s settled into his heart. The abyss and those in it churning him through humiliations in the name of preparing him for this. Loki can feel it all, the seeming eons of it, and all at once as he shudders. The Tesseract’s power muffles his scream as tears slip out of green eyes.

You reach out. “I just...want to know you, Loki...” Hand reaches up, brushes a soft, cool, cheek. “The real you.”

In a snap it’s gone. All of it. His eyes flash blue rage and your head crashes against the wall on the other side of the bed. Vision blurs, spins into stars. You kick out under him, claw at hands squeezing your throat. This isn’t an act; he truly rages, hates, for whatever you’ve done to soften him in that moment.

His lips curl over teeth. “You presume to know me?! A god?! You stupid, fucking, mortal whore!!” He shakes you like a rag-doll, head bouncing off the wall, the mattress. He straightens up, lifts you in the process. “Tell me why I shouldn’t end your miserable existence right now.”

You only wheeze.

“Where are your pretty words now?” He sneers, drops you back onto the bed. “Good, stay silent, I’ve no use for your mouth beyond its pleasures. Speak out of turn again and I’ll cut your tongue from between those lovely, cock-sucking, lips of yours!”

Even after he storms out, door locking behind, you don’t move. You let tears stream down your face, wheeze breaths, but don’t dare move. You found a raw spot within Loki’s perfect exterior, the humanity behind the exhibit, and rattled him out of his illusions...but you know deep down that you’ve not yet paid the full price for it.

Sooo...this is the “work” Ulfr had to attend to and, obviously, Loki doesn’t know about it, hahaha! This Dr Strange is from the future and Ulfr’s main source for magical training (outside whatever Loki decides to teach him)...both men may have similar goals, but certainly not the same and that’s all I’m saying on that at the moment, lol! (And forgive any magic-logic lapses, I’m working under the “for the story!” principle, lol!)

(Gif made by me via two gifs I found on Google.)

Tagged: Tagged:  @welcome-to-fangirl-hell @chibiyanai @wadeyouwitch @creedslove @lady-crowned-with-stars @moonfaery @annievvv7  @ladyfluff @holykryptonitekitten @lokilvrr @janebrownnie @lokis-little-kitten @alexakeyloveloki @theangelsfightwithdevils @the-blue-tiefling @lokis-lady-death @dangertoozmanykids101 @prometheasmother @vethrvolnir  @wintertink  @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes @drakonwild @starscreamloki @helayes​  @hiddles-rose​  @the-lady-witchitery …I think I got everyone, if you want on or off the list, just lemme know!!

[ganymedesclock]

Masquerade: A Voltron AU

(okay, so it’s not entirely a masterpost but typing this much took longer than I expected)

Premise

In the middle of the desert lies the city of Galaxia- a radiant metropolis boasting the latest and greatest technology. Foremost among Galaxia’s crop of inventors and geniuses is the research conglomerate Daibaz, owned by reclusive millionaire Zarkon and its research led by Dr. Honerva Garos, widely regarded for her advances in medicine and humanitarian efforts.

Despite a glowing PR record, Daibaz- and Galaxia in general- has its shadows.

After an unknown chemical leak and a hasty cover-up, certain members of the population have been turning up with strange powers- and many are exploiting those powers to commit crimes. Dubbed “Psykers” by the media, police are frequently left without leads for how to investigate the source of the phenomenon, and often underequipped to match the unknown abilities of the Psykers, it’s created a context of panic where they’re desperate for any kind of ability to catch a Psyker- and even those without particular illegal inclinations get to hiding their powers fast. Masks and pseudonyms are a necessary precaution, but some people aren’t just happy not being criminals...

Some people are becoming superheroes.

Characters

Allura

Orphaned after the sudden, tragic death of her father and her mother’s disappearance several years prior, the influential young heiress has returned to Galaxia, city of her birth, from her schooling abroad, accompanied by her stalwart-if-strange honorary uncle. While ostensibly coming home to settle her father’s estate, she has another reason for returning to Alfor’s sprawling manor.

Harboring deep suspicions about her father’s business partner and friend Zarkon, Allura sets out to investigate the cryptic message Alfor sent to her three days before his death, accompanied by the gift of four peculiarly clever mice, and whether or not the “laboratory fire” that claimed his life was deliberately set. Of course, stepping off of her plane and right into the Psyker Crisis was not for the record, but a proper scion of the Alteos family is nothing if not resolute.

Investigating renovations she doesn’t remember from her childhood, Allura is able to discover a hidden lab containing pieces of his research into a serum proposed to “elevate potential”- of which the mice appear to have been successful test subjects. Lacking Psyker powers herself, Allura uses the laboratory to build and test a suit of mechanical armor, taking to the front lines of the Crisis as the white-armored Paladin, while civilian side, struggling with a lack of contacts and trying to keep her vigilante activities hidden from Honerva, who after many years of aloof distance is making a seemingly earnest attempt to connect with the daughter of her estranged colleague... always at the worst time.

(But perhaps she could be trusted? Surely, the good doctor couldn’t possibly be aware what Zarkon might be up to...)

Coran

Allura’s dearly beloved eccentric father figure and dedicated, if deeply concerned keeper of her secret mission and vigilante activities. He’ll do research, he’ll keep the house clean, he’ll coordinate missions, prepare tea, position pillows when late night adventures get too much, and offer first aid and the occasional (frequent) dry remark, anything for the young miss. Heaven help him if the ruffians Allura seems to be collecting track mud on that rug- that’s imported.

While largely content to toil in relative silence, Coran quietly holds claim to history with some manner of highly classified government intelligence cell- and while his military days are long over, he wasn’t born yesterday young man, and he doesn’t carry that tactical knife around for sentimentality’s sake. And of course then there’s those people he meets for tea and reminiscing about the old days... and possibly, gleaning some intel in the process.

Shiro

Takashi Shirogane held down an utterly unremarkable security guard job while attending local college. Not that any of that matters, of course, because he’s very definitely, certainly dead- one of the first Psyker-related deaths that sparked major panic and outrage. Not every day the only remains you have of someone are one arm.

The Psyker Wraith, on the other hand, is practically a local cryptid- between his incredible agility and the power to render himself briefly intangible, he’s barely even seen, much less anybody having a hope of catching him. Shrouded in concealing black layers and goggles, he’s identified only by the tuft of white hair that escapes his hood, his unusual metal arm, and the sword he carries, a straight-bladed weapon that he’s able to empower with unusual cutting force. The unnaturally perfect cuts he leaves behind are often the only signal of his passing- despite his power and formidable reputation, he seems rarely interested in destruction, but has been observed attacking certain facilities.

It turns out Galaxia stands atop a labyrinth of sewers, catwalks, and support columns- a sunless, unmapped region where even a legally dead person turned runaway lab rat with a scrambled memory can hide out. Having a surface contact who can smuggle him niceties like changes of clothes, hair dye, and sunglasses to cover up those distinctive electric-colored Psyker eyes (unlike most, he can’t turn those off) helps, but suffice to say not being able to recall who spirited him away from the accident and how he got clear, besides a nebulous connection to Daibaz, is just one of many stresses chewing on his head. Though a not-so-chance meeting with the mysterious “Paladin” may be able to turn things around for him.

Keith

Having grown up as far as he knew an orphan, Keith honestly didn’t put that much thought into the fate of his parents, what had happened to them so long ago- until a day before the spill he received a cryptic phone call from an unknown number warning him something was going to happen.

Since then, normal high school has gotten a little less normal and a lot more of an issue, with him and his self-declared rival accidentally discovering they both have superpowers now. In Keith’s case- a precognitive hypersensitivity to his surroundings and the power to generate flames. Which is just another problem he has to deal with, after his best friend went missing and then turned up a month later injured, feverish, and deeply disoriented on his doorstep.

Keith is quick to take to vigilanteism, not out of any particular yearning for justice as much as determined to help Shiro figure out what happened. Like Shiro, he doesn’t come up with his own name, but is dubbed Firefly by local news pundits. Dangerous work, sure, but not as frustrating as the way his sister has started hovering lately because she’s convinced he’s getting mugged on a regular basis.

Lance

Lance wanted superpowers, okay? As soon as this Psyker thing hit the news he tried everything, even dragged a totally uninterested Hunk into helping him try to awaken super abilities one way or another. Was right in the neighborhood affected by the spill, went to bed with a weird headache and everything- but no dice, whatsoever, was willing to write himself off as a super dud.

Turns out he copies powers from other people, which was super exciting except the part where he got in hot water with the local punk kid he’d been competing with for most of the school year and accidentally set his pant leg on fire.

While he’s not sure what Keith’s hiding besides the superpowers, intervening in an armed robbery ended up putting himself in the public eye as an unknown Psyker (though he was pretty miffed to discover himself making headlines as “Hoodie Avenger”, it wasn’t like he actually got to use his power without another Psyker around- just the usual being stronger and faster than normal), which ended up setting him on a crash course with Allura when he made exactly the wrong assumption about seeing a seemingly defenseless young woman being attacked by a Psyker.

That said, while accidentally scaring off someone Allura had been hoping to interrogate wasn’t his finest impression, it sure led to a more meaningful partnership. He’s still looking for a way to casually drop the name Echo to the press without risking his identity.

Hunk

Hunk got the luxury of being a second wave Psyker- initially completely powerless, even though he knew about Lance’s secret and through him, met and started working with Allura, bringing his own ideas to the technology she and the rest of the team were using. Through his awakening, gaining the ability to selectively crystallize parts of his body, the team realized that the Psyker population was actually climbing since the original spill... that was ostensibly cleaned up.

He operates under the pseudonym Granite.

Pidge

Thanks universe, she already had enough problems with people thinking she was weird before she started sprouting leaves. Pidge is really not sure what besides that her Psyker gift does- and keeps meaning to find out, but it seems obstinate to most of what she’s tried.

She was practically pulled into the team by Lance after he helped her hide during a bad “flare-up”- unlike the rest of the team her control of her powers is iffy, but just because she doesn’t have this actual super thing found out doesn’t mean Dryad isn’t packing a homemade taser she’s not afraid to use.

[evolutionsvoid]

I find slimes to be fascinating creatures, as they are a species that is both simplistic and complex. One would think that a walking pile of rubbery goo would be an easy specimen to understand, yet there are intricate systems and behaviors hidden beneath it all. I think another thing that drives my interest in them is how quickly others write these creatures off. People take one look at a slime and instantly see it has some mindless garbage eater, as if they were a mobile form of slime mold. Even when dealing with educated slimes, others are quick to dismiss them, how rude! Despite the assumptions and beliefs, slimes are a highly variable and adaptable species that deal with unique abilities and challenges. Like dryads, slimes can be found in nearly environment. The only places they are absent from are arctic biomes, where their wet forms cannot function. Arid habitats can be a bit difficult for them, but certain variations of them have adapted to even these dry conditions. The places where they really excel are habitats that have damp conditions and frequent rainfall. Vegetation isn't really an issue for them, as they can be found in forests, grasslands, mountains and marshes. One of the things they search for is dark burrows and holes that they can hide in, as it provides the perfect shelter for them. Be it caves, rodent holes, self-dug burrows or thick vegetation, slimes like to compress their bodies into these tight spaces to hide from predators or harsh elements. In areas that experience harsh winters, self-made burrows are crucial. Before the coming cold, slimes will find a damp area (like a marsh or muddy shore) and dig themselves a nice deep hole. They will cram themselves down it and use their slime and the wet dirt to form a cocoon around their "heart." They will go into hibernation during the chilly months, only emerging when warmth and wetness returns to the surrounding soil. Slimes only have two parts to their anatomy: the "heart" and the gooey pseudo-body. The "heart" is a roundish organ that covers the role of a brain, stomach and heart. It is the center of their consciousness and existence, as it is responsible for the thinking, slime making and slime controlling. From this heart pumps the famous slime that makes up their pseudo-body, creating the substance from the nutrients it gains from meals. All control over the pseudo-body comes from this heart, as it uses some sort of signalling system to shape and move the slime. While the pseudo body can take nearly unlimited damage, the heart is their vulnerable core. Any injury to this organ is debilitating to a slime, and its destruction will cause the slime to collapse and die. To protect this delicate organ, the pseudo-body is created and controlled to surround it in a thick protective layer. While many see slimes as goopy, sticky creatures, they actually have a consistency that fits more with wet rubber, but that isn't a constant. Interestingly enough, slimes are capable of controlling the density and viscosity of their forms, allowing them to go from a sticky, faster flowing substance to a material that is hard and solid like a watermelon's rind. With this level of control, slimes often change their consistencies to fit with the scenario, like solidifying their goo to absorb an incoming hit. Added with this is their ability to morph themselves into nearly any shape. Slimes can range from literal piles of slop and worm-like shapes, to humanoid forms and even multi-limbed entities. The only thing that restricts them is the fact that the slime has to have constant contact with the heart. The heart's signals are sent through the slime, so any bits that are detached or separate will do nothing until they are connected again. This signal system is also the reason why individual slimes never grow to titanic proportions. When they reach too large of a size, it seems that their heart signals start to weaken and fade as they travel to the outer extremities. This makes the slime slow to move and adapt to its surroundings, making it more vulnerable to predation and damage. To avoid this, most slimes will limit their production of the substance, or shed off excess if their pseudo-body is becoming too much to handle. Any time you see slimes of massive size, it is probably the result of several of them connecting together and using the multiple hearts to keep the signals strong and efficient. 

In professional terms, slimes are omnivores. In a more cruder translation, slimes literally eat anything that is organic. The image of being trash-eaters unfortunately comes from the fact that slimes will pretty much eat out of the garbage. So much so that entire colonies can be found at dumps and trash heaps, as they happily sift through the junk to find any edible pieces. When a slime wishes to eat, it simply sucks the morsel into its gooey body and uses the surrounding substance to pulverize, mash and digest it. Everything is absorbed into the slime, which is then absorbed by the heart. Due to this strange way of eating, things like rotten meat and poisoned food do not affect slimes nearly as much as others. The slime's way of breaking down matter makes it difficult for diseases, parasites and toxins to survive and take effect. They don't worry about a thing at all when they are rooting through a garbage can and sucking in every scrap they can find. While many slimes are content to search through trash heaps or eat anything they come across, others have come up with ways to hunt down some fresher meals. Those that live near forests or orchards will use their stretching limbs to pick fruits or rob bird nests. These same limbs can be made stretchy and sticky so that they can slide into rodent burrows and grab any morsels hiding with. By burying themselves in a rotting carcass, they can use sticky tendrils to catch insects and scavengers, or just eat the carrion themselves if no one falls for the trick. More predatory slimes can take down larger prey with sneaky tactics. The feared Flayers use adhesive slime and bony remains to trap prey within their forms. Some may harden their fists into rubber clubs and bludgeon animals to death, while others may engulf and suffocate them. Certain slimes use ambush tactics, hiding within the foliage or trash to spring on unwary travelers. Specialized ones have even formed partnerships with other species in order to get an easy meal! Honestly, the ways of hunting are endless for them, as their imagination is the only thing that can hold them back. While slimes can be crafty hunters, that does not mean they cannot be hunted themselves! Yes, their bodies are almost 95% slime, but there are other species out there that have found ways to get a meal out of it! Since the psuedo-body's slime is used to masticate food and absorb what's left, certain creatures steal and eat this nutrient-laden goo. Some may straight up parasitize their bodies, embedding themselves in the slime to absorb what food they can while using tricks to make sure the heart does not sense their presence. Certain birds and insects have found ways to attack through the slime's pseudo-body and pierce the heart, killing the slime and allowing them to feed on the leftovers. Slimes can respond to these attacks by hardening their forms, but they have to see the attack coming first in order to do that! In truth, slimes have very few predators who wish to eat them, and instead have to deal with way more parasites. Their nutritious slime makes for good food and fertile ground for eggs and larvae, which certain species take advantage of. The Paranima is an example of that, but that is a story for another entry!   An interesting note about slimes is the fact that they need to be careful with their consistencies. The slimy pseudo-body is responsible for gathering and transferring air to the organ. The wetter and gooier their slime is, the easier it is for them to "breath." Something occurs on a tiny level within their slime that allows them to capture air or sift through water so that the heart can "breath." The thicker and harder their consistency is, the less efficient this process is. If a slime remains solidified for long periods of time, it can actually suffocate itself. To get around this, they tend to only harden certain parts of their pseudo-body, so that the rest can easily collect air. This fact explains why it is cruel to capture slimes in bottles or jars, as they cannot breath if they are sealed in an air-tight container. Though they don't have visible noses or mouths, they still need air like the rest of us! While slimes may seem like solitary creatures on the outside, in truth, they can function as a collective. Wherever a slime colony is found, there is a hidden mass that is buried in the ground. It is a massive blob of slimes that have connected themselves together, creating a "slime network." Whenever a slime makes contact with another of its kind, the signal the hearts produce can travel to one another through the goop. By simply holding hands, they can wordlessly transfer information and knowledge to each other at an astonishing rate. These slime networks take advantage of that, creating a mass that stores and transfers all collected knowledge. Any slime can simply attach itself to the network, dump info or take in new knowledge. Once done, it simply pops free and leaves with its new wisdom. Usually these networks are made of several older slimes, who will remain permanently connected and ready to transfer information to the young ones. With this system, slimes have the chance to learn new skills at a surprising speed. I know some towns have been stunned to wake up one morning to find that their dump mound slimes have suddenly learned how to speak, as one fluent slime had shared the info with the network. This helps them respond to hostility and threats, as they all rapidly learn of the danger and how to repel it.  Knowledge of this system has led to efforts by others to educate certain slimes and use them to "update" networks so that the fellow slimes learn things like speech and manners. These efforts have been met with mixed results, as certain colonies do not like outsiders, and slimes can still choose not to obey things like "rules" and "laws." These same networks are used when it comes to slime reproduction. The connected individuals of this system will slowly create "eggs" within their hearts from gathered nutrients. When slimes come to connect and transfer, the slime network may send an egg or two into the individual before they leave. These tiny developing organs will remain suspended in the slime's pseudo-body, feeding off collected nutrients as they grow. The carrying slime will work to keep these eggs protected until they reach the right age. When they reach the stage where they can create their own pseudo-bodies, the carrying slime will return them to a network and continue on its way. The young will receive a transfer of information, and then be set loose. Quite the efficient system!   On the topic of educating slimes, the reason people are doing this is because the mindset of slimes is something other cultures and societies are not a fan of. Others describe their behavior as "rude," "blunt," "simple" or "crude." This is because a lot of slimes live a simple life and don't think too much about things. For them, what matters is eating food and collecting stuff they like. Each slime has a preference for what form they like and what objects they find pleasant. The reason you often see slimes carrying all sorts of junk in their bodies is because they just happen to like it. One slime may enjoy covering itself in a shell of metal plates, while another may just carry bricks in its body because it likes the feel. If a slime likes something, it will either eat it or wear it, and that is where the problem starts. As super opportunistic omnivores and beings who often live in dumps or abandoned areas, slimes don't really understand the notion of private property. The concept of "ownership" is a bafflement to them as well. To slimes, everything is a free-for-all. If it is sitting there unattended, they can have it. That is why they carry their favorite stuff with them, as slimes believe that you mark what is yours by literally holding it. The second you put it down, it is fair game. So you can imagine the chaos that ensues when a slime wanders into a market, as it just starts grabbing things it likes and eating what it wants, as it sees that no one is holding any of the goods. In these scenarios, arguing with them is difficult, as they don't understand why you are mad that they took something you clearly weren't carrying. You get conversations that go like: "Hey, that was mine!" "No it wasn't, it was just sitting there." "It was still mine! I just put it down!" "Well, if it was yours, then why did you do that?" Needless to say, many slimes are banned from entering settlements and markets, which unfortunately is extended to even those who are educated. During my research, I ran into this problem often. The moment you set something down, the slimes would be grabbing it and inspecting it, before deciding if they wanted it or not. In most scenarios, I had a slime friend who was well learned and she helped me keep my belongings from being stolen. Her help was invaluable, but I imagine it gave the wrong impression to those who wandered by. Nothing like seeing a dryad constantly tell a slime to "hold this for me" or "hand this to me" People would think I was using her like a servant, but that was literally what we had to do to keep my stuff from wandering off. On expeditions where I didn't have her help, I had to fall asleep each night with all my gear in my sleeping bag or arms. Just imagine how tough it would be if you had to go through your everyday routine without putting anything down! While slimes can come off as a bit rude or simple, they are honestly good creatures that mean no harm. It is a shame that they receive such a poor image due to their preferred habitat and ways. Not only do they populate dumps, but they tend to live in abandoned areas and dungeons as well. The sight of slimes inhabiting a ghost town has given people the impression that they chase off settlers or devour entire populations, which is simply not true. Their simple nature and hardy bodies has also made them the target of amusement for others, as they knock around slimes for fun. Warriors and adventurers tend to see them as "target practice," and may even kill them to gather materials they were carrying. Villages and towns will ban them from entering, seeing them as thieving creatures and rule breakers. Thankfully people are working to help dispel that image, using education and information to help the slimes better understand other cultures. I have helped with this cause from time to time, but I am not sure how much of an impact I made! I am more of a researcher than a teacher! I am better at telling you how trolls digest mineral deposits than I am explaining the concepts of a private property to a group of bored slimes!     Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian  

[kiss-my-freckle]

Raymond Reddington’s DNA is not in CODIS. It never was. It still isn’t. I’m gonna cover all aspects regarding this. 

1. Red bled plenty throughout the series, so why didn't Cooper run a test back in season one?

They literally just covered this with Cooper’s bit of dialogue in 4x22.

Cooper: Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. We’re going to be arrested. And there’s nothing Reddington can do to protect us against that. To be honest, that’s what makes me the angriest. That here we are - at the end, and we still don’t know why he walked into your life that day. Liz: Where are you going? Cooper: To do something I should’ve done a long time ago.

Admitting that he should’ve ran a test a long time ago. Covered.

2. Cooper had Red’s blood tested back in Anslo Garrick: Conclusion. 

Uhm, no he did not. Can people honestly sit here and believe that he’d test Red’s blood from that episode just to prove he was beaten in a warehouse, but not use it to prove that Mr. Gregory Devry was an imposter or to see if Liz was Red’s daughter rather than tampering with evidence?!

Diane Fowler was threatening to shut down the task force. Cooper took Liz at her word that Red was there and straight out lied to Fowler’s face. Red didn’t bleed all over that floor. Garrick did. Putting Red in that warehouse kept the task force up and running because Fowler put Red on the blacklist.

Those dialogues -

Fowler: How did this happen? Cooper: Anslo Garrick was a known associate of Reddington’s. He came in with a tactical assault team. He knew the floor plan. Fowler: Then I have no choice. This task force is decommissioned. Do you understand what has happened, Harold? You obviously have a mole. Cooper: We have to find Reddington. Fowler: The only thing that matters right now, is how quickly we contain this. This did not happen. Reddington is and always has been a fugitive at large.

Fowler: I thought I was clear - this task force is done. Cooper: I think you’ll reconsider. Fowler: Why in God’s name would I do that? Cooper: Because this isn’t just about Reddington anymore. Agent Keen located a surveillance outpost a few miles from here. Next-gen tech, better than anything we have in the field. Fowler: Surveillance on what? Cooper: Us. They’ve been watching this task force for months. Phone taps, communications logs. We’re not sure to what extent. We were able to recover very little. The equipment and data were rigged to self-destruct. Fowler: I don’t understand. How is this even possible? Cooper: Something else you should know. They’ve been watching you too.

Liz: He was here.

Cooper: He was there. Lab tests confirm the blood was Reddington’s. Fowler: Which means? Cooper: As far as we can tell, he killed his captor and escaped. Fowler: Then why aren’t you out hunting him down? Cooper: I’m sorry? I thought we were in the “cover our asses” business, in containment mode. Fowler: That ship has sailed, Harold. Someone is surveilling us, and we don’t know who. Reddington does. Cooper: You don’t know that. Fowler: We have a mole. That mole leaked intel leading to the abduction and torture of Reddington. It’s a simple math problem, Harold. Whoever is after Reddington is after us, and that means, as far as I’m concerned, that Reddington still has real value. The unit has a new focus - finding him. As of this moment, the only target on the blacklist is Raymond Reddington.

Jst gonna point out specific dialogues while I’m here. 

“As far as we can tell, he killed his captor and escaped.”

Yeah.. because had they tested that blood, they’d have known it was Garrick’s.

“Next-gen tech” 

Like Navarro’s eye and the system they had built in Garvey’s fake house.

“It’s a simple math problem, Harold.”

Like Kirk wanting leukemia in Miles McGrath. 

“Reddington still has real value.”

This one takes us from Shell Island and goes straight to Esteban. 

Marcus: Two years ago, 20 of us broke bread at this table. Now there are 12. We have lost Hector Lorca, Floriana Campo - Red: And others. What’s your point, Marcus?

12 people in a room, willing to kill Red because they believe he’s been taking down cirminals through the FBI. Could you imagine the world finding out that his daughter is a fed? Yeah... he wouldn’t survive it. Once he becomes useless to the criminal world, he’s no longer valuable to the FBI. 

3. Mr. Gregory Devry's episode.

Point blank, his DNA isn’t in the system. 

Liz: I came as soon as I got the call. Who is this guy? He claims he’s Reddington? Samar: Yes, and we can’t disprove it with DNA because there’s nothing on file from 1990 when Reddington disappeared.

Had it been in the system, they’d have pulled DNA directly from Red.

4. The paternity test.

Still not in the system, that’s why Cooper tampered with evidence. And he handed those results directly to Liz herself. 

Why wouldn’t he put those results in CODIS? Because the FBI is in full denial of their immunity agreement with Raymond Reddington. The only people who know about it, are the people who are supposed to know about it. Not even the entire FBI knows about his immunity deal. Not only would they not admit to having an arrangement with Red, they wouldn’t admit to having his daughter working for them. 

That’s why, instead of putting it in the system, he simply “informed” the FBI Director of Red and Liz’s relationship. Those dialogues -

Cooper: I’m not worried about his ability to provide us cases. I’m worried we may have a perception problem. Aram: What does that mean? Ressler: “Perception,” sir? Cooper: There was a DNA test between Reddington and Keen. And it’s only a matter of time before I have to disclose the results of that test. Ressler: Which were? Cooper: Raymond Reddington’s her father.

Aram: Excuse me, um - sir? I’m wondering if uh, you decided to tell the new director about Agent Keen and Mr. Reddington’s relationship. Cooper: Not yet, but as a rule, I like to come down on the side of transparency. Aram: So you think the Bureau should be kept informed about personal relationships?

Cooper: I owe you an apology. Liz: Sir? Cooper: I’ve decided to disclose your relationship with Reddington. Liz: It’s the right thing to do. I want to do the right thing. Cooper: I’m sorry for the personal scrutiny that will likely result from this - the doubts, suspicions of your loyalty, which may rise again.

5. Identifying Red was never an issue.

That’s why his prints matched what they had on file from his fingerprint sheet dated March of 1989. And he does have tattoos, which shows he exaggerates in story when speaking with other criminals. That typically happens in storytelling. 

Cooper: We confirm it’s actually him? Ressler: It’s him alright. Prints match. Tattoos.

Connecting him to Liz was the only thing they didn’t do. 

6. Red had the body all this time, therefore the DNA.

If the DNA results reveal Raymond Reddington, it’ll be because our Red wanted that to happen. Kaplan would’ve been very capable of extracting DNA for that purpose, and Red needed to find a way to hide his connection to Liz before turning himself in. 

If it were the real Red in the duffel bag, not only would Garvey know who the hell Liz is, but he’d also know, in believing that Jennifer is also Red’s, that Liz is Jennifer’s sister. But Garvey doesn’t know anything. What Garvey knows, or thinks he knows ... that’s another story. 

But I will remind everyone that the only people who know of Red and Liz’s connection, are the task force and the new FBI Director. Now Jennifer, thanks to Liz and her big mouth. Why? Because Sam is listed as her adopted father and a DNA report was fabricated for Alexander Kirk. 

And finally... had the test came up as anonymous sample, Tom wouldn’t have been able to pull a name from “anonymous.”

[neemdbss]

Influential Research

When you lack the ability and funding to conduct laboratory experimentation of ideals, sometimes all you need is to steer those who do to look in the right direction; the truth is the truth, it doesn't have to be defended or explained, when pointed in the right direction, the truth will be discovered. Much like using diamonds to focus laser beams, completely unheard of prior to 2007; I speak with a few astrophysicists on twitter to ask if the concept is even a viable idea, by 2008 the world's first diamond focused laser is built. I had read an article on using crystals in lasers, and thought that perhaps a diamond would achieve better results; after all, being the hardest substance and so many other interesting aspects of diamonds that I figured it was worth consideration, especially considering how man made diamonds had decreased the cost of diamonds. I also had a conversation with a physicist at CERN about the concept of particles traveling faster than the speed of light, and discussed electromagnetic propulsion in theory. He agreed that the concept was solid in theory, but that without proving that dark matter and dark energy existed; that it would remain theoretical, I also verified with a female physicist in Australia, this was all around 2006-2007 before the experiment which confirmed dark matter and dark energy existed; peer reviewed and confirmed in 2012.

Then to hear Stephen Hawking discussing your ideas of time travel, moving faster than the speed of light, even faster than time, confirming everything you had been theorizing for a decade or so; discussing your own formula of negative energy without even knowing he is discussing your formula, the equation which had been in your possession since 2006, well, it's difficult to be humble about holding such a discovery in your possession. Even my children have seen my formula and somewhat understand it's concepts, they have even seen my writings on the subject, my notes, as well as the design of the fusion and reaction chambers; the schematics of the electromagnetic array, including the math and formulas which make it all possible. It is a solid theory which operates within the laws of physics, it's just been outside the grasp of human understanding, because in order to understand nothing you must first understand negative energy; which we know to exist because energy exists, and since energy is the driving force of motion, and for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, then negative energy would be the equal and opposite reaction to the action of energy.

I do not find these findings in physics, or all of this research by accident, I intentionally look it up, I go to physics websites and research their findings, I present feedback, I engage in discussion; you will find that the field of physics is pretty open minded about sharing ideas and concepts, after all, physics is why the world wide web exists in the first place; thank you CERN. to share their findings and increase their knowledge base at a more exponential rate. In other words, it is not a very selfish field of study; my formula is now copyrighted and I do plan on sharing it, after all, it's been a long time already for me to contemplate if humanity is ready for this knowledge, Einstein did go to a lot of trouble to hide the formula in his work but not provide the formula itself, I believe he knew it and also saw this formula; but decided against humanity discovering it's secrets because of the implications it could have for designing a doomsday weapon if applied in a destructive manner. However, I also believe that it would take some time before anyone could even solve the equation, much less understand what it means or how it could be utilized to achieve warp speed without my input on the project; so it may render to be safe for release to the public, or at least to the physicists which would benefit most from it's discovery.

I don't seek out this information and research so that I may profit from it, nor do I expect to be the one to actually apply the information; I have no means to an end other than for the betterment and increased understanding of the human race, the ability to travel the stars, to travel time. I don't seek out this information to make myself appear to be of above average intelligence, I seek out the information because I am above average intelligence and can figure solve difficult problems; I do it because one person can make all of the difference, and quite frankly, I did not seek out this formula. The formula was more of an accidental discovery than anything, a thought exercise, an exercise of free thought, of expanding consciousness, an opening of the mind; when it just came to me, it hit me right in my face. I just couldn't believe that it could be so simple, right there the entire time; such a simple and true statement of math and understanding, I couldn't believe that negative energy could be so easy to explain. And yet, once you understand the formula, you see it's evidence all around you, much like the wind; like a magnet with a negative charge and a positive charge, like yen and yang, even emotional energy of positive emotion and negative emotion. Once you know that negative energy exists, that nothing exists, and that nothing also contains energy; then you understand why it is something, and why something contains energy, because even nothing contains energy, it's just different from what we expect to see from energy because it is the exact equal and opposite force of energy.

Mathematics are universal, numbers, counting; these are universal laws, I could teach you how to speak my language by starting with numbers. If I were to tap out a numerical counting sequence, 1,2,3,4, etc. then eventually you would catch on, I suspect immediately, that I was counting; if I speak my pronunciation of the numbers, then you may return in kind. Now we have just taught each other how to pronounce our numbers, this gives us a common ground on which to build our linguistic catalog; so if there is no misunderstanding, we will eventually be able to effectively communicate with one another. The numbers don't lie, the same applies to the laws of physics; what is universal to one species is universal to all species within the universe as far as mathematics and physics is concerned, the only thing changes is the perspective in which the laws are observed by the individual, regardless of species. What makes mankind unique to all other species on our planet is our ability to record data for the preservation of future generations, although the imprint of every experience is carried in residual energy of time, which is relative to perception, as well as encoded in our DNA structure. When we enter into theta state of consciousness, we are able to tap into this consciousness of experience; it is within this state of experience which we can recall abilities like playing the piano without any formal training, and just playing, but playing masterpieces by those before. That is how someone like me could not spend any time studying, barely paying attention in class, and still ace the test; theta is that relaxed state just before sleep, sometimes it keeps you awake, like when you are trying to diagnose a difficult car at the shop, and the answer comes to you in your sleep.

I am a self educated man, I learn what I do because I find it interesting and I keep an open mind; I find it easier to be objective when you are able to look at all side without judgement, then find the truth in the middle. I try to state things in simpler forms of communication so that others can obtain understanding, it is more stimulating conversation when someone gains comprehension, it's not much fun explaining something to someone who refuses to understand it; especially when they have already closed their mind to the subject, reject/deny any evidence put before them, and switch topics, in the south we refer to such stubborn thinking as stubborn as a mule, although jackass is also interchangeable terminology. which is shortened in the biblical text as ass. This Earth isn't going to be here forever, if your only concern is the survival of yourself or only the survival of your family, then you should be content to the confines of this planet, if your only concern is the survival of the planet, then you won't be pleased to know that within the existence of Earth, it will eventually be consumed by our sun as it becomes a Red Giant; while that may not be for another 5-10 billion years, and the possibility that human beings will be extinct by then, there is also a possibility that we won't. And if we do not explore outside of this solar system, then it is almost certain that the human race will become extinct; whether we destroy the Earth or not, Mars is an indication of what could be the future of Earth is we consume all of our resources. And the human species are consumers, even down to our basic needs, we need to consume in order to stay alive and healthy in this form of existence; so the whole of humanity depends upon being able to colonize and sustain life upon other planets, if nothing else, regenerating Mars and replenishing the water on the surface, recycling life to an old rusted planet. But long before Andromeda and the Milky Way galaxies merge, the Earth and Mars will have been consumed by the Sun for billions of years; and if Star Trek taught us anything, you never know who or what you might run into while seeking out new life and no civilizations, while going where no human has gone before.

[sleepybelle-writes]

Beautiful Destruction

I thought it about time that I share something a bit more substantial than a few bits and pieces, so here it is - by far my favourite piece of writing I have ever written (for now).

Word Count: 2436

Warning: contains mental health issues (depression/anxiety), eating disorders, and suicide. Please don’t read if you think it may affect you badly.

Everyone has flaws, has imperfections. Nobody can be perfect, after all.

It's funny, looking at yourself in the mirror. One day you'll love the little splattering of freckles along your nose, or the way your clothes fit just right, or the way your hair falls into perfect curls. The next day, those freckles could be the ugliest thing you've ever seen, your clothes the bane of your existence, your hair a mess unable to be fixed.

I stopped looking at the mirror a long time ago.

Waking up each morning with a new bruise on my legs, a chill that just wouldn't leave no matter the season, and emptiness deep inside, unable to be filled. I didn't want to see it, to see how terrible I looked, how far I had fallen.

Every day was a struggle, a fight against myself – and I was losing.

I still am.

They say you never know you have a problem until it's too late. I knew I had a problem after the first time I noticed my ribs could be seen without sucking my stomach in, after the tenth time I spent my shower marking my thighs, after the hundredth time of saying 'I'm fine.'

It's scary, the first time that urge to hurt yourself arises, to willingly open up your skin and allow that vital ingredient that is keeping you alive to spill free from its home.

I've heard it as being described as 'the best feeling in the world' and how it 'dulled the numbness in my heart'. There's always this sense of poetry when you read about it in books. Long, flowery prose that almost romanticises the act.

There is absolutely nothing romantic about it.

It's disgusting and it's cruel and it's ugly. It's a stinging sensation that doesn't cut through the numbness, doesn't dull it, it just makes it worse. It's sitting on the shower floor as you're blinded by tears and choking on sobs. It's hiding blades in books and under drawers as you hope that no one finds them. It's the looks of disappointment, of disgust, of pity.

It's still doing it anyway.

Some people consider self-harming as a way of seeking attention, most consider it a method of coping, albeit a poor one.

I consider it just another way to destroy myself, to take control of the mess I've become and make it even messier.

Depression almost always accompanies self-harming, and with it, anxiety is sure to follow. And they're almost always following an eating disorder.

It's certainly not glamorous, despite how the books seem to make it.

The mirror can attest to that.

Well, it would if it saw me. I know I never saw it.

It's also quite a lonely lifestyle. You never realise just how much social gatherings are based around food.

There's this little bookstore just down the road from where I live. It's run by this elderly Austrian man, Okan Winkler, who could spend hours telling you stories of his time fleeing the war with his family, how he built a new life here, a new family after meeting the love of his life who had a passion for books and could no longer remember him yet still smiles each time he reads to her, her favourite books.

It started as me simply going there for a new book, but I soon found myself going almost every day, helping him when it became busy, tidying when it became messy, keeping him company when he was lonely. A friendship was quick to form, and with it a job offer that I wasn't allowed to refuse.

Across the road is a family-run coffee shop. It's quite a popular coffee shop, and because of that, we found ourselves receiving more business than the small shop had seen in years. It wasn't long before I found myself going over each morning before Okan opened, and again during my break. There was just something so enticing about the smell of roasted coffee beans that made me want to take perch in one of their winged armchairs in the corner with a nice book and just waste away my time – something I ended up doing quite often on the weekends.

Over time, it simply became a habit, a nice routine to fall into and give my tired mind a break. But then, there comes a time when your routine must break, always.

And break mine did.

~*~*~*~

It's almost seven in the morning, the first time I find myself standing in front of a mirror after years of avoiding it.

There I stand, staring back at me, a mere skeleton of what I used to be, of what I should have been. Dark circles hang under my eyes, my hair is somehow both dull and oily, my ribs looking as if one wrong move would have them tearing out from beneath my skin. It isn't pretty.

I don't think I've ever gotten dressed so quickly.

From there on, my world seems to crumble around me, the routine I have so happily fallen into no longer existing.

I skip going to the coffee shop, of getting the elixir of life that was coffee. This itself is a mistake, considering that it was the only thing I seemed to be consuming at the moment.

To be completely honest, I'm not sure that I care enough to consider the consequences. Although, at the same time, I'm not sure that I don't care.

It's funny how an eating disorder distorts your perception of what's normal, is it not?

Okan arrives at exactly eight am, as he does every day. We're quiet as we enter the shop, Okan still ridding himself of the last tendrils of sleep, whilst I'm too occupied with the thoughts of what I'd done to myself.

You know those moments when you just look at something, and all you can think is, 'what have I done?'

That's what I was going through. Except usually, people want to fix their mistakes. I'm not even sure I do. And in all honesty, it scares me.

The day becomes a blur of anxiety that fills my chest in a balloon that is just waiting to burst. A disconcerting mess that hurts and is scary and all I want to do is hide from the world.

But I can't. Not yet.

Instead, I find myself standing at the register, barely able to get a greeting past my lips as I put each purchase through the machine. I brush off Okan's words of concern with a half-hearted 'I'm fine' whilst my break is spent with unfocused eyes staring at the words of an unknown romance novel.

Or maybe it was one of adventure?

Time passes in an odd mixture of fast and slow, a blurred mess in a foggy haze, and it's not long before my shift is finished and I'm standing outside the bookstore, the cold air stinging my cheeks.

I stumble past parents and teens alike as my breath comes in short, sharp gasps, being torn from my lungs. I can feel their gazes, burning into my skin, as I fumble with my keys and tears sting my eyes. The stairs become a mountain that I climb with numb legs, my head getting lighter with each step, each gasp for air.

The door is slammed behind me, lock clicking into its place. The sounds are muffled and the world is blurred. My cheeks no longer sting, but are instead burned by tears. Sobs are torn from my lungs, choked and painful. It's with the last of my strength that I collapse onto my bed and pull the blanket close, up over my head, shrouding the world from view – hiding from it.

The average panic attack will last between 20 and 30 minutes. On the rare occasion – in extreme cases – it can last up to an hour.

No matter the severity however, it always seems to last an eternity.

Once the panic subsides, only numbness is left. My cheeks are dry and stiff, my eyes sore, my nose blocked. The sounds of the street below can easily be heard, the world clear and sharp once I remove the blanket from my head.

I don't want to move – too tired to move. I feel empty, lost almost, as if I'm missing something, like I've been left stranded with no clue on how to continue, but unable to fall back, back to where I was before – back to being the epitome of ignorance.

Ignorance is bliss after all.

Knowing is anything but.

Looking around, I can't help but notice the porcelain doll sitting on my shelves, clearly out of place, yet still carefully nestled between two books, their covers worn and faded with age and use.

She was once a quite fair doll, with golden curls and wearing a deep blue dress, with matching shoes. She was a gift to my mother, given to her by my Babushka upon her wedding, given to me upon leaving home.

It's a bit of an odd thing to re-gift to someone, especially considering that what was becoming a family heirloom should have gone to my older sister, but I'd always had a fascination with the doll, of its beauty eternally frozen in porcelain. I grew up idolising the doll, wanting to be just like her, to be pretty - to be perfect.

It appears neither of us are pretty anymore.

Sun has aged the porcelain, staining it yellow, whilst her hair has faded to grey. The deep blue dress was no longer so deep, dust woven between its threads.

Staring at her now, there was no love for her. There was no fascination, no desire to be just like her. There was just an emptiness.

It seems everything has become empty.

The bed dips next to me, the weight of another resting against my back.

I don't recall to have left my door open – or me actually closing it for that matter. Already, the past few however many hours have become a faded blur.

"You okay, 'Mitri?"

I shuffled around so I can look up at the intruder from out beneath the covers. I don't know what I was expecting, but to see Alex there, his lips downturned slightly, brows furrowed in the centre, was sort of surprising.

"You're home early," I say in lieu of an answer.

"I am actually home on time," he states.

Oh.

"I think I messed up." My voice cracks and tears sting at my eyes. I find myself burying back under the blankets – a safe haven of sorts, protecting me from facing the truth.

"How so?"

I shrug as best I can. It's as if I've forgotten how to speak, the words lost on my tongue.

Alex leans back, draping himself over me. It's comforting, a heavy weight that eases the raw energy that seems to be buzzing under my skin.

He's older than me, Alex that is. Only by a couple of years – enough that he's already almost completed his first year of university. I'd moved in with him last year, after certain events made it no longer possible for me to stay at home.

It's sort of funny how one thing can change a person's entire perception of you, isn't it?

We had met the year before last, through a school run program that was designed to help students work through their problems in "a safe and supervised manner." Of course, it took the suicide of a "well-loved and respected" student for them to even consider it.

Because you only matter if you're really smart and/or athletic.

Not that they'd ever tell you that of course.

Of course not, after all, every child is a special little snowflake, aren't they? Only, some are more special than others, and sometimes, being special is seen as a thing of wrongness, something to be removed from this world – after all, we don't exactly live in a place of fairness, now do we?

"You're thinking too loudly."

I groan and wiggle from beneath him, but he doesn't budge. Thinking about it, I don't understand how he's finding the position comfortable. Sure, the blanket adds some sort of padding, but it's only a couple of centimetres – not enough to dull the sharpness of my bones that were sure to be digging into him.

"Do you think –" I trail off. What am I even asking? If I ask if I'm good looking, he'll probably say no, won't he? I mean, I'm nothing more than a skeleton at this point, if the mirror is anything to go by – and the mirror never lies, does it?

No, it does not.

"Do I think what?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Even to me, the words are soft, and are sure to be lost amongst the layers of fabric they'd travel through to reach Alex's ears.

"If you say so." Huh, so he did hear. "You know, you can always come to me for any troubles you have, right? I mean, I may be a bit busier in the next couple of weeks because of assignments and all that, but, I've always got time for you, even if it's something that you think is completely and utterly stupid."

For some reason, I can't find myself able to believe him.

It's not like he's never given me a reason to disbelieve him, quite the opposite in fact. But, I just –

I can't believe him.

Not yet anyway.

Not on this.

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

Oh.

That –

I wasn't meant to say that. Please don't have –

"Why would you think you're stupid?"

He heard.

Of course he heard.

I don't – what am I meant to say?

Nothing.

I say nothing.

Instead, I scramble out from beneath the covers, away from Alex and his impending questions and the concern that will cover his pity and disgust, yet at the same time will have the words spilling from my lips without my permission.

Time seems to have slipped away from me once more, and I find myself standing atop the railing of a bridge, clinging to one of the columns that keep it standing – that keeps me standing.

There's a commotion behind me – shouts and horns blaring in protest – but I focus instead on the storm-angered waves below, a swirling mass of blackness that beckons for me to join them.

It's sort of funny, how everyone always says it's the ones that you'd least expect.

It's not always to ones you'd least expect though.

Sometimes it's the ones you'd expect.

My eyes slip shut.

I let go.

I fall.

[the-fandom-assembles]

The great epic has begun. They say history is recorded by the victors. Well history, then, has yet to be written. Heroes have fallen and the world is a ruin of chaos and self-destruction. The time of the apocalypse has come. Who, then, will stand and face the Devil?

Thanos left an indelible mark. What was undone was far from erased and the world is the poorer for the losses he brought to bear. But he is not the only being of power looking to claim Earth as its throne. The enemy from the heavens was defeated. But it is the enemy from the darkest and deepest places who may prove to be the final death knell for the universe.

And yet... hope comes...

Like the ringing strike of a hammer against iron...

Chapter 1

It was a pretty great view. He'd been meaning to check it out; sometime. Those weeks spent in his (new) room; dishes of food going cold at his elbow while he'd sat at his computer and clicked through five years of history that he hadn't lived. Most of the news stories had been about the failing economy; the declaration of martial law around the country, the breakdown of infrastructure. His current roosting spot was exactly the same as it had been the day he'd... dusted. Skyline Tower had been scheduled for completion in 2020. Three years later and, like so many other construction projects, it was an abandoned property with naked I-beams stabbing towards the clouds. It would probably never be finished. Not the way things were, now.

It was bad. So bad. So, so, so bad!

Panic had been clawing at Peter for the better part of three days, now. He hadn't spoken to MJ, or Ned. He was being a coward, he knew, but he'd screwed everything up so much and didn't want them stuck in his mess worse than they already were.

Nothing had been right since Titan.

He hadn't gone back to the apartment. The new apartment.

May was worried but he'd assured her he was fine. Everything was okay; he just needed... he had to think. And he wasn't doing her any favors staying at the apartment, the new apartment, with reporters crawling everywhere. He had begged her to stay with Happy (and he didn't want to analyze that too closely). The media may know who he was but he bet they didn't know about Happy or where to find him. May would be safe. Peter...well, he knew how to hide.

What would Tony...?

No. Nope. He couldn't think about that. He couldn't; no, not no, not now!

Peter crushed the heels of his palms against his eyes until bright colors flared. He gulped and gulped and rocked against his perch until the heat started to leech away from his cheeks once more. He sniffed and lifted his head; noting how the lights below had a halo from his compromised vision. He scrubbed the wet from his lashes and blinked until everything cleared.

Leaning back against a thick beam he let his attention drift – picking out the far off shape of one, particular, building; unique among its neighbors. From this distance he could almost pretend...

A somewhat closer sound pulled his eyes back to his immediate surroundings. Raised voices – then a sharp report from a gun. Peter snatched his mask from the place where he'd tossed it. Dragging the dark fabric over his eyes, he squinted down towards the direction of the shouts. He missed the greeting that used to come with the motion. He hadn't activated Karen since that day... he just couldn't...

Silently dropping down the side of the building, avoiding the use of his webs, Peter dropped to the pavement and crouched – keeping to the shadows. The gunshot had chased off most of the group involved in the fight. There were still three people left behind, however. One of them was on the ground holding his leg. There was another guy beside him on a phone; probably calling for help. The third person looked like a bystander. She was also on her phone. Basically it looked like they had things covered. Sighing, Peter jumped and caught the wall with his fingers; slipping out of sight and feeling the last of his concern leave him at the sound of an ambulance approaching.

He worked his way back through Queens; only using his webs twice when he didn't have any other options. Nobody saw him. He'd promised May he'd stay with her at Happy's apartment for the rest of the week. It just... it felt weird. He was still trying to wrap his head around it. Well... not just that.

His destination was just across the street. Late enough that the building he braced his shoulders against was dark, he gave the sidewalk a quick back and forth before darting towards the back of the shop. Closed for the night but he had an in with the owner. A double rap on the back door and he waited; still keeping eyes and ears open. But the only sounds were from the traffic. The door opened, and Mr. Delmar gave him a look. That same look.

“How you holding up, kid? You look too skinny these days.”

Peter shrugged, accepting the fragrant bag held out to him. “I'm okay. Thanks for the sandwich. Here, I...” He dug into one of the pockets lining the suit but Mr. Delmar shook his head – hand flat towards him.

“Hey; on the house, right? I told you before, kid, your money's no good here. Just... take care of yourself, alright?”

Peter swallowed but pushed the bills back into his pocket; nodding. “I will. I promise.” He knelt to scratch Murph on the head as the fluffy cat coiled around his owner's legs. “You look after this old guy, okay?” A purring mew in response and Peter gave a final pat before straightening. “Thanks... for the sandwich and... everything...”

The older man nodded. “Anytime you need anything, kid...”

Peter pushed a smile across his lips. “I will. Thanks.” He didn't look back as he slunk away.

He didn't open the bag until he was back on his chosen perch; watching the last of the evening turn purple on the horizon as he dug out the first of two sandwiches and a can of strawberry soda. He wolfed down the food – noting, only then, the burn that hunger had left behind. Stuffing the trash back into the bag, he crushed it into a ball before dragging his heels to the open cavity that was meant to one day hold an elevator. A dead dream with a hole left behind.

Leaning forward, he hooked fingers on the straps of his backpack – spraying the webbing with release fluid and slinging the bag across his shoulders.

The trip to Happy's place took around twenty minutes by web. Employing somewhat more conservative travel, Peter reached the rooftop in about an hour. He changed clothes before creeping his way down to the window outside of the spare room. It was unlocked. It was always unlocked. He spread one hand over the pane and slid it up easily. Out of habit he crawled along the ceiling; lowering himself without a sound and listening at the crack of the door. The television was on but there was no talking. It smelled like pasta and his stomach rumbled; as though he hadn't eaten two #5's a little over an hour ago. His phone vibrated. Crossing back to close the window, he checked the screen. So MJ and Ned had been texting him all evening. The last appeared to be a joint effort including a close up pic of their lips making an exaggerated frown. He laughed; he couldn't help it, and sent off a long-ish reply and a gif of a dancing pickle.

“Peter?”

He turned as May rapped on the door frame. She looked... really beautiful. Tired and worried but...

“Hey.” He dropped his phone to the polished end table alongside the bed (no scratches, no ink stains, no wall mounted lamp with the chipped metal shade). “Sorry I... I was...” He fiddled with the hem of his tee. He didn't know how to finish that so he just shrugged.

May approached until her arms could go around him. She didn't say anything; just hugged him and he closed his eyes and breathed in her hair. He didn't know the shampoo she'd used – it wasn't like the kind she usually bought. He finally breathed out and stepped back. “You guys cook?”

May brushed two fingers through his bangs. “Happy made chicken primavera. You hungry? I saved you some in case...”

Peter nodded and followed his aunt from the room. The television was turned down but he pretended that it wasn't because Happy was listening from the other room. The kitchen was still a bizarre space, to him. Open and with lots of counter space and shiny appliances and various pieces of equipment he wasn't totally certain what they did. He hadn't even known Happy liked to cook until the first time May and he had been invited over for dinner. Happy had made grilled salmon.

The leftover pasta was in a pyrex container that Peter could heat in the microwave. He grabbed one of the fancy bottles of sparkling cider from the fridge – trying to beat down the uneasiness of eating someone else's food no matter how often Happy had told him he could have whatever he wanted.

He ate while leaning against the counter and cleaned up afterwards; putting his used dishes in the washer. He took his cider with him to the large living room where May and Happy were sitting on the couch and watching some sorta old musical or something. Peter shifted his feet and had the urgent rush to scurry back to his borrowed bedroom. Happy smiled at him and pointed towards the nearby overstuffed chair. “Wanna join? Your aunt picked this out. She swears it's good.”

May patted Happy on the knee. "It is good when you actually pay attention.”

Snorting, Happy slouched down. “I would if they'd stop singing...”

Dropping into the chair, Peter tried not to sink too far into the comfortable softness. “Isn't that the whole point of a musical?”

Happy pointed at him though Peter wasn't entirely certain what the gesture was supposed to mean. He just smiled in response and earned a smirk back. Belly, for once, a bit over full, Peter set his mostly finished bottle of cider on a magazine (Happy wasn't a big coaster guy) and finally let himself go limp in the way too comfortable chair.

It was some black time, later, when May was rubbing her fingers against his scalp.

“Hey, sweetie... how about you head to bed, okay?” Peter snuffled – wincing as he wrestled to unwind himself from the awkward slump draped over the arm of the chair. It had been a hard lesson, learning that super healing didn't mean he couldn't get a kink in his neck from sleeping like a pretzel.

It was a weaving wander back to the spare room. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned hard enough to crack the tendons in his jaw. “Ow.”

May's hand was a warm span against his back as he slid his feet through the door and towards the queen sized bed. Part of him sorta hated that it was so much more comfortable than the twin back at the old... at the other apartment. But most of him was just glad to flop onto the thick mattress and spread out.

May started to leave but Peter's fingers had caught at her hem. He felt a little silly and small but...

He didn't say anything as she sat back down. He watched her as her fingers found his scalp and rubbed at the small hairs near his temple.

“I've missed you. I know you want to handle this your own way but... you know, there are people who can help you. And we can take care of ourselves, too, you know? But what you're doing; staying away night after night...”

Peter turned his head; eyes landing on the framed poster of the New York skyline taking up much of the far wall. May didn't chastise him further; though he was pretty sure he'd earned more. His fingers dug and pulled at the edge of the comforter that she'd pulled over his shoulders. Heat and cold rushed across his scalp in a familiar tension and he squeezed his eyes; battling the tight clench that worked through his throat and into his belly. He knew hope was lost when his breaths stuttered and his eyes got hot behind his lids.

May didn't ask him what was wrong; not when he turned towards his pillow in a hopeless attempt to stop up the sounds he couldn't prevent. She just brushed at his hair and stayed by his side.

And eventually... eventually... he fell asleep.

҉

May's hand continued to move – her fingers gliding through curls that were desperately in need of a trim. She sat there, every day. Same spot; often enough that she was surprised the mattress hadn't shaped itself to fit her frame.

The figure that stood alongside her was silent; also watching the boy.

“He always hated his curls; at least when he was younger. The first time he ever let his hair grow out was when he was eleven. Glory Grant had moved into the apartment across from ours. Glory Grant was sixteen, wore silk flowers in her braids, and loved curly hair. Of course he was smitten.” She grinned; her fingers coming to rest on Peter's scalp. “Now, of course, he likes to slick it back with product. One guess as to where he got that idea.”

Her companion finally crouched as well; sitting on the opposite side of the bed and letting his hand rest on Peter's shoulder. “What can I say? Kid's got good taste.” Tony couldn't manage a smile, though, his face appearing sallow in the blue lights of the monitor.

May pulled her glasses from her nose and let them dangle from two fingers while the heel of her hand pushed against her left eye. Another headache. Been having them, on and off, ever since she'd come back; standing over a cold stove with a moldy pan of pasta before her. It was only later that she'd thanked every entity in the book that she'd turned the oven off prior to the Snap. She'd heard some stories...

“Will you be here? Tomorrow?” If... always if... The un-worded hope. That maybe it would help. Maybe it would make a difference... if...

“Yeah. Wouldn't miss it.” Tony squeezed the small shoulder under his fingers. And then he stood; tipping his chin towards May. “You coming over, Saturday? Happy's cooking. Some sorta large... meat... thing.”

May smiled and shrugged. “Can I let you know? After tomorrow?” If...

Tony nodded. “Yeah, you bet. Just so you know, you're taking home half of the leftovers, either way.”

He stopped, on his way back out – one hand coming down in a gentle touch on her shoulder. “Hey... we'll get this figured out.”

May looked up – into darkened brown eyes – red-rimmed and showing every hour, every day, that he hadn't slept in the past three months. She knew, far too well, what that felt like. And whatever the whispers tried to say, in the back of her mind, she smiled at him. This room was only for hope. “I know.” Her attention turned back to Peter – fingers tracing along his hairline – rubbing at his temples where the fine hairs curled against his scalp. “Come home, Peter.”

She didn't watch Tony leave. She would stay there, with Peter, as she had every night in the three months since they'd woken back to life, only to find her nephew hadn't quite made it back. He'd been in that room ever since.

“Come home, baby. We're all waiting for you.”

[arisefairsun]

My English teacher left me very confused when learning about Romeo and Juliet. He said that it wasn't a love story because they didn't love each other; Juliet just basically used Romeo, but I don't know what to think. Can you please explain to me if it's a love story, tragedy, or both?

Did your teacher say that Juliet used Romeo? How rude.

The first thing we have to remember is that the feud is the exponent of an unhealthy ideology that promotes violence, hatred, prejudice, and brutal misogyny. Don’t ever forget the world they lived in. Romeo and Juliet are not normal teenagers living in a normal world and making stupid decisions. They are children whose mental health ends up destroyed by the ideals of their families. I just won’t stand anyone who refers to them as ‘dumb’ because it’s a very insulting way of dismissing the destructiveness of social oppression and abuse. It’s so evident that their families caused their deaths that at the end of the play nobody has the guts to blame them for their own deaths and dismiss their emotions as shallow or dishonest. What they have done is too monstrous for them to deny. When both patriarchs find the young lovers dead together in the crypt they see the wrong in their actions and take responsibility for it. They know they killed their children. It was not teenage folly that ruined Romeo and Juliet. It was a sick society that glorified violence and prejudice.

Perhaps your male teacher is annoyed by the fact that Juliet hardly fits in the role of a sixteenth-century obedient wife who goes along with whatever her husband has to say. On the contrary, Juliet has a voice of her own. It is evident from the first conversation between the lovers that she has a very particular, specific way of thinking, and which doesn’t necessarily match that of Romeo. For instance, she gently mocks his stereotyped courtship when she says “you kiss by the book.” I would say she is a far better poet than him—he actually learns from her. Think about the way she corrects him when he tries to swear his love by the moon. She literally rationalizes everything. Romeo needs to get on her level. Later on, he will ask her to “sweeten with thy breath / This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue / Unfold the imagined happiness that both / Receive in either by this dear encounter,” to which Juliet answers that “conceit, more rich in matter than in words, / Brags of his substance, not of ornament”. You see, she doesn’t always agree with him, and she presents her own points of view resolutely. She is the one to give lessons.

Moreover, she is capable of turning against Romeo. Look at her reaction to Tybalt’s death:

O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?Beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelical!Dove-feather’d raven! Wolvish-ravening lamb!Despised substance of divinest show!Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,A damned saint, an honourable villain!O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell,When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiendIn moral paradise of such sweet flesh?Was ever book containing such vile matterSo fairly bound? O that deceit should dwellIn such a gorgeous palace!

She only truly decides to stand up for him when she decides that it was most likely Tybalt who started the fight. So she has a very clear perception of judgment that she uses all the time, even when it doesn’t benefit Romeo. He recognizes her independence and doesn’t expect her to behave in a way she doesn’t agree with just because it would do him good. When he is banished, he anxiously asks about her well-being, aware that he may have lost her sympathy for good:

Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her?Doth she not think me an old murderer,Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joyWith blood removed but little from her own?Where is she? And how doth she? And what saysMy conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?

Juliet is a really complex character who doesn’t need to adopt anyone’s posture because she has thoughts and ideas of her own. She has personality. Look at her words. Her courage is limitless:

O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,From off the battlements of yonder tower;Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurkWhere serpents are; chain me with roaring bears;Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,O'er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls;Or bid me go into a new-made graveAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud.

She doesn’t mind breaking any rules that may prevent her from getting what she wants. And she breaks them simply because she wants to. For instance, living in a world where names, honor, and dynasty do indeed determine people’s lives, she claims that what makes Romeo valuable has nothing to do with his surname. “What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, / Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part / Belonging to a man.” Tell her that her Romeo is not free from social constructs. She’ll fight you. And where does she get all these ideas from? She gets them from herself.There’s this delicious youth about her, this restless euphoria, this passionate determination, this unstoppable fierceness, this need to experience life freely. Juliet is too alive to stay quietly in the shadows. She has fallen in love with liberty so deeply that once her only chance to achieve freedom dies, she inevitably, tragically, dies as well. In my opinion, she is the most intelligent character in the play. She has some of the deepest and most revolutionary speeches. She makes what is to me the hardest and scariest decision when she drinks the friar’s potion. She is the sun. She is life itself. Romeo knows and admires this. In his dreams, Juliet brings him back to life because “she breathed such life with kisses in my lips.” Her love is stronger than all the hate living in Verona: “Look thou but sweet, / And I am proof against their enmity.” To him, she is a powerful light forcing her way through the window, overcoming the restrictions of the physical space, and thus freely expanding herself through the sky without restraint: “What light through yonder window breaks? / It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

However, the patriarchal structure of her society inevitably thwarts her liveliness. She must restrain herself. Look at the way she refers to her house: “Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud.” She feels like a prisoner who must stay silent. But if she were free, things would be quite different: “Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies / And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine / With repetition of “my Romeo!” Now compare that with her attitude in the first act, before she met Romeo. She had assured her mother that she would “look to like, if looking liking move. / But no more deep will I endart mine eye / Than your constent gives strength to make it fly.” She is trapped in the role of the submissive daughter who allows her parents to command her life. She didn’t dare contradict her mother the way she does with Romeo later on. So while she must show obedience to her parents, she can let out her real self in Romeo’s company. He is interested in listening to her and taking into account whatever she has to say. She finds a friend in him, as she once says, and she begins to free herself from the constraints of her society. Romeo is her chance to achieve a more exciting life. But even as she imagines him as a little bird that she can cherish, she stresses her lack of freedom as opposed to his ability to fly. She is “loving-jealous of his liberty.” In the “balcony” scene (though there really isn’t any balcony), she is locked in her window. But look at the stage direction from 2.6, which is when they get married:

Enter Juliet somewhat fast and embraces Romeo.

She comes in running and immediately hugs Romeo because she is finally free to move. So after gaining some agency through their love, she is not ready to let the friar “dispose” of her “among a sisterhood of holy nuns” in the last scene. I’m inclined to read the play as the lovers’ attempt to assert themselves in a society that doesn’t care about them. They try to build new, private identities that do not match their public roles. I will not say they used each other because of the negative connotations of the word, but I will definitely say that they took advantage of their relationship to explore their real selves and figure out what they really wanted to be, and not what their relatives wanted.

I can’t see how anyone could claim that Juliet used him when she is so tenderly in love. In the balcony scene she feels like she will have to wait for “twenty years” to receive Romeo’s news when she’s actually going to send the Nurse for him at nine o’clock in the morning. When she realizes the night is nearly over, she lets him go, but “no further than a wanton’s bird.” She literally fears she would kill him “with much cherishing” because she has too much love to give. She actually feels like her affection is endless: “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep; the more I give to thee / The more I have, for both are infinite.” It makes her feel so rich she “cannot sum up sum of half” her wealth. She complains that “love’s heralds should be thoughts / Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams.” She wishes her thoughts and Romeo’s could communicate instantly because the Nurse fails at being “as swift in motion as a ball.” (Notice how she is talking about thoughts here. There’s a lot more than physical desire going on between Romeo and Juliet.) She is so happy to be with him that she pretends it was the nightingale singing. And then there’s the kind of metaphors she creates for him. They are tender and loving. The Nurse says she has been making puns out of the similarities between Romeo’s name and ‘rosemary’. Can you get any more ridiculously sentimental than that? He is her “sweet”, the “god of my idolatry”. She thinks that “every tongue that speaks / But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence” because he is literally perfect: “So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called / Retain that dear perfection which he owes / Without that title.”

I would also like to stress that she is very protective of him. Romeo is a scared child who needs as much help as her. She does her best to free him from the constraints of their world. Picking up again the pilgrim/saint motif from their first conversation, Romeo asks Juliet to “call me but love and I’ll be new baptized.” From that moment on there will be two Romeos: Montague’s heir and her Romeo. Look at this dialogue between the Nurse and Juliet:

Nurse: Will you speak well of him that killed your cousin?Juliet: Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?

She knows Romeo’s real, private identity depends on her. If she leaves his side, her Romeo will fade away and the feud will take over his existence. What makes her drink the friar’s potion, after having expressed all her fears, is the thought of Tybalt’s ghost haunting Romeo. She is afraid that Tybalt, who is one of the major exponents of toxic masculinity, violence, and rage, will destroy Romeo if she doesn’t prevent it.

O, look! Methinks I see my cousin’s ghostSeeking out Romeo, that did spit his bodyUpon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!Romeo, I come! This do I drink to thee.

Her fierce protectiveness is present all along. “I would not for the world they saw thee here,” she’d do anything to prevent her family from hurting him. She stands up for him when the Nurse criticizes him: “He was not born to shame. / Upon his brow shamed is ashamed to sit, / For ‘tis a throne where honour may be crown’d / Sole monarch of the universal earth.” I can’t imagine anything she wouldn’t do to keep Romeo safe and loved: “Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble; / And I will do it without fear or doubt, / To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.”When her mother confesses her plans to poison him, Juliet wittingly offers to prepare the venom herself, making her mother believe that she wants to kill him when she is actually saving his life:

Madam, if you could find out but a manTo bear a poison, I would temper it;That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,Soon sleep in quiet. 

And then they subvert a lot of patriarchal norms: It’s Romeo who rejects his name, though he never asks the same from her. They consummate their marriage in Juliet’s bed (I read some critic say that Juliet brings Romeo to her “sexual territory” lmao) and finally, Romeo kills himself in the crypt of her wife’s family rather than in that of his own father. I think this is perfectly conveyed in the last dialogue of the play:

Montague: For I will raise her statue in pure gold;That while Verona by that name is known,There shall no figure at such rate be setAs that of true and faithful Juliet.Capulet:  As rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie;Poor sacrifices of our enmity!

Juliet is the center of their conversation. While she will be raised in pure gold and everyone will praise her, Romeo’s merit seems to be that he will lie by her side. Shakespeare acknowledges the importance of Juliet’s character again by ending the play with the words “Juliet and her Romeo.” Which doesn’t mean that Romeo is a fool that agrees with everything that Juliet says. He sometimes disagrees with her. (Remember, for example, when Juliet wanted to take it slow in the balcony scene. He answers, “O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”. More on that here. Another interesting part is when he agrees to stay with her after the nightingale vs. lark debate, though he still doesn’t believe that she is right. He knows what Juliet is asking for is wrong: “Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so”). I would actually say they’re equals. In fact, they are introduced as “a pair of star-crossed lovers” who “take their life”, not lives, as if to emphasize their alliance and their oneness. Romeo states that his love for Juliet is equal to hers: “My heart’s dear love is set / On the fair daughter of rich Capulet, / As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine, / And all combined, save what thou must combine / By holy marriage.” To him, true love consists of a mutual exchange of affection: “Her I love now / Doth grace for grace and love for love allow.” The chorus claims that Juliet is “as much in love, her means less,” which leads me to believe that the play presents the lovers as internally equal and socially unequal, as this post explains here. Lastly, their parents promise to build equal monuments for both of them. Romeo’s statue will be “as rich” as Juliet’s. It is as if after all the wrong they did, they are finally ready to honor them justly.

I think that while Juliet suffers because of her lack of agency, Romeo suffers because socially speaking he has too much agency (and he will have even more once he inherits his father’s possessions). He basically couldn’t care less about his responsibilities as Montague’s heir. Look at his attitude in the first scene:

O me! What fray was here?Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.

The heir of the Montague house doesn’t even want to know what happened. Later on he will attempt to kill himself in order to get rid of his name: “O, tell me, friar, tell me, / In what vile part of this anatomy / Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack / The hateful mansion.” On the contrary, Juliet’s perception of the world revitalizes him as she believes that his real identity doesn’t depend on his name. So of course he will describe her as “a rich jewel” hanging in “the cheek of night”, of course he thinks she would “shame those stars / As daylight doth a lamp” if she were in the sky. Of course Juliet is capable of bringing him back to life in his dreams. He clings to her in the same way she clings to him because she instroduces him to a purer side of life. She becomes his home: “And I’ll still stay to have thee still forget, / Forgetting any other home but this.” It’s the pleasure of talking to her that he loves: “How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk; it is not day.” They transcend the restraints of their society with the freedom of their love. Look at Romeo’s words:

With love’s light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;For stony limits cannot hold love out,And what love can do that dares love attempt;Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.

(I think that passage is quite relevant nowadays, since prejudice and hate are inspiring people to build walls and ban innocent souls from coming in. Romeo might be overly sentimental, but the thing is he just wants to get rid of the hate that’s been imposed on him and turn it into love. And that’s not silly or ‘dumb’. Not when you live in a world where hate is accepted and love is seen as a shameful feeling. Romeo refuses to be stopped by those who want to harm him out of hate.)

It’s not that kind of love story where the characters get their happy ending after overcoming some obstacles. We know Romeo and Juliet are sentenced to die from the first lines of the play. The prologue tells us we are going to sit there for two hours to watch them fall. We don’t know how it’s going to happen, but we know it will somehow. And I think part of the point is this: People can’t be happy if their society doesn’t support them. They can’t be free if they are forced into violence, in Romeo’s case, and passivity, in Juliet’s case. It’s the story of two children who try their hardest to become what they want to be, and they do so with each other’s help. But they fail because they are left alone. They die because they cannot live without each other. They cannot live without each other because nobody else can help them. Nobody else can help them because their society is sick. It’s a love story that exposes the problems of a toxic environment.

As for the genre, it’s something that has been up for debate for centuries. Some say it’s a tragedy. Some say it shares some characteristics common of comedies. Indeed, you could argue that the play follows the pattern of a comedy up until Mercutio’s death. It really depends on how you want to look at it. Romeo and Juliet die, but the feud dies as well. Capulet and Montague assure that there will be no more hate in Verona. So you could say that Friar Laurence’s wishes are fulfilled. The lovers, the “poor sacrifices”, turn their households’ rancor “to pure love.” Love wins. They fix their world. There will be no more violence. But the ending is evidently still tragic as the young lovers lose their lives. I would say it’s both a pessimistic and optimistic story at the same time.

This post is getting too long, but I could go on. Come back to the ask box if you have any question!