#that I lose my shit over anew every several years even if it's been a while in between

[paradife-loft]

Knight Artorias continues to be one of my absolute favorite boss fights

"victim of the Abyss" is the sexiest description one can read on a soul in this entire game by far

decided midway through fighting him that I wanted to go for a no-healing kill, mostly to prolong the experience and see if I could, and: success!! I can and did!

[ushidoux]

Be My Last - Iwaizumi x  Reader (Pt. 3)

Summary: You have trouble getting over a past relationship and it’s preventing you from moving forward. (~2.5k words)

Warnings: again poor communication!!! angst, no sex in this chapter

A/N: Let me know what you think!

Part 1|| Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

---

“Oi, you fucking bastard, you knew!”

Iwa losing his temper over the phone wasn’t exactly atypical, even if it had become a less frequent occurrence, but for once Oikawa was actually genuinely surprised to hear his friend this angry over the phone. Especially given that it was almost 2pm in San Juan, which made it the very early AM in Tokyo, so whatever had worked him up had also kept him up way past his bedtime, given that Iwa was now extremely careful about his sleep hygiene. 

Oikawa took enough time to properly swallow the bite he’d just taken of his choripan before answering.

“What did I know, Iwa-chan?” He finally inquired, setting down his sandwich in the wrapper spread across his lap before leaning back into the park bench on which he was sitting. It was a wonderful sunny day, the type of day where it was a shame you were being yelled at, he mused briefly.

“About ___ and Ushijima.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows furrowed, not that Iwa could see the confusion on his face. There was a short pause which Oikawa broke eventually.

“Am I missing something or…?” His genuinely confused tone didn’t serve in any way to make Iwa less irritated.

“You didn’t say anything!” He hissed loudly enough that Oikawa winced, holding his cellphone a good distance from his ear before answering. “You used to tell me about that motherfucker’s every move, and now that it’s useful information, you have nothing to say?”

Oikawa frowned.

“Why are you blaming me for your communication issues, Iwa-chan?!” He all but whined.

When Iwa’s voice grew silent on the other line, Oikawa grew slightly nervous. But he was right. This was a particularly severe lapse in communication between Iwa and you that he was now projecting onto him, severe because clearly it had ended up being a bigger deal than it should have been in the first place.

As much as Iwa didn’t want to admit it, yesterday evening was evidence that something was very, very wrong in his relationship with you, or at the very least a residual tangled web of feelings to sort out, and it wasn’t exactly something he could easily fix or improve on his own. 

Not that he wouldn’t try. 

“What happened?” Oikawa finally asked, and Iwa retreated.

“Nothing. I’ll… talk to you later.”

The phone cut off on Iwa’s end and Oikawa sighed with mild irritation before returning to his lunch thousands of miles away.

On the other side of the globe, Iwa made his way from the balcony to the bedroom, setting his phone down on the nightstand and taking a glance at you who had appeared to be finally sleeping soundly, but betrayed by the intermittent soft hiccups of someone who had been crying just moments earlier. 

He hadn’t meant to make you cry. In fact, he hadn’t even meant to force another discussion at all, but hours after the last guests had filed out, none the wiser about the fight that had just transpired earlier (even if Hinata had made a single innocent comment about the bruise blooming on Ushijima’s cheek), the elephant in the room had grown entirely too large for him to bear. Unfortunately, the simple demand for clarification had spiraled out of control and ended up with a shouting match which had culminated in you bursting into tears.

It wasn’t a good look for him to behave like this. 

Even so, Iwa couldn’t stop thinking about how the subject of your argument had replied to his grumbled apology with the admission that he probably deserved the hit for all he’d done. Somehow, the persistent remorse in his voice made Iwa consider hitting him a second time for good measure. 

That wouldn’t be the right move either. There wasn’t really a right move, was there? All Iwaizumi could do was hope that everything would blow over. 

You loved him after all; he was sure of it.

---

you knew, didn’t you?

knew what?

You grit your teeth at the quickly returned text message, then set your phone down at your desk letting out a hushed but aggravated sigh, before picking it up again and typing furiously. 

you texted me, ‘how’s everything going?’ right before all that shit happened.

that could mean literally anything??? What???

You didn’t know how much longer your friend was going to feign innocence, but it looked like not very long because once your eyes flitted back to the unfinished project proposal you had been working on, your phone quickly buzzed again. 

By the time you had told her what happened this morning on your morning commute to work, she had grown a little too quiet, interjecting very little as you spoke and not asking any clarifying questions. You had assumed that she had just been being extra considerate, but now that it was early afternoon and there was a lull in your concentration, it occurred to you again just how clearly she must have anticipated the awkward situation.

YOU said you didn’t follow sports anymore + it’s been 3 years. HOW was I supposed to know you were going to overreact?

Overreact?

There was a small pause in which you saw her speech bubble pop up and then down, and then up again.

Not overreacting I guess, but I’m just confused… Don’t you and Iwa talk? How did it become a huge deal?

You decided you didn’t really have an answer to that. All you could do was return a noncommittal idk, letting the conversation die out and returning back to the task at hand.

---

“Mommy, why does he look like that?”

Ushijima glanced for a split second at the small child pointing openly at him, giving a small, understanding nod to the mortified mother trying to quiet her son’s whispers before continuing on his way back to his hotel.

His face didn’t exactly throb anymore, but the bruise he had been gifted with was very noticeable even if he had to be thankful he didn’t have a black eye. Iwa had hit him surprisingly hard, which was good. At the very least, he could count on him to protect you.

Getting hit in the face by your athletic trainer wasn’t ideal but he and Iwaizumi were both professionals. They could put it past them.

Even if they didn’t have a deep friendship, there was a sort of camaraderie since they’d met in California years ago. That relationship didn’t have to sour, he told himself. 

He just needed to give you two a wide berth. 

Even if he didn’t want to, he had to. It was the right, mature thing to do. 

Even if he didn’t miss on the court, he’d missed a crucial set in life. 

He had no right to demand a second chance.

---

You hadn’t traveled home alone in a while, you realized, as you set pace towards your apartment after a long shift. The subway was cramped as usual, but the closeness of the quarters felt more noticeable and uncomfortable now that Iwa’s hand wasn’t holding yours and keeping you close to him. He’d messaged you about an hour before you were about to leave work to give you a heads up that he would be returning late, and for a moment, you wondered if it were really true or if he was still mad at you.

But you knew Iwa well enough to be confident that he didn’t hold grudges, and if he were still uncomfortable he would tell you - he would never actively avoid you. 

Then again, you hadn’t had a conflict like this before.

I don’t love him, I only love you, you’d said to him almost screaming, defensive because Iwa’s voice had sounded hurt when you failed to come up with the words to explain why you were so shaken still.

You’d meant that with your whole heart. So why exactly did you react so poorly? 

Maybe it was the final death rattle of unresolved feelings, rearing their ugly head before being banished to whatever realm past hurts went once they were healed.

When you finally made it to your apartment, you stood for a moment at the entryway after flipping the light switch, taking a couple of seconds to blink away the fact that things didn’t look quite right. 

For a moment, you couldn’t remember exactly when you had replaced your TV - was that before or after Ushijima? Had that couch always been in that position? 

Fatigue even made you wonder where your houseplants had gone, until you remembered you had all but given them all away, telling yourself that those last vestiges of your relationship would have to vanish before you could truly count yourself moved on.

Now that the plants were gone, were you truly over it?

You let out a sigh and set your keys down before shooting a message to Iwa to let him know that you had made it home. That proposal wouldn’t write itself, and you could tackle it anew once you’d treated yourself with a warm bath and a modest glass of wine.

---

Seated in his soon-to-be minimally used office, Iwaizumi leafed through the short stack of papers before him, including prior athletic history and a formal written statement from the team physician. Satisfied, he gathered the documents and gently pushed them across the desk towards the silent, patiently waiting athlete sitting across from him.

“It looks like you’re cleared for practice tomorrow,” he said, offering a measured smile to Ushijima.

“Not that I expected any issues,” Iwa continued, compelled to keep speaking from the lack of response from the man before him. While he didn’t exactly sense hostile energy from Ushijima, it seemed like he was even more difficult to read than usual. 

Then again, Iwa was unsure if he was projecting; he acknowledged that prior to this very moment in time, he had been more standoffish than usual, having avoided unnecessary interaction with Ushijima during the day’s orientation activities.

He took a surreptitious glance at the wall clock above his head. There were only two more members to clear after Ushijima and then he’d be done for the day and could go back home to you, maybe picking up sushi on the way home as a peace offering.

Ushijima didn’t exactly look like he was getting ready to leave, but Iwa hadn’t explicitly dismissed him.

The two sat in an awkward silence and Iwa wondered if he should apologize again to settle the stagnant air between them, not knowing that the man before him was considering the exact same thing. 

What happens now? seemed to be the question du jour.

“How’s your father?” Iwa asked abruptly, shifting in his chair and leaning forward on elbows propped onto the desk, maybe a little too forward, in attempts to keep his mind off the fact that the volleyball player before him had also played with his love’s heart.

“He’s been well. Thank you for asking.”

Another pause ensued and Iwa was running out of ways to tell him politely to get out of his office for his next client, but for once Ushijima was the one to break the silence.

“I want us to have a good working relationship despite everything.”

The statement hung in the air for a second before settling and Iwa could feel irritation start to bubble in the pit of his stomach once again, but instead he forced a pleasant smile.

“Of course.”

---

With feet tucked beneath you, your laptop perched on the glass coffee table and a half-drunk glass of white wine (refilled once) atop the end table next to the couch, the sad truth was that you had only written about five lines in the past 45 minutes. 

Instead, against all the advice you’d ever been given in your life, you had sleuthed your way into your ex’s Instagram and Facebook accounts, gleaning as much information as you could about what had happened after you were two, after you’d blocked him cold turkey on every social media application and vowed never to look back.

As expected, the pictures and life updates he posted were few and far between, but there were still some to learn from, especially when you looked through those snapshots taken by others in his life. You were initially surprised to see old pictures of you together still up if you went back far enough, but clicked past them quickly because the fact that you looked so happy was more irritating than sad at this point of time. 

You took another sip of your wine, feeling a soft warmth in your cheeks and a light pleasant haze fill your head while you kept perusing. Some pictures you recognized from his prior team here, Schweiden Adlers, and then there were other promotional images from a new team, Orzel Warsawa... He had even traveled to Poland without your knowledge, you mused.

You took special note of women he looked all too close to for friendship as you browsed, noting a gorgeous, tall blonde in several pictures he appeared to have dated for a brief stint of a couple of months.

1 short relationship in three years. It was a shame, you thought. They could have had the prettiest kids.

And there, you finally realized your internal monologue was crazy. Why were you doing this again?

You threw back the final bit of wine and switched back to your Word document. Maybe writing while a little tipsy wasn’t the best of ideas but any words on the page were better than none.

…

It didn’t take long for you to doze off and your boyfriend to find you sprawled on your belly on the sofa, your glass empty and precariously placed at the edge of the sofa, and your laptop placed just inches above your head.

Iwa’s smile was immediate as he admired your silly position while setting down dinner, quickly walking over to gather you up for bed.

You murmured slightly as he scooped you into his arms, your face instinctively nuzzling his chest. He couldn’t help but think of how cute you were, kissing your forehead softly before tucking you under the covers. You had been so exhausted lately from work, so he’d let you get some early shuteye rather than disturb your peace.

Leaving the bedroom to eat dinner alone on the couch, he noted your laptop in suboptimal location, moving it to the table before sitting down to avoid a future accident.

It flashed on with the slight movement, revealing a lengthy document with heavy blocks of text, which he saved just in case because autosave failure would bring you to tears. He then clicked out, only to see the results of your cyberstalking session.

His heart may have skipped a beat or two but he closed your laptop instead, leaning back into his chair to finish eating dinner.

The uneasiness that filled his stomach instead had to be related to the raw fish he’d brought home. 

There was simply no other explanation, couldn’t be.

[lunarianillusion]

A change in fate

a maribat fanfic

Chapter 08

It was so noisy; it was too noisy.

Marinette’s thoughts were running a mile a minute through her head. They were whirling around and around like a tornado. The thoughts were consumed in worries about everything that had happened in the last few days and could possibly come in the following. Her mind was overflowing with possible plans that her anxiety would then throw down into the void, only for them to resurface and overflow her mind again and the cycle would repeat itself over and over.

“Mari-”

The guardian knowledge, her thoughts, plans and worries colliding and overlapping with each other ripping each other apart, mending back together and whirling around her head like a hurricane. Her thoughts losing coherency until only a buzz like sound could be heard and it was only getting louder and louder.

“-ette…MAR-”

Her body began to feel numb as her brain stopped working coherently. She could barely move or feel her quickening breath, she did not notice her vision becoming blurry. Al the while her mind kept spiralling down, down, down, dow-

“MARINETTE!!”

The noir haired omega’s head shot up from where it had been laying on her crossed over arms. Her wide glazed over eyes locking onto a pair of concerned ocean blue eyes, but any other facial features were obscured in her hazy vision. A muffled sound, almost like rhythmic drumming sound, cut through the static haze in the girl’s ears. Was someone talking to her? She could not tell. Then her tingling hand was moved even though she did not will for it to. It took her a second to realise that the person infront of her had taken a hold on her wrist and had paced her hand a solid but warn surface, their chest.

The warmth of the clothed chest slowly chased away the numbing cold that had taken over most of Marinette’s body. She could now feel the slow rhythmic beat of the person’s heart and breathing, a stark contrast of her own erratic beating heart and stuttering breath. As if by instinct the omega began to copy the steady breathing pattern of the person infront of her and as her breath came back to her so did her vision. When it cleared up, she could see the person that had been helping her, it was Timothy.

“That it Mari, breathe. Just breathe,” The alpha spoke calmingly, his voice finally breaking through the static noise. The feeling soon returned to the girl’s body as her other senses started to calm down and her head started to clear.

Marinette let out a deep breath as she slowly removed her hand from Tim’s grip and used it to lean her head on top of instead. Closing her eyes to straighten out her last few disordered thoughts. That was one heavy attack and bless the kwami for their protection.

“You back?” the voice of the male infront of her once again breaking through her train of thought. Her eyes opening to look again at the raven haired alpha and giving him a small smile of reassurance. Her eyes drifted to her surroundings in order to pick the pieces of the morning for her memory had been foggy. With just a miniscule glace she was able to make out that she was in her classroom way before the bell would even ring. From their her memory started to piece itself back together. After having gained all the collected information from mist she had barely gotten any sleep even after the kwami’s had forced her to her bed. Her head had already started its downward spiral at that moment. That morning she had past her parents through the front of the bakery instead of going through the front door. They had said something to her, but even now she did not care what they had said and had gone straight to class when the whirlwind really overtook her.

“Y-yeah, I-I’m back,” the omega spoke softly to the alpha, who was now watching her like a hawk, with a small stutter. A moment of silence followed allowing Marinette to collect the final pieces of her scattered thoughts.

“Is it okay for me to ask what was happening inside of your head, or is it too soon?” Tim asked in a soothing tone. Marinette gave him another small smile to show her appreciation for his care. The genuine care he showed her warmed her heart, even with the suspicions she still held.

“S-sometimes the bottle cracks from all that we try to keep inside, away from the surface,” the noir girl spoke with a chuckle coming out of the alpha and omega duo. “How can I get your mind out of those thoughts?” “Just talk, the silence drags me back under,” The omega responded to the alpha’s question.

Tim gave a moment of thought to a possible subject to talk about and came to a different topic instead. “How about we ask each other some basic questions to get to know each other better?”  Though this was a nice and normal suggestion to everyday people this suggestion made Marinette’s hero mindset jump to attention at the possible recon opportunity. Maybe she can get a clue on him possibly being Red Robin. “Sure,” she answered softly.

And so, the asked each other several simple question. The very obvious questions of favourite colours and hobbies one enjoyed. Over the short time they talked Marinette noticed a topic that seemed Tim avoided talking about. “Say what is your family like, I don’t think you ever truly mentioned them since we met. Did they move with you to Paris?” The omega asked. An innocent enough question on the surface but could aid Marinette in discerning Tim’s possible relationship to Red Robin. She could ofcourse ask the kwami’s or use soul vision again. However, the headache was still bothering her greatly and made it hard to focus and this was good train for her growing detective skills. That still did not prepare her for his answer.

“They died some time ago,” the alpha’s voice was soft as he spoke and his sent was spiked in discomfort. The words made Marinette silently wince. “I am sorry. I did not mean to bring up bad memories.” Tim gave her a small smile, understanding showing in his eyes.

Still a question rose up with this revelation and concerning his age. “Do you have a guardian though? I don’t mean to say that I do not believe you can’t take care of yourself but we are of the same age and both underage, so should you not have a family or guardian with you?” Marinette asked, or rambled, as carefully as she could, maybe not as subtle as she would have wanted to be though.

Tim gave her a gently smile to reassure her from her anxious nerves. “I was taken in by a family acquaintance of my parents, who took me into their pack. But I emancipated myself a few months back, because I could not stay their any longer,” he told her in a calm manner, that made Marinette tilt her head with a hope for elaboration. Which the alpha gave. “Things started out really well but over time that foundation cracked and I did not feel welcome or save there anymore. So, I decided to start anew. I decided to move contents because I really do not feel like seeing them again and that is basically how I got here.”

No lie slipped from the raven-haired male’s lips. It took the omega slightly by surprise how honest he was about his situation. Marinette could easily tell as the emotions behind that statement lay bare in his eyes to see and the scent of regret seeping through the cracks of Tim’s control. It made Marinette feel more relaxed and made you over thinking brain ease up on her suspicions as her more sympathetic side came to life.

“I am sorry that all happened to you,” she started off, “To a certain degree I can relate to you in regard to worsening pack relationships,” The omega’s eyes were down cast as she reflected on the past few years. Timothy tilted his head with a gentle look in his eyes curious about the full story, what most likely included the lying orange sausage haired spider but waited for the girl infront of him on her own terms. The gesture was appreciated and so the words easily started to flow out of her mouth. “Believe it or not before Lie-la came along I was ‘friends’ with all of our classmates. Then the spider came along and turned all on me making them think I was a bully and now she has even ensnared my parents into her web of lies,” the midnight haired omega huffed before a conclusion she had come to hanks to this whole drama. “To a degree though I am grateful to the lying bitch,” She stated honestly, making Tim look at her in shocked surprise. “Thanks to her I was finally able to see who my friends are truly and who were nothing more then parasitise piggybacking on me for special favours,” Marinette elaborated gaining a nod of understanding from the alpha.

“I do envy you in a sense,” She continued, taking the ravenette by surprise once more. “I hate the situation that you got pulled into and I truly wish you did not have to go through that, but at the very least you were able to pull yourself out. Leave all the bad shit behind and start anew. I have tried getting out several times, but each and every time something or someone block my way to freedom.”

“Trapping you in a cycle of neglect and pain,” the alpha led out a pained breath at his own words as Marinette nodded in affirmation. The two fallen into a surprising comfortable silence, their presence soothing to the other. A part of Marinette’s brain thought that this was mostly due to the bond between true souls, but though that was definitely a factor a small part of her also thought that the raven-haired boy was someone she would truly able to trust. And being honest she did want to trust him.

“If you ever need help,” The male of the wo spoke, breaking the silence. “With trying to get away from humanity’s fucked society. Just say the word I will be happy to help,” he finished with a snap of his fingers, almost in a theatrical way.

A small playful smile grazed the female’s features as she spoke. “I will certainly call upon you should I be in need of your aid,” the omega tone sounding playfully posh. That was quickly caught by the alpha before her. “But pray tell how you would give me your aid?” This sent a banter ball rolling.

“Why can’t I look out for my fellow coffee loving insomniac with a likewise neglectful past,” Tim responded in likewise posh playful tone. “Truly one would think us to be related.”

“Oh, good heavens no,” Marinette gasped dramatically, as she placed the back of her hand onto her forehead. “I as the goddess of coffee am far too radiant to be related to you my dear friend.”

Tim gave a snort at the girl and her theatrics, before responding in in kind once again. “You are right. Your freckles make you to beautiful to ever belong to this mortal realm. I implore for forgiveness from my mistake a great mistress of the divine elixir that gives me life.”

“My, my is quite the development,” A new voice broke into the conversation. The dark-haired duo flushed at the amused voice and turned to the front of the classroom and the one who spoke. Their just on the steps leading to their seats stood an amused looking Chloé Bourgeois, a glimmer to her eyes that send a small chill down the dark-haired duo spine, and an equally amused Nathaniel Kurtzberg. At least it was not Lie-la and her posse of brainwashed fanatics.

In a graceful yet still dramatic motion, as per Chloé style, did the blond take her place beside her female omega friend. Her grin never leaving her face. Nathaniel two shuffling into his seat beside the male alpha. “Nathaniel we must prepare for the future,” the blond girl spoke first, finally turning away from the blushing pair. “If they are already fliting one this level, it will only be a matter of time before the two are married. And it is only the second day no less.”

The duo’s faces turned even more red with the statement and Nathaniel seemed to want to add some more fuel to the fire. “Yes, I think you are quite right Chloé. Before you know it, little dark-haired pups will be running amuck across Paris.” That statement drew a sound kin to a dying animal out of the dark-haired girl, much in contrast to the blonde’s badly hidden laughter. “Truly the end is nigh!”

Marinette’s face was ready to combust, if it had not already, from embarrassment. Looking through her fingers, with she had covered her face, she turned her eyes to Tim who was trying to cover his own face and was also as red as a lobster. At least she was not the only one on the receiving end of the teasing. She watched the dark-haired male take a peek at the clock and copied his action. It was almost time for the bell to ring.

“Though this is truly an enjoyable subject,” The alpha male spoke, his voice laced in sarcasm. “But unfortunately, the toxic spider and her gaggle of annoying flies will soon be upon us.” His statement made Marinette’s fellow Parisians groan along side her in misery.  

“I suggest that after this day of hell, we go over to my place and have some pack bonding time. Even get a head start on our investigation in that deceitful orange sausage, sound good,” The only blond of the group spoke. She may have said it was a suggestion but her tone left no room for question.

It still surprised the two boys at how easily the two females accepted them into their pack. A small warm smile graced Tim’s face for a moment as a warm feeling rushed through his pained heart. It soon changed into something more mischievous as the annoying sound of the liar graced his ears. “Say who wants to make a bet on the lies we will hear today.”

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

The two hidden kwami’s, Duusu and Wayzz, smiled at the turn of events. A rush of relief and feeling of gratitude flooding over them as the young dragon helped the young peafowl and new guardian out of the dark corners of her mind. A feat they had not been able to accomplish, no matter how hard all the kwami had tried, since the child’s awakening.

Marinette may not yet fully trust the boy, but in time hopefully she would. For even though the new guardian could see ones souls she could only see the surface level and could not see the dragon’s scars that reflected her very own. The two kwami present dearly hoped the two true souls would be able to help one and other heal, but only time will tell.

taglist: @moonlightstar64 @iloontjeboontje@mickylikesstuff@myazael @scribblinggraveyard @incredulous-reader@mewwitch@woe-is-me0 @fan-written@coolspidermanmusicflower@heretopasstimebi@jjmjjktth@ichigorose@cmouse @nyx-in-line@chocolatecatstheron@bookgirl14 @toodaloo-kangaroo@iglowinggemma28 @itsmeevie01

[strwberrytae]

So Long, Farewell, and Goodbye For Now -

“I don’t know how you are so familiar to me—or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before—in another time, a different place, some other existence.”     - Lang Leav

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Hello, You ♡ Yes, You. You ethereal, beautiful being. I am writing to you with bittersweet yet wonderful news - depending on the perspective. I am writing this post to inform all of you that I will no longer be writing for this blog for the foreseeable future. What I mean by that is that I am not giving up writing forever, no. But my life has changed so much over the last two years, I do not see myself writing again for quite some time. But don’t worry! I will be back!

Below the Read More section, I have poured my heart and soul into the real reasons why I’ve made this decision. I warn you, it’s lengthy but it’s everything that has led up to this over the years. So, if you fancy, have a read. If not, I bid you farewell and wish you all the happiness in the world. Thank you for supporting me so far. I truly appreciate it and love you all very dearly. Now, if you wish to read it at a later time, I will have a link available on my page at all times for anyone who is curious. It’s a hell of a story if you ask me ~

Edit: Made by Me - also, a surprise photo at the end Warnings/Triggers: Talks of emotional abuse, depression, and suicide but also happiness and love -

When I first started this blog, it was 2016. I had been on Tumblr for over a decade now but BTS led me to writing passionately for 2 years. I was incredibly active and utterly consumed by this website. Not just for the writing, but I was so obsessed because of my friends and mutuals that I made along the way. Can I just say that I’ve met some incredible people on this platform - including my best friend and soulmate? Truthfully, the absolute best friend I have ever had. But more importantly, Tumblr was my greatest escape. I mean this website truly has been my saving grace through very dark times.

In that part of my life, I was in an extremely toxic relationship; by then, it was 6 years I was with him. He was emotionally abusive, had such a short-fuse temper, hated everyone I knew which led me never really seeing any of my friends after college, knew I was anorexic and did nothing to stop me, knew I had depression since we started dating and always argued it as if it wasn’t real, crushed my dreams and ambitions, mocked potential suicide attempts, expected me to just abandon all hope to ever leave home to explore someplace new or get a job that I actually love. He was...just the worst. Never hit me though, so I’m grateful for that. But sometimes I wish he would so it would have given me the voice I needed to get out of that relationship much sooner than I did. But regardless, because of him plus having a soul-sucking job that wore me down to the core, Tumblr was my escape. BTS was my escape.

I fell hard and I fell deep. I created a fantasy world within this world. All of my dreams, fantasies, desires, and hopes were poured into my writing. My imagination was running wild. My activity was through the roof because I was always on here day in and out, just pretending like the outside world didn’t exist. It consumed me...but I needed it. Looking back, it was pretty excessive. At the time, I seemed perfectly normal because everyone else was just as active and saying the same things and doing the same things. I felt a belonging, like I fit in.

But I hated the person I became. It took me getting yelled at, mocked, ridiculed, and belittled by my ex to snap me out of that illusion I built and back into reality. That was the roughest night that we had filled with lots of screaming on his end and crying on my part. He thought my obsession was sick. He thought it was disgusting. It all started because he found fake texts I had made with Jimin and Tae. Don’t recall the story it was a part of but he thought they were texts with the actual members… In my eyes, I should get credit for making them look so legit but he didn’t see it that way. He thought fangirling over men was essentially cheating. No matter how hard I tried to explain, he didn’t understand. But a part of his view was right. I learned that I was a bit too much into it and I really needed to take a step back from Tumblr for a while. So I did. I deactivated my account and disappeared for months. Also because he made me and threatened our relationship if I didn’t. Should have taken the out but ah well.

Just two months prior to this incident, I attempted suicide. Well, contemplated. Everything was planned out. Bought a hotel room for Thanksgiving night as I was working a super late shift until about 1-2am. My commute home was an hour long and I still had to come back to work at 7am. So I got a room. Brought a large amount of pills with me and I was going to call it. No notes written to friends, family, or loved ones. Nothing. I was done. Didn’t think anyone would miss me. I just figured the world would keep turning without me. I had thought about doing this several times before but this was my first time making plans for it. It was my lowest of the low. But then I met someone that night that changed my life entirely just in a 10 minute interaction of talking - nothing special. We’ll get to that later. But this person just gave me hope and to this day, I still can’t explain it. It was euphoric. I felt clarity. It was in that night that I thought I might hold out just a little bit longer.

And thus @strwberrytae was born - but it was far from the same. At first, I restarted the blog in secret. Why would I do this? Why would a 25 year old open a blog in secret? Well, two months after the awful fight, my ex proposed to me and I said yes. I know. Believe me, I know. I was scared. My depression was getting worse again. I no longer had an escape except for books. All I did was read so I had some sort of reality to be in besides my own. But returning to a brand new blog did not give the same satisfaction as returning to an old blog.

I worked so hard on my first blog and this redo, I tried to consider it as a gift. Perhaps this was a chance to start anew and rebrand myself. This optimism kept up for quite some time. Slowly, I added my favorite past works then added some new chapters. If you’ve been here with me since 2017, you would know that my appearance on Tumblr was still not the same. Then I got married in October.

An empty, loveless marriage that I regret to this day. Needless to say, my writing and activity on Tumblr was still practically non-existent as I was still too scared of getting caught. Even though he finally gave me permission to use it again because he could tell how miserable it was making me. Yes, gave me permission. Thankfully, it all ended after a year. I finally went to a therapist even though I hated them so much and all past therapists I had. She was pretty great. Within five sessions, I summoned the courage to break up with this guy. I was finally set free. Nearly 9 years together and I finally felt like I could breathe.

Unfortunately, although I was free, I had to live with the guy for about 5 months after the breakup. Which was beyond rough, believe me. Imagine someone writhing in pain and bawling their eyes out and venting non-stop about all of their faults and wrongdoings every single day. At the end of the day, as shitty as he was to me, he was my best friend too. We went through a lot of shit together and he did have some good sides to him too. So witnessing this was horrendous. Needless to say, I wasn’t getting much privacy either. Writing was not my top priority. Now it’s 2019 and things changed drastically for the better - and worst.

Remember the person I met in 2016 on Thanksgiving night? Well, that person is someone I crushed on every since that night. For 2 years. People, I’m telling you. He did absolutely nothing special that night. He didn’t flirt with me. He didn’t check me out. He didn’t do anything remotely to make a girl swoon but I was so drawn to him. The only word that could describe it was “cosmic” - beautifully cosmic. 

Well in January 2019, 2 months following my break up, he came into my store one day. And my god did he look incredible. He was dressed head to toe in black - a fitted black suit at that. He even wore this long, designer jacket to match. Hair shaved on the sides with beautiful, thick dark hair on top. So tall - 182cm. A smile that could kill; quite literally. The canines are on point. He looked like a five course meal. That day, he definitely flirted with me. By the end of the week, we had our first date. Sadly, I also lost my job in the same week and was unemployed for a year because no one would hire me. I was laid off and one of my seniors took my job. Of course, they needed to keep me around for the holidays and then give me the boot. I was devastated. I hated that job so much as it only aided in fueling my depression but losing it was definitely an amazing thing. And! I survived on my savings and definitely didn’t spend my time writing. I had life to sort out last year - like from the ground up. No worries though. I got a job in February 2020 and I love it, so it’s all good, baby. Now I’m in the health field and feel like I’m actually helping people, which I love.

Now, here we are 2 years later and I’m engaged to the man.  Someone who makes me smile everyday, believes in me, encourages me, let’s me be 100% myself, travels with me, taught me how to love myself, taught me to accept my body, gets me on a level that only my best friend could, and someone who goes above and beyond every single day to show me how much he loves me. Bonus, he welcomes my love for BTS with open arms, reads my writing, AND has even been sucked in himself to the fandom. Jungkook and Jimin, look out. You got another fanboy. I thought true love was impossible for me but I was very, very wrong.

He has shown me that I can be happy and I have finally experienced true happiness. When people ask how I’m doing, I don’t cringe and lie through my teeth. I smile and say that I am doing well because by George, I am. Everyone around me has seen me over the last two years and made the comment, “you look so much happier”. They meet him and swoon just as much as I do. Is he perfect? No, he’s not. He has flaws just like everyone else but he actually grows and learns from his mistakes to better himself. That’s what amazes me the most. Even if we argue, which is seldom, he refuses to let it go without resolution so we can always fix whatever the issue is. As we like to call it, we’re in-sync. In everything, we’re always so in-sync. I’m wildly in love, my dudes.

So, why am I not writing anymore? To put it simply, I’m happy and don’t really feel the desire to write anymore - at least not fanfiction. Even when I was super young, like elementary school, I used writing as an outlet for my dark escape. I wrote poetry primarily and by middle school, it turned to fanfiction for Supernatural, Simple Plan, and Panic! At The Disco. Along with a very long list of other bands and shows but anyways. I’ve been severely depressed since I was 15 and fanfiction put me in this hole that I couldn’t get out of. I relied on this method to help me get through all the bad shit I was dealing with. It was my coping mechanism.

Now? While depression never truly goes away as the lovely disease that it is, I am genuinely happy. Because of this, when I opened all of my past works and works in progress, I felt nothing but guilt. Guilt for not keeping up with my chapters or keeping my account active. I felt dread to have to escape in this world that I had created. I felt no joy or excitement. It was the strangest feeling that happened all in a matter of seconds. Thus leading to my final decision to take a step away from writing. Do I still love it? Absolutely. But now I think I’m going to re-route and focus my writing on what I love - reality. I’m going to get back into journaling and write essays about love and beauty as I’ve always loved to do. But for escaping into a fantasy world? I don’t know when I’ll be back.

Now I know what you’re thinking. “But you can write and be happy!” Nah fam. Writing has been my aid through dark times and now I mostly associate it with those dark times. And for once in my life, I feel this desire to enjoy reality and remain in it - with the exception of journaling here and there. Even daydreaming is difficult. It’s strange. I love my reality. This sounds like gloating now but it’s truly a remarkable feeling. When you’ve been battling depression for 15 years, it feels really freaking nice to say that I’m happy.

So that’s why I’m taking a break - in a very long, drawn out way. But my hope was that after this long story, you might understand truly why I am doing this. It would have been easier to just say that writing doesn’t bring me joy anymore but I feel that I owe more than that; especially because I really don’t know if I’ll write for this blog ever again. The last time I took a break, I disappeared without being able to explain myself and I wanted to do so now that I have the chance.

Ultimately, thank you to everyone who has stuck by me over the years. It’s truly been one hell of a rollercoaster. The friends I’ve made on here have seen me at my lowest of the lows. But hey! I’ll still be around. I just won’t be publishing or continuing any of my works anywhere in the near future. Seriously though. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. This website has helped me tremendously and I’ll never forget it. Besides, there’s lots of other exciting things happening in my life now so you’ll certainly see me pop in here and there to talk about it ♡

If you wish, you can message me for questions or anything you want to know. I’m an open book - at least about most things hehe. And don’t worry. I still very much love Taehyung and still wildly obsessing over how marvelous he is. Umf.

(here’s some recent photos of me as i rarely take selfies anymore haha. and a derp photo of me and the man i love >_< why is the cutest photo of him with the worst photo of me? still cute though hehe)

[minuteminx]

Revolutionary

Pairing: Preston Garvey/ Female Sole Survivor

Summary: In the aftermath of personal tragedies, Preston and Charlie both seek to make a difference in the Commonwealth and those around them. They could never anticipate the impact that they will have on eachother in the process.

Chapter Four: Sole Survivor

Chapter Summary:   Charlie tells Preston a long story. 

[First Chapter]

[Previous Chapter]

[AO3 Link]

“A bridge of silver wings stretches from the dead ashes of an unforgiving nightmare to the jeweled vision of a life started anew.”

― Aberjhani, Journey through the Power of the Rainbow: Quotations from a Life Made Out of Poetry

Sanctuary  Hills, October 2287

The trek out of Concord, and up the road to a place called Sanctuary Hills was largely silent and uneventful. Preston took point, and Charlie offered to hang back in case there were any straggling raiders who decided to follow. He wasn’t so sure that she was in any condition to watch the rear, but he wasn’t about to argue with the woman who’d just turned a deathclaw inside out. It was more than alarming to see the bloody massacre Charlie’s tangle with the deathclaw had caused up close and personal as they passed by. He was just glad she’d survived, and that he didn’t have to fight the damn thing.

On the way to their hopeful home, Sturges spotted a largely intact Red Rocket on the side of the road, stacked with old tires and filled with useless junk that Sturges would scrape up a use for. Jun and Marcy walked together in somber silence and Mama Murphy hobbled along in the back, arm looped through Charlie’s, whose open hand gripped a 10mm so tightly her knuckles turned white. She had a hell of a poker face, he’d give her that much.

Nearing the old neighborhood, a statue of a lone guardian stood tall, musket in hand, holding his centuries-old post at the bridge where the American Revolution began. It was almost like some weird omen, Preston thought, observing the Minuteman and then the bridge. Maybe Mama’s visions had some truth to them after all. He did not realize he’d mused out loud until Sturges’ hand clapped him on the back.

“I don’t know what the heck you’re talkin’ about boss, but I’m glad you’re happy.”

Preston laughed. “Thanks, man.”

Crossing Old North Bridge into their hopeful home seemed monumental, the group propelled forward by the potential of a place to finally rest. There were more than a handful of homes that still had enough structural integrity to be tidied and boarded up for use as shelters. It was bittersweet to see the remnants of picket fences, lawn furniture, and pink, plastic birds that dotted the landscape. Skeletons of old cars littered spots where garages might have been. Preston imagined what the area might have been like back before the war, pictured neighbors talking to one another from their yards, children playing together in the streets. It was a way of life he knew he’d never get to have.

Before long, Preston had done a sweep of the entire cul de sac, making sure there wasn’t anything dangerous lurking inside any buildings. All he found were several dead rad roaches and bloatflies, as well as a high-strung Mr. Handy robot that called itself Codsworth.  It kept attempting to scrub the rust off the paneling outside one of the homes, muttering something about making sure it was in “tip-top” shape for when its family returned. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do with the thing, so he just left it to clean aimlessly in hopes that it’d be someone else’s problem later.

“Hey boss,” Sturges called out to him, waving him overs to where the others had congregated near the mechanic’s makeshift workstation, lamplight flickering on their exhausted faces, “Check out what we found in one of the fridges.”

Preston walked over, catching a glimpse of the round face of Button Gwinnett on a cardboard case of Southie Stouts. “Damn, and here I thought we’d used up all our luck for the day.”

“I’d prefer Beantown,” Marcy said as she brought her bottle to her lips, and Preston caught the briefest flash of a grin wrinkling at the corners of her mouth.

“C’mon Marcy,” Jun interjected, nudging her shoulder, “You know that’s not true.”

“I’m a Gwinnett guy, but I’d probably drink anything wet with a kick right about now,” Preston said, grabbing one of the dark brown bottles and examining it more closely. It had been forever since he’d actually gotten to enjoy a drink, long before Qunicy, that was for sure. Just as he placed his hand on the cap to pop it off, there was a bump at the back of his legs. He startled and turned around to see Dogmeat peering up at him expectantly, whining and wagging his tail. Preston knelt down and gave him a scratch behind the ears. “You a Gwinnett guy, too, boy?”

The dog let out a stern bark that sounded like a correction, and then turned toward the house across the street before looking back at him. Following Dogmeat’s instruction, Preston glanced over at the house, where Charlie stood alone, frozen and staring vacantly inside as if she wanted to enter but couldn’t.  Without hesitation, he grabbed another bottle and headed toward her

He cleared his throat as he approached to make sure he didn’t startle her.  It was neither polite nor smart to spook a lady who was already pretty shaken up.  She darted her head toward him, scrubbing at her face as if he wouldn’t notice her tear-stained cheeks and swollen nose. He pretended not to, anyway, instead holding up the bottles in his hands and smiling. “Thought you could use a drink.”

She perked up at the sight of the drinks, tilting her head and squinting at the label. “Are those--? Oh wow.”

“Yeah,” Preston said, popping the cap off of one of the bottles and handing it to her, “Stouts are harder to come by than the other stuff.”

Charlie shook her head and examined the bottle, running her thumb up and down across the label. “No… it’s just.  I’m surprised there are still any left after you know--” she swallowed hard-- “the bombs.”

She sounded harrowed, as if the bombs had just fallen yesterday or something. Maybe she was just harrowed in general.  God knew she had every right to be.

“Me too,” Preston said, opening his own drink and taking a swig, lukewarm and bitter.  It hit the spot. “It’s kinda crazy, you know, what survived.

She took a sip, sad smile at the corners of her mouth. “Like the lawn flamingos? Such a testament to pre-war vanity.”

“Those damn birds,” Preston replied, nodding and laughing.  He’d never thought much about the lawn ornaments before, other than thinking they were ridiculous.

The air between them fell silent as Charlie stared down at her bottle, picking at the label with a polished thumbnail. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but then closed it and sighed before glancing over at him. ��Can I tell you something?  It’s going to sound really weird, but I’m going to lose my shit if I don’t talk to someone.”

“Is this that ‘long story’ you mentioned before?”

“Yeah.” Charlie walked toward the bright red door to the house in front of them, slightly ajar, knob and hinges specked with rust. She ran her hand along the wooden surface and took a deep breath.  “I used to live here.  In Sanctuary Hills.  In this house.”

“But,” Preston’s brows drew together, “That’s not possible.  This place hasn’t been settled since--”

“Before the bombs fell.” She spun back around to look at him, leaning back against the door frame. “I know.  That’s when I lived here.”

“Two-hundred and ten years ago?”

She nodded her head slowly. “2077.  I had the perfect life: a good career, the best husband, a beautiful baby boy, and a shiny new Mr. Handy unit that was much less neurotic than the one over there trying to clean the dirt off the ground.”

He blinked, attempting to figure out where he’d misheard the woman, because if he hadn’t then that would make her over two-hundred years old.  That couldn’t be possible, at least not without being a ghoul, although he wouldn’t mind if she could take Codsworth off his hands.  

Charlie frowned. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“No, no,” Preston stammered out quickly,  “I believe you, but… how?”

“That might be a better question for Vault-Tec,” she remarked, looking down at her suit, “My husband and I signed up for a  spot, just as a precaution.  Nobody thought the Chinese military would actually drop those nukes. Not sure if it was arrogance or complacency, but either way, it happened.  My family and I were rushed to Vault 111 to shelter.  That’s all it was supposed to be: A shelter .”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t just a shelter?”

“No.” She laughed bitterly.  “They herded us, like lab rats, into these cryogenic chambers, and locked us in there.  Last thing I remembered before waking up was my limbs going numb and my vision going dark.”

“Damn.” Preston was stuck somewhere between horror and amazement.  “Did anyone else make it out with you?”

“No.”  Her answer was abrupt, eyes welling up visibly and he immediately felt bad for asking. “When I woke up, there were these people in weird lab coats and a man with this scar--” She traced a line with her little finger, vertically from her eyebrow down to her cheek-- “He opened up my husband’s chamber and took my baby.  Nate fought, but… they shot him.  After that, I think everyone else’s life support failed.  A whole damn town, and I’m the only one who survived.”

“I’m… so sorry.”  He didn’t know what else to say.  He knew how it felt, to be a sole survivor of a terrible tragedy, but he couldn’t bring up Quincy, even if it was just to show her he understood.  “If there’s anything I can do, or that the Minutemen can do…”

“I think the Minutemen have their own problems at the moment, hmm?”  She smirked, eyes twinkling with humor despite the tears.

Preston looked around and chuckled in exasperation. “Well, considering that I’m the only one left, I’d say yes. We have so many problems.  That doesn’t change the fact that I owe you.”

Charlie tilted her head back and finished off the rest of her stout, then looked decisively at Preston.  “You’re not the only one.”

“Pardon?”

“I never thought I’d get to say this in my lifetime, outside the context of some weird historical play, but... I’m joining the Minutemen.” She tossed her bottle to the ground. “I don’t have any survival skills, I couldn’t shoot dead fish in a barrell, and I’m a bit traumatized, but I figure it’s still better than nothing.”

“Are you serious?”  Preston could barely contain his excitement.  He didn’t care if he had to spend months teaching her how to shoot or get by in the Commonwealth.  He’d been without help for so long now, he would be glad to not be alone.

“I know it’s hard to believe that anyone could be that bad of a shot, but--”

“No, Charlie,” he interrupted, “Are you serious about joining up?”

Charlie grinned, playfully. “Hell yeah.”

“That’s... well.  Let’s just say that’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.”

If Preston were a hugger, and if he’d known her longer than a few hours, he would have embraced the woman.  Maybe it wasn’t just the jet.  Maybe Mama Murphy was right all along.

[sethrine-writes]

Decadence Divine

Pairing:  Vergil (Dmc5) x Reader

Rating:  Explicit

Words:  2581

Warnings:  Sex, Smut, The Good Shit, A bit rough, Spicy Stuff, Not meant for Children

Summary:  For someone who seems the proud, quiet type, Vergil’s rather loud when it comes to wanting or needing intimacy. When he gets in one of those moods, it’s not that hard to tell.

A/N:  This is the first time in YEARS that I've written full-on smut, no stops, all the good shit. I blame my lovely Pizza Thots for their ideas and contributions. This one especially goes out to my dear friend @mysticalkhfan, whose love for the trash husband knows no bounds. I hope you like it, dear!

------

For someone who seems the proud, quiet type, Vergil’s rather loud when it comes to wanting or needing intimacy. Perhaps it’s because he was starved of much needed physical affection for so long, or he just finds the most comfort with you, but when he gets in one of those moods, it’s not that hard to tell.

He starts with a bit more physical contact over the course of several days, hands persistent at the small of your back or your hips, even in more public places where he usually remained more reserved. It’s a tame change, but one to take note of.

His kisses linger, as well, his usual short, restrained pecks changing to longer, more intimate exchanges that leave you breathless.

A final sign of his usual restraint leaving him, however, is a single, thoughtful gift he leaves out for you to stumble upon, usually ranging anywhere from a lovely collection of poems to some form of jewelry. It’s always something sweet and well-thought-out, but it is merely a distraction that allows him the quickest way to get his hands on you.

This time, he leaves a box of chocolates for you on the dining table, the embroidery and accompanying bow both lined with gold and looking every bit as extravagant as you’re sure the sweet treats are inside.

“Thank you, Vergil,” you say sincerely, only marginally surprised when you feel a single arm wrap around your middle from behind.

He hums in acknowledgment as you open the box, revealing the delicate chocolates hidden within, each individually encased in a frilly, open-top wrapper. There is an assortment of flavors, a small card within detailing each careful ingredient hidden within the middles, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed at the choices.

“Will you have one?” he asks, leaning in to leave a tiny kiss against your cheek.

“Maybe I should wait until after dinner,” you respond, your heartbeat quickening as Vergil leaves a persistent trail of light pecks to your neck, the sensation sending pleasant tingles across your skin.

“Just one,” he presses, and you find yourself quickly falling under his spell of a mood.

“Pick for me?”

He leaves another touch of his lips to your skin before plucking the flavor card from your weak fingers, eyes scanning over the choices for the briefest of moments. He shifts to drop the card on the table, reaching for the chocolates and pulling out a small, unassuming piece with a drizzle of white across its dark, rounded surface.

You don’t ask the flavor he’s chosen, fully intending to guess it on your own as you reach up to take the treat from his hand. Vergil is one step quicker and moves the chocolate to your lips, prompting you to open them. He pops the morsel into your mouth, fingers just grazing your bottom lip on the retreat, and you find yourself making an effort not to let out a whimper at the tingle such a brief caress leaves behind.

The chocolate melts against your tongue after only a few seconds, bitter and dark, but pleasant and smooth. Breaking the shell, you’re immediately surprised by the burst of flavor that greets your taste buds as well as the even silkier cream of the inside. You hum your astonishment, savoring the taste as it continues to melt against your pallet until all that remains is the bitter-sweet aftertaste.

“It’s vanilla, right?” you take a guess, turning with a smile in place. It would be just like Vergil to choose something so simple, but so decadent.

The atmosphere shifts with your change in position, and before you can say anything else, you’re being pushed against the table’s edge by Vergil’s body pressing snuggly against yours. His hands are cupping your jawline, pulling you up just as he swoops in for a devouring kiss. His tongue is instantly against yours without any preamble, licking against soft tissue and teeth and lips in long, languid strokes that leave you whimpering for more when he pulls away momentarily to kiss along your jawline.

“French vanilla,” he corrects, your ears just barely picking up his words through the fog that was quickly overriding your thoughts.

“It’s good,” you say, gasping at the barely-there graze of teeth against your earlobe.

“Even better on your tongue,” he says, voice pitched lower and words very nearly a growl, and he shifts to overwhelm you anew.

Things begin to move so quickly, but far too slow. Your clothes fall from your body with little effort on your part, some ripped from Vergil’s excitement at getting at more of your flesh. You barely have time to mourn yet another of your favorite shirts laid to waste before Vergil is biting at your revealed skin, creating blooming marks of red that were sure to get darker as the next few hours passed.

Your hands are not idle; as Vergil devours your very being, your grasp at his shoulders, his hair, his clothes, keening and panting and squirming under his ministrations. Cold, polished wood presses against your back, and it takes you out of the fog for just the barest second to register that you’re now flat against the dining room table before Vergil is on you again, suddenly void of any clothing on his person.

He’s insistent as he presses against you, hips rolling against yours and kisses sinfully distracting from the hands now ridding you of the remainder of your clothing.

“Sh-should we…should we move this to – ah!”

You’re shushed by Vergil literally dropping to the floor, hands spreading your legs and mouth immediately where you wanted him most. It’s such a shocking move that you very nearly come off the table, all-together, back arching violently and thighs simultaneously bracketing Vergil’s head.

He is seemingly unfazed, perhaps even welcoming the pressure of your thighs against his face as his hands grab your hips and pull you even closer to the edge of the table, allowing him more room to access you entirely. He growls against you when your hands find their way into his silver-white hair and pull, the sound vibrating against sensitive flesh and causing a shout to leave your kiss-swollen lips.

He is almost voracious in his appetite for you, building your pleasure higher and higher with each touch of his lips and stroke of his tongue. Questing fingers soon join the mix, and you’re finding it increasingly harder to keep your noises at a somewhat respectable level. Every time you quiet down, however, Vergil’s tongue strokes harder, his fingers twist just so, and you’re shouting your praises to the heavens above, which only eggs him on.

It’s no wonder how quickly the coil in your stomach tightens, how you are both excited by the messy sounds from your body and Vergil’s mouth. There’s no surprise when your first orgasm hits you suddenly and without warning, your vision whiting out for mere seconds as a sharp cry escapes you.

You’re only aware of the bruising press of fingers into the flesh of your hips when you’re finally able to make a coherent thought, aware of the harsh, gasping pants coming from Vergil as he rises and presses against you once more.

His excitement is evident, cock hot and hard as it presses between your legs. You jump at the touch, sensitive from his ministrations. Vergil takes a moment of pity and runs his hands down your shaking thighs, trailing them back up and continuing up your body. As he does this, he angles his hips just right and pushes into the snug embrace of your body with little effort, following the flow of his hands as he moves ever closer.

Below him, you’re already a wreck, gasping his name and all but clinging to his hands as his fingers thread with yours. He follows up with nibbling kisses against your neck, tongue dragging against blooming marks before sinking teeth once more into the hypersensitive areas.

A sudden, sharp thrust has him seated fully within you, a blessing as it is complete torture, and for what feels like an eternity, he is still. Had you any capability for thought, you would have wondered why he stopped then; his oddly labored breathing and the nearly crushing grip of his hands against yours should have been enough signs.

Vergil was losing his control.

“P-please,” you whisper, voice high-strung and almost whiny as you lean into your beloved. “Please, Vergil, p-ah, please!”

You are silenced with a low growl against your ear, only for your voice to ring throughout your home as his hips push harshly into yours. It was a warning, but your one-track mind was unable to comprehend it.

“You have me,” you continued, tongue poking out to lick at the shell of his ear. “You have me, so do whatever you want. Fuck me, Vergil.”

He snarls against your ear, bodily pressing you into the table for all of three seconds before his hips are pulling back, cockhead just barely keeping snug within you-

His hips thrust forward swiftly, and you shout for all to hear as he finds his pace, fast and hard and devastating. All you can do is wrap your legs around his waist, the heels of your feet digging into the small of his back to help pull him impossibly closer.

There is a sheen of sweat forming along the press of your bodies, though you hardly mind. You’re barely aware of it, or anything, for that matter. There is only Vergil as well as the constant press and pull of his body, a tide that washes you ashore and pulls you back to sea in a never-ending loop. You’re drowning in the sensation that his him, body wound up and muscles pulling tight with ever hard press of his cock within you.

Your second peak is upon you when Vergil suddenly tears himself away from you, a surprised, startled cry leaving you as you are left empty and nearly sobbing for him to come back. Clarity comes back to you swiftly in the form of a low, demonic growl, and you’re aware that the very atmosphere has shifted and changed before impossibly large hands are pulling you up and flipping you around.

For a moment, your fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, your body overly sensitized and vulnerable just as your mind was still trying to pick up the frayed pieces left in the dust of passion that had consumed you. Those same hands wander the expanse of your back, one pressing you against the cool tabletop as the other roams downward to grasp at your hip.

“Still,” he says, and you’re very aware that Vergil wasn’t quite himself, but more.

Your body relaxes almost instantly against the table, heart drumming against your chest and heated breaths nearly leaving a fog against the shine of the wooden surface below you. There’s a rumble not unlike a deep purr that shakes the air about you, and then you feel him pressing closer.

In his triggered form, Vergil is much larger in every sense of the word.

His cockhead presses against your entrance, and you can’t help but shake and gasp as he presses forward in small increments. A devil he may be, but Vergil prided himself in being careful with you, especially in your current predicament.

You gasp and groan with each increment he presses in, his hips undulating in slow strokes that continue to fill you. He’s so much bigger, so much deeper that you can practically feel him in your throat. An exaggeration, sure, but it feels as if he’ll never stop filling you until suddenly he does with a rumbling growl that feels as if it vibrates from within you.

Vergil has effectively rendered you mindless, and when he finally begins moving slowly in a show of stunning control, all you are capable of are mindless sentences and praises, whimpers and pitchy moans as your damp fingers attempt to hang on to something, anything to ground yourself.

It doesn’t take long for him to start off a brutal pace, one that has you seeing stars in a matter of seconds as the coil within you breaks. The pleasure is deep and profound and has you shaking against him.

Suddenly, you’re being shifted, body nearly limp as you let him do with you as he pleases. You’re in his lap, now, legs spread impossibly wide around the sheer girth that is his demonic form’s thighs. The new angle allows him an even deeper penetration, if it’s even possible, and it allows him to grope at the flesh of your body as much as he pleases without the hindrance of a table.

Whatever control he had is just as suddenly gone, and he’s slamming into you with brutal precision that has you sobbing his name, begging him for more, please, Vergil, more!!

Your nerves are oversensitive, limbs jumping with each pass of his cock through the channel of your body. Tears spring to your eyes, a confused mix of extreme pleasure bordering on pain, but you can endure.

Vergil’s close, if the increasing, growling grunts leaving his closed maw and the sharp pinpricks of his claws against your sweaty flesh are anything to go by. You do your best to hang on for the ride, trembling arms reaching back so that your hands can grasp at the soft, leathery feel of his skin.

Your touch is apparently exactly what he needs. His thrusts become just on the side of too hard, and then his hands are practically bruising your skin as he grips you tight against him. A final handful of thrusts has you screaming hoarsely, the sound of your own pleasure being drowned out by the near-deafening roar of Vergil’s own orgasm.

There’s a moment where you’re sure you blacked out, a blissful peace that lasts all of ten seconds before you’re aware of your surroundings. You’re still crying, your body trying to catch up to the sheer emotional experience you just had.

You can feel Vergil’s chest heaving beneath you, his body having already reverted back to its human form after finding release. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, though he doesn’t seem to mind, instead focusing what energy he has in nuzzling against your neck.

He shifts slightly, and you make a tiny sound of distress at feeling him shift within you, as well. There’s a slick feeling between your legs, and chancing a glance down proves exactly what you already knew.

“I’ve made a mess of you,” Vergil breathes against your damp skin, damn near feeling his satisfied smirk press itself into your shoulder.

You shiver at the feeling of questing fingers ghosting down your body, jerking and whining in your beloved’s hold as they press and prod against where you’re both still connected. He shushes you gently and pulls his hand away, holding it before you so that you can see the utter mess of his actions.

“In half an hour,” he growls suddenly, teeth gently grazing your earlobe and sending prickly sparks of pleasure down your spine, “after I’ve cleaned you up, I’ll have you again in our bed.”

You already knew how the night was going to play out, and though you were worn out, at that moment, you would be ready to go again, soon enough.

When Vergil was in one of those moods, it wasn’t that hard to tell, and you were prepared for whatever he had in store.

[juliussneezerfics]

Blood Red Lilies and Baby Blue Cornflowers: Chapter 8 - Confrontation

Angsty confrontation between my OTP? In my fic? It's more likely than you think.

Ao3

(Sorry I haven’t updated in so long! Another chapter’s coming today!)

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Germany opened his eyes, once again relishing the feeling of being able to take full breaths. Relishing the luxury of unimpeded oxygen. He turned his head, grunting as the cricks in his neck gave way. He froze as he spotted Prussia sitting in an armchair, his arms crossed and his brows furrowed.

“You sent me away.” There was no other way to describe Prussia’s tone and body language other than ‘royally pissed off’.

Germany sighed. “Is it too late to pretend I’m still dead?” Ah, his voice. Gruff and yet so much smoother than it’s been in months. 

“Ha ha.” Prussia deadpanned. “Why didn’t you let me stay with you when you died?”

 “Is it shocking that I didn’t want my brother to see that?”

Prussia rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a hero, West.” “I’m not-.”

“Stop.” Prussia snapped. “Listen, I get it. It’s hard to do this. You don’t like to be taken care of.”

 “It’s not other peoples’ fault that I have a disease. I should deal with it by myself. I got it myself.”

Prussia stood. “There you go again! God, I never thought I’d have to actually be your big brother again. Is this how you’re going to be when you face conflict? Are you going to push away people who care about you, people who love you, just because you’re the always-suffering Ludwig? The fallen hero who is doomed to be alone? Is that who you’re going to be?”

 “I’m not a fallen hero.”

“Then stop acting like it, for the love of God.” Prussia snapped. “I can’t believe you’re steeping this far in self-pity when the people who love you have to watch this happen to you. Sit up.”

Germany pierced Prussia with his gaze, but he sat up.

 “Back straight up.”

Germany straightened.

 “There’s my brother. Who are you, anyway? You’re no fallen hero, who are you?”

 “Ludwig Beilshmidt. Personification of Germany.”

Prussia nodded. “Then you better damn well act like it.”

Germany studied the man in front of him. “All this because I sent you away?”

“You’re missing the point.” Prussia shook his head. “Because I watched you turn into someone else. Ludwig from a decade ago would never lose himself to self-pity. I don’t want you to forget that.”

Germany stood. “… thank you.”

Prussia gave a single, proud nod. “You’re welcome. Now make me pancakes. I can’t cook for shit and I've lived off canned soup for the past twenty-four hours.”

This continued for a long time. A very long time. Forty-five long, difficult years. The length between each bout of hanahaki shrank until he was dying once every other week. He ignored invitations from his friends with excuses of being busy, only agreeing to lunches and events that took place right after he woke up from his last death. He spent the majority of his time in his house, staring out the window longingly. Thinking of the people he missed the most. He pondered on how Japan spent all those years so long ago in complete solitude. Germany would call himself an introvert, but this was pure torture. He missed out on the past three annual world meetings due to unfortunate scheduling. The fact of the matter was, he could only hide so many coughing fits from his peers before they realized what was wrong. Before the people outside the former axis and allies realized that there was something terribly wrong with Germany.

He spent his days trying to forget Italy. To not think about his smile, or his laugh… about his desire to try new things and dress however he felt like. Trying not to think of his unrestrained joy and his frank ignorance of social norms in the pursuit of happiness. To forget how his hair in the sunlight looked almost red. Trying not to think about his eyes… God, his eyes. How he grew to miss those eyes. It’s been almost three months since he had seen him. Germany and his friends scarcely went a month without seeing each other. He was running out of excuses.

Until the year 2000, the start of a new century. Germany and his brother had been invited to a New Year's party America was hosting. Germany opened the texted invite with a resigned reluctance, already knowing that he would be unable to make it. That night, he made the excuse of having a bout of hay fever. Did people still get hay fever? He barely had time to think about it before he choked out the excuse over the phone to Japan. He sent Prussia to go have fun with his friends. Prussia left with much reluctance, but nonetheless agreed after Germany promised he could take care of himself. He lay in his bed, reading a book. He was certain that today he would die. How fitting that he would die on New Year’s Eve and wake anew on the first day of the new century.

He reached over with a shaky hand and grabbed the handle of his mug. Lifting it, he realized it was empty. If he had been willing to spare the breath, he would have sighed. He debated internally, deciding whether it was worth the effort to get up and grab some more tea. Heaven knew it could take twenty minutes just to walk there, make the tea, and stumble his way back up the stairs. Curse those stairs. Twenty minutes to accomplish a five minute task. It was only Germany's pride that kept him from taking Prussia's offer for him to sleep on the couch, several yards from the kitchen. The rawness of his throat screamed at him to just throw off the bed covers and get to it already.

So he summoned his strength and he did. He threw off the covers, lying for a couple seconds to regain his breath. He sat up. Another ten seconds of staying still to catch his breath. He grabbed his mug, noticing that it was about twenty minutes past midnight. His brother would be home from the bar any minute now. Here to take care of him. Perhaps he could go without tea…?

No. No, definitely not. Germany was far too tired of being unable to do anything. He was tired of reading and re-reading the same books, remembering days that passed and memories that were dangling forever out of reach, never to be replicated from lack of energy. He took a deep breath and stood. Vertigo. The room spun in front of him, him stumbling over and clutching the edge of his bedside table until his vision stilled. He dimly registered the sound of a doorbell as he released the bedside table. Germany heard the dogs’ barking. Registered the scratching of their claws against the wood of the downstairs floor. Wasn’t it odd for Prussia to be ringing the doorbell to his own house?

His head spun as he took the first few steps. He tried to stumble toward the door out of his bedroom. He missed the frame, falling through the open door. He fell on the ground, the floor seeming to cut into his back. The coffee mug shattered against the wooden floor, but this didn’t register as another coughing fit began. He heard the door open and the dogs settle. He heard footsteps come up the stairs. ��Gilbert.” He croaked. His voice was barely audible, even to him. He gave up his pride. He just needed to be hoisted back to his bed. He was going to die any minute now. God, why didn’t he just keep Prussia here?

“Germany?”

Germany’s heart stilled. No. No, no, no, no. This wasn’t happening. He summoned his strength and turned his head.

Italy was stood there, his brown eyes wide with fear. Both hands were held up to his mouth.

“Italy.” What was he supposed to say? Surely this was a bad dream. Surely he would wake up any minute now. Perhaps it was an illusion from a lack of oxygen. Surely that was it. “You need to leave.”

“Germany!” Italy kneeled next to him.

Germany winced away from Italy’s close proximity like it burned him. “Get out of here.” He didn’t want Italy to see him. Not like this. Not when his skin was so pale. Not when his hair was uncombed. Not when his face was this gaunt. Not when any minute, surely, he would die.

“No, no, I’m not going anywhere.” Italy breathed. He shed his coat and tossed it to the side. “This isn’t hay fever, is it? I’ll call someone. We’ll call someone. They can help us, okay?”

“Italy…”

“Why are you out of bed, Germany?” Italy asked as he dialed a number on his phone, his panic barely concealed.

“I wanted… I had to do one damn thing by myself.” He felt something deep within him. A warning of what was to come. Germany would have given anything to keep it from happening now. “Leave. Now.”

“What was Prussia’s number again?” Italy asked to himself, panicked. Either he hadn’t heard Germany, or he didn’t care to listen.

“Ita-” His sentence was cut off by a cough.

Italy looked up from his phone with a start. He looked unsure of what to do. “Germany, what do I do?”

The words didn’t register as he continued to cough, trying to loosen that dreaded blockage in his throat. He was desperate for oxygen now. Just as he thought he was about to black out, he coughed out a full lily. He heaved for breath as well as he could with his shallow breaths.

“Germany, what…?” His eyes widened. “A lily. Oh, Germany… no, no, no, no.”

“Italy…”

“I did this to you.” Italy realized, his eyes growing glassy with tears.

“You didn’t-” Germany was cut off as he felt the flowers inside his body writhe and grow. God, so this was it.

“Germany? Germany, what’s wrong?!” Italy cried. The tears spilled over his eyes and drew salty tracks down his cheeks. “You’re dying! It’s okay, I can fix this! I can fix it!”

Germany looked up at Italy as his vision grew hazy.

Italy leaned down and grabbed Germany by the shoulders, touching their lips together.

Germany’s first kiss. In the middle of a tragedy. In a war with a predetermined winner. He shut his eyes as he knew that the edges of his vision were blackening. In a last moment of consciousness, he reached and grabbed Italy’s forearm with his weak grip.

As Italy felt something like a stick press against his lips, he lurched away. Through his blurry vision, he could see Germany. He was facing up, his lips slightly parted as a long stem curled from his mouth. Blooming at the top was a large lily, the edges of the petals bordered in a deep maroon. Italy’s hands floated up to his open mouth. It was a beautiful kind of morbid. Under another circumstance, Italy may have been tempted to paint it. But now… oh, God, now. He turned around as he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Prussia stood behind Italy, his violet eyes glinting with something sharp. Something deadly. “Italy.”

“Prussia, I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t know… I’m so sorry about your brother.” The words came out in harried spurts. Heavy gasps littered the sentence, each gasp for air a stab in his own heart. What he wouldn’t do to give Germany the oxygen he so greedily stole from the air as he sobbed.

“What did you do?” Prussia asked in a toneless voice.

“I didn’t know, I- I just- I wanted to visit him- I didn’t want him to be- to be alone on New Year’s. And- and he was on the floor.”

Prussia shook his head. “Why didn’t he just stay in bed?”

Italy curled in on himself, his arms wrapping around his middle as he bowed his head. To an outsider, it would have looked like a sobbing mortal was begging a standing God for something that seemed impossible. Begging for something long past gone. Perhaps he was.

Prussia kneeled at eye level with Italy. “Italy, this is not your fault.”

“I never wished so much that I could love someone, Prussia. I’m so sorry I can’t.”

Prussia’s steely expression melted into something entirely different. Something softer. “I know, Italy.”

Italy lurched forward and captured Prussia’s middle in a desperate hug as he sobbed into his chest.

Prussia, never a toucher, relented just this once. He wrapped his arms around Italy, giving him a hug he knew Italy wished came from Germany instead.

Germany had no idea how much time had passed when he finally opened his eyes. He was able to stretch himself out and release the cricks in his neck before he remembered what happened the day before. Before he registered the person sitting where Prussia usually sat. “Italy?” His voice was gruff from sleep.

Italy looked from the window and to Germany, appearing surprised. “Hi, Germany.”

“Italy, I’m..” Hopelessly in love with you? Upset that you could never love me back? “Sorry.”

Italy shook his head insistently. His face was unusually sober. “Don’t be. Please.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since last night.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Italy shuffled in his seat. “You already said that.”

Germany nodded. “Sorry.”

The two sat in an awkward silence for a long moment, each wondering what they should say. Each thinking of what they wish they could say.

“Is it okay if I ask-”

“No.” Germany interrupted.

Italy leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped in his lap. “Please, Germany. I have to know. I have a right to know.”

“Oh, do you?” Germany challenged, glowering at Italy. Perhaps this anger was undeserved. But it settled, coiled like a snake deep within his stomach. Whether he was actually angry at Italy, he didn’t know.

“Yes. I do.” Italy challenged right back. His gaze and tone never faltered. “I’m the one who did this to you. I want to know what damage I inflicted.”

“You didn’t do this.”

Italy frowned levelly at him but said nothing.

“Since the end of World War Two.” Germany answered, staring at the wall opposite of him. “When you came to visit my tent.”

Italy’s frown loosened into something sad. Something pitying.

Germany resented it.

“I’m so sorry, Germany, I never knew.”

“Don’t be.”

Italy continued to look at him, his gaze assessing.

It was a look Germany was not accustomed to. Not when it was directed at him. He had an overwhelming desire to make Italy direct that gaze upon something else. "It was very kind of you to stay overnight. I’ll see you at the meeting next week.”

“Germany, please don’t-”

“Make sure to bring your notes. We can combine them with Japan’s and-”

“Don’t pretend nothing happened, German-”

Germany raised his voice over Italy’s. He had no idea why he was doing this. He didn’t know why he was pushing Italy away when he wanted nothing more than for him to stay. “We can come up with a plan to increase tourism between our nations-”  Was he really so desperate to stop this conversation that he was spouting nonsense?

“Are you really going to kick me out?!” Italy shouted, his shrill voice on the verge of breaking.

Germany stopped his panicked rant out of shock.

“Is this it, then? Are we- we’re just pretending that this didn’t happen? Are we pretending that you’re not going to die again later? We’re just going to be Italy and Germany, good ol’ buddies going on adventures with Japan?” Italy stumbled over his words. He wasn’t sure why he was angry. He didn’t know what he was feeling. He didn’t know what he was saying. He knew he didn’t love Germany. That’s the start of this whole mess in the first place. So what did he even want?

Germany blinked. “Make sure to have a presentation prepared on the current financial status of your nation.”

Italy’s mouth gaped open before he recovered. He glowered at Germany, pulling his coat from the back of the chair. “Fine, then.” He jammed his arm into a sleeve, slamming the bedroom door behind him as he stormed out.

Germany gazed at the slammed door. He swallowed. He huffed out a sigh, resting his forehead on his palms. Why did he handle that like such a child? Why couldn’t he just… talk it out? He couldn’t imagine what would happen if he had, of course, but at least there would have been something. Italy would… well he never thought he could love him in the first place, but now his chances were even more diminished.

 “Sounds like you dug yourself into quite a hole there, West.”

 “Don’t.”

Prussia huffed out a breath as he leaned against the doorway. “Don’t push away people who care about you when you’re in pain. Especially people who care for you as much as Italy.”

 “He doesn’t care about me enough.”

Prussia glared. “Don’t you dare say that like he has a choice. You know that if he could, he would in a heartbeat.”

“If he…” Germany huffed out a breath as he looked up at his brother. “I don’t actually blame him. Really. I know this isn’t his fault.”

“Good.” Prussia looked down at the ground. “How he looked after you died... he was devastated.”

“He kissed me.” Germany said suddenly. He had no idea where that came from. He didn’t know why he let that escape him. He didn’t know why he needed someone to know.

Prussia hummed, redirecting his gaze over Germany's shoulder and out the window. “Was it some attempt to save you?”

 “I suppose. It just made it worse.”

Prussia hummed again but said nothing.

Germany sat up and walked out the room, avoiding Prussia’s gaze as he brushed past him. He walked into the bathroom. Opened the cabinet and pulled out a comb. He brushed his hair, not bothering to gel it. He then set off for his room, determined to change. Prussia was not there when he went back. He changed into his usual black tank top and a pair of old fatigues. They were not needed at that moment, but it felt good to slip into something he was used to. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to sleep, and surprisingly he didn’t want a drink of water. He walked down to the basement and turned on the light. He paced over to a metronome on a small table and got it started. Taking a deep breath, he listened to the familiar rhythmic ticking. Like a heart beat. He turned his head upon his drum set down in the basement. It was a secret habit of his. One that no one outside of him, his brother, and a couple others knew of. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and plugged it into the speakers. He started the guitar intro to a rock song and sat himself at the drums. Picking up the drumsticks, he waited for his cue. He slammed the tip of the drumsticks on one of the drums, relishing the feel of the stick on the taut skin of the instrument. He picked up his pace with the speed of the drum, losing himself to the pounding and got totally invested in the music. He could spend hours doing this. He has before. The feel of the drumbeat in his hand. The way it worked through his arms and shoulders. It was an exercise of the total upper body. The steady alignment of his heart beat with the beat of the drum. The way the sound almost drowned out the rest of the music. The steady ticking of the metronome falling into time with the sticks in his hand. He scarcely noticed as his brother came down the stairs. He didn’t cease drumming as Prussia strode over to his phone and stopped the music. Germany continued anyway. He knew the beats of the song by heart and wasn’t one to let a single beat fall out of the measured timing. He watched as Prussia walked over to his electric guitar and plugged it in.

Prussia drew the strap over his head and waited for a point in the song where he could jump in with the proper chords. The sound of the guitar filled the basement and echoed off the walls and ceiling.

Germany lost himself further to the music, enjoying the unity between his instrument and his brother’s. His arms began to develop a burning, satisfying ache. But nonetheless, he didn't stop. He couldn’t. Him stopping would stop the music. Stop the beats and the flow he had going. It was the ultimate stress reliever. It helped him even more than his usual workouts did. He stopped drumming where he knew the drummer in the song did, allowing Prussia to finish the last notes on his guitar.

Prussia did a final strum, smirking as the last notes of the guitar faded into nothingness. His chest was heaving as he looked over at his brother. “Awesome guitar skills, right?”

“You didn’t even practice, did you?” Germany knew his brother was virtually unmatched in guitar skills. Even before the electric guitar was invented, he was proficient in acoustic guitars. He was always more musically gifted than Germany, but it was still apparent to him that Prussia hadn’t spent much time practicing.

“Are you kidding me right now? I did that song perfectly! How could you tell?!” Prussia gaped at him.

Germany shrugged, wishing for a drink of water.

“You boys are really drumming up a storm down here!” A feminine voice said.

Germany turned toward the voice.

Hungary was standing in the doorway, clad in a yellow sundress and heels. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, a yellow flower tucked behind her ear. “Hello, Ludwig.”

“Elizabeta?” Germany asked, slightly surprised.

Hungary raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised to see me!”

Germany also raised an eyebrow before he, along with Hungary, looked at Prussia.

Prussia sheepishly shrugged his shoulders. “This seemed more like a problem for your older sister than your older brother! I’m not good with that… mushy-gushy… un-awesome feeling stuff.”

Hungary furrowed her brow. “Yes… Gilbert, why don’t you make Ludwig and I a cup of tea and then we can talk?”

Germany stood and sighed, steadying his metronome. “Here we go.”

Hungary nodded. “We have a lot to talk about.”

[splat-dragon]

I know every mile would be worth my while ~Go the Distance, Michael Bolton

Charles had taken to looking for the fox.

 He hadn’t realized it at first, it had been a subconscious thing, entirely his wolf.

 And then one day, while waiting for the butcher to wrap his purchase,She didn’t, though, and he was well stuck so, though his clothes were stashed at the Scarlett Horse Shop and he’d have to walk several miles naked (shifting was exhausting, if he tried to shift so soon after going human he’d collapse into a dead sleep), he began to slip into his human skin, praying that she was long gone. he’d realized that he was scanning the people walking by, looking at every flash of red but, no, that wasn’t right, not red enough, not bright enough, wasn't tinted orange. That was a dress, a shirt, not hair. His wolf had laughed at him, ‘took you long enough!’ and he’d scowled. The butcher had asked if something was wrong, but he’d just shaken his head.

Every fight, he looked for her, half-hoped to see that flash of red in the crowd, half-hoped she’d be his opponent. But she was never there, his opponent always a man. And his wolf whined every time, disappointed and hurt. And why it hurt so badly, he didn’t know. He’d met her for not even five minutes, been beaten into the ground (quite literally!), but he’d never met another shifter before, even in the hodge-podge mix of Dutch’s gang, so perhaps he was just latching onto that?

 As it was, he’d found himself sniffing around as he walked through Saint Denis, but as always the human-scents, perfumes and cologne and horse-shit, pollution and oils and all sorts of things clogged his sensitive nose, and even if she were there he’d never be able to find her scent, be able to pick it out beneath the tangle of Saint Denis.

So, on a day when he had no fights, he took out his frustrations on some poor, innocent deer. Slipped skins in Scarlett Meadows, stared at the horses penned by the stables that screamed and scattered despite the many times they’d seen him and never been harmed, and for a moment he missed his Taima though he’d left her with the Wapiti so many years ago, she’d happily trotted along at his side no matter what skin he was in, Falmouth was a good horse but still shied away no matter how much work he put into him.

 He’d never figured out how to keep himself clean while hunting or eating—it didn’t seem possible in this form, with his shearing teeth and long muzzle, having to bury his face deep into the deer, covering himself in its blood and gristle and other-such-things, so he finished his meal before making his way to his favorite lake, rich with fish and cool despite Lemoyne’s thick heat, waded in deep and watched as the fish scattered from him. Charles basked for a time, allowed the water to clean his fur, enjoying the peace and simplicity that came with slipping into his wolf’s skin; its mind was so much calmer than his, wasn’t haunted by the blood that stained his hands, by those he’d failed to save, wasn’t haunted by the memories of the rotting corpses he’d buried back in Beaver’s Hollow.

Charles had learned very young that he was a rarity no matter where he went. Though he’d decided that he was a timber wolf, or close to one, he’d never found a timber wolf that looked like him. His fur was too rich, too brown, and even when he was a pup in his shift, when he was too young for anything but the most unscrupulous trophy hunters to shoot, people had wanted him as a rug, as a mount, as a skin on their floor or their wall.

 So when he felt a pair of eyes burn into his back, he whirled about, collected his paws beneath him and prepared to run, before being frozen in place by a pair of too-green eyes glinting at him from the trees.

A fox—the Fox—sat on a stump, bushy black tail wrapped around her paws. Her jaw hung open in a canine grin, flashing sharp white teeth, and black rimmed ears pointed towards him. When she realized she’d caught his attention, she yipped a laugh, flicking her tail away to reveal his feather, pinned by the quill with her paw, before grabbing it with her teeth and bounding off the stump and into the trees in a blur of orange-red. He stared, startled, before shaking himself and barreling after, not willing to lose her after only just finding her again (though it had been she that found him), scrambling out of the lake in a flurry of scattered rocks and startled fish.

  “Wait!” he barked, and she didn’t respond in words, instead yipping loudly, pausing to look back over her shoulder, his feather dangling tantalizingly out of her mouth, and the image of her raiding a henhouse, shrieking biddies racing around their pen, pin-feathers covering her face and that grin sharp on her face. The image was broken, though, when he didn’t manage to get within five feet of her before she was off with a laughing bark, and he felt suddenly as the hound trying to keep her from the coop, snapping at her heels but never quite making it.

 The Wolf had to dig in his paws to keep from crashing into a fallen tree that she’d slipped under, scrabbling at the opening before jumping up and bounding over it, catching her eyes looking back at him before she darted through a bramble brush that he was careful to swerve around, he’d gotten stuck in one once and never again, and as he bounded after her he couldn’t help but to laugh, baying loudly, this was the most fun he’d had in years! The Fox barked wordlessly in return even as she dove under another fallen tree, the hole small enough that she wedged at her hips and had to scratch with her paws to force herself through, only barely managing to slip under it before he caught up, his breath ghosting against her tail as it vanished. Charles stuck his muzzle under the log, snorted as he heard her laugh, and pulled his head back, leaped over the tree—or, at least, tried to.

 His front half made it over, but he caught at his hips, momentum swinging his barrel into the tree hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs with a yelp, and all he could do was whine breathlessly as he watched her vanish, hip a flash of white going further and further away.

  “Damn!” he groaned, and began to scramble with his hindpaws, dull claws scrabbling, gouging and knocking away dead tree bark, only for a sudden nip to his sensitive nose to startle him enough that he let out a high pitched yelping noise that he’d never admit to making.

 The Fox yipped in his face, eyes laughing, and dropped his feather in front of him, still pristine as he kept it, whirled about quick enough to smack him in the face with her bottlebrush black-orange tail, vanishing into the trees without a care even as he called after her “No!” to “Wait!”

 She didn’t, though, and he was well stuck so, though his clothes were stashed at the Scarlett Horse Shop and he’d have to walk several miles naked (shifting was exhausting, if he tried to shift so soon after slipping human he’d sleep for a day and miss his fights, and he couldn’t afford to do so), he began to slip into his human skin, praying that she was long gone.

[rkgray]

#legacy

I've always been a dream chaser Since the day I was born I haven’t been able to sit still Never weak-willed Always been real I risk lookin' soft to avoid situations

just soon after re-signing his contract, the year 2019 had begun with news that had hit him right into the guts. gray had been out of it for a while, hadn't been himself, but in the end he had raised himself from it and pushed his own boundaries, even though there had been still a voice in the back of his mind to make him believe how he didn't deserved to debut with kt and how he just didn't fit in the company. if there was one thing he was great at, then it was being self-destructive by pulling himself down and tell himself how he had never been as talented as the others were.

over the course of his past years gray had tried several times to get into a company, to receive a contract and publish his music, but had failed every single time. he went to auditions and castings, wrote song over song, worked hard to built up his own studio, put his everything into pursuing music, had been judgded by others for living a dream, instead of a reality. people had called him ugly, not the standard, unconventional, his music useless and not the kind of music the industry out there wanted to hear. demos had been received and rejected without a proper listen, had been send back without any reply at all, even thrown back at him for being dirty. gray had seen and heard it all. just a few times longer and he would have become used to it, would have accepted it as fact of his life.

Small-minded petty shit Somethin' we don’t entertain' We do somethin' lame Live and learn Do it never again Then we teach game to one another Because y'all my brothers, my actions reflect y'all I'm slipping, I'm falling, I can't get up I know you’ll catch me, support me and help me get up Yeah this bullshit’s whatever, I'll show nothin’ but love

but then there had been kt, the only company who had actually given him a chance to achieve what he had always dreamt of. at some point gray had even believed that he was holding on something kt was interested of, and that he was worth their time and money, just to start anew at point one, taken aback and full of doubts. gray had been just laying low, doing his thing, trying to grow from the shadows, working on become a better version of himself, to overcome what was pulling him down and become a supporting pillar to the entertainment that had taken him in, in times, when he was about to give up.

and now that the new year, the new decade lied ahead of them, the sudden news of a experimental group and the fact that he had been chosen as one of the members had caught him completely off guard. this wasn't what he had expected, as he had accepted his fate of staying in the dungeons until his contract runs out. debut was now in a more concrete vicinity, not just a shadowy figure in the distance.

Who can I lean on when the world is on my shoulders I need someone I can build with and grow older Coz life is much cold and people can't uphold us Take a look around Now you seein' what it's cost us People in positions of power really imposters

it still felt too unreal for him to properly process the course of events. he couldn't quite grasp on the reason of why he was becoming a part of it, since he wasn't one of the rookies, introduced to the public, somehow had received a special status within the rows of unknown trainees. maybe it was just out of seniority, looking back at the three years he had been with kt by now. he didn't even dared to believe it was due to his skills, as he was painfully aware that he was nowhere close to what a idol was supposed to be. among those who were not included in the experimental line up, gray believed there were others who would fit in much better than him, as they brought in visuals and talents likewise. it was hard to believe he had been chosen before them and then again, he remembered the time when he was excluded from ktrookies both times and how he had hurt over that decision, no matter if that project would lead to debut or not. it was just the freezing thought of not being enough to join them, which he was afraid would grow in the three boys apart from the group. he felt guilty.

how was he supposed to be happy, to be excited when the other boys who were supposed to be part of their big family, weren't at their side? how was he able to think he deserved a spot in the line up, when he could already hear the haunting voices of people calling him old and not made for this world laying ahead of them?

but then again, things had been hard, gray had overcome every pepple, every rock, every mountain to get this far, to finally be about to achieve his dream. there was much that he was still afraid of, but didn't he deserved to be excited for once, even if it was just for the short time of the experiment, until the final results came out?

So let's enjoy it while it lasts With the smiles and the laughter Comes sadness, all black, up in front there’s a pastor To the hoes and the bastards, the trolls and backstabbers Never too late to change till you up in your casket Let's get it Look up at the sky Looked down at the earth Are you down for the ride? Right next to me For this legacy I need you, I need you right here For this thing called life

to him life was a rollercoaster ride of ups and downs, there had been times, when he was about to break apart from his hardships and then there had been times, good times, when he felt like walking on clouds. all these moments were part of him, were what made the kind of man he was now. gray knew he wasn't perfect, wasn't infailable, that he was still lacking, but ultimately he wanted to become an artist and make music and share it with the world, just like every else around them.

there was still uncertainty that kept him around, and he guessed it would never drift away, as long as he didn't tried and gave it his all. for the longest time he had believed to be just an accessory to kt, to be a toy of a child that had been taken away from others, just so they won't be able to take it instead. there was no usage for him, nowhere to put him in. but now that there was finally an opening, a chance right in front of him, he felt like he had to pull through, despite all conflicts in his head and heart, as for who knew how long it would take him to get another chance like this? if he wasn't too try and grabbing this opportunity, what was even the point in dreaming, in trying, in falling and rising himself up again?

Look, growth to me that's all that matters Life's a game of Shoots and Ladders Ups and downs okay but I ain't movin' backwards I don't feed in to propaganda Trying to anger me so I can do some crazy shit I don't believe it atheist They want you riled up until you say, "Fuck the peace" In this society it's so easy to lose hope Just know we got each other Hold your hand through the smoke Let's go This that shit that they don't wanna see It starts with you and me Let's go What you leave behind, use your energy Yes not just mine or yours man, this our legacy, wassup

so even without the certainty of a clear future, gray promised to himself to keep going, to not give up and play himself down like he had done so many times before. there was a vision ahead of him, a dream he had to achieve, as it had accompanied him throughout life. music was what kept him from veer off the road, music was what kept him alive over the years of trying and failing over and over again, music was just what connected them all. and for music, they all would be able to go far and even beyond.

So when I perform, you listen and I hope you relate Hey, I got a solid intuition, a lot of ambition I'm looking at the world through a clear-cut vision We gotta do better Let's change the way we eat Let's change the way we live And let's change the way we treat each other I gotta do this for my legacy

[kangals]

some final thoughts

our third year of living together has been, all things considered, pretty smooth sailing. definitely an improvement over the first, i think easier than the second as well. i have evolved from automatically thinking of boone as “my new dog” into now just “my dog.” our habits are routine, we can read each other well, communication needed has become pretty minimal - likely it’s just because time is passing and these things tend to coincide with that, but i also like to think that the more time we spend working and playing and living together the more connected we become. 

with my cat, although i’ve had her for longer than boone and raised her from infancy, the relationship is much different. i of course love her with all my heart, but from my experiences living with butters is like having a funny, but quirky and sometimes oftentimes kind of asshole-ish roommate. she’s cute and affectionate, but also short-tempered and bitey and prefers to have her own space. boone is just like a best friend; he just wants to be near me and doing the things that i am doing and giving and receiving affection, and god forbid he have to be in his own space. if i sit down, he is on my lap. if i get up, he will follow. its equal give and take for us both, even if it did take us a while to reach that point.

it’s been a good year. one of my favorite memories for certain was our springtime trip up to michigan; i’d never been in a position where i was able to take him traveling with me, so it was new for both of us. he behaved wonderfully both inside the cabin we stayed at, and exploring around the trails and farms outside. it was literally him and i frolicking in fields of flowers and trees. just some real disney bullshit. i loved it.

not to say everything’s been perfect. there’s still times i lose my temper and am harsher than i need to be, and there’s still times he decides to momentarily disregard his training and act like a brat as soon as he gets the opportunity. and its frustrating because its not even like these are Bad things - even his worse issue is still super, super mild on the scale of good to bad behavior - but because everything else works so well, it makes the moments of conflict stand out even more. but they pass quickly, and after a minute everythings back to as it should be. we had our first trip to the ER this year, as well - it was a long time coming, honestly. there were several hours for me of just pure gut-wrenching fear before we were able to stabilize. it was definitely an uncomfortable reminder of “hey, look how much pain and suffering will await you in the future!”

(that being said, the ER report from that day did contain what may be my favorite sentence for describing him ever: “Boone has a history of dietary indiscretion.” its perfect. the polite, vet-speak way of saying “your dumbass dog thinks he’s a garbage disposal.”)

i do genuinely believe that having a dog has had an immensely positive effect on my mental state, as well. don’t get me wrong, the first 4-6 weeks were horrible - basically just constantly bordering on a panic attack at all times. but now? its the best thing for me. my Episodes tend to make me isolate myself and ignore the world and desperately distract myself into forgetting that i exist, until i either collect myself and emerge from it all or curl up even deeper into that cold, dark corner of my world. i can’t do that anymore though. want to just lay in bed and try to disappear? tough shit, dog needs to go out. want to zone out for hours and disassociate into nothingness? no, feed the dog, care for the dog, look, he wants to be pet and lean into you, you’re real and you’re here and god dammit there’s something in the world that wants you to be here so just pet the fucking dog and throw him his toy, it’s the least you can do to justify why he loves you so much, how can you let him down?

not to say its not still a struggle. emotional detachment and exhaustion and dysthymia and focus problems still permeate my life and most aspects of my identity. but it is better. the deep dark episodes don’t last as long. i don’t cry at every single event that happens. i haven’t self-harmed in years. there’s a cold nose poking my ear and a wagging tail and good god how can i make eye contact and not feel some sort of love back? dogs are just tiny sunbeams spreading their light and warmth with whoever they choose and one has, inexplicably, chosen me.

if i had to sum up boone in a single word, it would be ‘earnest.’ he tries so hard and wants so badly to be loved and to have fun. who am i to tell him no?

i tell people that i like photography, and i think to most they assume that means i bring my camera around to events and new places and take pictures of everything. and i’ll do that of course - pull out my phone and take a picture of a cool new place, or people i love. the Fancy Camera though, that’s reserved pretty exclusively for the pets. why do you need so many pictures of your dog, don’t you see him everyday?

i had my childhood dog for almost 12 years, and i can count the number of decent pictures i have of her on one hand. i dont think there’s more than a few dozen or so pictures of her around, total. it never occurred to me to do so. and when she got very sick, and the vet asked me if i wanted to say goodbye to her, i said no. i didn’t want this to be my last memory. i didnt want to cry in front of people i barely knew. i left, and i never saw her again. i gave up my last chance. and that is all i have left of her. some days i cannot remember her face anymore.

dementia and alzheimers run heavily in my family. my grandmother died of it. my mother will most likely develop it. i tested positive for the genetic markers, so i probably will as well. i’ve never had a good memory - especially when compounded with ADHD - but furthermore there is now always a countdown timer in the back of my head. you will forget this, you will forget your friends, your family, your self. so i’ll take pictures. thousands of pictures. i want to remember every single feature of my pets, these beings that brought so much love into my life. every expression and marking and outing and moment needs to be captured, because inevitably i will forget. and i can’t let that happen again.

i don’t know what the future holds for us. boone turns 6 this year, and it seems like every day he’s got more grey hairs sprouting up. this year will mark big changes in our lives; by this time next year, we may be in an entirely different part of the country, in a different setting, with a different life. who knows, there may even be another member joining us. i used to dread change and panic over the thought of having to start anew. but with everything as it is now, i am no longer afraid.

anyway haha dogs amirite

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #123: Vengeance in Vietnam! -or- An Origin for Mantis!

May, 1974

Now, I’m not one to spoil an issue of a comic book several times a week but I feel compelled to say that this cover doesn’t 100% represent the contents of the book.

Although it very much feels like a comic book cover. Shocking behavior and dramatic statements and constipated faces that just compel you to turn the pages in search of answers. Silver age books thrived on this stuff. I’m only surprised that Thor isn’t forcing Black Panther and Scarlet Witch to fight to the death for some insane reason that barely makes sense with how its actually portrayed in the story. Or maybe pouring water out in front of a dying Iron Man.

So if you’re one of my three readers you may remember

LAST TIME: Zodiac, led by Cornelius Van Lunt as Taurus, hatched a mad scheme to kill all Geminis in Manhattan except for Zodiac’s Geminis. The Avengers thwartened them but Mantis was injured and Zodiac escaped. Internal power squabbles split Zodiac in half but then Taurus launches the rebelling houses and the Avengers into space with a space warehouse.

Libra of Zodiac turned on Taurus to steal his spaceship and rescue the Avengers and the rebelling houses because he presumed that his daughter was among them.

This time (again): “Mantis, I am your father!”

Dun dun dun (again)!

Tragically, Mantis does not say ‘That’s not true, that’s impossible!’ but she expresses pretty much the same sentiment.

She also claims she has no father to which the ever pedantic Vision replies “every person... who was born has a father.”

Libra asks why he would lie. He betrayed Zodiac and sat back while the Avengers kicked their asses. He has no motive to lie. Unless this is a long con thing. Who knows with comics.

Anyway, Iron Man doesn’t really want to have this soap opera conversation in front of the prisoners so he suggests that they turn Zodiac over to the authorities and then return to Avengers Mansion to talk this out. Also, that way Swordsman can be part of this important conversation.

Mantis again accuses Libra of lying. About all manner of things. Why, I bet he’s not even really blind- OH GOD NO EYES

Although really she was skeptical that an occidental man could move so easily despite being blind. Someone should introduce her to Daredevil.

Anyway, Libra begins his thrilling tale of love, loss, and cool martial arts. A tale fit for a movie maybe. Although the MCU Mantis is so different that its just not to be.

Anyway, back before he wore short shorts Gustav Brandt was a German mercenary working for the French in Vietnam. During downtime in Saigon, he met Lua. They had a whirlwind courtship and two months later they were married.

Except Lua’s brother disapproved.

And since her brother was Monsieur Khruul, the king of the Saigon underworld, his disapproval was somewhat worse than some icy family dinners.

You remember Monsieur Khruul from Swordsman’s story of how he met Mantis, right?

Anyway, Gustav and Lua had to flee his wrath. For ten months they moved from hamlet to hamlet to stay ahead of Khruul.

But then baby happened. And with baby came the desire to give the baby a stable upbringing and roots. And with staying in one place came Monsieur Khruul finding them. And with that came paid assassins and flamethrowers.

Gustav and mini-Mantis escaped but Lua was killed. And Gustav had lost his eyes to flamethrowers. Which is not great unless you like staggering blindly through the jungle, hoping a tiger doesn’t eat you.

Somehow after days of running, Gustav stumbled onto a temple in the middle of the jungle.

A temple and the Priests of Pama.

They took mini-Mantis away from him, to train her in their ways. They also trained Gustav to compensate for his blindness until he could perceive the world anew. It took years.

So he would sneak off to ‘see’ his daughter. The priests trained her in martial arts, covering every conceivable situation, every type of defense and offense and with an emphasis on her perfection.

Because they seemed to worship her for some reason. This random baby brought by a random ex-soldier blindly running through the jungle.

And they would never let Gustav talk with her. So in time... he just kind of forgot the love he had for her. And without that tying him there, he left the temple and used their teachings for selfish gains and became a crime lord. Because I guess they had trained his body but not his mind. Usually the two go hand in hand but I guess the Priests of Pama decided not to bother.

Anyway, Mantis completely loses her shit.

She lunges at Libra and the Avengers try and stop her. So then there’s two pages of her kicking their asses. She even drops Thor with a not-quite-deathgrip. Goes to show that skill can beat out strength sometimes.

With the Avengers tossed aside, nothing is between her and Libra. But according to his story, he trained in the same temple as she did. And maybe he’s not as skilled (since he was studying daredevilism while she was studying everything) but he has one more trick up his sleeve.

And its related to his Zodiac theme, even!

As Libra, he is the master of leverage. If he sticks his arm up in the air, his other arm presses down irresistibly. So he just pins her down by putting a hand on her stomach just as effectively as if they put Mjolnir on her.

Anyway, here’s those sweet beatdowns.

Gratuitous? Maybe. But fun. It was a good rampage.

Mantis tries to call Swordsman to her aid but the guy has vanished at some point. And then they hear a Quinjet launching from the roof.

Yeeeeeeeaaaah.

Swordsman just stole their Quinjet and took off to Vietnam to get vengeance on Monsieur Khruul for killing Mantis’ mother. He’s probaby feeling insecure because of his injury putting him out of action and because he’s afraid Mantis likes Vision more than him.

Love makes fools of us all but specifically Swordsman.

Of course the Avengers are going to follow him. There is a small logistical concern though.

Their only other Quinjet was left in New Jersey from when they fell into the space warehouse trap. And Black Panther’s ship only fits one.

Scarlet Witch (herself in a bad mood since those suicide bombers tried to blow up Vision) snarks about the Mighty Avengers being stuck at the starting gate. Iron Man then blows up at her and flies off to go retrieve the second Quinjet.

Things are a bit heated with the Avengers currently. Wanda is on her anti-human kick. Vision is freezing up in battle. Captain America was framed for murder. And now Swordsman ran off and is probably going to get himself killed. And now they have to go to Vietnam which is convenient because Iron Man was headed there anyway to search for Eddie March’s brother! At some point, being an Avenger became like living in a madhouse.

To which I can only say: Geez, Tony, you’re going to look back on these days as simpler times.

Later, Swordsman busts into Monsieur Khruul’s villa.

It does not go well.

Like. At all.

Swordsman is not at 100% and Khruul has giant sword-wielding guards that are doped up to not feel pain. Swordsman gets to be a cool guy who defeats two despite his weakened condition but there are more where that came from and he gets knocked out.

And you know. Torture is an ugly word but Monsieur Khruul is totally going to torture Swordsman now because he mentioned his niece (which no he didn’t, I flipped back and checked) and the guy wants to know more about that.

Only an hour later, the Avengers arrive in Saigon and find Swordsman tied up post-torture at Khruul’s villa.

Swordsman confesses that he broke under torture and revealed that the Priests of Pama raised Mantis. And Khruul is just that sort of petty man that will kill the priests for daring to offer baby Mantis sanctuary.

Scarlet Witch takes him to the hospital while the rest of the Avengers follow Libra to the temple. And along the way Mantis insists that she’s never been in this area before and clearly Libra is lying and Swordsman got hurt because he believed his lies.

And yeah. They get to the temple and the priests are all dead by Khruul and his giant sword guards.

The Avengers leap to avenge the priests, all thinking their own thoughts about how this relates to them and their problems.

Iron Man thinks about how it was in Vietnam that he became Iron Man.

Black Panther thinks of men who wished no one ill will but were brutally killed - men like the Priests of Pama and men like his father, T’Chaka.

And Vision worries that he’s malfunctioning and will freeze up in battle again. But all seems good so he acts with confidence and sticks his hands in two of the sword people and KOs them.

But while the Avengers were occupied, Monsieur Khruul escaped, running deeper into the temple.

And they hear him screaming in terror below as they race after him.

BECAUSE OH MY GOD HE WAS KILLED BY A DRAGON THERE’S A DRAGON LIVING IN THIS TEMPLE AND ITS CALLED A STAR-STALKER OH GOSH THATS RAD.

Oh and it killed Khruul so maybe its a good dragon? But probably not.

Now a dragon lurking just out of sight while the Avengers find the dying Khruul is well deserving of a two-page spread.

Next time we get more details of Mantis’ origin and a change for Vision. Cool, cool.

[leo-dale19]

Where dreams lead

The Serotonin God has led me down many a winding road - I have followed him to the point of exhaustion, he cannot escape me, he is by no means out of sight but he repeatedly disappears and reappears from behind the trees that are the various obstacles of unlucky fate that separate me from permanent reunion with him. Unless I get permanent brain damage, we will meet again and be united with the present moment anew. This lesson goes to show you should never let go of your loved ones, because you have no idea where you’ll end up without them and there are no guarantees. Well, there are, but merely on a divine level.

I would be highly intrigued to know what is currently happening on a subconscious level, what canals of my birth trauma am I currently unconsciously passing through again amidst the current everyday chaos. On saturday night I had the interesting return of 2001: A Space Odyssey into my conscious space. More precisely, I suddenly remembered Peter Hyam’s sequel to Kubrick’s masterpiece, the tight associations it holds with January/February 2012, the longest, grayest, winter I could remember, literally a pale shadow of its 2011 predecessor (although that comparison mainly refers to March and its 2011 analogue). I was convinced that 2001 world of eternal ectasy was truly eternal, I didn’t see how it was subject to physical laws of what chemicals I may or may not have ingested into my body. But God works in strange ways. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V68pnTJwjQU

For the first time in a very long time, I took advantage of a sudden moment of mental lucidity to take pictures of myself looking more or less presentable. This is a rare occurence, as although I do not consider myself unattractive, I have one of the main distinguishing features of a paranoid schizophrenic - I am very, very bad at regularly taking care of myself. One can deifnitely argue that self-absorbedness is more frequent in moments of mental insecurity, which I agree with, but my paranoias go to such extents that I get states where I am totally unaware of myself as “really being there”. Like I am so absorbed in my ego that all I feel is merely my mental image of myself, rather than what I actually look like to other people. So on Saturday I actually had the luck to experience a brief moment of mental lucidity where I was somewhat in limbo between two states - being paranoically anxious and being self-aware enough to realise what I seem like to the outside world. And so I decided a little cam-whoring was necessary, as I could indulge in some potentially constructive self-loving. That is, undeniably still a state of mental insecurity, but not as detached from reality.

Vkontakte has become a bizarre obsession. I plan on keeping my russian interest going for as long as possible, but the group of people I have come to know on Vkontakte know nothing of who I really am and I shamelessly take liberties in the image I create of myself to them. I am aware it is an escape. I often wondered whether they could realise that too, but people aren’t stupid - I know they do, although they obviously can’t complete the rest of the picture as they lack the facts and can only guess at what my true essence is. I think they are strangely tolerant or just bizarrely intrigued - or perhaps quite simply both - by this foreigner who speaks perfect russian, which, if they are to believe him, he learned all by himself. I also suspect life in russia is quite drab so there is no real time to reproach other people for not getting on with their life (although there probably is but more within the social-status confines of their own everyday society) or quite simply to be picky about fantastically weird occurences that you come across: my mum mentioned the USSR made you appreciate the simple things a lot more, and a an anglo-german russian-speaker who lives in france is more bizarre and interesting than it is worthy of cynically questioning. Although those russians are not a rarity either, I can feel a lot of what I was convinced for many years was unique to the English - a merciless contempt for those more talented than one’s self (although the english, as far as I can tell, are still worse and generally obnoxious about it, since it isn’t merely a petty character trait but a whole institutionalised social class mentality). I’ve already come across a few people on my adventures who I plan to never trust or have any serious dealings with, as, I kid you not, it would not surprise me that if we were to meet, they would give me away to the secret police or some shit because of their immature teenage jealousy, making up some pretext to have me taken away for good, away from the world where I may potentially humble them. Russia, I feel,  is one of those countries where truth is a very, very bizarre phenomenon and it is very hard to establish what it is in a country so vast and so varied, the accounts I get of life in Russia differ so much among themselves that it’s impossible to know what really goes on, although inevitably I have been able to attribute certain views to certain precise character types, for example a common archetype is that of the Denial russian: these are generally reasonable looking types, not necessarily extreme-oriented, however they have no interest in a free society, justify the authoritarian regimes they’ve lived through, blatantly deny the existence of certain horrors of russian society to the point where talking to them feels more like reading  a history book on Soviet Propaganda than it does like getting an objective view on what’s going on in the country. I accentuate “reasonable-looking” as I feel in the western world we immediately imagine anybody who supports anything totalitarian as a raving fanatic, but we’ve become quite desensitised and we must remember that evil in the vast majority of cases is criminally banal; and if one gives it some serious thought, it could never be any other way, since evil can only be committed by superficial people for superficial motivations. It is destructive and intentionally illusory, whereas love allows life to grow. It is therefore intriguing to see very ordinary people supporting such great evil in such a petty manner; would they maybe be more worthy of respect if they at least had some finesse to their wrong-doing? These people generally have a very strong vanity streak and there are more pictures of them on their pages than ther are of anything else. One could say I am the last person to judge, but I’ve realised my narcissism is quite often merely a by product of my unstable state of mind, an energy that stabilises me so as not to go fully psychotic, but then again, it is possible I am more truly vain than I think. And even then, or rather, especially then, it is a sort of pseudo-narcissism, i.e a hypersensorial daydream, not an actual philosophy to life that I put into action and impose on people around me, I have gained too much self-awareness for that. It is merely an energy that takes hold of my present moment awareness.  But on top of that, in the depths of universal love something tells me that I cannot really be a narcissist. Dave Bowman powering through the red Stargate, the light reaching 6 year old me on the grass next to lake Divonne tells me that my mind is blessed with forces too great and beautiful to truly have narcissism at the core of its inner essence. It is a symptom of my illness, and Universal Love is with me. The Consciousness Network knows of me and I have experience in accessing it.  It just blows my mind that I have managed to lose touch with it, as this seems unthinkable every time I come in conatct with it. Sand, trickle not through my fingers but shape into an empire!  

I am having a sudden OCD panic attack so will have to take a break from writing this (there is still more). The sudden lucidity that allowed me to write everything above is dissipating. It will return. I must believe.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RR98qq9iHmw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pi9buHnx9rU

Underworld are a recent revelation; not a discovery, as I have known of them for several years. It is just that something has grasped me in their music of late, something very homely, friendly to Karl Hyde’s voice combined with their sound textures. Songs like Bird One are moments where, much like I had at times in the past about russians, I catch glimpses (of a man, moving uphill) of hope for english and anglosaxons, that is in a Eugenics sort of way, namely that, despite their general contempt for all things rational, their anarchic spirit gives them a raw spirituality that I find mainland europeans can tend to lack once taken over by their abstract concepts. There is a certain finesse to the constant crescendo that is Bird One that I feel could only come from the souls of a couple of english blokes, a certain friendly naivety that gets lost when for example their mainland european counterparts try to emulate it; although I generally tend to prefer the French to the English, I know from personal experience that the latter have more of a natural feel for making music. I have started to take racial theories seriously recently - not in the sense that I feel they are truly grounded in reality or are necessarily of any value, but in the sense that I believe that people don’t just make these things up, and in our distinct social groups prevalent energy trends can be mutually communicated in a deeply profound way, creating a mystical sense of unity, for better or for worse. I am admittedly highly untypical for an englishman, for various reasons, but even though I have never lived there I feel a sort of strange sentimental attachment to certain things english, things that speak very directly to my immediate behaviour and personality, more so than many french things, although I do still have a special connection with various of the latter having grown up with them and all. I found that for a long time the way I thought in Russian was more cloesly linked to the english part of my brain than to the french part. 

Underworld give me hope for the english. That the english are more than the friday night pub-drunkards, or the social-status obsessed sociopaths that populate the country, that they really have a Weltanschauung within their character that is worth sharing. The english generally seem like uncivilised barbarians compared to their european neighbours, and there have been points where I may have considered the possibility that they were quite simply an inferior nation with lower capacities. They have no real sense of culture, any idea of what it is to be human, what it is to be. I feel they are liberal in a way that other european countries aren’t - whereas in France people, I feel, are truly concerned about democracy and freedom, in England liberal mentality seems nothing more than a social trend that shifts according to the tide, for example english people are traditionally the worst homophobes I have ever met, back in the 60′s  they effectively condemned one of the world’s greatest minds, Alan Turing,  to death for his sexual orientation, and suddenly as of a few years ago it became socially accepted that sexual equality was a thing and now everyone goes along with it likes it’s totally normal. The english have no real values. They are an entertainment culture like the americans. I even find the russians are sometimes more respectable in their fierce respect for their culture, (although I do find them very superficial themselves of late and appreciate the english’s basic niceness which I think is more profound than the paranoid frown russians greet everyone with). But they produce wonders of art that make me think twice. There is something godly in that fuck-off anarchy. Yes, I am a hopeless romantic. But by God does the world need us. It is hopeless without us.

A maintes reprises over the past days I have been convinced that my brain is gone for good and that my Odyssey will have no stargate ending, i.e a banal end in which the computer actually manages to kill me because I forgot my space helmet. This is all because this time last week, I ate about 12 entire packets of ham within the space of 3/4 days, since I realised it had a great capacity for digesting serotonin, i.e to end my current mental drought. I went a bit too full retard on this one though and have been feeling what I believe are the effects of excess serotonin: headache, confusion, trouble with memory, slight depressin etc. I pray to god and have not lost hope that my mind will gradually stabilise, but I will say one thing - there is no worse fate in this world than being boring and superficial. I have felt states of mind so dull these past days I became terrified at the prospect I may never rediscover my former psychotic Eden, but also horrified at the idea that people actually live in such limited states of consciousness. No fucking wonder there is so much evil in our world, I certainly don’t blame anyone for resorting to it. I would literally rather die than live in those states for the rest of my life and so keep going merely in the hope that this is all purely temporary, which I tend to truly believe. Moral of the story is, kids, don’t eat 9 packets of ham within the space of two days, cus y’all might fuck up yo brains in doing so. A worthy death is worth far more than a meaningless existence.

To elaborate on 2001 - Kubrick’s 2001 is more than just a film for me, for many many years, until the wonders of modern psychiatry altered Universal Love’s playing fields, that world was a crucial part of my general life perception. It was an energy that flowed like a river underneath all occurences of the physical world, reminding me of the divine and greater good in this life. It is something supernatural, on a heightened sensory level, where my inner world mixes ecstatically with the ouer. It is when I lost those sensations that I inherently started to become a disgustingly superficial person. Religious faith in such things is crucial, as life may take them away.

[kemetichaote]

My “bad trip” last night.

“Drugs have a long history of use in magic in various cultures, and usually in the context of either ecstatic communal rituals or in personal vision quests. However, compared to people in simple pastoral tribal situations most people in developed countries now live in a perpetual state of mental hyperactivity with overactive imaginations anyway, so throwing drugs in on top of this usually just leads to confusion and a further loss of focus.

Plus, as the real Shamans say, if you really do succeed in opening a door with a drug it will thereafter open at will and most such substances give all they will ever give on the first attempt.”

― Peter J. Carroll, The Octavo: A Sorcerer-Scientist's Grimoire

Here is a disclaimer: in this piece, I will discuss a difficult but spiritual acid trip that I had last night. I will also discuss my mental health issues and marijuana use. If anything concerning this makes you uncomfortable in any way, please read no further below the cut.

This is incredibly long, but I feel compelled to write about this and recall my experience. I am a storyteller; this is my fundamental purpose in life. If someone can listen and perhaps even relate to my story, then I have done my job.

SKIP THIS PORTION TO READ ABOUT THE ACID TRIP ITSELF.

First and foremost, I have to give some context. I am fresh out of college; I graduated with my Bachelor’s degree at an out-of-state university in 2015. I failed to get my Master’s in the following year (I did a one-year track program) because the program and its off-campus practicums were not a good fit for me. I was not treated with any compassion regarding my mental health issues. In one instance in March of last year, I was hospitalized for about five days due to a mental breakdown (more specifically, a depressive episode; I have bipolar II). Following this, I was put on some new medication that helped me a little bit, but not nearly enough. I then spiraled into a hypomanic episode marked by impulsivity, drug and alcohol abuse, insomnia, lack of focus, and total recklessness. Shortly after these symptoms arose, I flunked out of my off-campus practicum and therefore graduate school.

This episode culminated in me totaling my beautiful car in early November of last year that my parents so generously gave me. In a matter of several weeks, I had managed to lose not just my education, work, and future prospects, but also my only mode of transportation. This made me feel defeated and hopeless. Obviously, I had to let the cat out of the bag and tell my family. They did not take any of this news well; my parents both freaked out and my entire family insisted that I had to go to rehab. What they did not understand was that the drug and alcohol abuse were not the problem. The problem was my bipolar II, post-traumatic stress, and borderline personality disorder. I told them firmly that rehab would not help me. I did not need to be trapped in some box surrounded by negative influences and energies. I needed to be in intensive therapy for an extended period of time. With the insistence of my therapist at the time, my parents agreed to let me come home and do a partial hospitalization program, followed by intensive outpatient treatment, and finally outpatient care comprised of weekly therapist visits and medical monitoring by a psychiatrist.

On the upside, I am feeling much better now that I am out of this treatment. I have reduced my marijuana use, quit drinking, and been searching for a job to the best of my ability. In addition, I have solidified my sexual and romantic identity and have come out to a good portion of my family and all my friends as a lesbian. (I even have a girlfriend as of three months ago!) I have done serious damage control and have weighed the quality of my relationships, weeding out people who do not make the cut. I have tightened my circle of friends and spent a lot of time with them and genuinely enjoyed their company. However, this progress is an uphill battle, punctuated with mini-struggles. Although my emotions are much more regulated due to a healthy serving of a new mood stabilizer, I frequently experience oversleeping and fatigue, listlessness, body pain, decreased appetite, and decreased libido. Despite cutting down significantly, I continue to smoke cigarettes. I struggle with time management and am quite forgetful, especially when it comes to short-term memory. I struggle to meet deadlines and make appointments.

Perhaps my most pronounced issue right now is the fact that I am living alone in my grandmother’s house that my aunt (who owns it) plans to sell within the next five months or so. I do not live with my parents, although I am certainly welcome to; in addition to more convenience when it came to pursuing treatment, I also did not want to live with my emotionally abusive stepfather. I struggle with daily tasks at my grandmother’s house, such as keeping the house organized and clean. Although I am alone most of the time, I am under enormous pressure from my family members to find a job and find my own place. This pressure comes from their concern, obviously, because they love me and care about me. However, they do not express this concern in a patient and compassionate manner. I frequently get into screaming and swearing fights with my aunt and bicker with my grandmother. I have been isolating myself from my family, even my little cousins who are a huge source of happiness for me. They make me anxious and bitter.

HERE ARE THE DETAILS RELATED TO THE TRIP ITSELF.

Fast forward to last night. I had plans to be with my girlfriend all day and have her stick around to “trip-sit” while my friend and I dropped acid. This was the second acid trip I have had in my entire life thus far. I have also tripped once on psilocybin mushrooms. My girlfriend did not drop but she was certainly welcome to mine and my friend’s shit-ton of weed. I took two tabs per my friend’s suggestion; I told him that my first time I only took one, but he assured me that I would be fine taking two. About thirty minutes after taking the acid and smoking a few bowls, I began to trip.

Initially, it was everything I expected based on my previous acid trip. I felt elated, goofy, and warm, colors sparkled and were brighter, and I was social and chatty. A little while later I was going off on philosophical rants. However, things started to go south when I had a pronounced mood swing where I started sobbing for several minutes and almost immediately snapped out of it and felt giddy again. This contentment persisted for about two hours until the “bad trip” feelings started creeping back. It’s a bit of a blur, but I do recall sitting on my bed with my friend and weeping vaguely about “going through a lot lately.” This progressed to me hearing my own voice and realizing how quiet and hollow it sounded; I felt like I was a millimeter high in a massive and swirling multiverse. It was intensely emotional and humbling. I sat on the floor with my friend after I started feeling better and I saw pronounced geometric patterns, grids suspended in space, breathing walls, and tracers. This entertained me for a bit until I plunged right back into the “bad trip” and curled up on the couch. I was crying anew, insisting to my friend and my girlfriend that I had to “let go.”

What did this mean exactly? To me, it meant that I had to delve into what felt like a dark night of the soul. I had to reach the bottom of the emotional hole I was in and crawl back out of it. However, I stayed on the precipice out of compassion for my friends and fear of abandoning them. I feel a deep sense of regret because of this. However, I understand where my tripping self was coming from. Shortly after more weeping punctuated with a handful of hits off a bowl, I was able to regain my composure and coast through the remainder of my trip for the rest of the night (we watched a lot of Bob Ross videos).

Upon waking this afternoon (morning had already flown by), I woke up to my house in shambles (when it comes to acid, I like to let everything happen as it may and then focus on picking up the pieces later). My body ached all over and I had some residual lockjaw. My head was pounding; I immediately suspected I was dehydrated. In this particular moment, I could not see myself getting out of bed at all. The letters on my phone screen still wiggled. I lay there and scrolled through some forums online where people discussed being permanently scarred, even traumatized, by their bad trips. I felt regretful; I told myself that I would never take acid ever again.

However, after one cigarette and some reflection, I sat up in the bed, suddenly energized. I realized in that single moment this was not a bad trip at all; it was just another life experience. I had always told myself that in order to take acid, I could not fear losing control. In fact, up until this point I had consoled myself with the mantra that I had to not only endure but embrace chaos. However, in order to experience a true sense of control, it is necessary to experience loss of control. This self-counsel brought me to the conclusion that I was okay now, I was safe, and my bad trip was not only necessary but quite cathartic and helpful. I then proceeded to bathe, groom, clean the entire house, cleanse and ward every room with careful and complex spellwork, and leave out some offerings for the Netjeru. It was nothing short of amazing; I had not felt this energized in a long time. I also ate, drank at least six tall glasses of water, and have only smoked two cigarettes today!

I am still reading between the lines of this experience. Perhaps the trip propelled me into a hypomanic episode; this is the medical and psychological theory. However, it is more comforting embrace the theory that I am permanently altered for the better. This dark night of the soul was purposeful and profound. Although I won’t be tripping again any time soon, I look forward to next time. Hopefully, I can continue to push boundaries until I finally break through to knowledge, well-being, balance, structure, and happiness.

[paddymurraypoetry-blog]

Twenty Two years For This? A Collection of Poems

Poetry

7/9/2017

All the joy has been depleted Continued happiness is fleeting  Each day has me believing   That I should be deleted. Swirling, sober or drunk, thoughts, A moon shaped pool, ought  To describe what I've bought:   A purpose for this life! Naught! Dragging days, rushed ride dings, Thousands of off time mood swings.  "These are a few of my favorite things,"   I'm not Julie Andrews, I no longer sing.  First attempt to regain creativity! This' my Renaissance, my nativity,  "This'll work out fine," pure insanity   I'm sorry to all my friends, my family.

    Dawn, The beginning to every morning, To everyone's, I want you for my own, I doubt anyone else is this happy to see you, A smile forms before my eyes open, The blue birds brought me your message, "How are you?" a great way to wake up. The days are easier when speaking to you, Songs have beautiful new dynamics, Food has several new savory flavors, The sun's rays are not so harmful, Hell, people are tones more bearable,  And work barely ever feels like it! Thank you for loving my quirks, Thank you for all of your concerns, Being here doesn't seems so hard, When I hear from you, it warms my heart! Dawn, The thing I feverishly wait for, Night isn't nearly as colorful as the day, I barely hear from you at all then. The smile earlier turns to a heavy frown, The blue birds stopped soaring long ago, "How are you?" now has a different answer. Nights are tougher not speaking to you, Songs now all sound like discord, Food becomes another coping method, The Moon's rays aren't as charming, People are the last thing I want near me, Work continues at home, it's my life. I am sorry for never opening up, I am sorry if I rushed us to be more, Being here is harder than ever before, This feeling I have for morning breaks my heart.

    Last Chance Thoughts on a Country Road (Poem #4) Red telephone towers, Stretching beyond sight Oceans of green, And blinding sunlight. Hoping for obstruction, Some sort of beam, Ongoing construction, Split me at the seams. Can I go now? Should I go now? Dead deer decaying, Isolated blacktop, Altima now swaying, No signs to STOP Lonely country road I love your grace. One last solid day Be my resting place! Can I go now? Should I go now? Blue telephone rings, Mother is calling, Dinner must be ready, Now I am stalling. Is this what I want? Should this be? Racing to my own end, But she loves me. Should I go now? Can I go now?

           Dare to Speak my Dream? (Poem #6) Vivid dreams of your divinity, Hopefully occupy me for infinity. Oh please be in my vicinity, Is it wrong to feel sanguinity? Maybe one day we'll hold hands, Observe the sky and make plans, Have some kids and buy some land, Full of lush evergreen away from the sand. How do I approach your semblance? Those rosy cheeks in my remembrance. Can we sing together then dance? Your cerulean eyes locking me in a trance. My tongue will not let me speak, The task is too daunting, too bleak. These stirrings have caged my beak, But would you prefer if I take the leap?

     Beat Me New (poem #7) Beat me blue, Smack me around, Burn that insignia and watch it brown. Choke me tight, Hug me firm, Torture this man and watch him squirm. Strike me quick, Set me ablaze, Burn this Gardenia in a haze. Stomp me out, Call me brash, Mix the mulch with the burning ash. Cast me far, Drown me deep, Submerge the fool with all his grief. Rinse me well, Hang me dry Use this shadow then cast it aside. Break me down, Build me anew, Reshape the being with physical ques. Hold me back, Push me forward, Drag this shy clown from the corner. Kiss me long, Give me more, Divulge in the madness til you're sore. Love me now, Love me then, Love that crazy character until the end.

Streams (poem #9) art by Kevin Haley Seeping through the days haze I flow down the city sewer  On my way to the great ocean I lose a piece of my identity. Jealous of the Sting Rays and Trout I've taken a brand new form Their freedom is what I most desire So long my Christian name, I'm gone. Sludge and shit sift through my stream Maybe I am not meant to have a life Purposely flowing to build up others Sacrificing clarity for sincerity.  I am now together with Big Blue Surgically attached, expanding its size Now I realize all streams flow together One's identity is never just that of itself.

        Sing (Do we?) (Old poem) Do we, oh do we sing? How well does the ear hear? Does the music sting? Or is that just fear? Raspy the lyrics leave The pink oral abode, To find a sea To unload the ode. Do we, oh do we sing? How well does it taste? Does the music swing? Or has it gone to waste?

            Personal (poem #11) Most days I don't touch an instrument Most days I can't hear the sentiment  Most days I can't see the love Most days I can't taste your push and shove Most days I can't smell the motivation Most days I just hate the stagnation Few days I feel truly inspired Few days I smell beauty in burnt tires Few days I savor the fleeting high Few days I grasp that leprechaun "Joy" Few days I hear excitement, Oh boy Few days I crumble like the city of Troy But don't worry about this golden goose The karats don't weigh my wings down The luster blinds all potential seekers As I flap towards the brighter future But don't worry if I don't go the distance Through repentance I've accepted my existence

          Garden Shed, Rotten Soil (poem #11?) Piece together tranquility, With sedative​ memory trickery. Thoughts grow from fertility; The mind is made of garden soil. Enter my garden shed, Root around for root killers Sprays of self-doubt, Shovels formed out of depression. Ransack the toolbox of seeds, They must be planted with ease, Blooming under warm UV light, Soon the thoughts will be ripe. Too long have these plants died Never maturing to positive rays. Go back to my garden shed I must Plant new seeds for the next Spring. Harvest comes and goes with haste For none of these plants are ready Bogged down by heavy rains and cold Shriveled from mistreatment, my scold. But the patch will see a resurgence, Too long have these plants died. Introduce a sedative to the mind, The soil will soften in time for Spring.

       Hello Friend (poem) Seated in the presence​ Of your one true menace Witness the ovation, standing At attention with persistence.  Do this, do that he says A figure of darkness my guess, Guess you should be the guest Of his marvelously devious jest. Ask him your true role The mark, as borrowing as a mole The purpose you want, the sole Reason you live and more. The figure lends his voice, Giving you no manner of choice "This is your life's meaning boy, Find it in yourself to rejoice!" He leaves and you are askew, For anxiety runs and runs through The streets of your mental compass; You'll never know how to process

These thoughts, these doubts Cumulous like those clouds They'll stick by your side now Until you kick the bucket and bow.

       The End (The last poem I write) The lines are there but I won't draw them They are for another day When I fully give in to Doubt And let him reside fully in my mind. I love you all, but he is always here Driving me over speed limits Past red lights to certain dread. He takes ME for a ride when I'm not ok Then calls my friends in a freak-out foray. I feel like I should embrace Death itself And rid myself of this confounded hell. Every minute is agony on my brain, I'm sorry friends, I can't deal with the strain. Think kindly, or think resentfully  For I wish I was able to battle freely, These lines are etched, traced over my bones Time to cut them loose or set them in stone.

           Resentful Blessings (new poem) I'm sorry father. I realize now how much of a bother, me and my brother, who I do not treat as a brother, have been to you and mother. My mother, who only smothers my brother and I, with love and pride, is the main reason I have not yet died. Resentful is my deal, but blessed is how I truly feel. You never said I love you, you never said I'm proud of you two. That sounds horrible, and it very well may be incorrigible, but Dad, that is you! The rigid man with the heavy soul boots. I'm sorry father, for we are now growing roots farther. This apple has rolled, miles from the tree hoping to be sold. We could not be more different, for I do not reward resistance. I give my love and affection, things you won't find even with detailed directions.

        Remember Mother? (New poem) Remember the porcelain tub Mother? Remember how you used to wash me Crafting bubbles for my amusement? Remember the good times Mother? Remember showing me your favorite stories Filling my head with so much wonder? Remember the doctor's Mother? Remember all the things they said Allergic to outdoor life no matter where? Remember the separation Mother? Remember when father was removed Cast off by you for torturing both of us? Remember my visit Mother? Remember me flying across the nation To see you in person on that vacation? Remember when I was alive Mother? You found me in that porcelain tub Curled up with Fitzgerald's works Not breathing, this time not to allergies Still feeling the abuse father bestowed  Not reveling in that vacation, or you.

  Convenience (poem) I met the most wonderful woman So open, like a 24 hour convenience store. However, nothing about her is convenient. Any time of day she's got the door open, but I refuse to enter the quaint shop. Why do I believe my money is no good? Everything I want, need is located there, but I choose the inconvenience.  Running down the asphalt away from it, from her and the welcoming florescent glow. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with I? Casting myself out of the greatest role, for fear of never earning my own Oscar. The Pearly Gates squeak for me up above, "What a pour soul, torturing himself." Fuck those gates, I want in her corner store, yet I choose the supermarket during the day. Forgettable, lonely, large yet also empty inside, I could have had what I needed last night. Shot in the foot?  More like a bullet in the head. Racing away from openness straight home, wishing the convenience store best of luck. Find the right patron miss, find them well. "My money is no good there," I tell myself.

    Irony (poem) I hate the ocean, but I'm always out at sea, Staring blankly across the vast cerulean plains, Yet underneath me is a slab of dirty cement, I have always been planted on solid ground, Why does my mind travel to the places I despise? Visions of desperation flash past my brown eyes, I reach out, but the air has no physical shape, I am just merely pushing oxygen side to side, I realize I am drowning on land, how's that so? That oxygen I disturbed has flown away, Swept off by the actions of my own doing, Looking up, the cotton candy clouds laugh, Holding in the rain I so desperately want, The sun no longer matches my bright outfit: My canary shirt and blinding ivory sneakers, Misrepresent the arguments in my own kopf, Without a paddle I remain lost out at sea, The place I despise the most with no recourse, The far reaches of space escape my sight, I taste the salt that also burns my sweaty skin, How cruel God is to the fish, What did they do wrong? Trapped in the water which they need to survive, Yet here I am, unable to breathe the delicious air A fish out of water unable to stand due to despair.

  Covering (poem) What is this flabbiness? It stares at me through the mirror. What useless covering it is. All my blood flows underneath. The veins of life pop out. Patches of hair randomly scattered. What is this fleshiness? It's wearing me at this point. I want to peel it off, free the bones from the stickiness. I despise staring at it, who would want to peer at it. I admire others' coverings. How more perfect it is than mine. I want a brand new disguise, I want to obtain another identity. Scrubbing the dirt stains away, I envy those who can touch, skin of their partner, against the skin of themselves.

      Exit 36 (poem) Vastly approaching is exit 25, 11 more then I'll have to merge, I asked the girlfriend to lose some weight, "Where do you get off?" Guard rails as far as 20/20 vision can see, The buffer keeping me from the Pine wild, Who cares if we tear down all this green, "Where do you get off?" Troopers camp out next to the camp grounds, Scanning the heaps of metal flying past, Flying at 90 I barely see the flag lights flash, "Where do you get off?" Two more exits until I arrive at home base, No girlfriends, activists, nor troopers, All this time it's about me, me, ME! Everything is owed, better have it hand delivered! Shed those pounds dear not those tears, Cut those trees down, soon you won't hear 'em, Issue that ticket sir, I fucking crave it! I will take any exit to fulfill sadistic needs. Feed me the cries Hun, send me to the pen, Chop it all down so the name is only Barren, Wails of sirens and betrayal stab the drums, My actions have consequences that I can't outrun. Where do I get off? Where do I get off?

     Warmth Warm towel out of the dryer, Please transport me back in time. Mother's love is no liar, "Honey you'll be fine, you'll be fine" Whispers floating in winter's air, Louder than the voices inside my head. Changing winds like mother’s hair, Cracking the skin of faces bare. Help me mother for I have sinned! Or is it father I should have told? Hung up on a clothesline, pinned! Due to freeze from past wrongs now cold. With the dryer no longer emitting heat, The Arctic breeze regains its control, But mother's warmth isn't easily beat, She taught her Son how to melt the snow.

             Recreation (poem) Shoestring twists  Caked in sludge batter Return of the Red Eyes Excuse the stoner laughter These cheeks are inflated Music keeps me elated Blonde dome rising A dank balloon gliding Having lost grip of the string Two hours ticked by Floating down from the high My skin has shed, sober again

            Drop-out [Dedicated to you asshole] (poem) You dropped out of life. Two kids, faulty future up ahead Scraping nickels together last night Just to feed his family tonight. You dropped out of college. Took several courses online But never actually finished the race Yet boasts his unsuccessful accomplishments. You dropped out of dreams. Just due to having to now provide Busting your shoulders to grinded dust For a few bucks and no dreams You dropped out of my life. Spit on me when I picked my school Smacked me when depression came to stay Squashed the miniscule love I still offered. You dropped out of life. Judging others because you hate your choices Drunk each day with fierce regret Burying yourself deep while we all still live.

   Straightforward Delusions (poem) Sometimes I want to chuck it Far past the reaches of vision The happiness, the great joy Trade it for the rustic gloom Because what do I deserve? Hand grenade with no pin Tuck that away for another day Catastrophes caused by I Sometimes I fail to grasp it Far beyond my comprehension Stick a fork in me and twist it Bop the wonderment right out Exorcise these glorious angels I hate dragging myself to hell But I can't tow away another soul As I board Satan's elevator Sometimes I need to abandon Freeze the beef of my emotions Rotten the fruits of my labors Cast away Hanks of all shapes too You earn what you obtain here Captured fish, career with a degree I hate that I go on murder sprees Eradicating my bliss due to my fears

         Wet Floor (poem) I slipped again, but I'm fine, No "Wet Floor" sign this time, Crashing down I feel it, Sharp pains and bones have split, My head bounced off the tile, Maybe this time I'll file, Damages definitely need to be paid, To cover up that I am afraid, Never will I step foot in here again, The home of a once dear friend.

                 Grief's Angel She swoons to the sounds of the leaves Rustling in the cool night breeze  Dancing in the radiance of the moon This is her favorite time to move Breathtaking is the sight The charcoal haired angel of the night Stealing my heart like a common thief Causing me insurmountable grief  We were once together long ago Loving and laughing, now just sorrow Each day was spent frolicking through the fields But she stabbed my heart with cold sharp steel Observing her beauty I notice her steps Her blood red lips and bright white dress Popping out of the dark night abyss Holding her tight, oh how I miss Twirling around she sways to and fro She begins to hum a song, that gorgeous swallow A smile forms upon her pretty semblance Striking up a past remembrance Torturing every lover she ever had Those men were driven to become mad It is her pleasure and source of entertainment Watching them turn into insane men Each love aged like that of the leaves Crunchy and brown and dropped from the trees Why did she play such abominable games Breaking their hearts and soiling their names This radiant angel, once mine before others Swoons to her song without any troubles I gaze over and watch her steps repeat As blood rushes down, and I deplete​

   Circulatory China Shop (Poem #5) This super glue won't fix us Neither will masking tape Duct tape is just as useless While putty won't take shape I am the bull, I am at fault The China's smashed  The past cemented  The future now and forever is affected The Humid summer air is putrid Sticky streets and vanishing cumulous  Don't look at the yellow-green sky Love's in the air and I got no invite I am the bull, I am at odds Charging too fast Too slow to catch Will somebody give this animal a chance?

[xottzot]

2017-11(NOV)-29th---Wednesday--Im in a LOT of PAIN--and MAX is VERY GROWLING--and a recap of my hell because of no Fliss.

2017-11(NOV)-29th---Wednesday--Im in a LOT of PAIN--and MAX is VERY GROWLING--and a recap of my hell because of no Fliss.

I'm in a LOT of PAIN. Terrible pain. Fliss has abandoned me to fucking well die of this pain. And the physical pain. And all other pain.

Max has been VERY VERY growling and prone to attack. I've been as gentle and considerate of, (and for him), as I can but it's not me he wants...it's dear Fliss. The SAME Fliss, Felicity Ann Carthew, of Tamworth, New South Wales, Australia, who took off and abandoned us here to die in late 2015....THEN....Fliss said she and myself would and could be togther in Tamworth and live the life we were both always damn well denied to us beforehand in life.....and THEN she just suddenly went utterly quiet and silent and any and all communications from her ceased utterly. No matter what I did or who I tried, NOBODY would NOT do anything to get us back together. - Oh yes, they said so MANY things to me....'you'll be okay, you'll be back together soon'.......EVERYONE said that...doctors, professionals, Fliss's few friends and work people, all the people here in Western Australia said that........But then afterwards THEY could not at all work out why YOU dear Fliss suddenly stopped any and all contact, as if you had joined a mad cult or something andorr had lost your mind and been locked away forever from any contact with your past life....to 'keep you safe'.....

And I was told my somebody else in 2015 via vicious anonymous emails to fuck off from dear Fliss and to kill myself....NOT just once but several times. That was totally unprovoked. - FUCK THE WORLD.......

I don't know who that person was, they REFUSED to identify themselves, but I believe they are online 'friends' of dear Fliss who haven't got a fucking clue whatsoever except the lies they've spun up for themselves.

And poor dear Sam and Max (the big guard dogs of dear Flss and myself), they became extremely distressed, (AND STILL ARE AND WORSE), and their emotions and trust is utterly destroyed because Fliss abandoned us, in 2015 she came back for less than an hour, stole stuff (YES Fliss, you took stuff that I struggled to save up and pay for us BOTH), but you took that away with the aid of those anonymous women you had with you who were ravaging through our cupboards and taking any and everything they could lay their hands on. (I have lost things FOREVER).....

And strangely, they did NOT take the 2014/2015 Xmas presents that you dear Fliss had brought me with love and I dearly appreciated. Those Xmas presents of 2014/2015 are STILL unopened. I cannot bear to open them or to give them away, let alone use them. AND YOU FLISS, said you were coming back here to help us sort through everything of ours to give away to charity, prior to us moving to wherever YOU wanted and we could start a new life TOGETHER. (in Tamworth). - And then....you NEVER DID THAT. YOU NEVER DID THAT! YOU NEVER CAME BACK. YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD. YOU DECIDED THAT EVENT WOULD HAVE ONLY BEEN FOR A FEW DAYS AND THEN WE COULD GO AWAY AND START LIFE ANEW AND HAVE THE HAPPY LIFE WE WERE BOTH ALWAYS DENIED AS A COUPLE.

But SOMEBODY had ordered you to fuck off and leave me totally.....you know....THE VERY THINGS ALL YOUR 'FRIENDS' DID TO YOU AND BACKSTABBED YOU OVER SO MANY YEARS! - And you had a mental breakdown, on top of all your medical and mental ailments going on within you that you kept hidden from EVERYONE, including me.

And you tried to snatch away poor dear Sam & dear Max. You failed that. And then later you 'politely' (as a callous act to others of you being so 'responsible' to others), you handwritten 'asked' me to hand them over to you. (I still have that as proof) - I refused because I knew you were going through a hell of an ordeal with your family, your physical & mental conditions, (which you covered up DELIBERATELY...and still do so), your breakdwn,.....and you went to the east side of Australia....right across the country of Australia from me here...you were GIVEN a flat/house to live in which made you so proud that you were boasting about it to everyone......and you TOTALLY ABANDONED US HERE TO FUCKING WELL BE IN HELL AND DIE AND SUFFER EVERY DAY UNTIL I DIE.

Oh, and you even let slip to be known to others that dogs were NOT ALLOWED where you were living! - So if I HAD HAVE allowed YOU to spirit them away to places unknown, they would have been KILLED BY YOU, PUT DOWN, OR WORSE. They would even quite very likely have been totally removed from you....thus resulting not only poor dear Sam & dear Max LOSING YOU but also losing ME, losing both of us who they have KNOWN AND WHO HAVE KEPT THEM SAFE AND HOMED ALL THEIR LIVES. And them being consigned into a callous unloving HELL they could have had no hope of ever escaping from until they were DEAD. Or SEPERATED from each other, which would have been just as bad.

Poor Sam & Max are suffering incredibly. They are SO VERY UTTERLY TRAUMATISED BECAUSE OF YOU FLISS ABANDONING US. - THAT WAS THE START OF THE UTTER HELLL FOR THEM HERE. THEN IN ADDITION CAME THE RAMPANT UNTOUCHABLE CRIMINALS....WHICH ARE ABOUT TO RISE UP VERY SOON AGAIN......

BOTH DOGS CONSTANTLY HAVE NIGHTMARES. AND BOTH DOGS EVERY SINGLE DAY RACE OUTSIDE AND GO TO THE GATE TO GREET YOU.....BUT YOU ARE NEVER THERE. AND SO THEY'RE FUCKED UP BY YOU AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN EVERYDAY AND ALL DURING EVERY DAY THEY HOPE YOU'LL BE THERE TO GREET THEM.....AND YOU NEVER ARE!

And YOU (and ANYONE reading this) wonders why poor Max has become vicious and is prone to unprovoked and vicous attacks, upon me, upon his brother dog Sam, upon anyone and anything, and THAT is why I can NEVER EVER take them out ANYWHERE EVER AGAIN IN THEIR LIVES. (they used to LOVE going out for walks and adventures with dear Fliss & I and meeting new people and everything. They were utterly gentle and kind and playful and everyone who met them loved them.)

But now.....since you abandoned us.....Sam & Max and I are in HELL existing with all the criminals about this hellhole. But YOU don't care Fliss!?

One of, if not your most dear closest friends Cath A. of Queensland has swallowed all your lies and delusions, and she refuses to talk or contact me. (I've tried several times.) - I dearly have wanted to communicate with her.

NOW......REVERSE everything around,..........how all this be meted out upon YOU Fliss, (a woman),....but do you KNOW WHAT ACTUALLY REALLY HAPPENS?..... suddenly EVERY BLOODY PERSON, ESPECIALLY WOMEN will jump up and down and shout how terrible YOU are being treated! - But nooooooo, because I am 'the gentle innocent man' in our relationship, I'm painted as somebody evil and shitty and to fucking well die as soon as possible. And YOU dear Fliss absolutely KNOWS that's NOT the truth AT ALL and has never been so! - But you allow it and say nothing in public to counter anything with anyone. You Fliss want your lies and delusions to be the only 'facts'.

You've got EVERYTHING YOU WANT....you have been ACCEPTED BACK INTO YOUR FAMILY & all your relations whereas before you were OSTRACISED BY THEM. And you have a ficticious story to lie to them with and to engender pity and sympathy and to forever get them to like you. - And yet....you're ALWAYS LYING....you KNOW you are.

No wonder your fathers mother (your much-loved grandmother) was so terribly shocked when I in-person quietly told her the truth about you and just SOME of all your troubles when you Fliss and I were a couple and had visited her many years ago together in Tamworth, New South Wales for a small social event. - But your grandmother VERY GREATLY MUCH APPRECIATED me telling her the truth. NOBODY else would and they never did. -- And now I have been destroyed for telling the truth !?!? --- I don't know if she's even still alive. - You Fliss, told me that your mother HATED her.

I have NO FAMILY and NOBODY. - But it seems you don't give a shit about me. You don't give a shit about anyone, not really, though you fake that you do. You've lied and cheated and lied so much that your addled, deranged, medically damaged brain & body is actively viciously telling itself that all the lies you've created just MUST be true.....and so you have consigned me to HELL whilst you live the life of a closeted, indulged, spoilt princess. (anything else of, I have no idea of because YOU NEVER TALK TO ME despite you PROMISING ME that if ever we were ever apart for any reason you would ALWAYS STAY IN CONTACT!)

BUT YOU'VE LIED ABOUT THAT FLISS.

And YOU Fliss has consigned poor dear Sam and dear Max to HELL....and ME.

And you wonder why I was so VERY reluctant and fearful of ever happening to ever bringing a child with you into this world, knowing that perhaps the very terror of YOU doing exactly what you have done would eventuate!?

And you cosseted OTHER peoples children....Caths's children, your families children, your relations children........

I love you dear Fliss and so want to be with YOU. - I am in HELL. - I hope you are happy. - When I am dead, you will legally inherit the things we used together, YOUR things, and the things we purchased together for us both, and the things that were my very own.....the scant few things I had because I have so VERY VERY LITTLE, and so very very little money or capital.

And you will inherit the love I still have for you dear Fliss, and you will live out your life and go to your grave knowing at every moment, especially since 2015, how badly you treated me....so utterly, and terribly bad by deserting me just after you PROMISED we would be together and have a new life together AWAY FROM THIS HELLHOLE.

And you wonder why I have DAMNED NIGHTMARES EVERY NIGHT and have done so since late 2015 when you abandoned us!?

You VERY much have the horrendous capacity to abandon your own children Fliss. Your own mother told you that. And you told me she said that. And you hated her for saying that. What else you kept secret.

I love you dear Fliss and so want to be with YOU.

P.S. Dear Cath......count your blessings that this never happens to you. No matter how kind and gentle you are, all that counts for NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING when you get treated like me and Fliss. - I DON'T DESERVE THIS! - FLISS DOESN'T DESERVE THIS! - YOU CATH DON'T DESERVE THIS! - Tell her from me how much I love dear Fliss and want to be with her as a couple and that I never ever stopped loving Fliss when Fliss & I were together when everyone told me to just give up on her, abandon her, the same shit that probably has been told about YOU Cath at some point too though I dearly hope not. You Cath don't deserve that hell. I don't deserve that hell. Fliss doesn't deserve that hell.

I love you dear Fliss and so want to be with YOU just as you promised us both.

No wonder suicide rates go up more around Xmas time with the absolute shit we have had destroying our lives and keeps destroying me each and every day and night awake or asleep. - I truly envy the dead. I look forward to being dead. I wish I was never born. - Fuck being alive and sufering and being forever falsley blamed and having all promises made to me always forever broken. - I fucking well trust absolutely NOBODY. NOBODY AT ALL. - I was NEVER like that until Fliss went crazy in late 2015. -- I love you dear Fliss and so want to be with YOU.

In case of an emergency physically preventing me, let me say this now then......MERRY XMAS......it will be the the 3rd bloody one without being with my dearest Fliss. <:-(

And to everyone else.....you will NEVER get to read the scifi fiction, the fantasy fiction, or the DS9 fan fiction I wrote, and all of which I spent so much enjoyable time on on over MANY years and which Fliss read (some) and enjoyed. - But not YOU Cath, not ANYONE will ever read them. YOU NEVER ASKED. AND YOU NEVER CARED. I hope to destroy them all because nobody gives a shit about me or anything, least of all what I write or ever wrote for enjoyment. - Your losses. Just add them to the rest of your losses. - FUCK THE WORLD. - HURRY UP AND START A WORLD WAR 3 AND KILL US ALL WITH NUKES. JUST DO IT, DO IT, DO IT! AND STOP FUCKING AROUND PRETENDING. - MAKE SURE YOU DETONATE A NUKE WHERE I AM AND KILL ME WITH IT!