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paullicino · 21 days

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Six Years - On PTSD and Choosing Life

Content warning: This essay very frankly discusses mental health, trauma, gaslighting and suicide. It also links to discussions of abuse and sexual assault.

If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, know that you are not alone and help is available to you or anyone who might need it, such as the Samaritans, the Suicide Prevention Hotline, or this list of other crisis hotlines and this list of international support resources.

This was reposted from my Patreon.

There are blue skies today. The sun bounces off the mirrored windows of a skyscraper downtown. It cuts straight across my balcony and shines onto my wall. A few blocks away, the staff of my favourite café will share their latest gossip with me, as they always like to do, and maybe later tonight I will make good food and play games with friends until unwise times in the morning. Isn’t life full of wonderful things?

You can find them everywhere. And I certainly do. Sometimes I’ve found them in the intimate, up-close details of a famous oil painting, between the notes of a new song heard by chance, even in the rustling at the bottom of a dumpster, which becomes chittering and then fur and a tail and then direct eye contact with a tiny criminal whose only felony was hunger. I’ve found them amongst perfectly crafted sentences that capture thoughts and feelings and hold them forever on the page, in the silence of the impossibly wild mountain wilderness a thousand miles from home, in the first moments that I’ve taken someone’s hand and watched the gaudy lights of some forgettable venue play across the lines and the shapes of their face.

That’s so many wonderful things to live for. And I can get overdramatically passionate about the tiniest, silliest little details.

I’ve been trying to write this for a long time. I had three significant dreams during that period. In the most recent, I had moved into a dark and barren basement, with most of my possessions still in boxes. Some old friends from long ago came knocking. They pressed their faces against the small windows and tried to force the ageing door. “Where did you go?” they kept asking, their voices entering through every crack. “What happened?”

Six years ago this month I destroyed my suicide note. I burned it on a rainy August night and watched it curl into a tiny, helpless twisting of ashes and charred plastic that no longer had any power or purpose. The note was inside of a ziploc bag, a choice I’d made to ensure its integrity and survival against any of the several different plans I’d made to end my life, and this had melted into black strands of hair-like debris that reached up to nothing. One or two of my handwritten words remained half legible in this mess and tried to reach beyond the flames, to share their intent with the world, but they would never again mean anything to anyone.

I made videos of the burning and took a few pictures, a sort of ritual of recording, then I told a close friend what I’d just done, and then, for a very long time, I set the image as the wallpaper on my phone. It would be an ever-present reminder to me of my choice to stay alive. It was supposed to help me feel strong, though the truth is that I rarely did. It was the worst, most harrowing and most damaging period of my life and with help, honesty, insight, therapy, time and invaluable connection with others who have either seen the same things that I have or had comparable experiences, I managed to fumble and fight my way through it all. But I will never be the same. Six years is a long time and I am still profoundly affected by so much. I am still trying to understand things. I am still trying to figure myself out, to make sense of my identity, my situation, my experiences. To work out where I went and what happened. And I am still trying to move on.

These words are something about that ongoing experience, that work in progress, and about the dual significance of a span of six years. It is not so much about causes or causers, but instead about consequences and changes, and that’s for three reasons.

The first is because what happens after and as a result of trauma is so enduring and significant, perhaps even the most significant consideration of all, and it’s how we find ourselves discussing things like spans of six years or, for some people, far longer. I want to try to explain some of that sort of intensity and that sort of timescale.

The second is because it’s my hope that this is the most helpful way for me to talk about all this, the most illustrative to other people, the most constructive. I could have chosen many approaches, some which I believe might have been more harmful and destructive, and I don’t generally want to be a punitive or destructive person. Ultimately I think this is the most positive and productive approach.

The third is because I’m still not ready to unpack many things, as so much is still ongoing. I am not at the end of this, not out of the woods, and I think I need to know that I’ve reached the end of whatever journey I’m on before I can return to the start.

There is, allegedly, a power in choosing how your own story is told. So I’m choosing to tell it this way and, I hope, with the awareness that any exercise of power requires consideration and responsibility.

Six years is a long time, and while I’ve been trying to write and rewrite this thing for months, those months still pale in comparison to more than half a decade. A lot has changed in six years, and yet I also wish some things weren’t still the same, that I would have been able to make more progress, that I would have been able to create more distance.

Because, while I am six years from that burning note, from that summer rain, in my memory and my mind it doesn’t work like that. I still find myself beside that moment in time, like I could open the door to the next room and once again be right there.

---

Writing this has been very difficult. Writing is supposed to be one of the things that I am best at, and in the past words used to spill out of me so regularly that I wrote a tri-weekly diary, but I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my relationship to writing has changed. It’s not just that this is a difficult topic. It’s that words don’t come as easily or as fluidly as they once did, making it much easier, all too appealing, to simply not push myself. To avoid things entirely.

But I wanted to write this, in part, because it would be another act of not giving up. I wanted to show myself what I could do, what I still can do, and that, even if I’m changed, I’m still stubborn enough to fumble and fight my way through.

---

I want you to imagine a house. It can be any kind of house, that part isn’t important. What is important is that the house is your home and you have lived there for a very, very long time. It is comfortable. It is safe. It is so intimately familiar that it is a part of your identity. Perhaps you grew up there, or you raised a family there, or you retired there. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s your home and that everyone knows you live there.

Next, imagine that you have a terrible day. The worst day. And at the end of this terrible, terrible day, on a bleak and dusky evening, you expect at least to be able to come back to your house, your home. You take the same route back to the same address, where you see the same building stood before you and open the same front door, ready for the comfort of a place you’ve made your own.

You enter this space that you’ve known for so long and you notice something is wrong. The first clue is something small, perhaps a lamp missing from its usual spot, or you collide with furniture moved somewhere unexpected. You feel for a light switch that is now on a different wall. You stumble on the stairs as you make your way to a bed that is hard and unwelcoming. In the morning, the light from the window is not only a different shape, but cast in the opposite direction.

The changes stop being so subtle. After you notice that a carpet is suddenly faded and pale, you open a closet to find it is twice as deep. Some of your possessions are missing. The spare room no longer has a skylight. The kitchen is a different colour, with different appliances, with no back door, half the size it once was because the walls have been moved. There are new rooms whose arrival and contents are both equally inexplicable. Your most cozy corner is now cold and uncomfortable. You must relearn the entire layout, from bathroom to basement, because moving around the way you once would only causes you to stub your toes, to trip, even to fall.

Your friends don’t understand why you no longer enjoy going back to your house, your home. They don’t understand why you screamed at the different closet, why the sunlight on the wall makes you nervous. Being in your own home now hurts and scares you. How can you possibly relax here? But this is still your same house, at your same address, the one that everybody knows. You can’t argue that it isn’t. And if you invite a friend inside, after ranting about everything that is different, they ask “Why did you change all this? It’s so much worse.”

What can you even say in return? “I didn’t”? That shit’s insane.

But that is how it feels, like I live in a house that isn’t my home. Sometimes I don’t recognise myself. Sometimes, on the worst days, I don’t know who I am any more.

“Where did you go?” ask the voices, entering through every crack. “What happened?”

---

Last summer, a man came roaring down my street in his flawless luxury emerald convertible. I remember him well. He had dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket and a hairstyle slick with oil, like he was being a parody of a rich man from an eighties film. He surged through the stop sign right in front of me and I let him know what I thought of his public display of privilege and indifference.

“Go a little faster, you cunt,” I yelled. “Maybe you can hit a kid.”

He swivelled his head, looked back over his shoulder and stared straight at me.

He also slowed down.

It was then that I realised the volume I must have used to project myself, over the noise of his engine and toward a driver already continuing down the street, meant a few of my neighbours had likely heard me too.

I’m not sure I cared.

I used to be a more modest and deferential person, and often that is still the case. But often it is not. I have less patience. I have less fear. And I have less trust.

The fear thing is great. Last autumn I walked across a narrow, quivering suspension bridge with no care for the drop below. Later, I found another far narrower, far smaller one and, all by myself, alone in the woods sixteen kilometres up a trail, I jumped up and down on the thing until it shook and swung.

I used to be terrified of heights.

My sense of fear isn’t gone. But it’s both so much more manageable and also, quite often, a thrill. It’s taken me a while to realise that I increasingly seek out things that are exciting, risky or extremely stimulating. I am frank with strangers. I am quick to make decisions. I am keen to try new things.

It doesn’t sound so bad, does it? That’s because it isn’t. Not all change is bad and not every consequence of my experience has been negative. Slowly, gradually, I am learning to appreciate a few of the changes, to lean into them. While one part of me feels sad that I’m less trusting than I used to be, another part of me sees this as more practical. I’m far quicker to drop something or someone like a rock the moment I sense things that I don’t like, and my sense for such things is certainly sharper than it used to be. Am I always right? I don’t know about that. Perhaps some people have been casualties of an overabundance of caution. Or paranoia.

That might just be the new cost of doing business.

---

It was some time in early 2020, while talking with my GP and taking some evaluations, that we began to look at my behaviour more closely. A year before, I’d talked extensively with a therapist about anxiety and about a growing sense of discomfort and distrust. I had far less patience, particularly for those who pushed boundaries, violated or were exploitative, often regardless of whether these things even involved or affected me. Anything that felt uncomfortably familiar, whether it was something I saw in a film, caught on the news or heard about on social media, could ruin my day. I would become jumpy, irritable, scared, or simply unable to do much beyond lie down and try everything I could to banish the feeling that my chest was being crushed. This might take hours. One evening, an ex found me curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. On another evening, a routine trip to see an exciting film turned into a sleepless night of panic and distress.

I began taking tests and found myself either dismissing the results or retaking them over and over in an attempt to get different answers. The outcomes kept telling me I had the symptoms of PTSD. This was far too dramatic a result and there had already been enough drama in my life already. I myself was too much drama.

Anyway, I thought, having the symptoms isn’t the same as having.

Sometimes I think about how, during some of my most difficult moments, the toughest weeks and months that I didn’t really know how I was going to get through, I made a lot of haphazard decisions motivated by panic and fear and ignorance, by doing my best to improvise and cope and adapt. Some things worked out. Some things did not. Probably the deciding factor there was luck and I’m not really sure I can look back with any wisdom or insight.

I didn’t always know what to do, what to say, who to trust, or how much to trust, how to respond to new information and changing situations, or what in holy hell might ever work out. My response to all of this was to keep secrets or to be cagey, to avoid places and people, to suddenly and liberally cut others off through a mix of ghosting, avoidance and outright blocking, or to occasionally have three-day long anxiety spikes in which I remained highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. During one of these, someone teasingly pushed me to take part in something that I didn’t want to, something that wasn’t even a big deal, and I was so close to breaking down that I had to almost run from my friends and find a quiet place to catch my breath, all the emotions in my body somehow pinched into a single point somewhere in my gut. During another, a laptop accidentally nudged half an inch sent me into panic mode, manifesting a feeling like a blade of ice slicing straight through my pulmonary artery.

These sorts of responses and behaviours would happen even in spite of all the various combinations of therapy and medication and support I was cycling my way through. I don’t feel proud of how I handled many of these things. I would love to be able to say that I handle them so much better now, with the aid of wisdom and insight. Perhaps sometimes I do.

Sometimes I have simply made terrible decisions and, looking back, I am still not sure how I might have ever done any different. I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further.

---

It’s a magnificent day as I write this. The world is jade and azure and gold. The sky is exquisitely, flawlessly blue. Every leaf is rich with the gloss of summer. The sun is setting into the sparkling sea beside a succession of fading distant mountain ridges, each hazier than the last, the furthest so indistinct it looks almost like mist, a ghost of an idea two thousand metres tall. Container ships the size of city blocks sleep in the bay, their hulls traced and wrinkled with rust from a lifetime of global migration. As the growing shadows of slowly swaying trees reach their way toward me, the last light of the day glides over the ground, over the grass and even over my body itself, like spilled wine gushing from a glass. It colours everything the sweet shade of nostalgia. The air is gently warm and the grass is soft beneath me.

I love days like this. They are one of the reasons why I moved here, why I put so much time and effort and energy into relocating halfway around the world. Into building the life that I wanted, piece by piece.

And I love so many of those pieces. I love my little apartment, with the balcony that I always wanted, with its ragtag assortment of secondhand furniture collected one item at a time, with its shelves tucked in here or squeezed in there, never quite tidy enough to look presentable. I love my walkable neighbourhood, with its shops and cafés and cats that follow me from block to block, or critters that peer out from between bushes in the rustling dusk. I love how low cloud creeps in to cover the tips of the skyscrapers downtown, or how the jagged outline of mountains shape the horizon in almost every direction. I love trying to make things, especially with other people, and the reward of being creative, of being silly or being funny. I love all the things I’ve learned to cook, or the ways I can warm myself up on a cold day, or the late nights I can so often indulge, with no care for what might come tomorrow.

I have so much to be grateful for and so much to be proud of. So much here. So much now.

Pretty soon, the sunset will transform the whole sky into a gradient of colour. Someone somewhere will be playing guitar on the beach, and maybe they’ll be good. Stars will appear in the sky, above the familiar urban zodiac traced out by the city lights of apartment buildings. If I stay up late again, the dawn sky will turn the royal blue of an emperor’s cloak. And then all of this will happen again.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to appreciate.

---

A few weeks ago I had my first nightmare in some time. They still happen. The specifics matter less than the broad themes. Deception. Gaslighting. Manipulation. Boundary violation. All of it in plain sight, yet still unseen, making me feel like I’m helpless, like I’m crazy, like I have no hope of ever being believed.

I thought about it all day. The situations, the faces and the fears. This is the way it’s always been and once one of these nightmares visits you, it stays for a while. It’s like a small stain, an odour that gets into your clothes, the stink of cigarettes after a party the evening before.

Can you wash out a stain? Sometimes. With the right substances, with the correct regimen. And with some aggressive, persistent scrubbing.

One summer night years ago an ex woke me up because I had been thrashing about in my sleep. I had worried her by rolling around and muttering like a madman. Was I having a nightmare, she asked, and it wasn’t just that I was, but that I had them all the time. Every week, at least, each leaving that same gross feeling of violation and abuse. The anxiety medication that I had been prescribed was helping me sleep more, but it also seemed to make my dreams more vivid and profound. It was either that or barely being able to sleep at all, woken by the slightest of noises, up before the crack of dawn because some unresolved tension in my body overpowered all tiredness and fatigue. Even with medication, the smallest of things could still turn me into a nervous wreck, and one night I cried cross-legged on my bed as I explained to my ex not just that I had interpreted a few of her utterly inconsequential actions as a sign she wanted to leave me, but also that I might always be like this. Forever.

The nightmares began a few months after I burned my note. It was right after I opened up to another friend about what was going on in my life, and their response was to tell me about something else that had happened, the full story of an event from another six years before, from distant 2012.

It’s not my tale to tell, but six years is a long time to not know the full story of something. A long time to be deceived, to find out you’ve been lied to by someone you trust and that your ignorance has affected many decisions that you’ve made. Again, I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further. But some did.

Six years. It hit me then how long it can take for people to feel able to talk about something, as well as continue to be affected by it. How far the ripples travel and who they touch. And now, here I am, with my own six years.

That discovery was one of several experiences that transformed me into that person having three-day long anxiety spikes, remaining highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. That person thrashing about in his sleep. That person yelling “You cunt,” down his street.

---

I’ve written before about my physical health and my relationship to my body. I was anxious about things being wrong with it long before I had thorough examinations and validating diagnoses, but as part of those treatments I wrote about, a trio of doctors warned me about how stress was worsening every condition and symptom I experienced. Stress was ruining my health. I was having so many migraines that my GP sent me for an MRI that revealed how those migraines were changing the white matter in my brain.

I would have to do something about this.

Those doctors would help me do something about this, as would other professionals, and their help was invaluable. This would be impossible to tackle alone.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard say such things as “It’s not your responsibility to fix someone else,” and, while I don’t disagree, doesn’t such a phrase also imply it’s surely somebody’s responsibility, in this society that we all share, built from things that help us support one another?

Otherwise we’d be suggesting that people fix themselves.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard tell others, or themselves, or sometimes the world via the spontaneous and sneeze-like broadcasts of social media “It’s on you to fix your shit,” and I wonder if that’s where that sentence should terminate, if that’s exactly how it should be phrased, if those are really the words that everyone, or anyone, needs to hear.

Because sometimes I also think of another clumsy analogy I once put together. It’s a scenario in which I describe a pedestrian struck by a car, perhaps one driven by a rich cunt with dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket, perhaps even one that has mounted the curb or surged into a crossing. The pedestrian is knocked down, maybe immobile from the pain and injury that comes from a broken pelvis or fractured leg. An ambulance is summoned, a customised vehicle equipped to transport them to a hospital. In that hospital, that specialised medical facility, a team of trained experts will use skills and equipment to triage and manage, to analyse the pedestrian’s injuries, to provide relief and to chart a course toward recovery. There will be x-rays, there will be drugs, there may well be physiotherapy. I doubt at any point that the person lying in the street would be told, by someone coming upon the scene, “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

No. Not any more than they’d be expected to walk to the hospital, to interpret their x-rays or to prescribe their own medication. Indeed, if they attempted any of these things themselves I wouldn’t be surprised if someone along the way communicated to them some more polite version of “What the holy fucking fuck do you think you’re doing?” and “You’re in no state to do this yourself, let alone know what you need,” and “Fucking hell. You’re at your most vulnerable right now. Fuuuck.”

Hopefully.

Once, many years ago, I knew someone who broke their pelvis. It takes months to recover, maybe a year or more for a limp to fully disappear. And it requires all kinds of help and oversight. It worked out. Doctors and medical professionals can be remarkable.

I have read a lot of books and papers over the last six years. I have listened to a lot of podcasts and interviews. I have been recommended a lot of material by therapists, by friends, by fellow PTSD sufferers. One well-known trauma expert I was pointed toward is Canadian psychologist Dr. Gabor Maté. And he says this:

”Everybody is born needing help.”

He means that it’s a fundamental element of the human experience.

---

Sometimes I go running and sometimes I go to the gym. The reasons I do this are complex, ranging from wanting to be healthier, to wanting to feel better about my body and how it behaves, to feeling like I am making progress with something. That last one is particularly important, because I’m doing something where I’m objectively able to recognise change.

When I run, an app tells me how far I ran and how long it took. I can’t disagree with the app, because it’s entirely objective, and so when I have a bad day, feel terrible and wonder what the point of anything is, the app still shows me that I achieved a reasonable or even an improved time.

It wasn’t always like this. I was bad at these things. I run better than I used to. I perform better at the gym than I used to. I have the metrics to prove it, and while I’m not a particularly dedicated or regular person with my exercise, I still keep at it and I still see improvements.

Whatever it is I’m doing, these apps and their statistics all offer me the same, very simple analysis:

“You’re doing better.”

I motivate myself to run, to go to the gym, to go on twenty-five kilometre hikes over difficult terrain, but I don’t do these things without some kind of help that comes from either expert resources, advice or training.

I don’t exist in a vacuum. None of us do.

---

Help is important because it offers things like perspective and expertise and informed advice. And don’t all of those things sound so extremely important?

How about we imagine that our immobilised pedestrian wasn’t collected by an ambulance. Let’s imagine instead that the driver of the car that hit them stepped out of their vehicle, shook their head, put their hands on their hips and said “Look what you’ve done.”

And then “It’s okay, I know what’s best for you,” before carrying the inert person into their car and driving away. Perhaps even unseen. No witnesses.

If such a thing happened, in this society that we all share, with that person at their most vulnerable, who is responsible then? Who is responsible for what happens next? Who is responsible when that pedestrian, forever limping, says things like “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have been walking there,” or “I should have been looking out,” or “I should have been more visible,” and so on?

A lot of accidents and injuries and collisions and whatnot can be traumatic, scary, confusing. “How do I make sense of this?” asks that person, whether carried away alone in a car, or surrounded by doctors in the emergency room, or anywhere else they may happen to find themselves. “How do I deal with this?” And who might be around them at that moment to help answer such things?

And what will they say?

Perhaps you know someone who was, metaphorically, struck by such a car, before being then carried away by a driver with all sorts of ideas about what’s best, and who later blamed themselves for everything that happened. I don’t know.

I do know how important it was to receive the right help from the right people.

---

It’s hard to know exactly what to do. You may respond to your trauma with a desire for revenge, retribution or restoration. You may not have the insight or the time or the means to do anything much at all. There is the ideal of what could or should happen when harm has been caused, but there is also the uncomfortable reality of how such things actually play out, of how long justice can take, of who is granted credibility, of how complex social dynamics can quickly become, of how awkwardly and uncomfortably people can react when they discover something they would rather not have, or that they have been misled, or so much more. We’ve all seen such things play out secondhand and firsthand.

I have had six years to consider the most helpful way to respond, the most constructive, the most positive and productive. I am still considering. I don’t have much in the way of answers or advice there.

Sometimes I think about the anonymous Broken Teapot essay, with all it has to say about the complexity of dealing with abuse dynamics, of harm happening within a group or community, about social consequences. It was written over a decade ago now, but it remains a very relevant piece of writing that brings up all sorts of considerations around responsibility, about trying to come to terms with trauma and abuse, and about how people might try to use systems or processes to try to solve things in unhelpful ways or even for their own ends.

People can have a lot of opinions about how to handle trauma, how to respond to abuse and how to leap into some sort of process of justice or accountability or reparation or even plain old revenge. So many opinions.

It’s exhausting.

Back in 2020 I tried to write something about all these complications and considerations that I was going to title The Calculus of Abuse. Like much else, it rots in my drafts folder.

Sometimes I think about how many of the ways that we push people to address both their trauma and the things or people that have caused their trauma only makes things worse. I am sceptical about the practicality, value and effectiveness of processes of justice, reparation and accountability. I think a lot of people believe that they will fix things, that they will be fair, that they will spotlight situations and systems and people that cause harm. That, in this cold and unflinching exposure, justice will be done and books will be closed on long and difficult stories.

And I think that’s because we see this happen now and then. Sometimes it happens very publicly. It seems to at least occasionally all work out.

Sometimes I think about friends who were excluded from social circles because they spoke up about something creepy or problematic, because it mattered less what actions or behaviour someone had demonstrated, even what could be proven, and much more who was more popular, or that the status quo be maintained, or that applecarts not be upset. I think about how different people share or don’t share their traumas and their experiences, what they include and what they leave out. I think about people who weren’t believed, people who were misrepresented, people who were shut down. I think about people who spent so long trying to get a handle on their trauma that any thing or person they might want to stand up to already had so much time to prepare, to seed the ground, to dig in, to get a head start. And I even think about the capacity people have to improve, to feel regret, to move forward as better humans. It’s a potential that I hope exists in us all and the writer Kai Cheng Thom seems to agree, saying that even those who cause harm themselves need help to “exit harmful behaviour patterns.”

Sometimes I think about what a friend of mine said about abusive people just being "regular people with very limited tools." And that’s not so different from a child. Doesn’t that make you feel sad?

I think about all of these things because how could you not? How could you not worry about how taking action to address a terrible thing would, in fact, only make that terrible thing even worse?

There is a paper by the American psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman called Justice From the Victim’s Perspective that touches on how many processes and pushes toward addressing abuse and trauma can be retraumatising, without any guarantee they will lead to a meaningful outcome or significant change. It touches on how legal processes and systems can be manipulated to further harm and harass those seeking redress, or how disparities of power and status and money can immediately put the damaged and disadvantaged people who try this on the back foot. It touches on difficulties presented by such things as burden of proof, especially combined with the challenge of a memory minced by traumatic events. How does someone demonstrate and prove trauma, or gaslighting, or manipulation, or anything else?

It also talks about how not everybody seeks such things as justice, restitution, revenge, or not always in the ways that we think, and for a multitude of reasons. These can vary from worrying they won’t be believed or that the process will serve them, to wanting to move on, to the idea that it may be pointless, as some “offenders are empathetically disabled… not capable of a meaningful apology, so they can never provide anything to victims that would be useful.”

Both this and the Broken Teapot essay also feature people examining how they themselves have handled abuse and trauma. I think this is probably the most difficult part of many years of therapy, reading and reflection. Sure, it sucks to have been harmed by an event, a situation, a person or a system, but at some point you also start asking yourself difficult questions like “How do I avoid something like this again?” and “Did I do anything that made this worse?” and “Was I codependent, did I enable someone or did I perpetuate something with my reactions or my responses?”

“Abuse dynamics aren’t so simple,” says the Broken Teapot essay, at one small but very important moment, not long after “I was not solely ‘a victim’. Is anyone?” And, after all those years of therapy, reading and reflection, I’ve come to believe that abusive people and systems gain at least some of their power from how you interact with and respond to them. If we were, all of us, perhaps better informed, we might understand, avoid or escape so many difficult things so much sooner.

And while both the Broken Teapot essay and Justice From the Victim’s Perspective talk a lot about sexual assault, their considerations and their examinations of consequence are more broadly applicable. This reflects how I find myself relating to so many stories of trauma and abuse, regardless of what the specifics of any incidents might be. It’s because I recognise the same things in the subsequent developments, reactions and outcomes, much like I might recognise the same chord pattern in different songs. I see people trying to understand their own changing behaviours, trying to articulate why they won’t do a particular thing or go to a particular place any more, trying to both explain and understand how their body or their health has been affected. The specifics don’t need to be the same for so many of the consequences to be. And I recognise and am much more attuned to recognising those consequences.

Both these pieces of writing are also very good at illustrating one of the most important things that you can learn about trauma, and that is, whatever happens or whatever choices you make, things can never be put back in the box.

Trauma is never erased.

---

Here’s what I think is another of the most important things we can learn about trauma, which is that people are generally very bad at dealing with it and are even worse at dealing with it if they are unsupported. And even if they have all the support in the world, they are probably still going to make bad choices, self-sabotage, lose perspective and do things they regret.

They will probably be foolish, be confused and be likely to make choices that could hurt other people. They may not have great insight or work against their own best interests. That doesn’t mean that they get a free pass. It doesn’t mean we are obliged to simply accept these behaviours. But I think these are realistic expectations that we should have.

In his pioneering book The Body Keeps the Score, the psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk writes that many trauma responses are “irrational and largely outside people's control,” coming from people who are “rarely in touch with the origins of their alienation.” An awful lot of the book is about helping such people to find ways past this, rather than disregarding them or pushing them away, even though this will be difficult. I don’t remember anything in the book that comes close to “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

---

While one part of me wishes many things had not happened, feeling both weaker and sadder, another part of me acknowledges that I have gained new skills and strengths. And one of the best things about what I’ve gained is that all this doesn’t just help me, but can also be applied to help others.

That’s a good thing.

I’m a tiny bit wiser than I used to be. A lot of reading and talking to experts and digesting all sorts of media leaves its mark. It’s not just that I know a little more about myself and my experiences, it’s that I can now better recognise parallels to those experiences in other people’s situations, behaviours and pasts. I anticipate slightly better, seeing problems further ahead, and I have a stronger sense of what I need to drop or to avoid.

I’m doing better.

---

I don’t have much that I can write here in terms of the specifics of therapy. I would describe a lot of the process of unpacking and analysing the causes of my PTSD as being extremely painful, like trying to both tidy up and then reassemble broken glass with your bare hands. The things that brought about your PTSD are shameful and harrowing. Their analysis can also be, through a process that can variously be sad, scary, frustrating, educational, validating and empowering. It takes a long time and requires expert assistance, which means the help you need can be a somewhat scarce resource and very, very expensive.

You pay for your trauma for a very long time.

---

I discovered one of the most beautiful sounds in the world some time after 2016, some unknown amount of time after I moved into this apartment of mine, with its balcony and its skyscraper views. I don’t remember now when I first heard it, but it’s been years now and I still adore it whenever it happens. It’s small and subtle and can happen at almost any time of night or day. It’s a sound that makes me think of safety and independence, of making my own space and then occupying it. Of security and stability.

I really, really appreciate security and stability. Much as I increasingly seek out change and crave new experiences or opportunities, these things feel so much better if I can enjoy them with the understanding that I have some sort of foundation under me. Something solid. No matter how small or how far away. Some place of safety.

The sound happens when it’s raining. Whatever metal it is that rings my balcony is hollow, so that when rainfall strikes it, it responds with a kind of subtle but sonorous singing. This ringing isn’t the specific sound I’m talking about, though. That sound is slightly different, something that rises above this other background arrangement.

When a particularly large drop of water hits my balcony railing, it gives a flat, gentle ping of appreciation. The background patter of the other raindrops will continue and then, again, after some irregular interval, presumably as water has collected from the balcony above into a particularly large drop, the ping will sound again.

I heard it one morning this spring, months ago now, right after I woke up and not long after I had started writing all this. I lay there in bed on a day the colour of slate and cigarette smoke and I thought about how the world is made up of so many beautiful, tiny things. Ping, goes one of them, and maybe nobody else on the planet notices or cares. But I try to remind myself of this and how my life is full of so many other probably stupid little things that I like, that I love. Don’t lose these things, I try to tell myself. Don’t forget about them and don’t forget to notice them when they happen. You gave yourself so many more of them when you chose to stay alive.

You get a lot of time to think on days the colour of slate and cigarette smoke.

---

You’ll notice I say “sometimes I think about” a lot here, when reflecting on less positive things, and you might consider this a writing device or a cheap hook or some other writer’s cheat. It partly is, but it’s also a truth. I do think about these things, and so many other things, very often. I think about one or another of them almost all of the time. I find it very hard not to think, to turn my brain off, and the unfortunate truth is that it reminds me about things to do with my trauma almost every day. It has done so for six years now and, as we’ve already established, six years is a long time.

Evenings can be the most difficult time. While I’ve always had a flippant attitude toward sleep schedules, I never used to have trouble going to bed. Some nights my brain will never switch off. My memory is overflowing. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired, it makes no difference if I’m exhausted. The rules around sleep are different now and I think I’m still trying to relearn them.

One therapist described the traumatised mind as like an overflowing wastepaper basket full of difficult memories that are constantly falling out. Any new addition can cause one or many of them to spill and scatter. Time and therapy can help to more properly sort them and make space for other, new things.

What a good analogy.

Occasionally, there might be a suggestion of ADHD sent my way. I can understand why things would look that way and a lot has been said by people more experienced than I about how ADHD and PTSD can seem similar. I think if ADHD had ever been the case some mental health professional or other member of the medical community that I’ve dealt with would have spotted this by now. But no. I’m distracted by some memory or flashback. I’m avoidant, or I’m in need of some thrill or stimulation. I might be full of nervous energy or unusually, intensely focused on something because it feels so good to be thinking about something I enjoy.

And sometimes things are bounding out of that wastepaper basket like clowns out of a clown car. I can feel like I've lost a lot of control over my mind and it's all I can do to rein it in. Some days I have coping strategies and some days I'm sick of it and wish I didn't need to have to cope.

And so I keep myself busy with the stimulation and the novelty that I crave. With people. With events. With runs, with the gym and with twenty-five kilometre hikes. Whatever it takes, whenever I can. It’s not ideal. I’m still figuring out what I need. I don’t always get the balance right. Sometimes unexpected things make me very emotional, either very sad or very frustrated, and I rarely know in advance what might do that. Sometimes I sleep less than four hours a night. Sometimes I want to be alone. Sometimes I desperately need company. I probably seem very strange.

But, let’s not forget, in the past I would lose whole days. For hours, my chest would feel like it was being crushed. I might be found curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. The nightmares would come every week. So things have clearly, obviously, demonstrably improved.

I’m doing better.

---

I still suck at writing. I don’t know how to fix that yet. I still very regularly feel like there is a gulf between me and so many other people, even my friends. I still have outsize reactions to irrelevant, immaterial things. I still lack confidence in my own personal calibration. "Many traumatised people find themselves chronically out of sync with the people around them,” writes Bessel van der Kolk. Yeah.

Toward the end of its six season existence there is an episode of BoJack Horseman where an actor reacts angrily to some improvisation and unexpected physical contact that happens during filming. Her colleagues are confused as to why she does this, and perhaps she doesn’t understand herself, but we the audience know that this a response to a physical assault by the titular character some time before. She never finds out, but this leads to her missing out on perhaps the biggest opportunity of her life, after a director discreetly describes her as erratic.

There is no further development with this plotline, no resolution to be had. Nobody finds out why she is like this, nor wants to, nor sets things on a new, better course. I try to remind myself that this sort of thing can be happening all the time, to try and grant people some grace and compassion, but also I try to remind myself that this is me. I have my versions of this behaviour. Maybe fewer than I used to, but still. I can be erratic and I have to face the consequences of that, as well as minimise it as much as I can.

I recently stopped buying fresh fruit from my local store because they would repeatedly put mouldy, furry produce on display. The last time I discovered this, I was holding up a box of ostensibly shiny, blood-red strawberries to once again discover the mass of fuzz hidden underneath. Food is expensive enough as it is, I thought, and it doesn’t also need to be garbage. Too late, the look on the face of the customer standing next to me clued me in to how vocal I’d been with my three-word expression of disgust and displeasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

---

You’ve read a little about my first dream, about old friends. You’ve read a little about my second dream, the nightmare. Here comes my third, from earlier this summer.

I dreamt that I was trying to get home again. I was confused about where I was, trying to remember a route through unfamiliar Vancouver alleys. It was evening, not yet dark, but the time between when you lose the long shadows cast by the last of the sunlight and begin to wear the rich, jewelled canvas of the stars. None of the people I stopped and spoke to knew the streets I named. None of the alleyways I walked down took me in familiar directions.

I never found my way home, but I never stopped trying. Perhaps this does indeed mean I haven’t reached the end of whatever journey I’m on, that I can’t yet return to the start. I think it’s both practical and pragmatic for me to accept that the next six years might still present me with many challenges. That I will have bad, directionless days. That sometimes I’m going to fuck up and fall short.

I woke up to another bright, warm summer’s day, far later than I meant to, and I made myself a fine cup of coffee and a rich breakfast that I would be foolish not to enjoy.

Sometimes I think about suicide. Those thoughts haven’t left me yet and I’m not sure they ever will. Sometimes they arrive strong and loud and insistent, from out of nowhere and with all the power of a thunderbolt in a storm. Sometimes I want to be a shining example of how to conquer PTSD and sometimes I'm so sad I can’t get out of bed and sometimes I am just pissed off and angry. Each day is still different. But tomorrow I will wake up and perhaps I will think to myself “There are blue skies today,” or perhaps I will hear ping, or perhaps I won’t need anything at all to feel great. And perhaps there will be some undeniable sign in the day’s events, in my behaviour, even in the world around me, that demonstrates to me how much I’ve improved.

Each day is still different and today the glib part of my personality says “I sure hope you’ve improved, it’s been six years! That’s six years of painful PTSD examination, therapy, medication, reading, research, specialist appointments, many thousands of dollars spent and a god damn MRI of your weird and messed up brain.” And am I being disrespectfully flippant of my own experiences when I add that having an MRI of my brain was, at least, kind of cool?

Because another part of my personality wants to remind me I’m wiser, braver and maybe even a little more able to help others, people who I will remind myself can’t be expected to fix their own shit alone. People who shouldn’t be pushed aside, in this society that we all share.

And I don’t regret calling that cunt a cunt.

It’s been six years and each day is still different and this morning, when I pause to ask myself how I’m doing, I find I have the most simple of answers.

It’s three words.

“I’m doing better.”

#PTSD #mental health #survivor #suicide prevention #writing #patreon

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tigreblvnc · 27 days

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BLUE LOCK MATCHUP — @harusanzuchiyo

Your match is...

— Chigiri Hyoma

✦ "I like my own company or the company of those close to me, especially my big sis since she’s like my best friend." This immediately made me think of Chigiri and his sister. They share a similar bond, even if it might not be as openly expressive.

✦ "I tend to observe others and my surroundings and always catch what others feel or things people wouldn’t notice." Again, this is something you share. Chigiri is very discreet during the early episodes, always in the background and not very involved in group activities.

✦ Yet, we quickly notice his eye for detail. He’s able to explain to Isagi how his playstyle works, how he sees the entire field as a whole, and so.

✦ "I’m not really good at expressing my own feelings so most of the time people find it hard to read me." Well, it’s the same for Chigiri.

✦ "Once you know me, I’m more laid back. I’ll make jokes and laugh a lot, even at the silliest things, and definitely tease my friends sometimes. I’m also very sarcastic." Our redhead is known for becoming one of the sassiest characters on the field later on, throwing sharp remarks at opponents who can never outrun him.

✦ Even so, I don’t see him as someone who mocks others for no reason. He knows his worth and eventually regains his confidence.

✦ Outside of matches, we know he’s pretty laid-back. He goes with the flow and doesn’t hesitate to invite other players to join when Chigiri is with the Egoist 4.

✦ In general, this echoes your tendency to switch between hyperactive and vegetative modes. It reminds me a lot of Chigiri’s ability to know when to be cheeky on the field and when to be calm and composed once his jersey is off.

✦ "More than talking, though, I tend to listen, so if you had a bad day, I’ll just sit with you in silence and keep you company, or find a way to distract you. And if you eventually want to talk about it, I’m all ears." I’ve noticed that even though the overwhelming majority of characters in the manga are all about competition and victory, there always comes a moment when a character needs to slip into an introspective episode to refocus and regain their determination. Some even feel the need to talk with someone, and I think Chigiri could be that type, especially if you’re able to speak frankly when you know something’s wrong. Chigiri is the kind of person who needs to be scolded to clear his thoughts and get back on track. That’s a role you’d fill perfectly with your ability to provide moral support to those you care about.

✦ "I’m also really disorganized and clumsy, probably because I daydream most of the time (if you catch me being clumsy, I’ll probably cringe a lot). I don’t have a schedule (I’m too lazy for that), so I tend to do everything last minute T.T." That’s probably why your house is so messy! We know the two neat freaks in Blue Lock are Isagi and Barou; without them, it’s often chaotic in the Egoists' homes.

✦ At the same time, I don’t see Chigiri complaining about it much, you know. He goes with the flow, as always.

✦ The red panther has this philosophy of "as long as you don’t slip on a banana peel while walking, it’s fine!"

✦ "On the other hand, I like people who respect boundaries, open-minded people, people who don’t jump to conclusions, and people who don’t live to please others but for themselves and don’t care about others’ opinions." Honestly, this paragraph gave me the most trouble finding the best match because when it comes to respecting boundaries, let’s just say not many characters fit the bill lol.

✦ But the "don’t care about others’ opinions," you honestly couldn’t have picked a better manga to find characters who align with that definition.

✦ All in all, Chigiri is a good balance of everything you like in someone: a respectful person who knows their worth and knows how to self-reflect.

✦ "As for hobbies, I LOVE drawing, especially creating characters." Chigiri is someone who likes taking care of himself and appreciates beautiful things, so I can easily see him leaning over your drawings to see what you’re working on. Of course, if you don’t like that: he backs off simply and waits for the moment when you’re ready to show him, if that ever happens.

✦ He knows how to keep himself busy with reading and gladly recommends titles to you.

✦ "For the love language I would like to receive, I would say quality time too, as I said earlier I just like the idea of spending time with the people I care for." Honestly, I think Chigiri is one of the best at that. Just being in the same room as you, nose deep in his books, and when a passage amuses him or gets a reaction out of him, he reads it aloud to you without taking his eyes off the page.

✦ "I have shoulder-length dark brown curly hair that I tend to style a lot (thanks, Pinterest lol)." Skincare and hair routine together <3 And I think he’d be impressed by your style; it contrasts a lot with his, which is more casual chic. When you’re out in public, people definitely turn to look at you two.

A word about your match: I thought of Isagi because he could help you organize your days and tidy up for you... But I found the balance that Chigiri brings more interesting.

#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock #blue lock matchup #bllk #blue lock headcanons #suo matchups #chigiri hyoma x reader #chigiri x reader #chigiri hyoma #bllk chigiri

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teddybeartoji · 8 days

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mickey baby i hope you're doing so so well!! i'm here to be nosy in your inbox don't mind me!!!

what is miwa's favourite summer activity to do!! what are you and the silliest boy of all time (affectionate) getting up to!!

do you have any pinterest pins of how you imagine mihime to be like? i'm such a sucker for a princess/knight combo and i love the dynamic you've written in your selfship stat post

what is miromi's first date like? i'm giggling a little at the image of the two of you in the grocery store cleaning up your messes

sending allllll the kissies mwah mwah mwah

HII AGAINNN:3333333333 I NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT THESE QUESTIONS HAVE BEEN DRIVING ME WILDDDDD LIKE OH MY GODDDD I LOVE THEM ALL SO FUCKING MUCH<33333333333

MIWA SUMMER ACTIVITIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! oh my god he loooves loves loves going to the beach!!!!!!!!!! i try not to complain over it being so fucking warm just bc i know he'll tease me for it lmao he'll wiggle his eyebrows at me and wink while flexing his biceps bc he thinks the mere idea of him being all sweaty and glorious in the sun is enough to join him every single time he wants to go (he is right) i think it's also very important to mention that he does a "slow motion" run every time we're there😭😭😭 baywatch style... (iwaizumi will throw a ball at his head)

oh and yes the other boys are always there too lmao i don't mind it though they're all so funny we get to bully oiks together:333333 during the car ride i'm always sandwiched between him and mattsun.. and oh my god they both take up so much space it's fucking ridiculous i'm just elbowing them for the entirety of the ride lmao ++ we actually go on little roadtrips all together a lot as well!!!!!!!

ANYWAY back on the beach they OBVIOUSLY play volleyball lmao ok so in the post i did say that the au would be where i play volleyball too buuuut in the original one i'm just some guy WHich means that oikawa gets to teach me . sighhhhhhh...... stands behind me and hold my hand together as he shows me how to receive a ball omfg he is very annoying (very hot) whispers into my ear and tries to play cool but if he's taking too long he's gonna be hit by another rogue ball hahsgdhgsahgdahgdhga he's actually such a fucking dork ro i love him so much

but yeah we hang out on the beach like a looot a lot we play ball and we go swimming. oh which reminds me that he's definitely a bit scared of cold water lmao so i have to drag him in every single time aaand i get to tease him too by splashing him mwahahahaha AAAND then we always go and buy smth good to eat after we're all done aand we both usually end up falling asleep on the car ride back home,, with my head on his shoulder and his head on mine it's pretty cute yes we do actually have a few pics like that too bc the other boys are sometimes okay with us being adorable:3333333333333333333

MIHIME ROYALTY AU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i think i will make a proper moodboard for us too now actually bc ooh my godddd i know the second row middle one isn't necessarily a knight/princess thing but it's so perfect for the bratty lil royalty that is my utahime🤭🤭🤭 BUT WAHHHH i love her so dearly she's a little clumsy and gets flustered so easily but still tries to act so tough it's sooooo fucking cute ohhh my goddddd

MIROMI FIRST DATE!!!!!!!!!!!! asghdhgdhgasghdghas the meet-ugly is so funny i love it,, after many times of bumping into each other he's the one to finally ask for my number!!!!!!!!! i think he's the type to blurt things out sometimes not in a bad way but he just want to get it out, he hates it when he starts to overthink anything even a little so he just goes for it. and that's exactly what happened here too. he was still in his suit, buying groceries for the night straight after work while i was there buying ramen lmao and so first we just saw each other in an isle and we made eye-contact and then looked away bc well . look the whole thing is a bit comedic at this point lmao

we somewhat try to avoid each other just for the sake of not making any more messes but in doing so we fail to check behind us and so we end up backing into each other anyway😭😭😭 and that's when he's just like fuck it . so he just apologizes while loosening his tie (😵‍💫) and is like "would you like to go and grab dinner with me?" and he catches me so off guard but he doesn't take it back either and he's so like . HOT? hsdahgghadghasga he's funny and handsome at the same time it takes me a second to really realize what he's asking of me but then i agree anyway bc why the fuck not yk? aaaaand so our first date takes place at like 9pm at some random fast food place where we stuff our faces with some noodles while getting to know each other. the connection is really good btw. like there isn't a single moment where it's awkward or anything we're constantly talking and laughing and we keep on sitting there even after we're done eating too. it feels very comfortable<3333 he compliments my smile and i tease him for being a lawyer lmao telling him that he's very Fancy but he obviously doesn't take it into heart and he just offers to show me his office some day to kind of prove me wrong hehehhee we exchange numbers and we keep in touch by sending each other pics of our cats and yeah it goes veeery very smoothly from there on out!!!!!

AANYWAYYYYY I LOOOOOVE THEM SOOO FUCKING MUCH!!!!!!!!!!!! we're all silly together hehehhee oikawa my loserboyfriend and utahime my princess and hiromi my normal guy hgasghdghasghdahs WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN RO TALKING ABT THEM MADE ME SOOO SO FUCKING HAPPY!!!!!!! I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!! IN FIVE MINUTES THE SUN WILL BE DELIVERED TO YOU SO PLEASE LMK WHEN IT ARRIVES:3333333333333

#MWAH MWAH MWAHHH!!!!!!!!!#THEY'RE ALL SO FUNNY I FUCKING LOVE THEM #no but srsly talking abt them made me so giddy lmao #sillies together:33333333333333 #ILY RO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#aurore <3 #friends!!#miwa #mihime #miromi

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a-lonely-dunedain · 10 months

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For Ethedis, 3, 4, 8, & 32?

3. What is something they really like about themselves and what is something you really like about them?

so after Tur-Morva Searadan says this to Etheids "You find friends wherever you tread, and where they cannot be found you make them with kindness and generosity" and Ethedis, coming off what was probably the worst week of her life so far, just Latched Onto that. Searadan was totally right Ethedis IS friend-shaped and very much needed to hear that.

Something I like about her is the fact that she's just. So silly. Don't get me wrong I see the appeal of graceful somber ethereal elves, BUT i think a very underrated aspect of elves is how silly they can be. They sing silly songs outside Bilbo's window in the Last Homely House to be the world's most annoying alarm clock for one thing. Anyway I Ethedis has a lot of those fun traits of younger elves people don't seem to focus on much. idk I just like to see bright happy elves who are still so very much in love with the world! And just want to sing about everything they see! and befriend every new mortal they meet! (this will not backfire! surely!)

4. What is the thing they like the most about their friends and what is the thing their friends like the most about them?

What Ethedis likes about Corunir is... man there's A Lot (unsurprisingly), where do you even start? His unwavering devotion? His intelligence? The fact that he just cares SO much about her and everyone else? The great hugs he gives that just make her feel so safe and warm? His sweet smile she just can’t seem to see enough of? You just can't pick!

Ethedis also likes Tossdir's stubborn loyalty. She seems to have this habit of picking friends who simply Refuse to let her do dangerous things alone (of perhaps those are just the friends that tend to pick her). Sure she may have to face the Horrors of this war, but he's gonna make damn certain that she doesn't have to face them alone! Unfortunately they both seem to have a reckless streak a mile wide- Oh! that's another thing she likes about Corunir! He actually encourages them to think before jumping headfirst into danger, very important asset to their gang.

The thing about her that draws a lot of people to her initially is just her overall bright and approachable demeanor, she offers some much needed levity in these dark times. Some people think of her as naive for it, but those who have taken the time to get to know her understand that it is anything but. Her unwavering smile isn't born from a lack of understanding of their hopelessness, but a stubborn refusal to give into the despair she understands far too well, an instinct to laugh in the face of danger because sometimes that's the only thing you can do to rob it of its power, to believe this story WILL have a happy ending no mater how bleak things look because otherwise you have nothing to fight for.

8. What is a smell that makes them feel at home?

oh definitely whatever Elrond’ Library smells like. Reminds her of all the time she spent there buried in her studies, safe from the matters of he outside world, distracted from the grief of her parents… old books and scrolls but not really musty or dusty, it’s clean with the faint scents of dried herbs from the nearby Tham Send.

32. Draw or describe the silliest outfit you can think of. They now have it inside their wardrobe, but it’s a secret between you and them… unless someone finds out.

oh oh hang on, there's so many funny sets in this game let me find some

the Brestplate of the Aurochs has to be one of my favorite ridiculous items. it's just got. a whole Aurochs face on there. absurd

#lotro oc #ask games #ethedis #annnd that's the last one from this ask game!

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mysterycharacterflowers · 1 year

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Round 3; A bouquet with love-lies-bleeding, forget-me-nots and sunflowers Vs A bouquet of yellow foxglove and snapdragon

First, let's talk about the bouquet with love-lies-bleeding, forget-me-nots and sunflowers

Meaning and why these flowers were chosen: Sunflowers for justice and truth, love-lies-bleeding because he lost the only person who cared about him two months before he could truly work alongside him as a partner, and forget-me-nots because he's a living reminder of that person in every way while also very distinctly himself. Description: He's your uncle. Don't have an uncle? You do now. He smiles and flirts a little and jokes about the silliest things even if there's a new corpse on the floor, and he keeps his hand close to his chest, and you'll never catch the motive behind the joke until it's time for him to reveal the truth and prove his every accusation. He's capable and experienced and a living reminder of the man who haunts the narrative, and he won't save you, because if he could, there would be no need for a reminder of a living man. He'll show you how to save yourself.

Check his post here

Now, let's bouquet of yellow foxglove and snapdragon

Meaning and why this flower was chosen: Foxglove, which generally represents insincerity (especially in Victorian flower language) and the duality of hurting and healing, as well as other meanings like magic, creativity, secrets, and insecurity, represents him well because he’s a con artist, of the trickster archetype, and somewhat of an antihero; his actions and plans, while good at the core, often hurt other people at least a little on the way, and he’s okay with that if they’re not his people. Other characters, and the audience, often have reason to doubt his sincerity as a friend and as a partner, for example when he’s helping a business of sorts stay afloat financially while secretly investigating the owner for misdeeds he suspects; he’s generally got more than one motive going on at once. It’s not something I’d blame him for, but insincerity is a constant question when it comes to him that it takes a long time for anyone to overcome. Also, regarding the other meanings, he’s a clever character with subtle magical powers, he keeps a lot about him under wraps from most everyone, and he’s deeply insecure (partially due to feeling compared to someone else and coming up with little to show for it). I’d particularly choose a yellow foxglove because that color has implications of positivity and support, and he is cheerful, friendly, and when it comes to the people he does love, he’s never giving up on helping them. As a bonus (and why I picked this), the flower’s name fits him, as he has a nickname related to foxes. I’d also choose snapdragon, for strength in harsh habitats, and also deception. He comes from a humble background, was bullied as a child, is a little bit homeless during the main story, and lives in a society bigoted against him, but he’s thriving anyway. Deception, meanwhile, is central to his character and something he leans on; he lies, hides, keeps secrets, and has that fear of being perceived, and even his names are a kind of benevolent deception, as being known only by his naturalized name to most people helps keep him safe. Also, snapdragon symbolizes grace, relevant to one career he’s had. Description: He’s a poor trickster who ran away from home as a teenager and joined the circus in order to rescue his missing mother (it’s a long story). He’s loud, extroverted, loving and voracious, has a sparkling personality, and is powerfully annoying when he wants to be. He’s a public figure sometimes but the limelight is deeply not for him. He distrusts many people, including especially reporters, rich people, and the government, which is of course completely valid. He’s a petty thief by necessity and habit, and he always knows a guy. It takes him years of having magical powers to realize that they include invisibility, and when he finds out, the first thing he uses it for is to tickle someone. He’s flirted with a guy he deeply envies and who envies (and kinda hates) him right back; I’m never sure if it’s weirder if he doesn’t like the guy in question, or if he actually does. He’s tried to save a celebrity from descent into alcoholism. He’s committed war crimes against ghosts. He’s narrowly escaped being mobbed by a religious group and has been kidnapped by a popular entrepreneur. He has been deemed ‘strange in all ways’ by a coworker. He loves pastrami sandwiches. He’s not that short but everyone he knows would call him a short king if they had that vocabulary; he has big brown(ish) eyes and he wears a peacoat.

Check his post here

#mysterious character: bouquet of love-lies-bleeding – forget-me-nots – sunflowers #mysterious character: bouquet of yellow foxglove and snapdragon #round 3

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divinelyjinxed · 6 years

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my heart aches for a place i can no longer go, ground i can no longer tread, a plane i no longer have access to, faces i no longer get to see

and it hurts

#divinekin #angelkin #demonkin #deitykin #Whispers #musings #sometimes the silliest things remind you of home #that's just how it goes i guess

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borathae · 3 years

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↳ Index [Chapter 08 - Prandiculum]

• Prandiculum (Latin, breakfast)

Pairing: slight Jimin x f.Reader, Taehyung x f.Reader

Warnings: suggestive themes, Jimin being a lot, blood drinking, Tae being angry, confusion

Wordcount: 5.3k

a/n: boy if you don’t-

You really like the songs of birds. You have always liked the songs of birds, even when you were a little girl – too naïve for the world and with far too much energy to spare – you really liked birds and their singing. It calmed you down, but also made you think of many amazing stories in your head. Most of the time those stories were about the topics those little fellas were singing about. Where the spots for catching worms were hidden in your garden, how the air all the way up in the sky felt like, or maybe just about how many people they have pooped on today. You had the silliest stories for every kind of bird and its melodies.

Now that you are all grown up – still maybe a little naïve but feeling far more tired than energetic – the music of birds reminded you of home. Your parent’s house is surrounded by a spacious garden, so your childhood was filled with happy whistling and little songs, hence the many stories. So whenever you are woken up by the songs of birds, you feel like you are back in your childhood bedroom, ready to start a new day of adventuring.

So when you open your eyes to a new day and don’t find yourself in your bedroom, you are confused. Now bear in mind, you hadn’t expected to wake up in your childhood bedroom, your mind was awake enough to realise that this was impossible. But you had expected to wake up in your apartment. White walls, which were slightly yellowed from all the previous people living in it, a big water stain on the left corner of the ceiling, the smell of your radiator heating up. But you weren’t greeted by those things, instead the clear blue sky greeted you.

You blink a few times, rubbing at your eyes when the image still remains.

“Huh.”

The sky is still here even after you rubbed your eyes. You look at your hands and start counting your fingers. You have more fingers in dreams, so your father always told you. You only have your required amount, not one more and not one less. So you aren’t dreaming. You are actually resting under a glass dome. Also what is that smell? Like old books and expensive wood?

You look around. A library.

“Oh!”

You must be stupid in sleep. You stayed over at Taehyung’s place, now you remember! This is his library, a secret he shared with you last night before you and him spent hours watching the stars and kissing until your lips were tender. You touch them, feeling your heart flutter. Last night was so amazing. He took you dancing, walked with you under the moonlight, showed you his most precious possessions and then told you that you are important to him under the starry sky and then fell asleep with you while you were resting in his arms.

You giggle, hiding your face behind your hands. Last night was epic.

Your gaze soon shifts to your side. You really wanted to get a glimpse of him. Taehyung. The man who makes you feel so loved.

“Huh?”

Taehyung was missing. His smell still lingered on the sheets, but he was nowhere to be seen. His side is cold to the touch. He must have left quite some time ago, leaving behind nothing more than a beautifully handwritten note.

“Good morning my sweetest, if you are reading this note then it must mean you have woken before I managed to return. Worry not, I have a few errands to run, but I will be reunited with you very soon. In the meantime please feel free to explore my library, however I must ask you not to leave my wing. It is important that you follow this rule. With deepest adoration, Kim Taehyung.”

You have to smile. He really has a poetic way with words. Sometimes you wonder if he is of another time. Perhaps he is a time traveller. You gasp. This would explain the portrait downstairs and the incredible similarities it shares with Taehyung. This would explain the way he always gives himself, how he dresses and speaks. This would explain why he owned so much money and why he had such an impressive collection of antiquities. Perhaps he is really a time traveller.

“No, don’t be stupid”, you say, giving your own cheek a little slap. There you go, making up silly stories about the man you fancy instead of what the birds are singing about.

You read the note a second time, putting it back down on its original place afterwards. Taehyung told you not to leave his wing, which was a peculiar request, but you figure that his roommates don’t know that you stayed overnight. He most definitely wants to save you from the awkward “did you guys have sex?” conversation one of them most likely would want to have with you. How very nice of him, you really weren’t in the mood for such conversation.

He also told you that you could look around his library. With a racing heart, you let your eyes travel over the countless rows of books. You have an entire library all to yourself.

You squeal, doing a little happy dance with your shoulders. This is like a dream come true.

Ever since you learned about the existence of libraries at the ripe age of four and a quarter years, your biggest dream was to spend a day locked up in one and getting lost in the books.

You like that today was that day.

Fixing the soft knitted jumper, Taehyung had hurried down to get you after you told him that you were chilly, you stand up and waddle over to the first of six bookshelves.

Taehyung had the most amazing collection of books. Mostly old classics and books filled with the most peculiar of knowledge and beautifully made art and photography collections. A majority of his books seemed to carry the weight of many years with them. The leather bounds are covered in fingerprints, the once white pages are yellowed and crinkly at the edges and a musky smell surrounded them. It was for someone like you, a total book nerd and lover of antique books, a goldmine. You must ask Taehyung for his sources once he comes back, you would love to stroll through whatever store he found them in.

Some books are written in languages unknown to you. You still skimmed through all of them, remembering pretty words to ask Taehyung about later. Some even carried letters foreign to you, they looked like pretty paintings to you. You really liked them, finding yourself smiling as you let your eyes travel over them.

One photography book caught your attention just a little longer than the rest of his collection. A photographer named Vante. A whole mystery surrounded him. Apparently he lived in the 1940s, never showed his face or revealed his real name, but loved to display his pictures in galleries. You let your thumb dance over a black and white picture of a scenic looking seaside. It is a pity really, you would have loved to know the face to those pictures. They are beautiful, carrying a certain tranquillity to them. What must he have thought whilst taking the picture? Perhaps he saw beauty in the ocean, perhaps he watched the sun reflect in the dancing surface of the water and thought that this is a view worth capturing for eternity. Perhaps he was filled with struggle, feeling lost in front of a sight so vast one could never capture it in its entirety. Perhaps he was filled with sadness, tasting the salt in the air and remembering all the times he tasted his salty tears on his lips. You drag your thumb over the horizon and sigh. Whatever he thought of and felt in that moment, the picture remaining makes you feel good inside.

You close the book, settling back on the armchair next to the fireplace. You eye the big pile of books, you had prepared to read and skim through.

“Which one of you beauties should I open next?” you murmur, leaning closer to the pile to read the titles, “oh? Le Petit Prince? Gosh, I haven’t read this in ages.”

So it was decided then. The Little Prince, with its beautifully hand-painted illustrations and moving story, would be your first book. It was written in French and in an accent you can’t quite understand completely. But you enjoyed it nonetheless, remembering words you couldn’t understand for later. Perhaps Taehyung can tell you what they mean. Your mind drifts off. Perhaps you could whisper them against his neck while he runs his fingers up and down your spine. Perhaps you could kiss his lips and taste his sigh whenever he taught you a new word. It would be such a lovely reward for you and him.

“Oh dear, I mustn’t think like that”, you whisper, touching the side of your neck shyly, “I should concentrate, read this book about plants instead.”

You open it.

“Oh wow, such pretty paintings”, you gasp, feeling yourself get pulled into the book.

You had just reached the third book – a book about Moroccan architecture – when your stomach rumbles so loudly you fear the entire town might have heard it. You look down at your tummy, touching it gently.

“I am so damn hungry, what the hell? What time is it?”

Your eyes widen. It is way past eleven, the clock on the wall tells you so. Which means, you spent hours upon hours getting lost in Taehyung’s library and books.

You sneak a glance at the mattress on which his note was still resting. He told you not to leave his wing, but it’s been hours already. If there was a possibility to meet his roommates in the kitchen, it surely must have passed by now. They are most definitely busy with something else, maybe riding their horses or doing whatever one does in such a big estate.

Maybe one little sneak down to the kitchen to get a snack won’t hurt.

You try to be as quiet as possible as you hurry through the estate. The door to the sitting room is open as you pass it. It seems to be empty when you sneak a glance inside.

The kitchen turns out to be at the very far end of the estate. You finally found it after opening far too many wrong doors. A few more sitting rooms, some locked rooms, far too many rooms with their windows boarded up and two toilets, also one ballroom. It looked eery with its blood red curtains drawn closed and the vast sunlight illuminating every particle of dust in the air, also you couldn’t see the end of the room as it drowned in darkness. You closed the door as quickly as possible, shivering.

To your luck, the kitchen was located only one sharp turn to the left up a spacious corridor. The door was open, silence seeped out of the room. You knock on the doorframe twice, waiting for an answer. Nothing comes.

So you decide to enter the room. It is empty, the counters are cleaned, so is the dining table. As you had expected, his roommates already ate breakfast. Perfect. Now you just need to be quiet in preparing a snack and a cup of tea and it will be as if you never even left Taehyung’s wing in the first place.

“Now, where do you guys keep your kettle?” you mumble, rummaging through their cupboards. They own surprisingly little dishes. Most of the cupboards are empty. Weird, you would have thought that in an estate like this, they would have an impressive collection of the most expensive porcelain as well.

Perhaps they have their own room for that and this is merely the kitchen to prepare the food. You wouldn’t even be surprised if that was the case.

“Aha! There you are.”

They did own a water kettle however. It smelled old and unused, which was once again very unusual. As you cleaned it, dust even darkened the water. It was peculiar really, but not as peculiar as the contents of their fridge. Empty. Not even condiments like ketchup or mustard, were stored in the fridge. You stick your hand inside.

“It’s not even on”, you observe and close it, “okay am I in the wrong kitchen?”

“No you are not.”

You screech, fearing that your heart might give up in your chest. You whip around, meeting the eyes of none other than Park Jimin. He is sitting on the kitchen island with his legs crossed and his chest exposed in the thin rope he is wearing.

“Dear lord. What’s with all that yelling?” he asks nonchalantly, bobbing his left foot up and down.

You press your hand over your racing heartbeat, “holy moly, I think you just gave me a heart attack.”

He chuckles, “aww I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Yes you did. You appeared out of nowhere like a freaking ghost, it scared me.”

He chuckles again before he smirks in amusement.

“I’ve been here all along. I don’t know how you could miss me”, he says, jumping off the counter he had previously been sitting on.

“N-no I-“, you twist and turn, “-I checked the kitchen, it was totally empty when I entered it.”

“Well, you must have missed a spot”, he says, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

You are left blinking in disbelief. He wasn’t in the kitchen when you entered. You know that he wasn’t because you checked every inch of it thoroughly. How is that possible?

“You smell of Taehyung”, Jimin states.

“E-excuse me?”

“His scent is on you”, he explains, taking a deep breath, “dear lord he did proper work, it’s almost overpowering yours. That's why I couldn’t locate you at first.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, smelling your own arm. Yes, the jumper you were wearing was one of Taehyung's and it did smell like him, but it wasn’t so strong that you felt overpowered by it.

“Doesn’t matter”, Jimin dismisses you, shrugging his shoulders, “I see that you are making yourself some tea. That’s a good choice. I am more of a coffee guy myself.”

“Uhm…uh…yeah, I never really got into coffee”, you mumble, still trying to figure out how the hell Jimin was in the kitchen. Or how he found Taehyung’s scent to be overpowering. Or how he is able to smell him so clearly in the first place. Or why he wanted to locate you by scent.

“I see, you and Taetae have something in common so it seems.”

“Taetae?”

“That is what I call Taehyung”, Jimin explains, turning the coffee machine on, “don’t tell him that I told you, he thinks the nickname to be embarrassing.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure, I won’t”, you mumble, scratching the back of your neck. Why do you feel so jittery all of a sudden? Your hands are all clammy too.

“Speaking of Taehyung. Did you stay here tonight?”

“Yes, uhm, yes I did.”

“I see….” a pause then a weirdly long sigh, “…oh he takes such good care of me….”

“W-what?”

Jimin turns around, dirty smirk on his face.

“Nothing” he lets his eyes travel up and down your body, “am I making you nervous ___?”

“No”, you chuckle nervously, “I’m just confused.”

Jimin cocks an eyebrow up at you and smirks. Your stomach feels funny, like really funny. There is desire in it. The desire to run your hands up and down his naked torso. Why? You don’t want to and yet your body does.

You draw closer all on your own.

“What are you confused about?” he rasps, grabbing your chin between two of his fingers.

Holy shit you want him so bad. What? You blink in confusion, your throat constricting. No you don’t want him and neither do you want him to touch you like that. At least you are pretty sure that you don’t want that. So why are your knees turning into literal puddy right now?

“Jimin I-“, you choke out, fingers itching with the desire to reach out.

He lets go of you and takes a step back.

“Anyways. What would you like to have to your tea? Crumpets or scones?” he says and turns away.

You clear your throat, gasping for air. This was so weird. What just happened?

“S-scones please”, you whisper, staring at him with big eyes.

Why are you so goddamn wet between the legs? What the hell? You were normal before you talked to Jimin. Hungry yes, but normal. What is this sorcery?

Jimin turns the oven on and turns to look at you, dark smirk appearing on his face.

“Are you sure you are okay? You look terribly shaken.”

“I’m okay just...feeling a little weird.”

“Weird? Is it because of me?”

Jimin steps closer, reaching out to touch your wrist. You step back, gasping when he pulls you back to him.

“Your pulse is racing”, he observes and lifts up your hand to turn it. It is resting in his palm, finger closed on instinct as Jimin lets his own travel over the veins in your wrist.

“I can feel it”, he whispers and presses his finger closer, “it’s the strongest here and oh? It just jumped as I touched the spot.”

Your knees are wobbling, your head is spinning. Is he a sorcerer? Perhaps he is. Taehyung is the time traveller and Jimin is the witcher, equipped with powers of seduction. You should think him to be weird – and you do – but more than anything else you think him to be so temptatious that you want to scream.

“What are you doing to me?” you ask hoarsely.

His eyes meet yours, they have darkened quite a bit. A sly smirk tugs at his plumb lips.

“I’m not doing anything”, he breaks away, giving you a moment of breath.

You wheeze and stumble, finding support on the edge of the kitchen island. You hadn’t even realised how little air was left in your lungs until he finally stepped back.

“Oh god, what’s wrong with me?” you choke out.

“You must have low blood sugar”, he says and steps closer, “come sit down on the counter and I will prepare the food.”

"No, no uhm. I should go. Taehyung’s probably back already", you stutter.

He lifts you up and sits you down before you could even turn to leave, keeping himself pressed close to you once you are seated. His hands are lingering on your hips, his eyes are glued to your lips. Oh god, what is happening? What is he doing to you? Why do you want him so bad? You are dating his best friend and you like dating Taehyung, you shouldn’t have such desires. And you know that you don’t have such desires. What is he doing to you?

“Do you want to kiss me ___?” he rasps and draws closer.

“Yes”, your tongue worked without your consent, exposing you and him to a truth you didn’t even know you possessed.

“So why don’t you?”

“Because you’re his friend and he is my boyfriend.”

“So you made it official? Did he ask you to be his’?”

“N-no but – “, your voice cuts off as Jimin grabs you by the back of your head.

You fight against him, “no, I shouldn’t do this.”

“You’re not official and Taetae has never been one to keep his lovers to himself. Come on ___ let me get a taste of you”, he coos, ghosting his pillowy lips over the shell of your ear.

“I don’t want to”, you choke out, feeling your body draw closer to his’ on its own.

Jimin purrs deeply, massaging your hips.

“You offend me ___, am I really that repulsive?” he asks, sucking on the sensitive skin of your neck gently.

“No, no I don’t know. Gosh I don’t know”, you say, panting for air, “I don’t know. Jimin please stop.”

He sighs and pulls back. He carries disappointment in his eyes as he reaches out to pat the top of your head.

“Very well, you bore”, he mumbles and turns his back to you, “don’t move I’ll get you breakfast”, he tells you, leaving the kitchen through a door, which you hadn’t even seen before.

You fix the collar of your jumper, feeling close to passing out. What is wrong with you? You want Jimin with every fibre in your body, but you know that this is wrong. The worst part is knowing that before you talked to Jimin, you didn’t want him one bit, not even a little. What did he do to you? What is your problem? And most importantly why can’t you move?

“Now ___, tell me”, Jimin enters the room again, carrying groceries, “do you like sausage?” he asks, placing them on the counter and looking over his shoulder.

What is going on with you? You were so happy that you weren’t feeling so crazy anymore and yet here you were, feeling crazy again.

“___”, he calls your name and with it your attention.

“Yeah?” you look at him, coughing to get rid of that funny feeling in your chest.

“I asked you if you wanted some eggs to your sausage”, he says.

“S-sure thank you”, you mumble, nodding your head.

“Wonderful”, he smiles, “would you mind handing me that knife over there?”

“Knife”, you repeat, jumping off the counter and waddling to the knife stand with your eyes focused on it. He wants a knife, you need to get a knife. Bring Jimin a knife. That's what you need to do.

“Which one? This one?” you ask as you pull the biggest of them free.

“Exactly, you are a treasure”, he says, opening his palm for you to place the knife in.

He pulls it from your hand.

“Ouch, oh shit”, you hiss, hand flinching back when you feel the sharp burn of getting cut.

“Oh dear! I am so sorry, did I cut you?” Jimin exclaims, rushing to your side.

“Ah”, you inhale sharply, “yeah, ouchies that burns.”

“Let me see”, he says, taking your hand gently.

You open your palm to him, revealing the deep cut he left on the spot between your thumb and pointer finger. Blood had collected on the palm.

“Aaah, that must hurt. I feel so terrible”, he says, “wait, let me clean this for you quickly.”

“No it’s not that bad, I can- oh? W-what are you doing?”

Jimin looks up at you, eyes dark and dangerous. He has his lips around your cut, lapping at it rather hungrily. You swallow, eyes glued to his lips.

“No, don't do that. This is so disgusting. I can clean it myself”, you say, wanting to pull your hand away.

Jimin doesn’t let you, tightening his fingers around your wrist. He grunts and starts sucking harshly.

“Jesus chill, w-what are you doing?”

It stings as if you were cut a second time. You whine, wanting to pull away.

“Let, let go of me. What are you doing?”

Jimin moans, closing his eyes as he sucks even harder.

“Please let go. T-this is weird”, you plead and Jimin squeezes your wrist in warning.

“Jimin!” Taehyung's angry voice bounces off the walls.

Jimin lets go of your hand, licking his lips almost as if he had enjoyed what had just happened. There are two little puncture holes next to your cut.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Taehyung yells.

He is by Jimin's side in an instant, grabbing the other man by his collar and almost lifting him off the floor. Jimin merely cackles.

“What’s your problem Taehyung? You don’t like that I tasted your little human before you?” he challenges.

What the hell is he saying? Tasting you? His little human?

“Don’t make me hurt you Jimin”, Taehyung warns in a deep growl.

Why is he so angry? Why does he want to hurt his friend?

“What is happening?” you ask.

Taehyung lets go of Jimin and places his hand on your shoulder.

“Go to my room. Now”, he orders you with his fingers on your chin.

“Okay”, you say without wanting to, nodding your head obediently.

Your legs move on their own. You don’t want to walk. What is happening? Why are you leaving? What is happening?

“Have you gone mad? You’re protecting her?” you hear Jimin bark and yet you can’t turn around. You really want to turn around and check what they were doing, but you can’t. You need to go to Taehyung's room. He told you so.

You sit on the bed when Taehyung opens the door and slams it closed. He looks angry and judging by his ruffled hair something must have happened downstairs. There are red stains on his shirt. As someone who has had to suffer through her period ever since she was thirteen, you know exactly what type of red stains are on his shirt. Blood.

“Hey, you alright? Are you bleeding? Did Jimin hurt you?” you are on your feet and by his side in an instant.

You try to cup his cheek and check for wounds, but Taehyung flinches back.

“Don’t touch me”, he spits. He bumps his shoulder with you as he hurries to the bathroom. It hurts for a moment.

“Hey! What’s your problem?” you hurry after him.

Taehyung takes his shirt off and throws it into the laundry bin. He bends over the sink, muscles in his back flexing as he pants in anger. The tips of his fingers turn white from how tightly he clutches the marble.

“What was this all about? Why did you tell me to go to your room?”

“Because you weren’t supposed to leave it in the first place!” Taehyung yells, whipping around.

You stumble back, shocked to see such anger on his face.

“I told you! Do not leave my wing without me! I gave you one simple rule to follow and yet you were incompetent to do so!”

“Don’t yell at me”, you say quietly, feeling so close to crying, “I don’t like it when people yell at me”, you choke out.

Taehyung wanted to say something but quickly closes his mouth. He takes a deep breath.

“Urgh!” he exclaims and whips back around.

For a moment it looked like he wanted to punch the mirror, but as he heard you squeak in fear and your eyes met in the reflection, his hand stopped a mere hairs width away from the glass. He grabs the sink, dark hair hanging into his angry eyes.

“Come here”, he presses out through gritted teeth.

“What?”

“I said, come here.”

You stumble closer, shivering in fear. You stand beside him in silence, watching him take heavy breaths. Then, out of nowhere, he turns his head, dark eyes flitting down to your hand.

“Show it to me.”

“What?”

“Your hand, show it to me.”

You lift it hesitantly. He grabs it roughly and pulls you closer.

“Open it.”

You follow, hating your fingers for shaking. Your blood had smeared all over your palm, tainting the underside of your nails a dark, almost brown, red. You have no idea why you haven’t cleaned it already, but something inside of you stopped you from doing so. Taehyung inspects it with a clenched jaw.

“Does it hurt?” he asks coldly, eyes flitting up to meet yours.

You swallow, nodding your head slowly.

He grinds his teeth and exhales loudly through his nose.

“Damn it ___”, he whispers deeply, turning on the water and pulling your hand underneath.

“Ouch! Oh god, that burns”, you gasp.

“I have to clean it.”

“But, but it hurts.”

He sighs and turns off the water, reaching for a clean towel. He pats your hand dry gently, soaking the towel with the new blood leaking from your wounds. You stare at the puncture wound.

“Did Jimin bite me?” you ask quietly.

“No. You’re just imagining it.”

“But those two dots and, and I felt a really sharp pain when he, he licked me.”

“It’s nothing”, he says with his voice vast of emotion.

“But Taehyung – “

“It’s nothing”, he insists, louder than before.

“I don’t understand. I, I feel so weird and, and I don’t know what is happening to me.”

“Nothing, you’re just in shock.”

“No, it can’t be. My mind is all hazy and foggy and my body does things I don’t want to do. Taehyung it is like that one time you met me at the park, but even more intense.”

“So you are sleep deprived. There. You have your answer.”

“But I slept well and –“

“Forget it ___, you are sleep deprived and have low blood sugar. You are fine”, he spits, sending you a warning glare.

You close your mouth, feeling tears prickle at your eyes. He breaks the eye contact with an exhausted sigh.

"I'm just so confused. I, I can’t explain half of the things I saw today and most of the things Jimin said make no sense to me. Taehyung if you know something then-"

"I don't, Jimin just likes to mess with people because he is a prick", he forces out.

He opens his mirror cabinet and pulls out a white, clean roll of bandages. He opens it with his teeth, spitting the ripped plastic into the sink and grabs your wrist again to pull you closer.

“Hold still, I’ll wrap it up”, he explains.

He works quickly and without much delicacy. You know that he is only taking care of you because he feels it to be his responsibility and not because he genuinely wants you to feel better.

“Are you angry at me Tae?” you ask, dreading his answer.

Taehyung sighs and finishes tightening the bandages. He drops your hand and lifts his head. His eyes are burning in anger as he looks at you.

“I called you a cab, it will arrive in ten minutes”, he growls through gritted teeth.

“Wait. What?” you gasp, “I don’t understand. Are you sending me away?”

“It’s for the best”, he murmurs as he walks past you.

“What the hell? Why? What did I do?” you follow him outside, “are you seriously angry at me for leaving your wing?”

“I told you not to, didn’t I? You had my library and my entire collection of books to pass the time with and yet you couldn’t follow one simple rule”, he growls, stomping to his walk-in dressing room. You follow him, eyes wide in confusion and head hurting from everything that had happened ever since you made the terrible mistake of leaving his wing.

“I was hungry”, you defend yourself, “and the kitchen was empty when I first entered it. I just wanted to get a quick snack and a cup of tea to drink whilst reading. Why are you so mad?”

Taehyung puts on a clean shirt, fixing his hair afterwards. He tugs the thin material into his pants, working aggressively as he does.

“Because you disobeyed me.”

“Disobeyed you? Excuse me? Am I your servant or something?”

“I gave you one rule!” Taehyung whips around, nostrils flared in anger, “do you even know what he would have done to you if I hadn’t walked in? Do you really think one bite would have satisfied him? Is your life of such little importance to you?”

“What? What are you saying? So he, he did bite me?”

“Urgh”, he forces out, stomping out of the dressing room in big steps.

He is pacing up and down in front of his bed when you finally join him, hands in his hair and jaw clenched.

“What did I do? Taehyung what did I do?” you ask, feeling like your head might explode, “please tell me what is happening. I-I’m so confused.”

“Listen ___”, Taehyung is by your side within the blink of an eye.

“What the? How did you get here so fast?”

He ignores your questions and tilts your head up by your chin instead.

“It’s best if you leave now, the cab is here.”

310 notes · View notes

teebarnes · 3 years

Text

✨ | I'm Fallin' For You, Darling.

Click [100 Followers Fic] for the rest of the 100 follower fics :)

Pairing: Chris Evans x female!reader

Summary: Both you and Chris have quite the relationship, it all started the day you gave him a marker.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warning(s): Fluffffff, Angst for sure, talk of anxiety (not a lot but also a lot).

A/N: Thank you guys so much for 100 followers! It means the world, I hope you like this one as much as I do. (Sorry that's a lotta words).

⤑ Click here for my taglist so you can be notified when my new fics are posted.

Any Likes, Comments & Reblogs are super duper appreciated :))

When Chris Evans is nervous, there is only one thing that calms him down. And that one thing is you and the fact that you allow him to doodle on your hands all the time.

The premiere of Captain America: The Winter Soldier was the first time you saw Chris so nervous. Him constantly rubbing his hands together or bouncing his leg underneath the press table and the times when he'd fiddle with the hem of his shirts. These were things you noticed Chris did when he got nervous, and it seemed that you were the only one who witnessed them.

The third day into the film's press tour, you decided to take matters into your own hands. You knew what it felt like to be anxious, the feeling settling within the depths of your stomach or the constant avoidance of looking out to an audience. Sometimes you'd excuse yourself a few times throughout interviews just to catch your own breath.

The whole TCA: TWS cast sat along the stage of the comic-con panel. The hosts introduced you all, crowds cheering loudly when they saw everyone.

You took your seat next to Chris, who was already fiddling with his plastic water bottle that he'd been gripping so tightly on, you could already see the indents on the bottle. You smiled, looking out to the audience waving back to some of your fans that you could see holding signs up for you in the crowd. It was, in fact, times like these that your anxiety shot right out the window, replacing that anxiety with happiness and admiration of your fan base.

Five minutes into the panel talk and questions were directed to Scarlett and RDJ. You knew you wouldn't be talking anytime soon as, of course, like all other press tours, the interviews were heavily coordinated. So before you'd have the chance to speak, Sebastian, Anthony, and the Russo brother would go first. Sitting back in your chair, you took a sip of your water, your eyes following down to where Chris was bouncing his leg. Then, setting your water back onto the table, you pulled yourself and your chair closer to the table, reaching over across Joe Russo, who observed what you were doing.

"Could you pass me the marker, please, Joe?" you whispered to him; he smiled, nodding handing you the marker. "Thanks", you whispered again.

You returned to the comfort of your seat, Scarlett and RDJ still bantering. You look forward to the audience and give a tiny little smile to the fans who were waving at you. Your eyes looked down to your arm; you wrote a little message on your forearm, so he knew what the pen was for.

You scooted a bit closer to Chris just enough so you could hand him the pen. You lightly looked over to him; your hand went underneath the table and across to rest on Chris' lap. It was right there when his leg stopped bouncing. You held the pen in your hand, waiting for him to take it from you. Chris looked up turning his gaze to you; you gave him a smile nodding.

His eyes directed back down to where your arm was. He read the note you had written for him, 'Use my arm to doodle. It helps with anxiety :)'. He let out a smile, all the while letting out the breath he'd been holding in.

You looked back up and over to Sebastian, who was now talking; you felt the pen slip out from your grip, the marker clicked and the coldish ink embracing the surface of your skin.

One of Chris' hand rested firmly on your forearm to keep it from moving, and the other used to doodle. That was the first time in the history of you knowing Chris to be calm and content. No bouncing his leg or fidgeting. He was completely aware of everything instead of his growing anxiety.

It was after that moment Chris slowly began to fall in love. He never expected someone to notice his worries and do something about them. But, the way you sat there while he doodled on your arm didn't phase you at all, you wanted to support him, and you showed him that you did.

Years later, It became a force of habit, the tiny hugs you'd give Chris just to slide a marker into his pocket before going on stage. The small slight movements he'd make before he took your hand into his so he could draw.

You'd become someone who knew him better than he knew himself. The many dates he took you on lead to you moving in with him. The small moments you both had messing around on set and loving him in the silliest of moments meant eternity to the pair of you. You knew that you had fallen in love with Chris Evans, and so was he. You both just didn't realise that the moment would be a forever moment. If you hadn't offered him a marker that day, where would you be?

It was now the premiere of Avengers: End Game and the last press tour you'd have for a while. Today's interview consisted of a comic-con panel, the same panel you happily let Chris doodle on your arm five years ago.

You both sat together, his hand protectively on your thigh. You were speaking into the mic as a fan had just asked you a question about possibly seeing your character in the future of the MCU. Chris sat there attentive to your voice while he drew on the top of your hand. It was a little duck with a Boston Red Sox hat holding a heart.

Once you had finished answering the question and someone else began to speak, you looked back down to see what Chris was drawing. You squinted in wonder; looking back at Chris, you wondered why he was drawing this. Coincidentally, you had drawn a duck on him one day in between an interview—a duck holding a heart wearing a NASA cap. Chris looked at you with his cheesy smile. Oh! he was up to something, you thought. Chuckling, you watched him colour in the small heart with a red marker. He was, in truth, quite a good artist; you managed to take a photo of all his doodles over the years. But this one, this doodle was a bit different; it meant something more to you.

After you had both finished the panel, you were set on getting a new tattoo. Kissing Chris' lips, you told him that you'd see him at home. Chris had asked you where you were going, so you said you were going out to dinner with your mum in town, which was true you just left out the part of you going to get another tattoo. Your parents were in for the weekend for reasons unknown and wanted to see you before they left, so you had already planned to see them. He nodded, kissing you once more before departing ways.

You both were always so sentimental, and you knew as soon as you saw that duck in a red sox cap holding a heart on your hand that you wanted it to be a forever doodle. That day, when you had drawn a duck on him, he went and got it tatted on his hand the same day. The first tattoo visible on Chris' body, the only tattoo that wasn't hidden under his shirts. In contrast, most of your tattoos were on your arms and wrists; this was another tattoo among the few others you had on your hand, others being the original six symbol and some writing of your favourite quotes.

Before you knew it, you were sitting on the chair in your private tattoo artist's studio, getting the duck tattooed on you forever. The tattoo was a reminder of memories both you and him had experienced together.

The red sox hat, being where he took you on your first date five years ago. To a Red Sox game, of course. You didn't have anything to wear to represent the team, so Chris kindly offered you his Red Sox cap to wear; five years later, Chris had to purchase a new hat because you kept his one. Of course, he didn't mind; he loved to see you dressed in things that were his; the hat was one of them.

"I don't have anything to wear", you sadly pouted at Chris, looking at him in his Red Sox jersey and cap.

He looked down to you as you stood next to him, holding his hand softly, looking out to the stadium. He smiled, taking his cap off and placing it over your head.

"Now you do", he smiled, leading you down the stairs to your seats. You weren't really a fan of baseball. Still, once you had experienced your first game, oh man... it became a routine for both you and Chris to attend every game the Red Sox were playing at.

The duck, the furry little animal you had brought home a few months after you had first moved in with Chris two years ago. In all honesty, you wanted to get a turtle, but as soon as you saw that slight yellow fluff waddling around at the pet store, you wanted nothing more than to take it home with you. Chris couldn't say no to you, so the duck became your baby.

"y/n?" Chris came around the corner where you'd sat yourself talking to the little duck... Chris had been looking for you for almost fifteen minutes when he found you sitting there with the pet shop worker.

The excitement in your eyes told him that you had forgotten all about the turtle. You looked up at him smiling, patting the empty seat next to him. He sat watching you pet the small baby duck with your thumb lightly. "I'm naming him Alfie" you smiled brightly, looking back at Chris.

He took the duck out of your hands and chuckled, "Alfie, it is".

The red heart...

A reminder of how much you both loved each other. Something that had never gone away, the love both you and Chris had continued, it grew stronger over time, of course with a few hiccups here and there but never enough to break that love. But this, the tiny little heart being tattooed onto you, was one similar to the heart that homed your middle finger on a ring. The rose gold ring he gifted you when he asked you to be his girlfriend four years ago.

You rested your head on Chris' shoulder as both of you watched the office. A new series you'd been watching together, it was a few months after your first date with Chris, and you both were head over heels with each other.

"Hey y/n", he whispered.

"Mh?"

"I'm fallin' for you darling."

You lifted your head from his shoulder, looking up at him, "You're what", you whispered softly, you heard what he said, but you just needed to hear it again.

He brought the small box out, opening it to reveal a rose gold band hearts making up the band. "I said I'm falling in love with you", he smiled before continuing ", Be my girlfriend?" he sweetly asked.

You chuckled, letting him slide the ring onto your middle finger. "Of course", you whispered back to him before cupping his face. You both looked at each other, you saw it, you saw the life you'd been wanting. It was with him.

"I love you".

Sitting at the dinner table with your parents, you briefly looked down at the now wrapped tattoo on your hand. You had thanked your tattoo artist for another fantastic job; the new ink was precisely how Chris drew it on you earlier today. Your parents were eating away and so were you.

"It's great to see you again, Hunny", your dad spoke.

You smiled, nodding. "I've missed you guys so much."

"What's on your agenda for this weekend?" you spoke again, taking a bite of your food. Your mum and dad took one look at each other before your mum stopped to talk.

"Your dad and I are going to old friends party", she smiled at you. "party", you chuckled. "Since when do you guys party".

"it's an engagement party, I mean... do you have some parties we could go to" your dad joked.

"First of all... no." you laughed, cringing at the image in your head of your parents dancing and drinking. "But that's nice. I hope you both have fun, wish whoever a congratulations for me" you smiled.

"Oh, we will", your mum outwardly said. You took a second to squint your eyes in curiosity to your mum's tone. "Mhkay".

It was the end of dinner, and you had parted ways with your parents, taking a Cab to the home you shared with Chris. "thank you, driver," you smiled, hopping out of the cab walking up to your driveway. You giggled, seeing Dodger patiently waiting for you at the front door. "Hey buddy", you smiled, opening up the door for him to jump all over you.

Closing the door behind you, kneeling down to cuddle your pup. Dodger wagged his tail giving you kisses. "Shhhhh", you chuckled lightly, "were you waiting for me, huh?" you watched Dodger roll around on the floor. You stood up, taking your shoes off, leaving your keys on the hook. "C'mon, baby", you whispered, gesturing for Dodger to follow. You both walked down the hall, Dodger by your side.

You could hear the snores coming from your room and knew Chris was already sleeping. You opened the door, looking down at Dodger "go keep my spot warm for me, please", you sweetly asked your pup, who did just that. You watched him gently jump up onto the bed and curl up on your side of the bed.

Walking further down the hall, you went to take a shower. Changing into the PJs you left on the warming rack in the bathroom, you followed back out to check on Alfie, who would be sleeping in your office. Once that was done, you head into your and Chris' room. You took off your slippers and ushered Dodger to sleep in his bed. You kissed his head before he left. "night, bubba".

You slide in next to Chris, who had his back to you. Covering yourself with the blanket, you slide one arm around his bare torso pulling yourself closer to him. He was so warm, and you loved it. Chris groaned, turning over. He smiled sleepily. "Hey hon, how was dinner?" "It was good", you kissed his lips, "That's good," he said, pulling you into his arms to cuddle.

"Hey babe"

"mhhh", he mumbled in a sleepy voice.

"I love you."

"I love you too".

The next day you were doing a panel with the marvel cast. Like any other day, you answered questions, so why did you feel this one would be different. You were a bit nervous today, like you had woken up wrong, or you were waiting for something to happen. You didn't know if that was a good or bad thing.

You were talking to your audience. It was a large panel today consisting of the MCU cast, if not all of them. Maybe that's why you were so nervous; the bigger the cast panel, the bigger audience to speak to. "Make eye contact and hand gestures y/n," you thought to yourself right before you begun to answer the fan's questions. You start to use your hands gesturing when a fan had asked you about your character's personality.

Chris smiled, watching you intently; fans noticed. But as you were gesturing, he noticed the tattoo. He had to double-take when he saw your hand, leaving a small on his face. After you finished your question, he leaned in. "I love your tattoo, babe", he whispered; his comment calmed your nerves a bit as you chuckled ", just following your lead."

You both lean back into your seats as Joe and Anthony Russo began the next half of the panel. You were already forty minutes through... only another forty to go.

Anthony spoke, "As you may know, this will be the last you'll see of your favourite actors and actresses for a while..." Joe turned to the entire panel. "So we put together a little something of your time over the last decade" Joe turns back to the audience. "So sit back and relax."

The panel turned their chairs to watch the big screen, the lights dimmed, and the video rolled. It was a decade gag-reel of everyone in the MCU; Chris had pulled your chair closer to his; he knew you were nervous, for what reason? He didn't know, and neither did you. He should've been the nervous one; he was about to do something in front of the entire audience he had been planning for months.

Your head rested on Chris' shoulder, laughing with everyone else as the embarrassing footage rolled through. There was more footage of you and Chris than anyone else, but again, you were too clouded in worry. You didn't overthink about it.

Then there it was, a clip you didn't know existed—a video of you dancing with Scarlett and Jeremy on the infinity war set. You were being videoed from afar, but Chris comes into the frame making funny faces before pointing at you. You blushed a bit, laughing lightly.

"You see her", Past Chris spoke to the camera. "One day, I am going to marry her" he wiggles his finger over to your past self, who was still dancing around like an idiot. You swear your heart stopped, so ultimately, you started bouncing your leg. The video stopped, and the lights came back on. There were hushed voices; you knew they were looking your way, but you couldn't tell why.

You turned your chair, trying to avoid whoever was looking at you. Not noticing anything, nobody was talking. You had turned your head to look down to the end of the panel where The Russo brothers were. They were all looking in your direction, including the whole cast panel. You jumped slightly when Chris caught your leg mid-bounce; you turned to look at him, his eyes dazzling before you. Oh, that smile, you knew that smile all too well. Chris was smiling like a little kid.

Chris tapped you on your thigh, which caught your attention, so you looked down. This is it; this is the same feeling you felt when he first asked you to be his girlfriend. You burst into tears after reading the message on his arm; Chris' forearm rested in your lap while holding a black marker in his hand. You sniffed, looking softly at him. He was now in tears too. Taking the black marker from his grip, you clicked it; resting your hand on his forearm to steady yourself, you answered his question.

'Will you marry me, y/n?' the question written in his bold writing stared right back at you.

You always had your answer 'of course.'

You closed the lid on the pen, and Chris opened his hand; your engagement ring sat in the nook of his palm. He slides it onto your ring finger right next to your rose-gold one. You smile blinking through the tears, you turn to him, and Chris had already stood with his arms in the air.

"SHE SAID YES"

The whole audience got up cheering; he leaned in, cupping your cheeks, both of you laughing through your kisses. He had lifted you into his arms, spinning you around. He set you back down; you wiped the tears from your face laughing while wearing your t-shirt. At that point, you knew everyone was in on your proposal; you turned to your cast members, who were all clapping.

"Give a round of applause for the future Mr and Mrs Evans!" Joe spoke.

You went around hugging everyone who had gotten up just to congratulate the pair of you. One by one, your friends embraced you in their arms.

"Congratulations", two-voice spoke from behind you, "oh my god, you idiots", you chuckled, pulling your parents into a big hug. Chris stood next to you as your dad pulled him into a hug. "Your fiancé sends her congratulations", he laughed, referencing the conversation you had with them last night.

Chris looked down at you, "They had texted me last night what you had said. I'm surprised you didn't catch on", he laughed. "I- I didn't know... I was curious after mum said it so suspiciously but didn't think," you mentally face-palmed yourself.

And like that, the panel was concluded. Everyone congratulating you and Chris before leaving. Chris had set up a little engagement party back at your house; everyone was enjoying their time having fun. You sat on Chris' lap still in shock, his arms wrapped around your waist "you didn't see that coming, did you?" he smirked, looking up at you.

"No... no, I didn't" you laughed sweetly. Your hand ran over Chris' forearm where it still had both his and your writing on it. "That was the best proposal ever" you looked at him, smiling, "I'm glad, darling" you both leaned into each other, lips connecting softly.

"I've fallen deeply in love with you, Mr Evans".

"I'm still falling for you".

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris Evans Taglist: @buckyswintersoldiermask @lharrietg @buckyfan12 @afraid-to-be-me @fairityretro

#teebarnesfics #chris evans one shot #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x reader #chris evans fluff #chris evans x you #chris evans #chris evans fic #chris x y/n #chris x you #cevans #chris evans angst

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fallenbars · 3 years

Note

In which Swatch's insecure S/O asks a surprising question - "What do you see in me?" Their kindness and support of the people they care about hasn't gone unnoticed, but they still worry that they might not be good enough. As far as Swatch is concerned, this won't stand at all...

(Please, and thanks in advance! Hope I didn't leave anything out by mistake 🧡)

SWATCH IMAGINES ||

The Dumb Thing Series: 5

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

SWATCH

You and him were at the café and it was about closing hour, Swatch had sent the Swatchlings home while he volunteered to finish up whatever’s left to do there. Of course you stuck around. Not just because you wanted to be by him but to..ask a question and maybe find some reassurance from your lover..

You and him were standing near a table, as you had been following him around as you both idly chatted while he was putting dirty dishes on a tray. On a normal bases you two would have full blown conversations whether he was working or not but with the way your mind was swirling around on that one thought, you couldn’t really bring yourself to say much.

You got the courage and finally blurted out the question that was bothering you. Swatch deadpan looked you in the face. Not a word, no movement- He seemed to be at a standstill..like a statue for that mere minute as you popped the question.

You weren’t going to lie, that minute felt like forever. Slight anxiety began to form in your stomach as you looked him back in the eye, past his sunglasses. Swatch sincerely was a gentlemen. But even if so, he can definitely be intimidating whether he means it purposely or not.

Finally, what seemingly felt like minutes going by in seconds, He moved. He softly put down the tray on the table next to the both of you and then reached his hand out to hold yours, gently taking ahold of it.

He moved in just a tad closer, bending his head down slightly as he moved your hand up to his mouth and he placed a sweet kiss on the back of it. “You simply ask the silliest of questions sometimes, my love.” A very small but visible enough smile graced his face.

He lowered your hand down to where his abdomen was and he clasped it with his other hand. Giving it a very light squeeze.

He bent down more, as he was rather tall and leaned in closer to your face. Just a few inches away from it as you gazed into each other’s eyes.

You held your breathe. You both may have been dating for sometime but this man’s actions and features still made you swoon. And his personality wasn’t any better- Just a reminder why you fell in love with him everyday.

“Dear, what do I see in you?…” He mirrored your question back to you. He tilted his head to the side. “I’ll tell you what I see in you.”

“I see a truly, genuinely amazing kind person. What you do, what you say and the things you accomplish my light, do not go unnoticed. I strongly assure you of that. I see it, everybody does- all those around you. Whether they mention it to you or not.” A low sigh escaped his mouth, not one that was in annoyance or anger but one that came off as a relived type.

One of his hands let go of yours and he sneaks it behind your back, placing it right in the middle and pulls you close. He lays his head on your shoulder, and he continued to speak. “You’re good enough. In fact, dear, better than good. You’re fantastic, wonderful, delightful-“ Your small giggle cut him off, if it didn’t you were sure he would’ve continued on for a bit longer. Your eyes were teary during his speech and just got more watery.

A small chuckle came out from him that you earned in response for the giggle you let out. “Never think you aren’t enough. You’ll always be beyond that simple ‘good’. You’ll always be higher than just that simple word. And you’ll always mean more than you could think to those people you care and cheer on for. Including me.” He lifted his head from your shoulder and pulled back just enough for him to get a full view of your face. You looked like you were on the verge of completely crying, as tears slowly were starting to trickle down your face.

He let go of your hand and brushed your tears away, after he was done with that he intertwined your fingers together once more. You moved your free hand up that was holding onto his arm at some point during the conversation and placed it on the back of his neck, taking hold. He got close again and began planting small lingering kisses all over your face. “I love you, sweetheart.” You gave out a choked laugh, “I love you too, Swatch.”

In the end, you and him just spent a little time with each other in the closed café, basking in one another’s presence and just slow danced to the silence…

///

A/N: I’m so sorry this was late! I haven’t written for Swatch before so I’m praying that I at least got some accuracy in there. Also this hits home. I hope you do realize you most(definitely) are good enough and an awesome person, Anon!! 💖

#deltarune x reader #deltarune #reader insert #x reader #swatch #swatch deltarune #deltarune swatch #swatchling

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puff-poff · 3 years

Text

The Culture of the Demon World

One part of The Promised Neverland that I always wanted to learn more about was the demons and their culture. Demons are a whole new race with their own language, religions, traditions, food, and history, and I want to learn more about their society. So, I decided to do a bit of research on a few specific aspects of the demon world. After writing everything down and connecting the pieces while trying to remain true to canon, I finally have something clear enough to share with you all.

Without further ado, I present to you my analysis of demon culture.

Part One: Clothing Just like in real life, the clothing demons wear depends on their social status and wealth. The middle and lower-class demons wear loose, flowing clothes with wide collars and sleeves. They most likely do this just in case they aren’t able to eat human meat and maintain their form; baggy clothes won’t tear if the demons start to degenerate. This is why the wealthy demons wear tighter clothing. Tight-fitting outfits show that you can afford plenty of human meat and that you aren’t worried about degenerating.

Many demons, both poor and rich, wear long, layered clothing, but it’s hard to tell if this is a societal standard or a byproduct of cold weather. Almost all of the demons we see are wearing long-sleeved tops and ankle-length bottoms, as well as a jacket, shawl, cape, or scarf. However, the feet and hands are almost always uncovered.

A major part of demon clothing is, of course, their masks. This extra page explains the styles and functionality of the Goldy Pond demon’s masks:

Like the rest of their clothing, wealth plays a part in demon’s masks as well. Detailed masks with large horns, like Luce’s, are worn by rich demons who want to flaunt their wealth, while lower-class demons wear simple, paneled masks with short horns. Demons who want a more functional mask might choose one without horns so they don’t get in their way. The aristocrat demons also have a unifying feature between their territory’s masks to differentiate themselves from the leaders of other territories. Whether or not your mask shows your mouth appears to be a personal preference since Legravalima, Mujika, Sonju, Awla, and Mawla all have uncovered mouths despite the character’s drastic differences.

Another detail I would like to point out is the material of the masks. Most demon masks are likely made of a material similar to clay, but there are a few demons with special masks that appear to be made out of something else. Nous and Nouma, for example, have athletic masks coated with shiny material that’s probably similar to polyester. However, it was Legravalima and Sonju’s masks that interested me the most. Legravalima’s mask is smooth, glossy, and seemingly made out of metal. A metallic mask is likely a sign of royal status and immense wealth. This explains why Sonju had a metallic mask as a child, and why he doesn’t have one now. When he was a prince, Sonju wore a shiny mask with a design similar to Legravalima’s. After running away with Mujika, he grew out of his mask and now wears a clay one of the same design.

This might just be the art style of the series changing over time, but I also find it interesting that Sonju’s mask suddenly becomes glossy in chapter 156 during the battle at the royal capital. It’s his first time stepping foot in the palace since he ran away, and it’s as if his mask is suggesting that returning to the palace has given Sonju his royal status back.

Part Two: Architecture In many ways, the architecture in the demon world reminds me of places like the Sant Francesc Church in Spain and Royal Ontario Museum in Canada. As time goes on, old buildings are expanded and improved with modern additions to accommodate the changing world. This can be seen in the paradise hideout, where a newer building was constructed next to the original settlement.

The old, traditional demon buildings are made of clay and other types of stones. They don’t appear to have many windows, and the few windows they do have are holes without window panes. Many of the older buildings were carved out of mountains or trees, or at least rest atop a mountain with steps carved into the side. This traditional style of demon architecture is similar to old Pueblo architecture and adobe homes.

The newer demon architecture likely came into style sometime before Goldy Pond was built, seeing as Goldy Pond has buildings similar to those in modern demon villages. It resembles the European Tudor style with its grid window panes, timber frames, and sloped roofs. The walls were probably made using the wattle and daub technique and painted white or cream. Some of the buildings have stone foundations, but unlike the old style of architecture, the stones are laid like bricks. Buildings made using the new style of architecture also have shutters, awnings, and Juliet balconies.

This picture of the royal capital’s streets perfectly shows the mixing of the old and new architectural styles:

Here, you can see the original clay buildings with the balconies, awnings, and wooden frames of the new style added on. The buildings in the foreground have open windows while the ones further back have grid panes. One of the structures on the right is built in the style of the older demon homes, but it uses modern stone bricks and balconies. This blend of architecture helps show the development of the demon society through the years.

Part Three: Food Human meat is the most important food in demon culture since it’s what keeps the majority of demons from degenerating. I won’t be talking a lot about the farms and human meat in this post since it’s already been explored by the manga and people smarter than me. If you want to read more about demons and human meat, I recommend this post by the-silliest-idiot and this translation of the fanbook, particularly the Q&A sections.

As explained in the manga, the appearance of demons changes depending on the type of meat they eat. The aristocrat demons eat human meat, Parvus eats monkey meat, and the demon horse Sonju rides eats horse meat. As explained in the fanbook, humanoid demons will lose their human appearance if they don’t eat human meat, but monkey demons like Parvus can retain their appearance for a while. To keep themselves from degenerating or changing forms, humanoid demons don’t eat a lot of meat other than the human meat from the farms. When the demons do eat other meats, they eat bugs, fish, and birds, probably because those animals are difficult to change into.

While it’s unclear if demons eat the plants in the forest, we know that there are plenty of edible berries, nuts, fungi, and other plants that the human escapees eat during their travels. Demons also have a variety of fruits, vegetables, and nuts that they grow and harvest. In just these two panels, we can see that the demons have their own versions of pears, hazelnuts, pineapples, kiwi, and mangos (the mangos seem to be popular in the royal capital).

All demons, regardless of wealth or social status, appear to have equal access to all food except human meat. Lower-class demons get low-quality meat, but the same berries and nuts being sold at street markets are present in the Tifari offering.

Part Four: Language Unfortunately, I’m not smart enough to decode the old demon language. In the words of the fanbook, “Sugita created demon god's name, but every other text from the demon language that appeared afterward was Posuka's creation.” The language was made up by Posuka, and I’m not sure if there’s enough dialogue to translate a full alphabet. The old demon language looks like a combination of Japanese and Enochian, but that’s all I can gather from it. It’s also unclear if the language has a written form.

However, the old demon language isn’t used anymore. The language died out for two major reasons; a general lack of knowledge and to separate language from the old faith. The aristocratic demons know the language well enough, but we don’t see many commoner demons speaking it. The modern demon society writes in English, as shown by the signs at Goldy Pond, and it’s likely that they also speak English despite the story being written in Japanese. There's also a chance that the demons speak Old English since the promise was forged during medieval times. If this is true, then the aristocrats and heads of the farms could have a more modern accent because they often talk to people from the human world.

Part Five: The Arts Sadly, we don't know much about art in the demon world. The promise was made around the 11th century, so art in the demon world is likely reflective of that time. I can only assume they have their own literature, art movements, and music, but it's mostly speculation. One thing I noticed is that the demon world has a lot of embroideries, whether it be on the edges of a cape or banners inside the palace. This fits with my theory of medieval Europe-inspired art and languages. During medieval times, top layer garments such as coats and cloaks were commonly embroidered along the hemline and cuffs. This kind of embroidered clothing is worn by many demons throughout the series.

Banners, tapestries, and flags were also commonly created by artists during medieval times. Lines of flags are seen throughout the demon world, and a few buildings in the capital have banners hanging outside. The palace has a few banners of its own, though they're fancier than the ones in the capital streets.

Damask fabric is another example of demon artistry being influenced by medieval Europe. Damask is a reversible fabric created by weaving. The royal demons seem to have jumped on the damask train before the promise was sealed because it can be found in many places throughout the palace. Most notably, Legravalima's dress is partially made of damask, though the silhouette is very different from that of a medieval damask evening gown. Damask was commonly used to make curtains as well, like the ones draped around the Tifari offering.

We don’t know much about literature in the demon world. The books we see were written in the human world and sent to the farms, but surely the demons have their own books and stories. Seeing as the rest of the arts in the demon world were inspired by medieval Europe, I can only assume that their books, fables, and plays are as well. Much of medieval literature was based on religion and chivalry. There were also many fables and myths derived from old stories and religious texts. Demon children probably read many stories about the Evil Blooded, the runaway prince, and heroic knights who protect the demons from harm. There likely are many stories written in the old demon language as well. Similar to Latin and Old English in the Middle Ages, the old demon language was probably the main written language until the 11th century, when the demons began using English as a primary language.

I imagine that Anglo Saxon, Byzantine, and Norman (ha get it) art heavily inspired art in the demon world. The palace is likely covered in tapestries and murals depicting historic events. Metal and tilework were probably once a major part of demon artistry, but the practices died out over time. Instead, many demon artists practice painting and embroidery. Pieces of art in the demon world would be very vibrant and colorful, especially the works displayed in the palace.

When it comes to music in the demon world, there isn’t much to go off of. We know that the farms have access to instruments and sheet music because of Leslie and Nat. Barbara also sings a Japanese children’s song in chapter 113. Unfortunately, we don’t get much information about music in the demon world outside of the farms. I assume that demons primarily play string instruments and piano because of their long fingers. They also have more fingers than humans, meaning they can make a variety of chords that humans can’t. More fingers also allow demons to add more strings to their instruments. Even though it’s possible that demons have their own special instruments, we know that they also have human instruments like cellos, trumpets, and pianos.

Conclusion: There’s a lot more I wish I could talk about (mainly the elements of culture), but I’m stopping for now so this doesn’t get any longer. Feel free to correct me or add on anything I missed. If you made it this far, thank you for reading this incredibly long analysis of demon culture and I hope you have a great day.

#am I reading into this too much? yeah #the promised neverland #the promised neverland manga spoilers #tpn #yakusuko no neverland #ynn

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